In the lounge of their Lincoln Street flat in London, SW1, two elderly sisters, Agatha and Maud, have spent most of their autumn years together examining matters culturally and politically au courant. Here the pandemic is the topic under discussion.
Agatha said: ‘Yes but why are they called masks, Maud? when clearly the thing functions as a filter.’
‘Indeed,’ Maud said, setting down her embroidery hoop and punch needle. ‘But you can’t build a narative around a word like “filter”, Agatha. Before long, one inevitably bumps up against censorship. A healthy contribution to the public imagination? Hardly.’
Agatha observed her sister across the room through a pair of mother-of-pearl lunettes then held them in her lap. ‘Whatever that means these days,’ she said. ‘Leave the old conspirator writing up his placards at Westminster . . . Oh, Maud, do you remember our darling office girl? The solitary creature in a cloche you were so very keen on.’
‘—in St James’s.’ Maud closed her eyes. ‘The fondant of bliss.’
She said: ‘It’s a mask after surgical mask.’
Agatha gazed at her sister. ‘Or a disguise like The Mask of Zorro.’
‘No Agatha. It’s in the similarity of form. Besides, you mean the mark of Zorro.’
‘But Mr. Zorro wore a disguise, and you have the perspicuity of a brace of cyclops. There is similarity of form, but is one under the knife? Wait a moment, cyclops is a countable noun now in the plural, do I need to modify something?’
‘Cyclopses?’
‘A brace of cyclops then.’
‘Agatha, your point.’‘Mask is meant to be misleading. Too convenient an opportunity for too many interests not to miss, I say. But it seeems rather odd, wouldn’t you agree, that no one has said anything about this infuriating duplicity. Shocking, disturbing even. Should you not view the thing differently, consider it in its function – worrying to boot – if it were called what it is, a filter, instead of what it veritably appears to be, which is dehumanising, and furthermore, want precise details on what on earth the thing is filtering? You know I’m right.’
Maud muffled her voice with her hand and said, ‘Fasten your filters!’ She took her hand away. ‘I couldn’t agree more . . . a matter of expedience though, dear. Besides, the common man fully understands, I’m sure. I say “mask”.’
‘And I say “filter”. Just think, countless anxious souls all around the globe pondering why. It’s terribly depressing.’
‘I don’t think they are.’
Agatha suddenly raised her chin. ‘Why haven’t we got tea yet. Where’s Miss Vij? I’m parched. Pass me the rolling mat and for goodness’ sake, Maud, progress. Has Heston been?’
Heston is their adopted Jamaican son who comes down from Blackbird Leys every last Friday of the month.
‘I may have sensed a whiff of vanilla,’ Maud said.
‘Don’t be facetious. The dried plant remains . . . combustibles for our wellbeing?’
‘Doubtless, Agatha, Heston has secreted them in the jardinniere in the atrium.’
The jardinniere is in the conservatory. However the word ‘conservatory’ connotes suburban renovations and driveway cowboys, and so by unanimous agreement, the conservatory is now described in the Latin. At one side, near the entrance to the flat, a magnificent jasmine plant, festooned with a parachute-like canopy of white blooms, ladens the still air with its sweet and musky fragance suggesting intrigue, and steamers to Peru.
At the foot of the trunk now lies a re-sealable bag containing a silver-foil wrapped oblong block.
Agatha said, ‘What time is it, Maud? Point me out the walkie-talkie, will you?’
‘It’s under last month’s Marie Claire.’
Agatha sifted through the magazines beneath the coffee table in front of her, plucked out the device and stared at it.
‘Why are we still using this absurdity with no range?’
‘Range enough, Agatha. It’s almost four. You know little Chandice meant well.’ (Chandice is Heston’s daughter.) The walkie-talkie is small and plastic and blush-pink, with a large raised purple button on the side and the word ‘Barbie’ stamped across the facia in faux-gold leaf. Agatha held it under her chin, squeezed the side and spoke with some urgency.
‘Miss Vij, where are you, over?’
‘The kitchen, Miss Agatha.’
‘What are you doing, over?’
‘Preparing tea.’
‘Splendid. Are there Jaffa cakes today, over?’
Agatha smiled. ‘And could you see if Heston has been? . . . you have? Capital. Over and out.’
She returned the walkie-talkie to the mound of glossy periodicals and Maud handed her the rolling mat and an ornate walnut box. Agatha placed the box on the table and lifted the lid. Maud resumed her embroidery as Miss Vij arrived gripping the handles of a wide silver tray. Agatha looked up.
‘Ah, you’re a tonic.’ The tray was landed with a gentle rattle of porcelain and Miss Vij handed over the resealable bag couriered by Heston.
‘Well Maud,’ Agatha said, ‘with a generous doobie and a pot of Oolong, we may now settle the question of their secret agenda!’
