The Hirsute Lady of the Institute

What Ho Proles!

Last night, I promised to tell you about my evening with the ladies of the WI and though today's is a bit of a lengthy update, the family honour demands that I give a full account of my actions.

The WI, for those of you not up with the lingo, is the Women’s Institute, also known as the finest body of heavily corseted womanhood the world has ever known. I should add, however, that I do not use the word ‘known’ is any biblical sense. Perish the thought. Perish the thought indeed…

The Bentley arrived at the local village hall a little before seven. I told My Man to park it in full view of the adjacent police station and then ankle his way back to the hall where I wanted him to stand guard by the doors, ready to eject any troublemakers should trouble ensue. Not that I expected the event to be a sea of rebellious matriarchs, but I saw what the blighters did to Tony Blair and you can’t tell me that he’s been the same since that day. Friends tell me he faints at the merest whiff of a Werther's Original.

The evening began well enough. I was presented to the assembled grand dames and they gave me a rather insincere round of applause. Even though I say it myself, I think my monograph went down surprisingly well. Such was my confidence that I almost gave My Man the all clear signal to instruct him to go and collect the car. Yet, for some reason, I hesitated. I think it’s the same reason cats know when it’s going to rain. There was a frisson of something running down my spine. I knew, you see, that I had yet to endure the Q&A.

As I told the police officers later that evening: the trouble was sparked off by a woman in the third row who looked rather like Bernard Manning on steroids. Her bulk was distributed evenly beneath a fine black moustache and matching tea-cosy hat. She’d been glaring at me all though my speech, slowly caressing her tash as she did so, but when the moment came to ask questions, her thickly-biceped arm shot up and figured prominently among the throng of slender reeds.

The moment was perhaps fated that the chairwoman would pick out the thicker arm and when she did, the behemoth slowly gathered herself, adjusted a pair of glasses as thick as a welder’s helmet, ran her finger one last time through her lip’s hedge, and then looked at me as though she had taken offence at every one of my Uncle Cyril’s misdemeanors.

‘May I ask,’ she barked, not at all unlike a hound on steroids, ‘are all your family criminals or of criminal extraction?’

There may well have been at least two gasps that echoed through the hall, though you would not have known it given the thunderous round of applause. I didn’t know what to say and was forced to rely on the old Oxford trick of ‘trying to look at the broader picture’.

‘As a historian,’ I smiled, ‘I can assure you that historical perceptions of moral behavior do change quite radically between the ages. Does that answer your question, Mrs…?’

The woman stood up again. ‘It’s not Mrs. I’m a Professor. Professor Alice Kipling, lately of Christ’s College, Cambridge. And quite frankly, sir, you answer does not satisfy me in the slightest.’

At that moment, I was stricken by the thought that I knew only two Kiplings and I was an admirer of neither the pastries not the poems. This woman seemed to complete an unholy triumvirate.

I mumbled one of those apologies that don’t come easily for either Murgatroids or Tories, and proceeded to defend the family name as best I could. That wasn’t enough for Professor Kipling. She stood up again.

‘Genealogy is my expertise but, in particular, all disputed hereditary claims,’ she said, her voice softening a little until she sounded not unlike a Welsh male voice choir (who may well have been on steroids). ‘You see, I’m particularly interested in the landed gentry and how, shall we say, they landed their land.’

There was a chuckle around the room, but the Honourable J.P.’s lips were not for twitching. You see, what I failed to include in my monograph of the family are details of my great great grandfather, Felix Murgatroid.

Felix was a bit of a sheep whose wool was so off white to be almost black. In his youth, he used to travel the length of the land following the horse racing as it moved between Ascot, Cheltenham, Haydock, Chepstow… There wasn’t a track he didn’t at some stage call his home. It was during one of these tours up North that rumours first began to emerge of a brief marriage and progeny. The story sometimes turns up in the newspapers, claiming that a son was born on the east side of the Pennines and that the odd vagrant with the Murgatroid forehead and narrow jowls can still be found roaming the Yorkshire moors. There has yet to be any positive proof offered, of course, but we incumbent Murgatroids always live in fear of a claim to the family estate by some misguided ferret handler from Bradford.

All I knew at the time was that I could allow the Professor to go on no longer. So I picked up my papers, folded them into my case, and turned to the audience. ‘It’s been an absolute pleasure, ladies,’ I said with a crust of a smile so thick on my face that I believe it would have even made Mr. Kipling shed a tear. Then, without any further ado, I took to my patented leather heels and ran for the door.

My Man had the Bentley going by the time I threw myself in the back seat, yet barely had Murgatroid hide hit Bentley leather than a shadow loomed at my side.

‘You ran away without answering all my questions,’ said the Professor, who must have done the hundred in less than ten seconds. From beyond her, the ladies of the WI had begun to warble ‘Jeruslem’ and I felt not unlike poor Albion in William Blake’s illustrations, struggling under the weighty gaze of Urizen.

I pulled the door closed, pulled the blind down over the window, and ordered My Man to thrash every single one of the Bentley’s horses.

What happened next is more of a blur to me. The car sped forward and then came to a shuddering halt. I remember My Man jumping out and being immediately dragged to the floor by large hands that grabbed him. It would seem that in my haste to escape, I’d trapped Professor Kipling’s dress in the door and we’d proceeded to drag the poor woman the length of a football pitch. What this says about the torque delivered by a Bentley’s power unit, I’ll leave for another day. What I will say is that it had resulted in a peculiar change in Professor Kipling’s manner.

I need not recount every detail, but needless to say, blows were struck and My Man was left with severe concussion. Yours Truly was lucky to escape with a bloodied nose and bit of blurred vision.

By the time the police arrived and we’d been escorted to the station, I’d regained a little of my composure and, being a local magistrate known to the local constabulary, it took only a contribution of ten pounds to the Christmas box before they listened to my advice and agreed that the Professor would be well served by an evening under lock and key.

And there you have it: my evening in all its potted glory. Not much of an arc, as stories go, but it is all absolutely true. I also fear that this whole episode and recent comments left on this blog have reaffirmed my worries about the Murgatroid heritage. I’m quite sure this isn’t the last I’ll hear of Professor Kipling and I now must prepare the right ammunition for her return. I should arrange the relevant documents, get land deeds and birth certificates in order, but one can’t help but feel that Uncle Stanley's elephant gun might also come in handy.

Ah well… I had hoped for a quieter weekend but must now see to reeducating my man whose concussion has left him believing that he’s Tsar Nicholas II.

Do the troubles never cease?

TTFN.