Tied Up In Tinsel

Troy thought: I am among people who say what they think when they think it. Like children. This is a most unusual circumstance and might lead to anything.

She excepted Mr Smith from her blanket appraisal. Mr Smith, she considered, is a tricky little old man and what he really thinks about the company he keeps is nobody’s business but his.

‘How’s all the villains, ’Illy?’ he asked putting his head on one side and jauntily quizzing his muffin. ‘Still keepin’ their noses clean?’

‘Certainly, Uncle Bert, but do choose your words. I wouldn’t for the world Cuthbert or Mervyn heard you talking like that. One of them might walk in at any moment.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Mr Smith, unmoved.

‘That yawning void over the fireplace,’ Cressida said. ‘Is that where you meant? You know, about my picture?’

‘Yes, my darling,’ Hilary responded. ‘As a matter of fact –’ he looked anxiously at Troy ’ – I’ve already ventured a tentative probe.’

Troy was saved the awkwardness of a reply by Cressida who said, ‘I’d rather it was the drawing-room. Not all mixed in with the soup and, you know, your far from groovy ancestors.’ She glanced discontentedly at a Lely, two Raeburns and a Winterhalter. ‘You know,’ she said.

Hilary turned rather pink: ‘We’ll have to see,’ he said.

Mervyn came in with the cook’s compliments and the mince-pies were ready when they were.

‘What is he on about?’ Cressida asked fretfully. ‘On top of tea? And anyway I abhor mincemeat.’

‘Darling I know. So, privately, do I. But it appears to be an authentic old custom. On taking one’s first bite,’ Hilary explained, ‘one makes a wish. The ceremony is held, by tradition, in the kitchen. One need only take a token nibble. It will give him so much pleasure.’

‘Are there still cats in the kitchen?’ Cressida asked. ‘There’s my thing about cats, remember.’

‘Mervyn,’ Hilary said, ‘ask Kittiwee to put Slyboots and Smartypants out, will you? He’ll understand.’

‘He’d better. I’m allergic,’ Cressida told Troy. ‘Cats send me. But totally. I’ve only got to catch the eye of a cat and I’m a psychotic wreck.’ She enlarged upon her theme. It would be tedious to record how many times she said Troy knew.

‘I should be pleased,’ Mrs Forrester said loudly, ‘to renew my acquaintance with Slyboots and Smartypants.’

‘Rather you than me,’ Cressida retorted, addressing herself to Mrs Forrester for the first time but not looking at her.

‘I so far agree with you, Hilary,’ said Mrs Forrester, ‘in your views on your staff as to consider the cook was well within his rights when he attacked the person who maltreated cats. Well within his right I consider he was, I said –’

‘Yes, Auntie, I know you did. Don’t we all! No, darling,’ Hilary said, anticipating his beloved. ‘You’re the adorable exception. Well, now. Shall we all go and mumble up our mince?’

In the kitchen they were received by Kittiwee with ceremony. He beamed and dimpled but Troy thought there was a look of glazed displeasure in his eyes. This impression became unmistakable when infuriated yowls broke out behind a door into the yard. Slyboots and Smartypants, thought Troy.

A red-cheeked boy sidled in through the door, shutting it quickly on a crescendo of feline indignation.

‘We’re sorry,’ Hilary said, ‘about the puss-cats, Wilfred.’

‘It takes all sorts, doesn’t it, sir?’ Kittiwee cryptically rejoined with a sidelong glance at Miss Tottenham. The boy, who was sucking his hand, looked resentfully through the window into the yard.

The mince-pies were set out on a lordly dish in the middle of the kitchen table. Troy saw with relief that they were small. Hilary explained that they must take their first bites in turn, making a wish as they did so.

Afterwards Troy was to remember them as they stood sheepishly round the table. She was to think of those few minutes as almost the last spell of general tranquillity that she experienced at Halberds.

‘You first, Auntie,’ Hilary invited.

‘Aloud?’ his aunt demanded. Rather hurriedly he assured her that her wish need not be articulate.

‘Just as well,’ she said. She seized her pie and took a prodigious bite out of it. As she munched she fixed her eyes upon Cressida Tottenham and suddenly Troy was alarmed. I know what she’s wishing, Troy thought. As well as if she were to bawl it out in our faces. She’s wishing the engagement will be broken. I’m sure of it.

Cressida herself came next. She made a great to-do over biting off the least possible amount and swallowing it as if it was medicine.

‘Did you wish?’ Colonel Forrester asked anxiously.

‘I forgot,’ she said and then screamed at the top of her voice. Fragments of mince-pie escaped her lovely lips.

Mr Smith let out a four-letter word and they all exclaimed. Cressida was pointing at the window into the yard. Two cats, a piebald and a tabby, sat on the outer sill, their faces slightly distorted by the glass, their eyes staring and their mouths opening and shutting in concerted meows.

‘My dear girl,’ Hilary said and made no attempt to disguise his exasperation.

‘My poor pussies,’ Kittiwee chimed in like a sort of alto to a leading baritone.

‘I can’t take CATS,’ Cressida positively yelled.

‘In which case,’ Mrs Forrester composedly observed, ‘you can take yourself out of the kitchen.’

‘No, no,’ pleaded the colonel. ‘No, B. No, no, no! Dear me! Look here!’

The cats now began to make excruciating noises with their claws on the window-pane. Troy, who liked cats and found them amusing, was almost sorry to see them abruptly cease this exercise, reverse themselves on the sill and disappear, tails up. Cressida, however, clapped her hands to her ears, screamed again and stamped her feet like an exotic dancer.

Mr Smith said drily: ‘No trouble!’

But Colonel Forrester gently comforted Cressida with a wandering account of a brother-officer whose abhorrence of felines in some mysterious way brought about a deterioration in the lustre of his accoutrements. It was an incomprehensible narrative but Cressida sat on a kitchen chair and stared at him and became quiet.

‘Never mind!’ Hilary said on a note of quiet despair. ‘As we were.’ He appealed to Troy: ‘Will you?’ he asked.

Troy applied herself to a mince-pie and as she did so there came into her mind a wish so ardent that she could almost have thought she spoke it aloud. Don’t, she found herself dottily wishing, let anything beastly happen. Please. She then complimented Kittiwee on his cooking.

Colonel Forrester followed Troy. ‘You would be surprised,’ he said, beaming at them, ‘if you knew about my wish. That you would.’ He shut his eyes and heartily attacked his pie. ‘Delicious!’ he said.

Mr Smith said: ‘How soft can you get!’ and ate the whole of his pie with evident and noisy relish.

Hilary brought up the rear and when they had thanked Kittiwee they left the kitchen. Cressida said angrily that she was going to take two aspirins and go to bed until dinner time. ‘And I don’t,’ she added, looking at her fiancé, ‘want to be disturbed.’

‘You need have no misgivings, my sweet,’ he rejoined and his aunt gave a laugh that might equally have been called a snort. ‘Your uncle and I,’ she said to Hilary, ‘will take the air, as usual, for ten minutes.’

‘But – Auntie – it’s too late. It’s dark and it may be snowing.’

‘We shall confine ourselves to the main courtyard. The wind is in the east, I believe.’

‘Very well,’ he agreed. ‘Uncle Bert, shall we have our business talk?’

‘Suits me,’ said Mr Smith. ‘Any time.’