Read Online A Pack of Lies by Geraldine McCaughrean - Free Book Online Page A

shiny depths of its reflections, and ran his hands over its legs as a horse dealer might over the fetlocks of a thoroughbred mare. ‘I’m sure! I’m almost certain . . . it must be . . . it’s so much like . . . it’s been a long time since I saw it, of course, but I’m sure . . .’
    The dealers pricked up their ears like a pack of wolfhounds, and for all the auctioneer coughed and said, ‘Shall we get on?’ and the porters came to carry the table away, MCC would not allow it to be removed from the stage.
    ‘Gentlemen! Gentlemen!’ he cried, turning on his audience. ‘I’m glad you’re here today to share in my good fortune. I do believe . . . though there’s no way of knowing for sure . . . but this table is so much like the one in the poem!’
    ‘What poem?’ The murmur ran round the hall.
    ‘What poem? Oh you must know it, surely!
The Night the Prince of Wales came Late to Dine
.’
    ‘The Prince of Wales!’ murmured the dealers, for the mere mention of royalty rings like money in the ears of an antique dealer. And then, because they did not want to look ignorant, they began to nod nonchalantly to one another. ‘Oh yes! By the Poet Laureate, wasn’t it?’
    ‘I thought Robert Browning.’
    ‘No — Kipling — I’m sure it’s Kipling.’
    ‘Or Goldsworthy?’
    MCC had somehow edged the auctioneer off his rostrum and now bent his face towards the microphone. His eyes were as large, dark and oval as the table itself, and filled with the reflections of his restless, munching audience.
    * * *
    The visit of His Royal Highness The Prince of Wales to the home of The Right Honourable Lady Bowdley, Hampshire, 1899.
    First came the linen, like a fall of snow —
A level glacier, glazed by starch and heat,
Falling in sheer, white bluffs to the rug below
To fold across the eight, carved, lion-claw feet;
    And then the candelabra — silver trees
Like those which, dragon-guarded, bore the fruit
Which Herakles fetched from the Hesperides —
All along the table, six took root.
    No armoury of serried pike and sword
Ever displayed so many prongs and blades
As the cutlery laid out to grace the board
Of Edward, Prince of Wales, by the maids.
    Beside the window Lady Bowdley stood,
Her fingers clasped, her noble face dismayed:
Would the Prince be late? And if he would,
Could the quail omelettes be delayed?
    The guests trooped in, the cream of English stock:
The County Squire, the Marchioness, the Dean,
The Lady Swann in long organza frock,
The Judge, a second cousin of the Queen.
    They stood and eyed the empty, gilded plates,
The empty glasses, bowls, tureens and cups,
And pondered, if the Prince of Wales were late,
When the Lady Bowdley would serve up.
    The Breton chef waved temperam ental hands
And wept into the simmering serving pans:
‘Monsieur le Prince is ruining my flans!
I cannot answer for my baked meringues!’
    The rumblings of the guests grew menacing,
Like distant thunder rolling round the sky.
There was a flicking out and tucking in
Of napkins into bodices and ties.
    The Dean began to nibble on a roll,
The Lady Fortescue began to bleat,
‘I think the Prince would want us, on the whole,
Not to wait all night but just to eat!’
    So Lady Bowdley summoned up the soup,
The antipasto, whitebait, langoustine,
The avocados, prawns and cantaloup,
The pâté, lamb and pestoed tortellini.
    Fish course began with lobster thermidor,
Then plaice and halibut and Dover dab,
And shark steak, roll-mop herring and yet more
Unidentifiable bits of crab.
    Then came water-ices — lemon sorbet —
A frothy frost of egg white, slightly sweet,
To clean away the taste of fish before they
Plunged like porpoises upon the meat.
    The Lady Edgar eased undone her zip
And drove her fork into the Vicar’s hand
As they contended for the dish of chips.
The Duchess said, ‘These artichokes are
canned
!’
    Beef bled like a casualty of war.
The pork was pale as snow, with golden rind.
The more the guests devoured, it