“No,” said Miss Mapp.
Janet (no doubt according to instructions received) popped out of a shop, and came towards her mistress.
“Here she is,” said Diva. “All right, Janet. You go home. I’ll see to the other things.”
“It’s a lovely day,” said Miss Mapp, beginning to lash her tail. “So bright.”
“Yes. Pretty trimming of poppies,” said Diva.“Janet’s got rosebuds.”
This was too much.
“Diva, I didn’t think it of you,” said Miss Mapp in a shaking voice. “You saw my new frock yesterday, and you were filled with malice and envy, Diva, just because I had thought of using flowers off an old chintz as well as you, and came out first with it. You had meant to wear that purple frock yourself—though I must say it fits Janet perfectly—and just because I was first in the field you did this. You gave Janet that frock, so that I should be dressed in the same style as your parlour-maid, and you’ve got a black heart, Diva!”
“That’s nonsense,” said Diva firmly.“Heart’s as red as anybody’s, and talking of black hearts doesn’t become you, Elizabeth. You knew I was cutting out roses from my curtains—”
Miss Mapp laughed shrilly.
“Well, if I happen to notice that you’ve taken your chintz curtains down,” she said with an awful distinctness that showed the wisdom-teeth of which Diva had got three at the most, “and pink bunches of roses come flying out of your window into the High Street, even my poor wits, small as they are, are equal to drawing the conclusion that you are cutting roses out of curtains. Your well-known fondness for dress did the rest. With your permission, Diva, I intend to draw exactly what conclusions I please on every occasion, including this one.”
“Ho! That’s how you got the idea then,” said Diva.“I knew you had cribbed it from me.”
“Cribbed?” asked Miss Mapp, in ironical ignorance of what so vulgar and slangy an expression meant.
“Cribbed means taking what isn’t yours,” said Diva.“Even then, if you had only acted in a straightforward manner—”
Miss Mapp, shaken as with palsy, regretted that she had let slip, out of pure childlike joy, in irony, the manner in which she had obtained the poppy-notion, but in a quarrel regrets are useless, and she went on again.
“And would you very kindly explain how or when I have acted in a manner that was not straightforward,” she asked with laborious politeness. “Or do I understand that a monopoly of cutting up chintz curtains for personal adornment has been bestowed on you by Act of Parliament?”
“You knew I was meaning to make a frock with chintz roses on it,” said Diva. “You stole my idea. Worked night and day to be first. Just like you. Mean behaviour.”
“It was meaner to give that frock to Janet,” said Miss Mapp.
“You can give yours to Withers,” snapped Diva.
“Much obliged, Mrs. Plaistow,” said Miss Mapp.
* * * *
Diva had been watching Janet’s retreating figure, and feeling that though revenge was sweet, revenge was also strangely expensive, for she had sacrificed one of the most strikingly successful frocks she had ever made on that smoking altar. Now her revenge was gratified, and deeply she regretted the frock. Miss Mapp’s heart was similarly wrung by torture: revenge too had been hers (general revenge on Diva for existing), but this dreadful counter-stroke had made it quite impossible for her to enjoy the use of this frock any more, for she could not habit herself like a housemaid. Each, in fact, had, as matters at present stood, completely wrecked the other, like two express trains meeting in top-speed collision, and, since the quarrel had clearly risen to its utmost height, there was no farther joy of battle to be anticipated, but only the melancholy task of counting the corpses. So they paused, breathing very quickly and trembling, while both sought for some way out. Besides Miss Mapp had a bridge-party this afternoon, and if they parted now in this extreme state of tension, Diva might conceivably not come, thereby robbing herself of her bridge and spoiling her hostess’s table. Naturally any permanent quarrel was not contemplated by either of them, for if quarrels were permanent in Tilling, nobody would be on speaking terms any more with anyone else in a day or two, and (hardly less disastrous) there could be no fresh quarrels with anybody, since you could not quarrel without words. There might be songs without words, as Mendelssohn had proved, but not rows without words. By what formula could this deadly antagonism be bridged without delay?
Diva gazed out over the marsh. She wanted desperately to regain her rosebud-frock, and she knew that Elizabeth was starving for further wearing of her poppies. Perhaps the wide, serene plain below inspired her with a hatred of littleness. There would be no loss of dignity in making a proposal that her enemy, she felt sure, would accept: it merely showed a Christian spirit, and set an example to Elizabeth, to make the first move. Janet she did not consider.
“If you are in a fit state to listen to reason, Elizabeth,” she began.
Miss Mapp heaved a sigh of relief. Diva had thought of something. She swallowed the insult at a gulp.
“Yes, dear,” she said.
“Got an idea. Take away Janet’s frock, and wear it myself. Then you can wear yours. Too pretty for parlour-maids. Eh?”
A heavenly brightness spread over Miss Mapp’s face.
“Oh, how wonderful of you to have thought of that, Diva,” she said. “But how shall we explain it all to everybody?”
Diva clung to her rights. Though clearly Christian, she was human.
“Say I thought of tacking chintz on and told you,” she said.
“Yes, darling,” said Elizabeth. “That’s beautiful, I agree. But poor Janet!”
“I’ll give her some other old thing,” said Diva.“Good sort, Janet. Wants me to win.”
“And about her having been seen wearing it?”
“Say she hasn’t ever worn it. Say they’re mad,” said Diva.
Miss Mapp felt it better to tear herself away before she began distilling all sorts of acidities that welled up in her fruitful mind. She could, for instance, easily have agreed that nothing was more probable than that Janet had been mistaken for her mistress…
“Au reservoir then, dear,” she said tenderly. “See you at about four? And will you wear your pretty rosebud frock?”
This was agreed to, and Diva went home to take it away from Janet.
* * * *
The reconciliation of course was strictly confined to matters relating to chintz and did not include such extraneous subjects as coal-strike or food-hoarding, and even in the first glowing moments of restored friendliness, Diva began wondering whether she would have the opportunity that afternoon of testing the truth of her conjecture about the cupboard in the garden-room. Cudgel her brains as she might she could think of no other cache that could contain the immense amount of provisions that Elizabeth had probably accumulated, and she was all on fire to get to practical grips with the problem. As far as tins of corned beef and tongues went, Elizabeth might possibly have buried them in her garden in the manner of a dog, but it was not likely that a hoarder would limit herself to things in tins. No: there was a cupboard somewhere ready to burst with strong supporting foods…
Diva intentionally arrived a full quarter of an hour on the hither side of punctuality, and was taken by Withers out into the garden-room, where tea was laid, and two card-tables were in readiness. She was, of course, the first of the guests, and the moment Withers withdrew to tell her mistress that she had come, Diva stealthily glided to the cupboard, from in front of which the bridge-table had been removed, feeling the shrill joy of some romantic treasure hunter. She found the catch, she pressed it, she pulled open the door and the whole of the damning profusion