Gale Warning (7 page)

Though I had been spared this disaster, its bare contemplation embarrassed any shaken wits, and though I tried my best to think what to do, my brain could suggest no action, but only precipitate flight. And this I was sure was wrong. Though I could not see how to play it, I had been dealt by Fortune a valuable hand. Mansel or Chandos would have made a hatful of tricks. But I could think of nothing, but of throwing the cards away. And the game of billiards was very nearly over, for ‘spot’ was eighty-seven and ‘plain’ was ninety–two…

Then a cough at my shoulder roused me, and there was a servant standing, with a tray in his hand.

“I’m sorry,” I said somehow, and stood away from the glass.

“It’s quite all right, sir, thank you.”

He peered through the peephole himself, before going into the room.

It was his natural action that cleared my brain.

“What’s the name of that member?” I said. “The one with the thick, grey hair.”

The servant looked round.

“That’s the Reverend Plato, sir.”

“No,” said I. “The one in his shirt-sleeves, I mean.”

“That’s right, sir. He is a reverend, though he doesn’t wear clerical clothes. I don’t think he practises. He’s something in the City, I think. He lives at Virginia Water and comes up to Town most days.”

My instructions were clear.

Give notice at once and leave on Saturday. Say that you cannot endure an office life.

Continue to go to the club – from half-past six each evening till seven o’clock. Go for the last time on Friday.

Leave London for Paris on Tuesday and travel by train. (You must be prepared to stay abroad for some time.) Go to the Hotel and engage a small suite. Say that Madame will arrive the following day.

Go to Le Bourget on Wednesday to meet the midday plane. Madame will come by that, and you are to greet her exactly as you would greet a girlfriend for whom you had taken the rooms. This is most important. If she can play up, so can you.

From that time on you two will work together, and so her orders are yours. But here is a special order for you alone. ‘She is to talk and to drive, and you are to keep her straight.’

I will not set out my emotions, for they may be better imagined than written down: but I was so much excited that I could hardly think straight, and I had to take hold of myself lest my friends in Sermon Square should find my demeanour curious and wonder what was afoot. By strict application to business, I managed, I think, to conceal the elation I felt, but I must confess I was thankful when Saturday came, not only because I was stamping to get to France, but because I was sick and tired of deceiving those honest souls.

On Monday, as may be believed, I had a full day, for, although I had a passport, I had no more than ten hours in which to provide for an absence of several months: however, I did it somehow, and after packing till dawn, I caught the Golden Arrow and slept most of the way.

I shall always remember that evening, for Paris was warmer than London and summer had really come in and the world seemed big with promise, and business disguised as pleasure was in the air. The day which should have been ending seemed to have taken a second lease of life, and people appeared to be coming, instead of going away. The streets might have a
foyer
– between two acts of some popular musical play, and in view of the part which I was about to enact, I do not think I could have demanded a more congenial setting for my entrance upon the stage.

The hotel was retired and private: its hall was empty and I could see no lounge: but the suites I was shown were attractive beyond belief, while the address of the staff, from the manager down to the pages, was irreproachable. No rake’s progress was ever so dignified – a fact, I may say, which afforded me great relief, for though I was resolved to ignore it, I had in my heart been dreading the knowing complacence with which I was sure I should meet. In spite of the manners and customs prevailing today, I did not relish the notion of being credited with a conquest which in fact I had not made; still less did I like the idea of parading Audrey Nuneham as the victim of my desires: but the style of the place was so good and the deference shown to my orders was so correct that, so far as that house was concerned, I never deplored the impression which we were bound to convey.

That night I dined in my suite and, after strolling awhile, went early to bed. The next morning I walked about Paris until it was time for lunch: and after that I ordered a private car, which carried me out to Le Bourget by half-past two.

As a special favour, for which I fought very hard, I was allowed on the apron on which passengers alight, and from there, at ten minutes to three, I saw the aeroplane land.

As her pilot taxied over, I began to regret my insistence on such a conspicuous place, for a number of less-favoured people were looking on and, as it were, making an audience, whilst I had the stage to myself. My nerves were only waiting for some such opening as this, and I can most truthfully say that now I know what it means to be attacked by stage-fright.

I certainly stood my ground, but that was because I felt unable to move: my mouth was dry as a bone, and I could remember nothing of what I had meant to say: and when, in a frenzy, I tried to recover myself, I think some devil must have possessed my mind, for I thought of Mr Bonner of Sermon Square and the trick he had of holding a pen in his mouth.

The machine must have come to rest and the little staircase been wheeled to its open door, but such was my state that I cannot swear to these things – in fact I remember nothing till Audrey Nuneham stepped out of the aeroplane.

As she did so, she lifted a hand – and my nerve came back.

Halfway to the staircase I met her, hat in hand.

“Audrey, my darling,” I cried: and, with that, I stooped to kiss her, and her arm went about my neck.

Then I drew her towards the building and said how splendid she looked and asked her about her flight; but she did better than that, for she locked her arm tight in mine and walked up and down on the apron, talking of all she had done and all we were going to do, till at last some official approached us and said that the Customs were waiting to clear what luggage she had.

As I opened her dressing-case for her—

“Have you got a car, my darling?”

“I have, my sweet.”

“Good boy. Do you like my dress?”

“I think it’s perfect,” said I, and meant what I said.

Indeed, she looked a picture – in blue and white, with a fur slung over a shoulder and a diamond brooch in her hat. And though everybody was smiling, I know that I felt like a king, for a queen had handed me up to sit by her side.

And then we were in the car, and were whipping over the cobbles the way I had come.

Half an hour later, perhaps, we entered our suite.

Audrey stood looking round.

Then she pulled off her hat and pitched it on to a chair. And then she walked up to a mirror and looked at herself in its glass.

“Well, we’re over that fence,” she said. “But I wish you wouldn’t give me these shocks. As the plane came up to the apron, I thought you were going to be sick.”

“Well, I damned near was,” said I. “I wasn’t made for these things.”

“Kissing strange women?” says she.

“Well, not in public,” said I. “There must have been fifty people lapping it up.”

“What could have been better? One of those fifty people is now quite sure that, though I know Jonah and Richard, my visit to Paris has nothing to do with them. ‘Girls will be girls,’ they’ll say – and write to our Mr Plato to say there’s no cause for alarm. But I had to do all the work. You hardly opened your mouth.”

“That wasn’t my fault,” said I. “I couldn’t get a word in.”

“You wicked liar,” said Audrey. “You never tried.”

“Not at all,” said I. “I thought it looked more natural to let you talk. If you’d dried up—”

There I met her eye in the glass, and the two of us laughed.

“Oh, John,” she said, “you were sweet. The way you said ‘Audrey, my darling’… I nearly burst. But please do remember this – when a man’s in love with a woman, he looks in her eyes.”

“I – I know,” I said feebly enough.

“Then for God’s sake do it,” says she, “the next time we’re on parade. And now be a saint and order some China tea. I’m going to wash.”

The waiter had come and gone before I saw her again, and when I did, she was wearing a pair of dark glasses, such as are commonly worn against the glare of the sun.

“And why?” said I.

“Would you know me like this?”

“Anyone would,” said I. “If you want to disguise yourself, you’ll have to get a new face.”

This was true. Veil the great, brown eyes, and the temples came into their own, while the curve of her chin and the pride of her beautiful mouth looked almost more distinguished, because, I suppose, one rival had been suppressed.

She whipped the glasses off.

“They’ll be better than nothing,” she said, “Such heaps of people wear them that I shall fall into a class.”

I shook my head.

“You’ll never do that,” said I. “And now may I know our instructions and where we stand?”

She took her seat at the table and poured out tea.

“We’re to stay here two nights,” she said, “and go out and about. Not to the bigger places: Montmartre is rather the portion of people like us. Then we shall leave for Amiens, and there we shall join up with Bell.”

“The base,” said I. “We’re not off?”

“Not yet, thank God – and I never thought I’d say that. But we must have a chance to get ready, if we are to follow Plato with any hope of success. Even I can see that… D’you remember our talk in the train?”

“Every word,” said I.

“Well, Jonah heard what you said, and he says you’re right. If Plato goes by road, our worst time will be when he leaves the coast. For the first thirty miles, Jonah says, he’ll lead us a hell of a dance; but if, at the end of that lap, we’re still at his heels, he thinks he’ll go tooling along and we ought to get home.

“Very well. The first thirty miles. You and I are in France to learn by heart the country for thirty miles round the ports. Dunkirk, Calais, Boulogne, Dieppe and Havre. We don’t know which he’ll go to, but, God be praised, they’re not very far apart; and Amiens makes a good centre from which to work. And Bell’s got a car all ready, and I’ve got some glorious maps.”

“That’s very clever,” said I. “The odds were against us, of course; but this’ll shorten our price.”

And that, I think, was true, for, though Plato turned and twisted, he would be turning and twisting in country he did not know; if he switched to the right or the left, he would know where he hoped to come to but nothing more; but we should know where his road led to and, therefore, where he must go.

“Provided he goes by road.”

“Audrey,” said I, “we must make up our minds that he will. If we are to bring this off, it’s no good wondering whether our labour is going to be lost.”

She looked at me steadily, over the rim of her cup.

“The Gospel according to St John.”

“That’s the worst of me,” I said. “I ‘do mean so well.’”

There was a little silence.

Then—

“Don’t you like your tea?” said Audrey.

I sighed.

“I’ve drunk some filth in my time, but I can’t drink this. Of course, I’m spoiled. Now the tea Miss Buchan made—”

“Who the devil’s Miss Buchan?” said Audrey.

“Another girlfriend,” said I. Audrey choked. “She’s typing letters just now – at 22 Sermon Square. Now the tea she made—”

“D’you expect me to make your tea?”

“God forbid,” said I. “ But—”

“Tell me of Sermon Square, John. I used to think of you there, and you don’t know how I wanted to ring you up.”

“My dear,” said I, “I’ll make you a present of this – I used to pray for a letter to be at the club.”

“Well, let’s make up for lost time.” She flung me a charming smile. “And you’re right about this tea. Give me a cigarette to take the taste out of my mouth.”

Then she took her seat on a sofa, and put up her pretty feet, and I straddled a chair beside her and told her all I had done in the last three weeks.

It was a dull enough tale, but in the light of her interest it seemed to be a romance; no detail was too petty, and no description too full; she wanted to hear everything – and, because she wanted to hear it, everything seemed to acquire a new significance.

As at last I came to the end—

“And now do tell me,” said I. “Was my information correct? Does he live at Virginia Water? And is he a clergyman?”

“Yes – to all three,” said Audrey. “According to Rowley, he has a delightful house – with an acre of woodland, which suits Rowley down to the ground. And he runs a boys’ club, the darling, and plays a prominent part in local affairs. Full of good works, of course. Rowley also reports that his housekeeper’s better-looking than housekeepers usually are, but the neighbours fully believe that she is his niece and that he is a man of God.”

“A car?” said I.

“
And
a chauffeur – a queer-looking card. But, again according to Rowley, he looks as though he could drive.”

“Oh, hell,” said I, without thinking.

“Now then, St John…” She glanced at a tiny wristwatch and got to her feet. “I’d like to go for a walk. Will you take your little friend out and show her the shops?”

With her consent, I ordered a car for the evening and told them to get two stalls for a musical show: and then we went out on foot, with her, of course, for guide, because she knew where to go.

I cannot believe that there was a shop in Paris which was worth looking into, of which she was unaware, but though such an exercise was not at all in my line, a hermit must have enjoyed it in Audrey’s company. And I never would have believed that I could take any interest in women’s wear, but when she grew excited about some silk or satin, spread out on a velvet board, I found myself infected and wondering how it would suit her and wishing I had the right to make it hers.

Of course we were ‘on parade,’ but nobody could have been sweeter or seemed more natural. She made it hard to remember that we were playing a game, taking my arm at the crossings and always sharing with me whatever she saw. And when I walked into a florist’s and, finding that they could speak English, selected a basket of roses and gave her name and address, she caught my hand in hers and held it against her heart – the tenderest gesture, I think, that ever a woman made.

But one thing I never did. When I was calling her ‘darling,’ I never looked into her eyes. I never dared do that, because I could not answer for what she might see in mine.

When I fell in love with her, I cannot pretend to say – I think, perhaps, the first time I saw her, in Mansel’s flat. But when that afternoon she stepped out of the aeroplane, then I knew I was mad about her, body and soul. In a way, this made it easy to play my part, for when I had kissed her lips, I was doing as I desired – though I felt rather badly about it, because I seemed in a way to be stealing a march. But what worried me ten times as much was the fear lest I should do something to make her suspect the truth, for that would be the end of a relation that meant the world to me, and though by
force majeure
we worked alone together for week after week, we should never again be easy with one another.