Mum's the Word Page 4

  “I think we can promise a phone call, don’t you, sweetheart?” said the louse … I mean spouse.

  Ben can read me like a kindergarten book. He knew that I would travel to the ends of the earth given the least chance that the Black Cloud was my cousin Vanessa arriving for an extended visit. Over the phone the other day she had purred, “Darling, I’m sure you’ll look lovely pregnant. Being heavy was always so … you!” Nothing would give her greater pleasure than to flaunt her elastic-band-sized waist in front of me and Ben, not that he would take the least bit of notice.

  I heard a wink in his voice when he assured the Tramwells we would send them postcards from America.

  Why fight on? Once fate has you by the collar, struggling is useless. Besides, I was late for my nap and Ben was late for Abigail’s. Let the Mangés but send us the secret password and we would be on our way. A sideways glance at the bookcase stiffened my resolve. Those scrapbooks Dorcas and Jonas had kept during their sojourn to America seemed to have mated and bred to the point where they had taken over the shelves at an alarming rate. Better to see the New World for myself than through weekly National Geographic sessions with a pair of former explorers.

  Ben’s voice addressing the Tramwells brought me back. “Ah, here comes Dorcas with the coffee. And I believe you’ve met Jonas.”

  “They’ve had that pleasure.” Jonas gave the braces holding up his baggy trousers a twang. Dreadful man! He hadn’t removed his gardening boots. His hoary moustache twitched wickedly as he held out a plate of teacakes to Primrose.

  Dorcas held her whistle at the ready (Ben having taken over pouring the coffee in order to speed up the job and make his get-away to Abigail’s) but Jonas was irrepressible. Gripping the teacake plate, as if for courage, he growled, “I do be risking the sack putting meself forward so, Miss Primrose, but I be born and bred a liar if you don’t look like one of them film stars sitting there.”

  Such charming rusticity caused Primrose to slop her tea.

  Hyacinth’s expression turned frosty. “One feels so glad, Prim, that one leant you one’s blouse. As you will recall, I have on several occasions been compared to the famed Theola Faith in her kittenish heyday. Which does remind me”—taking her sister by the elbow, she propelled her upright—“we must be on our way.”

  “So soon?” Ben downed both cups of coffee he was holding.

  Hyacinth gathered up her bag. “I fear so. On our way back to Cloisters we will attend a rally of the Warwickshire branch Theola Faith fan club. Her daughter—an absolute nobody in her own right, no one even knew there was a daughter—has penned one of those abysmal mud-slinging books about her. We intend to picket the library.”

  The name Theola Faith scratched at an old memory. Theola Faith had been the sex goddess of her generation, adored by millions. My mother, when I was about nine or ten, performed a small dancing role in one of her films, Melancholy Mansion. But this wasn’t the time to brag. Turning my thoughts forward, I wondered if there were any female Mangés. Not that it mattered—a tall white chef’s hat does absolutely nothing for even the most divinely inspired female.

  I have none of Chantal’s psychic powers. So often I don’t see what’s under my nose, such as Tobias circling the sofa, ready to take a flying leap at Hyacinth’s birdcage earrings. Had the room chosen to darken and develop an arctic chill I would not have taken the hint that in fleeing the Black Cloud Ben and I were destined to run toward it.

  We were going to America.

  The morning of departure day I awoke knowing something was wrong. I felt well. Every part of me was alive—waiting to experience all the wonders of marathon waits at the airport. The joy of shouldering sideways down the aisle of the airplane, my carry-on bag balanced on my head! I could have been the happiest woman on board but for Ben’s claustrophobia.

  “No, darling.” I squeezed his hand as the plane took off. “Better not open your window.” I’m ashamed to say I hadn’t looked at Pregnancy for Beginners since the day we received the Mangés’ invitation. Now, watching Ben listen with petrified attention to the captain’s weather bulletin, I was tempted to climb over my companion on the aisle seat and retrieve the book from the overhead compartment. But Ben wouldn’t let go of my hand. The drink trolley was rattling its way down the aisle, and I did have something else up my sleeve, or rather in my handbag, which might have a calming effect upon us both.

  “Ben, dear.” I turned his face toward me and looked deep into his eyes. “A letter arrived this morning from your mother. Would you like me to read it to you?”

  “That would be nice.”

  Like Jane Eyre ministering to Mr. Rochester after the fire, I drew out my mother-in-law’s letter, written in response to one of mine. Ben, like so many of his sex, would no more handle family correspondence than wear lace underwear.

  “ ‘Dear Ben, please give our best to Ellie. Also thanks for her last of two days since. Poppa says it is kind of her to write often, but what with postage getting so dear, letters do become an extravagance. Have a good trip, both of you. Never mind that Poppa and I can’t sleep nights for worrying how you’ll go on. Haven’t we always said we knew what was in store when we signed on as parents? We raised you, son, to have a life of your own. Not a word from Poppa or me when you went to work for Eligibility Escorts.’ ”

  Exactly true; they simply stopped speaking to him.

  “ ‘My prayers are answered if you don’t let our peace of mind stand in the way of your happiness. Mrs. Badger, next door but one, tells such dreadful stories about her niece Rosemary who lives in New York. Seems every other week the poor girl nearly gets murdered and has to write home for money, so’s she can move to a safer place.’ ”

  “What a blessing we are going to Boston!” I said brightly.

  Ben had grown paler. “Not the city proper. You do remember my explaining we have to travel some distance from there to meet with the Mangés?”

  “Yes, dear, and you promised to rent us a nice car.” I watched him swig down his medicine—whisky over ice. Raising my voice so that my aisle companion—an oriental gentleman in a T-shirt inscribed Made In Japan—need not struggle to eavesdrop, I continued.

  “ ‘I must say, son, I’m not much taken with the sound of these Mangé people. Are you sure you’ve got the name right? Mrs. Wardle round the corner says it puts her in mind of that disease dogs get. Then she went and stuck the fear in my head that you’re being lured over there by the white slavers or something worse. Poppa says he sent you that write-up in the newspaper about some nasty religious group that believes you can’t get to heaven unless you stop eating. A quick way to go, Poppa says. Diethelogians they call themselves. They think of chefs the way we Catholics think of Henry VIII. Poppa, as you might guess, says I’m getting worked up for the wrong reason. He thinks these Mangés want you over there to sell you something. A plot in some cemetery just for chefs is his guess. Mrs. Wardle says this world is going downhill faster than a runaway pram. Doesn’t come out and say it, but I know she’s thinking as how those who live in houses with posh-sounding names like Merlin’s Court are asking to be taken for a ride by all sorts of riff-raff.’ ”

  “Mother speaks wise words.” The oriental gentleman bowed his head over steepled fingers. “Very many bad people in this world.” Face impassive, I bowed back, then smoothed Ben’s damp curls off his brow. Have to read on at a rush. Lunch only few seats away.

  “ ‘I trust, son, that Ellie isn’t having the difficult pregnancy I went through with you. Every day a heaving, shoreless sea. I’d get one hour of feeling good, just so’s to remember what it felt like. But the great blessing, as they say, is that after the baby comes you forget!’ ”

  “Veal marsala or peppered beef?” inquired the blonde flight attendant with the hundred-watt smile.

  Some things science can’t explain. Ben emerged from his claustrophobia when his little white tray was placed in front of him. Artificially flavoured meat? Reconstituted lettuce? Thinking up rude names
to call his meal promised to keep him occupied—if not for the rest of the trip, at least while I went to the loo.

  I staggered down the aisle toward the lavatory. A woman waiting ahead of me suggested that a priest might be hearing confessions. She’d been waiting, she informed me sourly, for ten minutes to get inside.

  Out came a brazen hussy, Gucci makeup bag tucked under her arm, hands clutching a hardcover book, a corner of which almost got me in the eye. But the person who can hold fifty-some people hostage while she lolls in the loo is unlikely to be the sensitive type.

  “So sorry,” she fibbed through lips as violently red as the blood enlivening the glossy black jacket of Monster Mommy. “I’m afraid I was swept away by one riveting scene after another and completely lost track of time.” Snap-snap of her fingers at the steward. “Drinks for everyone aboard. No, nothing for me. I have an extremely taxing cocktail party to attend immediately after we land and I’ll be as déclassé as dry roasted peanuts if I can’t quote chapter and page. People magazine said, ‘This book will find its way onto every coffee table in America, even the vinyl coated ones. It will burn its way into your heart, brand the letter M on your soul.’ ” Snap-snap of her fingers at a man who looked as though he hadn’t taken his daily Milk of Magnesia, her husband seemingly because he swept her away by her ear. To add insult to injury for us cross-legged sufferers, a stewardess was sleepwalking her way down the gangway reading what looked like the same book. What were the airways coming to?

  When I finally did enter the standing-room-only convenience, my usual panic set in. We’d be landing before I figured out how to engage the lock in accordance with instructions in three languages—none of them English. Instant darkness when I pushed a button. Afraid to touch anything else, lest it hurtle us into a forced landing, I kept a restraining elbow on the door and succeeded in dropping my bag. Down on my knees, retrieving the bits and bobs, my panic elbowed off in new directions. Had I left home responsibly? The last few days had tumbled over one another. Had I stocked up on enough Ovaltine for Jonas? Had I reminded Dorcas enough times to give Tobias his vitamins? What if all my relations did materialize on the doorstep, empty suitcases in hand, ready for a raid? Dorcas is cursed with a kind heart. So too, is Mr. Jonas Scrooge, however hard he fights the demon. Yes, I had taken the precaution of hiding the few pieces of jewelry left to me by my mother under the loose floorboard in my bedroom, but Aunt Lulu has the nose of a search-and-seize police dog.

  Squeezing back into my seat, I whispered in Ben’s ear (so as not to alarm the oriental gentleman), “I’ve ordered our flight captain to turn back.”

  He gave me a seasoned traveller’s smile. “Ellie, you must rid yourself of the idea that we’ve abandoned Dorcas and Jonas to a fate worse than death. I don’t believe in Chantal’s psychic powers.”

  “The Tramwells think the world of her.”

  “They’d think the same if she were a vampire. So long as she served a decent cup of tea.”

  “Darling, you’re so right!” Suddenly I wasn’t merely happy, I was bursting with the conviction that together Ben and I were invincible. No matter that I wasn’t the woman of my mother-in-law’s dreams, I was a consort fit for a Mangé! Who better to know the fat content of an orange? Shifting in my confined seat, I wrapped my arms around my husband’s neck and kissed that marvelous, seductive mouth of his. I breathed in his aftershave, felt his sensitive knowing hands moving to my shoulders …

  “Blue skies are here again,” said the oriental gentleman.

  “He means we are about to land,” Ben whispered.

  Boston’s airport provided an immediate sense of the proverbial vastness, the fabled brashness of the United States. The ebb and flow of humanity, galvanized by foghorn blasts of loudspeakers, banished any fleeting thoughts of curling up on the luggage merry-go-round for a siesta. The customs man was nice. He accepted my assurances that I did not have Swiss watches or antique jewelry stuffed in the toes of my shoes, and I invited him to come and stay next time he was in England.

  There I was, seriously considering having a good time—until I saw our luggage closing in around our ankles like a pack of stray dogs. The small bags were the puppies.

  “Want to give them to good homes?” I asked. But as far as Ben was concerned I might have been another blast of the loudspeaker. He was off in search of a cart, his progress closely observed by several stray females. A dire thought occurred. Could they be Mangés sent to welcome him with open arms?

  “Absolutely not.” He strained to grow more arms to stack the cases. “We are to make our way to headquarters on our own. The organization doesn’t want any tenderfoots.”

  “Good thinking!” I certainly preferred not having Mangés underfoot while we enjoyed the few days sightseeing Ben had promised, indeed, insisted upon.

  “Are you feeling all right?” Buttoning my rain-or-shine jacket I strung the strap of my bag over my shoulder. Ben did look like a sickly Lord Byron, ebony curls dampened to his pallid brow.

  He managed a tubercular laugh. “Just wondering, sweetheart, whether you’ve given me your morning sickness.”

  So he had noticed that I was feeling better. Probably afraid to say anything in case it was a false alarm.

  My face pressed against his tweedy shoulder, he said, “I’m fighting fit. Let’s to the car rental place.”

  His eyes roved the LuxaLease showroom for a full one-and-a-half seconds before lighting on a voluptuous convertible, all bosom and no rear end. The agent, with his clown’s nose and yellow bow tie, put me in mind of a game show host surrounded by prizes. He assured us that our choice would cruise comfortably at one hundred miles per hour.

  “Starts like a dream, sir! Get your foot within an inch of the gas pedal and she’s gone—with or without you!”

  “Like it, Ellie?” Ben fondled the bonnet.

  “Love it. Black is so slimming.”

  “You are slim, sweetheart.”

  He should start wearing his glasses more often. I had gained three pounds in three days. Goodness knows where they had come from. Could some evil force be polluting the Chitterton Fells water supply with calories?

  Ben was circling the car, eyeing it with the look that should have been reserved for me alone. “In your expert opinion, sir, is this the vehicle for the expectant mother? The right suspension, the right brake linings?”

  “Darling,” I cringed, “can’t we go native with buses and taxis? There’s so much to see and do in the city, we may not have time to go far afield.”

  I couldn’t get him to look at me, let alone convince him the Mangés might consider his pioneer spirit was not being sufficiently tested.

  But fifteen minutes later, when we were tooling down the wide open streets with the top down under a canopied blue sky, I experienced an exuberant urge to shake my hair loose from its knot and let the breeze take it. Whatever the meteorologists might say, that big orange sun was not the same one that rises daily in our English skies. For the first time in my life I felt properly aired out, and not the least tired—even though it was four P.M. here, which translated into nine P.M. at home.

  “Happy?” Ben squeezed my hand.

  “Blissful.”

  “And we are not going to allow any small disappointments or twists of plan spoil the trip?”

  Had the car agent slipped him some bad news about our hotel? Were the rooms opulently vulgar? Did a live orchestra play under each rotating bed? Or worse—considering our entourage of luggage—were the lifts out of commission?

  Happily, my fears were in vain. The Mulberry Inn was everything I could have hoped. The plank floors in the reception hall shone the colour of maple syrup, the walls were fresh cream, and the doors patriot blue. A Mayflower matron, middle-parted hair, and a voice flavoured with a teaspoon of Irish, looked up reluctantly from her open book and greeted us from behind a handhewn desk, centered on the sort of rug that grandma would hook on long winter evenings. Made from strips of rag, some from Uncle Franklin’s l
ong johns.

  Only minor disappointments. Instead of a jigger of rum, our hostess promised cheese and wine to be served in the Pewter Parlour between five and six P.M. And the book she had been glued to was not Puritan Fashions for the Mature Figure, but a modern tome with a black and red cover. It was the same nail-biter as had caused that woman to hole up in the plane loo.

  She laughed defensively, and her plump hands covered the title as though it were a bare bosom and Ben and I church elders. “I never read this sort of thing.” An old world blush. “I’m not interested in film stars and the nonsense they get up to, but everyone’s bleating about this book—the huge advance, the paperback deal, the movie rights. And the clientele we get in here expects a certain, ah, sophistication.”

  A glance at the bill she nudged toward us indicated that the rates were certainly sophisticated. Ben was looking displeased, but wifely intuition told me he was regretting the difficulty of writing a cookery book shocking enough to attract any wild clamouring of public opinion. Perhaps his sequel to The Edwardian Lady’s Cookery Book could be a little less restrained in its language and less sensitive in its treatment of such subjects as killing little lobsters.…

  “Books of this sort”—he tapped the glossy black cover—“are very much like wine. I understand that in this country the only requirement for joining most country clubs these days is drinking white zinfandel.”

  The Mayflower Missus agreed pleasantly that zin was in and tucked the book beneath her arm.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Haskell, you have yourselves a grand stay.” Having presented our key, she escorted us past the long case clock to an elfin-sized arched doorway leading both to a sun lounge and a twisting witchy staircase. Best not to ask about a lift in case they were deemed papist inventions.

  A soldierly septuagenarian, wearing a uniform dating back to the War of Independence, took charge of the two suitcases Ben had brought in from the car. Cheeks going like bellows, he chugged ahead to the third floor to deposit us in a clove-scented sprig muslin room. If ever people need parents, it’s the elderly! No mother worth the name would allow him to work like this! I gave him a tip he could retire on. And he departed with that lovely blessing—“Have a nice day.”