Mum's the Word (37 page)

“Good-bye!” I called. “I'd feel a lot better if you were wearing a St. Christopher medal, but my chances of achieving a result can't be any worse than if I were to cork up a bottle and toss it into the river.”

Drawing in my head I rammed down the sash. Yes, I was a little emotional but what had almost knocked me off my feet was the heat. My arms were broiled medium rare from those few moments of exposure and the hair close to my forehead had singed into a frizz. The bedroom was suddenly stifling. Could that waiting feeling I had experienced earlier have been due to a buildup of atmospheric pressure—the meteorological, not the human kind? Were we in for another storm?

The English preoccupation with the weather! We like murder, too, between the pages of a book or on the stage, but I wouldn't think about any of that now. The dinner hour would soon be at hand. Would my red top look a little too optimistic of Ben's chances? Perhaps the black dress … No, mustn't appear to be anticipating the worst.

The dining room positively beamed with festivity. A
table set with purest white linen and china and glass completely free of those embarrassing dishwasher spots. Cutlery laid out with geometric precision, subdued lighting softening the heavy featured furniture. And that sense of refuge, brought into play by the dun-coloured curtains hanging open to reveal dark clouds herding across the sky. The six deadly knives gleamed again on the wall. As for the assemblage—every hair, every smile in place—we graced the thronelike chairs around that tribunal table and waited for Valicia X to call the fateful dinner to order.

Lovely as an air conditioned summer's day, she clinked a spoon against her wine glass and rose to her feet. “Ladies and gentlemen, fellow Mangés!” Her smile reached to include Pepys and Jeffries positioned at the sideboard, guarding the chafing dishes and soup tureens. Two vacant place settings indicated they would soon join us. “We are regrettably depleted in number. Three of our candidates are gone from this house and Mr. Hoffman this afternoon informed me of his decision to withdraw.”

Bingo and Ernestine, wearing mother-and-son navy blue ensembles, beamed back smiles. Hers was a little too bright not to conceal some regret.

Valicia slid a thin gold bangle higher up her arm. “And so, only two candidates remain tonight competing in the final segment of the admission process. Let us salute Miss Marjorie Rumpson and Mr. Bentley Haskell with some well-deserved applause.”

Staunch clapping from Ernestine, polite stuff from the rest, while the candidates sat royally across from each other. Ben was magnificent in basic black, Marjorie splendid in a plumed evening hat. Its electric blue matched her satin gown, which, with its front planted with seed pearls, could only have come from a rummage sale at Buckingham Palace.

“The scores accumulated over the last few days,” Valicia X was saying, “have been tallied and we have an interesting situation.” I couldn't look at Ben. I couldn't breathe. The entire room stopped breathing.

“A tie. Which means that this”—she gestured with an impeccably manicured hand to indicate the silver condiment set and other accoutrements of feasting—“the hands-on portion of the program, will decide who of these two fine people
is to be the next …” For a moment I thought she would slip up and say the next Mr. or Ms. America “… the next Mangé.”

Someone let out a long shaky breath and two candles went out. Jeffries stepped forward and flagged Pepys to follow. “Call me a butinsky, but if we don't get the show on the road and the food on the table, Most Honoured Leader, the hot will be cold and the cold hot. For Mrs. Haskell and Mrs. Hoffman who don't have the inside scoop, here's how we work the cookery comp. Knowing that gourmet is kiddy play to any of the candidates. In other words
Boring
for all of us. So we pulled a fast one. We instructed the candidates to prepare a dinner using
only
Convenience Foods.”

A gasp from Ernestine. I remembered Ben's fear that if he should in the midst of nerves slip up and use the dreaded C word, he would instantly be damned.

Tenderly stroking a soup ladle, Pepys explained that had all the candidates stuck it out to the end, each would have been assigned one course to prepare. “But seeing as how we wasn't left with enough chefs to go round, Miss Rumpson and Mr. Haskell divvied up the meal between them.”

“Using the scientific selection process of drawing numbers from a hat.” Jeffries flounced her curls. “Mr. Haskell, if I do remember correct, picked numbers two, three, four and seven—meaning he got to prepare soup, salad, bread, and entree.”

“Whilst I got the jolly old appetizer, fish course, vegetable and the pud. I mean,” Miss Rumpson cleared her throat and barked, “dessert.”

“And now,” Valicia X resumed her seat, “let the games begin!”

With the speed of Greek runners bringing word that Hercules was on steroids, Pepys and Jeffries went into action. Wine was expertly aimed into our glasses, a platter of rolls took centre stage, and small glass dishes brimming with fruit, and rimmed with sugar appeared at each place. Panting, P and J dropped into their seats and assumed the ready positions with their spoons.

So instructed by Ms. X, Marjorie Rumpson named her contribution as a Gingered Fruit Compote with a marmalade base. Oh, my aching back! With feelings of greatest trepidation,
avoiding Ben's eyes, I took a minute sip. My darkest fears confirmed. Delicious.

Heart pounding, I saw my empty dish whisked away and a salad appear. A stunning mix of endive, broccoli and red onion rings, accented with sesame seeds and crumbled bacon, the colours polished to vibrance with a thin coating of Belgian dressing. Ben stressed the use of frozen broccoli, while keeping an eye on the Herbed Crescents coming around. Hard to believe that my love had cracked open a cardboard tube to produce these little wonders. The only egg cracked had been used for glazing.

“Blooming wonderful!” The magnanimous Miss Rumpson was immediately abashed. “Shouldn't have spoken up, I know—but when you love this work and get to witness creativity of this calibre, it knocks you back.”

Ernestine and Bingo raised sceptical eyebrows at me, but I didn't believe for a minute that Marjorie was trying to win points as Miss Congeniality. She was a dear. As for Ben, it bothered me that he looked so cool. I would have preferred him on the edge of his seat, choking on his collar. I don't like smugness in my husbands. Pride cometh before a fallen soufflé … And here cometh the soup—rich with cream and fragrant with tomatoes and sherry. Mr. Campbell could be proud. Several belt notches later—the Salmon (fresh from a tin) with Cucumber Sauce. Score more points for Marjorie.

Would this meal out-last my pregnancy?

Roast Beef Marinara, basted with candlelight. Bentley T. Haskell forges ahead.

Artful Artichokes—Marjorie Rumpson is neck and neck with him coming down the straight. I can read indecision in the Mangés' eyes.

Tension mounts as we face the final curtain. Dessert. Pepys totters away to fetch it from the kitchen, while Jeffries makes the rounds with the coffee pot. No one speaks. No one looks at anyone. We could be an advert for antacid tablets. Out the corner of my eye I see an amber glow beyond the window … must be a reflection of the candlelight. I wish I could kick off my shoes, but my feet had gained several pounds. The door creaked open. In came Pepys, a tin foil pan balanced on one hand … his expression one of … pity.

“Miss Rumpson's Frozen Daiquiri Pie.” His skeletal hands shielded it. “Only it ain't froze.”

“Couldn't pour it out and have milkshakes?” Desperately I signaled Ben with my eyes, but he wasn't taking messages. Marjorie's homely face was dissolving, caving in, as if it too were underdone. Unbearable—that it should come to this, for the woman who had flown the unfriendly skies, swum the raging river and survived a schoolboy's lethal plot and a mother's infernal machinations!

A scream ripped through the room. But Jeffries quickly got a grip on herself and snatched the pie away from Pepys. “You saying there's been foul play?”

Valicia X was staring at Ben, who was sipping water, as though seeing him for the first time. “Someone sabotaged the pie.”

Bingo shifted uneasily in his seat, his face red, his glasses sweaty; his mother's eyes were squeezed shut, her hands locked in prayer.

“I don't believe anybody did any such thing.” I was on my feet, my voice raised in futile hope of deadening the sound of Marjorie's tears plopping on the table. “There has to be some explanation, other than ambition or spite. Perhaps the freezer didn't kick back on after the generator went out.”

“That's not it.” Marjorie lifted her head and made a noble attempt at steadying her features. “Nothing nor nobody's bloomin' fault but my own. I'm not used to those side-by-side freezer refrigerator jobies and I was all right to left when I opened that door and shoved in the pie, but you know how it is—you see things without noticing them. There was a bowl of fruit on that same shelf and some jars—of pickles and jam. So you see m'hearties,” mighty sniff, “this old gal's got no one to blame but herself.”

“Miss Rumpson, I am sorry.” Valicia sounded crisp, but her lovely eyes had the shine of tears. “And Ben … Mr. Haskell, I never suspected for a moment that you … but none of that matters, does it. The important thing is that the Contest is over. And in accordance with paragraph E, Section Two Nine Seven of the Mangé Code, I am authorized to forego discussion with my fellows …” Pepys and Jeffries, having reverently covered the pie with a cloth, each creaked a bow. “… And name you, Mr. Bentley T. Haskell, our new member.”

Amazing, but at that heart-searing moment, I wasn't looking at my husband, but at the window. Outside I could see a gathering of yellow lights and shadow people. What tricks our reflections play … And our minds too. For surely Ben couldn't be saying what I heard him saying—that he was, with regret aforethought, refusing membership in the Mangé Society?

“You can't be serious!” Ms. X cried.

“He's out of his gourd.” Pepys and Jeffries spoke as one.

“Ben …” I whispered.

He didn't look at me. The table divided us but I knew he was drawing me to him, holding me tight with his mind, because it took both of us for him to get through this. Rising, he spoke to a space just below the iron chandelier. “Honoured Mangés, I ask to be disqualified on the grounds that I have on several occasions fallen short of the standards set for candidates. You will remember,” he now addressed Ms. X, “that I requested permission to leave the island on one occasion.”

“Yes.” Her face was bathed in candlelight and womanly vulnerability. “And I … persuaded my fellows that the request was justified, in the light of the abrupt departure of Lois Brown and her husband.

“I also broke the rule that precludes any cookery other than participation in this meal, when I made toast and herb tea for my wife this afternoon.”

“What is this?” Jeffries scooted forward. “You joined the Reverend Enoch's church? We told you to feed her”—fingers rapping on my head—“whatever her little heart desired. Ain't we humans first, Mangés second?”

Ben cleared his throat. “I'm respectfully submitting that you have treated me with great sensitivity, which makes my lapse the graver. This afternoon I let slip, to my wife, that deviled kidney came under discussion during this morning's session.”

Valicia X gasped.

I remembered …

Jeffries opened her mouth, but thought better of wasting time on a scream. Instead, she assisted Pepys as he tottered into a chair, muttering, “God save us from honest fools.”

The faces around the table blurred into one, except for
the one that counted. Valicia X managed a valiant smile as she lifted her wine glass. “Congratulations, Miss Rumpson! In the Mangé scheme of things, what's a failed pie?”

We adjourned to the Red Room. All that sweltering crimson and stifling maroon! All those doilies. And people, people everywhere and not a drop of conversation. Only way to ensure not saying the wrong thing. Awkward, exhausting, but bearable if only I could get to Ben. We had left the dining room separately, without exchanging a word, like undercover agents waiting for the rendezvous. He was trapped on one side of the room and I the other, until a gap opened up between Bingo and an overstuffed chair and I slipped past him and Ernestine talking to Jeffries and with only a couple of yards of carpet to go I had to fight the urge to rush into his arms.

I was breathless when I reached him. “You were wonderful.” I gazed up into his eyes.

He pressed a finger to his lips, but only a potted palm was within listening distance.

“You needn't have turned yourself in.” Clinging to his hand, the ache in my back, the crick in my neck, the fact that I hadn't started packing for our departure tomorrow—none of that mattered. “You let your dream of becoming a Mangé go, because you knew Marjorie needed it more than you did.”

He looked away from me, fingers on his tie.

“Well, she doesn't get to be a father.”

“You did a shining thing.”

He grinned. “Aw shucks, Miss Ellie!”

I wanted to lead him from that room and up the stairs to our boudoir with the silver lurex wallpaper. I wanted to tell him about the baby moving and what I had written to Theola Faith. I wanted to unpeel his tie and unbutton his shirt, and bestow upon him the shiny medal of my love. But that would look like running away. A particularly bad idea when it was the truth. I did feel trapped by the silence, by whatever was outside.

“What's going on?”

Ben edged us toward the others who were pressed close
to the window. Kneeling on the seat, Bingo provided some running commentary; Pepys and Jeffries yanked on the curtains as if ready to shin up them at any moment.

“I don't know!” I said. But there had come a sickening thud of memory. Those flickers of amber light and the people-sized shadows I'd seen from the dining room … The patch of island we could see through the parted drapery was thick as a jungle with men and women holding lanterns. The Mud Creek armada. Their faces shone pale as moons in the drizzling rain and as we pressed close to the window they began to chant. Some of the words they hurled were lost to the wind, but others made their mark, hitting the window, stinging our ears.