Читать книгу Shoal Water - Cecil William Mercer - Страница 3

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When I came down from Oxford in 1936, to enter the family business in Crutched Friars, my uncles let me see that, though they were bound to make me their junior partner, they did so against their will.

I do not blame them at all. They were grave, elderly men, to whom business was a religion and the service of Solon and Solon the article of their faith. Since I was twenty-two and had nothing to show for my costly education—unless you count six oars and one very good friend—they naturally looked askance at a colleague so young and so unpromising, for though I let the firm down, I could not be dismissed, but must remain in authority, to set a shameful example to those who could.

It was this overt suspicion as much as anything else which made me determined to show them that I could be worth my salt, and no man ever worked harder than I did for nearly two years. The business was so well established that, fortunately for me, routine duties were all that had to be done: but these were numerous. I laboured early and late, and, except for an odd week-end, I had no holidays: when one of my uncles fell sick, I did his duty, too, for nearly three months: and, most important of all, I honoured a list of rules which must, I think, have been printed before my father was born.

And then, one evening in June, I opened the following note.

My dear Jeremy,

If I may say so, my brother and I have been very favourably impressed by the devotion to duty which you have shown for nearly two years. At the same time we cannot lose sight of the fact that ‘Youth’s a stuff will not endure,’ and we feel that this year you should take a considerable holiday. Since the summer is, as you know, the season in which we are least busy, we suggest—and indeed desire—that you should absent yourself for the next three months. The rest and change will do you a deal of good. I enclose a cheque for six hundred pounds, which we hope will enable you to take some friend away with you and to spend a really enjoyable time. Let us say from the first of July to the thirtieth of September.

Your affectionate uncle,

John Solon.

To this very handsome treatment I owe the fact that I have a tale to tell, for I made up my mind that night to wander abroad and six days later I purchased a second-hand car. This was a ‘guaranteed’ Lowland—a swift, all-weather coupé, with an enormous boot: she proved as good a bargain as ever a driver made. Since coupés are built to seat two, I did my best to persuade my friend, George Laking, to bear me company. But he was at work in Paris and could not join me for more than a long week-end. Still, he said he would meet me at Rouen, if I could go by that way; and since I very much wanted to see him again, I made arrangements to ship the car to Dieppe.

So it came that I drove out of London at five o’clock on a Thursday, the seventh day of July, taking the road to Newhaven and meaning to cross that night. Newhaven ... Dieppe ... Rouen—where George was due to meet me the following day.

The afternoon was hot, and I took things easily, trying the Lowland’s paces and taking stock, as I went, of a beautiful countryside: indeed, I well remember the pleasure I found in picturing Crutched Friars and contrasting my labours there with the leisure my good old uncles had bundled into my arms. Still, I had time to waste, for the ship did not sail till ten and I had until eight to bring the car alongside.

Just before half-past seven I stole through Lewes and on to the Newhaven road; and it must have been ten minutes later that I saw a black coupé ahead by the side of the way and a girl who was wearing grey trousers, full in my path.

As I set a foot on the brake, she lifted a hand, and when she was sure I was stopping, she stepped to one side and stood waiting for me to come up.

As I brought the Lowland to rest, she opened her mouth.

“I’m dreadfully sorry,” she said, “but will you help a damned fool?”

“Where is he?” I said, and made to get out of the car.

She smiled.

Then—

“Don’t get out. I want a gallon of petrol. You see, I’m crossing to-night: and if you’ve got any petrol, they take it out on the quay. So an old hand tries to run it as fine as ever he can—and fetch up with a teaspoonful. But this time I’ve been too clever, and now I’m stuck.”

I looked at my petrol-gauge. This showed that more than nine gallons were still in my tank. And Newhaven was three miles off. Of course, I was not an ‘old hand.’

In silence I showed her the gauge, and she covered her mouth.

I sighed.

“ ‘D’you mean to say they just take it—and give you nothing at all?”

“It’s an old Channel custom,” she said. “And then they expect you to tip them for pumping it out.”

As soon as I could speak—

“But we have no pump,” said I. “So, though we’ve nine gallons between us, we’ve got to buy more.”

She nodded cheerfully.

“Without delay, too,” she said, “if I’m to be there by eight.”

As I let in my clutch—

“I promise,” I said, “to be as quick as I can.”

I was as good as my word—for my sake, as much as for hers. I wished to see more of my lady. Never before had I met so unusual a girl.

She was tall and slim, and she moved and stood very well. Over her well-cut slacks she was wearing a white silk shirt; and, to keep her hair in place, she had bound a gay, green handkerchief over her chestnut curls. Wimple and gorget in one, this suited her perfectly: but while any face so framed must have looked its best, her beauty was so outstanding that I was all agog to see the handkerchief gone. Her nose was aquiline, and her eyes were the clearest gray; her clean-cut chin was firm and her mouth had an exquisite curve: but her gaze was so level and fearless and her manner so quiet and so sure that I knew I had had to do with a very exceptional type—a girl with the charm of a maid and the drive of a man.

I was back in a quarter of an hour: and when I had poured the spirit into her tank and had taken the price I had paid, because I dared not refuse, she waited for me to turn round and then drove off before me, “because I know the ropes and I’ll lead you on to the quay.”

Half an hour later the cars were tied to their trays and my nine gallons of petrol had been withdrawn. (Never expecting such bounty, they had to send for more cans, to take it away.) And since we could not go aboard for an hour and a half, I asked my lady to dine with me at the hotel.

She shook her head.

“I’ll eat on the boat,” she said. “You go and have some dinner—unless you’d care for a walk.”

“Yes, please,” I said. “But I think you should put on a coat.”

For a moment she made no answer.

Then—

“Perhaps you’re right,” she said slowly, and turned to go back to her car. “And what about you?”

I helped her to put on a woolley that matched her scarf: then I put on a jacket myself, and we left the quay.

As we crossed the railway lines—

“My name’s Solon,” I said; “and I’m trying to be a merchant in Crutched Friars.”

My companion looked at me.

“That sounds all wrong,” she said.

“I’m not sure it isn’t,” said I. “But so many better men would be thankful to have my job.”

“Of course. But you’re young and fit. And you don’t look as if you had more than one mouth to feed.”

“I haven’t,” said I. “But—damn it the job was there. A junior partnership. There’s nothing the matter with that.”

“There never is—with a mess of pottage,” she said. “But you have to pay for it—Esau. Rank heresy, of course. And damned impertinence. But that’s your fault. ‘Trying to be a merchant’ got me under the ribs.”

“May I ask why?”

She regarded the heaven, aglow with the setting sun.

“Well, I think one tries not to be a merchant. If there’s nothing for it—yes. But I’d rather lie out as a shepherd than fatten in Crutched Friars.”

“Am I fat?” said I.

“Not yet.”

I laughed.

“If you saw me in Crutched Friars, you wouldn’t say that.” I threw a look round about me and took a deep breath. “This is the life that is going to make me grow fat.”

“How long have you got?”

“Three months.”

“Three months. That’s not too bad.”

“It’s the first leave I’ve ever had.”

“Is it, indeed?” she said. “Oh, well, there’s hope for you yet.”

But when I asked what she meant, she would not say.

She was leading me into the country which lay to the north and east, and everything looked so peaceful and seemed to offer so much that I was quite sorry that I was going abroad.

When I told her as much, she nodded.

“I know,” she said. “I always feel just the same. ‘Are not Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of Israel?’ But the change of scene is good. And my father lives in France. He’s—not very strong: and I go to see him a lot. And now tell me where you’re going and what you’re going to do.”

I told her as much as I knew.

“I should go south,” she said. “I shouldn’t waste time at Rouen, but pick up your man and get on. It’s glorious down there now—wherever you like to go, south of Angoulême.”

“But he can’t stay on,” said I.

“Then send him back from Bordeaux and go on alone. Wander down to the frontier and then turn east. And when you can smell Marseilles, turn west by north.”

It was clear that she knew France well, and I led her on to speak of routes and places and all the things that a wayfarer ought to know. But though she seemed glad to be with me and talked so naturally, she never gave me her name or told me where she was going or where her father lived. Instead, she made me talk—at least, I found myself telling her many things and how for the last four years I had had to shift for myself, because my father and mother had lost their lives in the air.

After a while, as though to do me pleasure, she took her green handkerchief off and gave her curls to the breeze, to look like some nymph by Boucher and make me more proud than ever to bear her company: but, though she must have known how lovely she was, she gave herself no airs and seemed to expect no kind of deference.

Dusk had come in before we got back to the quay: and when we had shown our passports, we went aboard. And there we sat down to an excellent, simple meal of cold meat, cheese and beer, which, frankly, suited me better than any elaborate repast.

When she learned that I had no cabin, she looked at me soberly over the rim of her glass.

“You need looking after, Esau. How and where were you meaning to spend the night?”

“I had meant to sit up,” I said.

“What a dreadful thought. I’m going to go to bed and be called at seven o’clock. Breakfast at eight, and at nine I shall be on the road.”

“That’s much more like it,” said I.

With that, I sent for a steward and asked him to find me a cabin and take a certain suitcase out of my car.

As he left to do my bidding—

“I frankly admit,” I said, “I’ve a lot to learn.”

“More than you think,” said the girl. “That’s the direct result of trying to be a merchant in Crutched Friars.”

“You mean——”

“That I very much doubt if your uncles know their world. And they are three times your age. Maybe, they’re happier so. But I don’t believe you would be. I may be wrong.”

“Do you know your world?” said I.

“More or less. Probably less. But I move about a lot, and that is the way to learn.”

I gave her a cigarette and took one myself.

“I’ve three months,” I said, “in which to improve my mind. May I send you a letter to say how I’m getting on?”

She put up a hand to push back her shining hair.

“I have no address to give you. I’ll be by Bordeaux to-morrow—I’m joining a party there. But after that—who knows? I’ve no idea of their plans.”

I sat very still.

It was clear that she meant our acquaintance to end at Dieppe. I had served her a turn for an evening—because there was nobody else. But I must not know where to find her or who she was, in case I should reappear and put her to shame.

I had not believed that she would treat me like that. It had not entered my head. I would have sworn that she was above such things.... But so would any fool—who was trying to be a merchant in Crutched Friars.

I laughed shortly.

“Perhaps you’re right,” I said, and called for the bill.

When we left the table, she led the way to the deck: but though we strolled, I did not feel like speaking, and she, I suppose, thought it best to leave me alone. It was dark now and we had the place to ourselves, for ours were the only cars and the boat-train was not yet due. Time and place, in a word, would have favoured the making of love: but no man wants to make love when he has been kicked in the face.

And then, to my great surprise, the girl slid an arm under mine.

“Try not to hate me, Esau.”

“I could never hate you,” I said, and wondered why that was true.

“I’m glad of that,” she said quietly. “I—I couldn’t bear you to hate me. I’m not as tough as you think.”

“That’s all right,” I said somehow. “After all, it’s up to you. But you’ve done enough damage to-day to make me upset to think that I’m not going to see you again.”

I heard her draw in her breath.

Then her arm slipped away and she put out a little hand.

“Good-night, Esau,” she said. “I’m going to bed. Sleep well, my dear, and—thank you so very much.”

I took her hand in both mine.

“Won’t you give me a name,” I said, “to remember you by?”

She looked away over the water, swaying black under the stars.

Then—

“I will—to-morrow,” she said.

My heart leaped up at that, for it showed that she was relenting and might go further still the following day. Indeed, I forgot my resentment, which now seemed unfair to her, and after a moment I put her hand to my lips.

As I kissed her fingers, I felt them close upon mine.

“Breakfast at eight?” I said, smiling.

“And don’t be late,” she said gravely. “By half-past eight you’ll have to be off the ship.”

With that, she was gone.

As she reached the companion, she turned, and the light of some naked lamp fell on to her face. She smiled and lifted a hand. Then she turned again and passed out of my sight.

I suppose I must have been tired, for I slept that night like a log. Though the boat-train arrived, whilst I was unpacking my things, I was asleep before we put out to sea: and I never heard us arrive at the port of Dieppe, when there must have been noise enough to have woken the dead.

When the steward called me at seven, he brought me some tea—and there, on the tray, was a note, to which the man drew my attention, because I was half asleep.

“I was to give you this note, sir, directly you waked. Those were the lady’s last words, before she went off.”

I sat up and stared at the man.

“ ‘Went off’?” I said slowly. “D’you mean to say that she’s gone?”

“That’s right, sir. You can get off, if you like, at half-past five. She got off then, an’ her car was cleared before six.”

“I see,” I said, and put a hand to my head.

“You’ll be taking breakfast, sir?”

I nodded.

“Yes, I suppose so,” I said. “I’ll come in about eight.”

“Very good, sir.”

The man withdrew, and after a little while I opened the note.

Esau dear,

You’ve made it so very hard for me to do the right thing. Good-bye. And the best of luck always, where-ever you are.

Katharine.

I remember that the first thing I did was to look at my watch. Five minutes past seven. I had to rise and dress and to clear the car. I might, I reckoned, be on the road by eight. But Katharine had been on the road by six. That meant she had two hours’ start—on roads that she knew. All the same ...

And there I remembered George Laking. George was to meet me at Rouen at half-past two.

I lay still and thought things out.

Katharine was now beyond Rouen, heading for Chartres. Even if I started at eight, it was one chance in ten thousand that I should overtake her before she came to Bordeaux. I had the faster car, but she knew the roads. If, on the other hand, I waited at Rouen for George, any chance of catching her up would, of course, no longer exist. All the time, I knew in my heart that I could not break my engagement and let George Laking down.

After a little I decided that George and I together should take the road for Bordeaux. He probably knew the way—which would be a great help. And if we left Rouen at three, we could be at Bordeaux that night. We would follow, but not pursue. And George’s counsel would be invaluable.

I put my letter away and began to get up ...

It will be observed that I had but one idea—to find my lady as soon as ever I could. I cared for her and I knew that she cared for me. Of course she would never have said so, had she not known that she was to see me no more: but, safe in that knowledge, she had ‘returned’ the interest she knew that I took in her. She had shown her hand—and that was enough for me. I meant to find her somehow. And when I had found her, then I would have things out—and smash this spectre at which her conscience had shied. I could have moved mountains, if mountains had stood in her path. ‘You have made it so very hard for me to do the right thing.’ Very well. I would make it easy—easy to do the right thing, and see herself in my eyes.

It occurred to me that she had bade me go south—to send George back from Bordeaux and go on alone. Bordeaux. That was where she was going. ‘Wander down to the frontier and then turn east.’ A thousand to one that was what she was going to do. Oh, of course. The thing was clear. And if I slipped down to the country south of Bordeaux and kept an eye on the road which led to the south, one day I should see a black coupé rounding a bend ... and a flash of green and chestnut, as it went by.

By eight o’clock my appetite had returned.

There was now no need for haste, so I took things easily. It was nearly ten before I ran out of Dieppe, and past eleven before I had come to Rouen and found the hotel at which George and I were to meet.

Now if we were to drive to Bordeaux and to waste no time by the way, to take some food in the car seemed the wisest plan: so, when I had had a drink, I set about buying provisions from which we could make a good meal by the side of the road. I bought far more than we needed, because in the shop which I entered everything looked so nice, and the people were kindness itself and sent out for bread and butter and even for fruit. When they heard that I should not be leaving till three o’clock, they offered at once to keep all the stuff until then, because, as they pointed out, the Lowland was not a larder and the day was extremely hot. To this I gladly agreed: and I made a like arrangement with a very pleasant fellow who sold me six bottles of beer: these he put into his ice-box before my eyes, so that when I came for them later, they should be thoroughly cold.

Then I berthed the car and visited the cathedral and strolled the ancient streets until it was time to lunch—and perceived how wise I had been to wait for George. For one thing only, the fact that I could not speak French would have been enough to weight me out of the race. Had I had to ask my way, I could, perhaps, have made myself understood: but, unless they had been very simple, I could not have understood such directions as I received. That sort of thing does not matter when you have time to spare, because, if both parties are patient, liaison can be achieved: but, as I had found that morning, such fences cannot be rushed. But George could speak excellent French.

I finished my lunch by two and took my seat in the lounge, to glance at an English paper and keep an eye on the door. But I need not have been so zealous, for more than an hour went by, but George never appeared.

I was out on the pavement by now, because I could not sit still: but I should have done better to go to the porter’s desk.

I saw the telegram there at a quarter past four. It had been there since ten o’clock. But it had not been given to me, although I had given my name.

Terribly sorry detained till this evening coming by train reaching Rouen eleven o’clock.

I could have screamed the house down—and have shoved the hall-porter’s face through the back of his head.

Had I been given the wire when first I arrived, I should, of course, have set out alone for Bordeaux. I could not have faced the prospect of wasting another twelve hours. But now, through no fault of my own, I had wasted five. Was I to waste seven more and start my adventure equipped with a valuable squire, or was I to start it at once and set out alone?

I put my head in my hands and argued the pros and cons....

Here perhaps I should say that I was so wild with George for letting me down—I frankly admit, a most unfair point of view—that I felt no compunction whatever about leaving him behind: all that I sought to decide was whether by waiting for him my interests would best be served.

At last I decided that they would. George could speak French. If he did not know the road, at least he could read the map, whilst I was driving the car. He could sleep as we went: and then, if I grew sleepy, could take the wheel. And when we got to Bordeaux—well, George was a proper man and would pull his weight.

Having made my decision, I had to try and kill time. Of this I made a bad business, because I was so much upset, wandering to and fro, till I was too tired to stand up, yet quite unable to rest, because a black coupé I knew was doing a steady forty a great way off. In fact I never passed a more miserable afternoon, wondering all the time if I had done right to wait and cursing poor George and the porter, until I ran out of oaths.

At seven o’clock I picked up my food and my beer and stowed them away in the Lowland for what they were worth: but I could not get away from the fact that, let alone George, if I was to drive all night, I should be fit for nothing the following day, and that common sense was suggesting that we should stop, say, at Chartres and get four or five hours’ sleep in a decent bed before going on. The idea of such further delay sent me almost out of my mind, and yet I knew it was better than its alternative.

In this winter of discontent I ordered and later sat down to a something pretentious dinner at eight o’clock, but at half-past eight I was once again walking the streets, because to sit still inactive was more than I could endure.

The night was breathless—more oppressive, in fact, than the day had been, and it must have been ten o’clock when I made up my mind that I must have a long, cold drink before I went down to the station to meet George’s train. I, therefore, turned my steps towards the hotel, near which the Lowland was waiting—had waited most of that day.

I knew the direction to take, though I did not know the way: but I had not far to go and had plenty of time. This was as well, for I took a narrow, paved street, where the houses were very high and seemed very old, but when, after two or three minutes, I came to its end, I found that it was a blind alley, or, rather, did no more than run into a very small square.

I was looking round this, to be sure there was no way out, when I saw a discreet-looking café in one of its sides. There were no tables outside, and its blinds were drawn, but a slant of very good music was stealing out of its doors and, as I stood listening, I heard the pop of a cork.

At once I saw no reason to wait for my drink and, since I was sick of the sight of the lounge of the hotel, I determined to enter the café and then go straight to the car. With that I crossed the square and walked into the place.

For a moment I thought I had entered a private club, for all looked up as I entered and watched me choose a table and take my seat. But when a waiter came up, he took my order and never asked my name, so I lighted a cigarette and began to look round.

There was a dancing-floor, but the band was playing Tosca, and playing it very well: it was playing it very quietly, so that to listen or not was a matter for you. And everyone seemed to speak quietly: no voice was raised. There must have been thirty customers, sitting alone or together—nearly all men: but, most surprising of all, with one or two exceptions, they did not seem to be French.

As they were looking at me, I looked at them. English faces I saw and clear American—to be quite honest, some of them not too good. Some were well turned out, and some were shabbily dressed: the girls ...

And there I saw Katharine ... whom I had supposed to be three hundred and fifty miles off ... sitting, staring before her, with a frozen look on her face.