to transform. No plain surface was safe against Miss Easton-Dixon. She would take a cold cream jar and reduce its functional simplicity to a nightmare of mock-Meissen. In times which have seen the disappearance of both the attic and the boxroom, she was the scourge of her friends; who, incidentally, loved her.
As well as being a prop of the Women's Rural Institute, a lavish provider of goods for bazaars, a devoted polisher of Church plate, Miss Easton-Dixon was also an authority on Hollywood and all its ramifications. Every Thursday she took the one o'clock bus into Wickham and spent the afternoon having one-and-ninepence-worth at the converted Followers of Moses hall that did duty as a cinema. If the week's film happened to be something of which she did not approve—ukelele opus, for instance, or the tribulations of some blameless housemaid—she put the one-and-ninepence, together with the eight-penny bus fare, into the china pig on the mantelpiece, and used the fund to take her to Crome, when some film that she specially looked forward to was being shown in that comparative metropolis.
Every Friday she collected her Screen Bulletin from the newsagent in the village, read through the releases for the week, marked those she intended to view, and put away the paper for future reference. There was no bit player in two hemispheres that Miss Easton-Dixon could not give chapter and verse for. She could tell you why the make-up expert at Grand Continental had gone over to Wilhelm's, and the exact difference that had made to Madeleine Rice's left profile.
So that poor Emma, walking up the spotless brick path to hand in a basket of eggs on her way to Evensong, was walking all unaware into her Waterloo.
Miss Easton-Dixon asked about the party to celebrate the birth of Maureen's Lover and Lavinia Fitch's literary coming-of-age. Had it been a success?
Emma supposed so. Ross and Cromarty's parties always were. A sufficiency of drink was all that was ever necessary to make a party a success.
'I hear that you have a very good-looking guest this weekend,' Miss Easton-Dixon said, less because she was curious than because it was against her idea of good manners to have gaps in the conversation.
'Yes. Lavinia brought him back from the party. A person called Searle.'
'Oh,' said Miss Easton-Dixon in absentminded encouragement, while she transferred the eggs to a tenpenny white bowl that she had painted with poppies and corn.
'An American. He says that he is a photographer. Anyone who takes photographs can say that he is a photographer and there is no one to deny it. It is a very useful profession. Almost as useful as "nurse" used to be before it became a matter of registration and reference books.'
'Searle?' Miss Easton-Dixon said, pausing with an egg in her hand. 'Not Leslie Searle, by any chance?'
'Yes,' said Emma, taken aback. 'His name is Leslie. At least that is what he says. Why?'
'You mean Leslie Searle is here ? In Salcott St Mary? How simply unbelievable!'
'What is unbelievable about it?' Emma said, on the defensive.
'But he is famous .'
'So are half the residents of Salcott St Mary,' Emma reminded her tartly.
'Yes, but they don't photograph the most exclusive people in the world. Do you know that Hollywood stars go down on their knees to get Leslie Searle to photograph them? It is something that they can't buy. A privilege. An honour.'
'And, I take it, an advertisement,' said Emma. 'Are we talking about the same Leslie Searle, do you think?'
'But of course! There can hardly be two Leslie Searles who are American and photographers.'
'I see nothing impossible in that,' said Emma, a last-ditcher by nature.
'But of course it must be the Leslie Searle. If it won't make you late for Evensong we can settle the matter here and now.'
'How?'
'I have a photograph of him somewhere.'
'Of Leslie Searle!'
'Yes. In a Screen Bulletin . Just let me look it out; it won't take a moment. This really is exciting. I can't think of
As well as being a prop of the Women's Rural Institute, a lavish provider of goods for bazaars, a devoted polisher of Church plate, Miss Easton-Dixon was also an authority on Hollywood and all its ramifications. Every Thursday she took the one o'clock bus into Wickham and spent the afternoon having one-and-ninepence-worth at the converted Followers of Moses hall that did duty as a cinema. If the week's film happened to be something of which she did not approve—ukelele opus, for instance, or the tribulations of some blameless housemaid—she put the one-and-ninepence, together with the eight-penny bus fare, into the china pig on the mantelpiece, and used the fund to take her to Crome, when some film that she specially looked forward to was being shown in that comparative metropolis.
Every Friday she collected her Screen Bulletin from the newsagent in the village, read through the releases for the week, marked those she intended to view, and put away the paper for future reference. There was no bit player in two hemispheres that Miss Easton-Dixon could not give chapter and verse for. She could tell you why the make-up expert at Grand Continental had gone over to Wilhelm's, and the exact difference that had made to Madeleine Rice's left profile.
So that poor Emma, walking up the spotless brick path to hand in a basket of eggs on her way to Evensong, was walking all unaware into her Waterloo.
Miss Easton-Dixon asked about the party to celebrate the birth of Maureen's Lover and Lavinia Fitch's literary coming-of-age. Had it been a success?
Emma supposed so. Ross and Cromarty's parties always were. A sufficiency of drink was all that was ever necessary to make a party a success.
'I hear that you have a very good-looking guest this weekend,' Miss Easton-Dixon said, less because she was curious than because it was against her idea of good manners to have gaps in the conversation.
'Yes. Lavinia brought him back from the party. A person called Searle.'
'Oh,' said Miss Easton-Dixon in absentminded encouragement, while she transferred the eggs to a tenpenny white bowl that she had painted with poppies and corn.
'An American. He says that he is a photographer. Anyone who takes photographs can say that he is a photographer and there is no one to deny it. It is a very useful profession. Almost as useful as "nurse" used to be before it became a matter of registration and reference books.'
'Searle?' Miss Easton-Dixon said, pausing with an egg in her hand. 'Not Leslie Searle, by any chance?'
'Yes,' said Emma, taken aback. 'His name is Leslie. At least that is what he says. Why?'
'You mean Leslie Searle is here ? In Salcott St Mary? How simply unbelievable!'
'What is unbelievable about it?' Emma said, on the defensive.
'But he is famous .'
'So are half the residents of Salcott St Mary,' Emma reminded her tartly.
'Yes, but they don't photograph the most exclusive people in the world. Do you know that Hollywood stars go down on their knees to get Leslie Searle to photograph them? It is something that they can't buy. A privilege. An honour.'
'And, I take it, an advertisement,' said Emma. 'Are we talking about the same Leslie Searle, do you think?'
'But of course! There can hardly be two Leslie Searles who are American and photographers.'
'I see nothing impossible in that,' said Emma, a last-ditcher by nature.
'But of course it must be the Leslie Searle. If it won't make you late for Evensong we can settle the matter here and now.'
'How?'
'I have a photograph of him somewhere.'
'Of Leslie Searle!'
'Yes. In a Screen Bulletin . Just let me look it out; it won't take a moment. This really is exciting. I can't think of
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