Читать книгу The Road South - Roderick Stuart Kennedy - Страница 3

Table of Contents

The gears rasped, the lorry jerked forward, the driver leaned from his cab and cocked his elbow. "Goo'bye, Canada," he yelled. "Thanks for the gaspers."

The two young soldiers waved. "S'long—good luck—thanks for the ride." For a moment they watched the lorry chugging away from the crossroads, then turned toward the ugly brick building across the road. They stared at it silently.

"I guess it must be 'The Bull'," said the tall Lieutenant, at last.

"I guess," agreed the shorter, stockier Sergeant, doubtfully.

"Doesn't look much like a paradise, does it? It's a pity Hitler missed it if you ask me!"

"Well, we'll test its beer," the other suggested practically. "That'll show."

The beer gave little evidence of any except earthly,—and watery origin.

"Well, Joe," said the Sergeant sadly, "If that's the best pub in Britain, the way your dad said, he must have been easy to please."

Lieutenant Joe Mackell strolled across the big public bar, glanced through the bay window, through the door leading to a chastely labelled 'Snuggery', and, shrugging his shoulders, returned to the counter. "It was the place, not the beer, I think," he said. "Dad was never much of a froth-blower. British beer was as hard hit as everything else, in this war, but I expect it was all right in the last. You've got to admit that it would be handy having the bar next to the Orderly Room; but it's funny how all Dad's old regimental cronies get around to talking about 'The Bull' at Caster End before they finish yarning."

"Let's hope the Shrine's got a bit more glamor," remarked Sergeant Sam Thomas, draining the pewter.

"What Shrine?"

"Why, that something-or-other Terrace your dad was talking about in his letter. It sounded like a Shrine anyway, the way he insisted on you making this pilgrimage to it!"

"You're nuts," said the Lieutenant loftily. "Anyway, dad's sentimental, and after all, it's where he and mother first met. Maybe you'll be sending your son to visit that house in Highgate in the next war! Going to marry that kid, Sam?"

"It depends," Sam said non-committally.

"I'll bet it depends,—on her!" He turned to the big, florid barman. "Is there a Sea View Terrace around here?"

The barman nodded significantly. He was so stout, so red-faced, so apoplectic, that his smallest motion seemed pregnant with significance. Nothing else could warrant such apparently fierce efforts and imminent danger of something bursting.

"Well, where? How do you get to it?"

The barman, Summers by name, who was also proprietor, and had thus been able to drink himself into middle-aged congestion at cost, inclined his head to the left by slightly unfolding the creases on the right side of his neck. His fat thumb twitched in the same direction. "Keep on the road south," he wheezed, and paused for breath. "Five minutes does it."

They went out into the thin October sunshine and stepped briskly towards the village. No directions had been needed. There seemed to be only one street in the village of Caster End, and once they had passed its outpost, an ancient, tarred building, labelled "Nathn'l Runke & Sons, Sail Mk'rs," a row of incredibly ugly red brick villas loomed up on their left, while several small shops farther along on the right, which might have come out of the same box, advertised blatantly that this was the village. Still farther on were other houses and a few shops, but these were old and weathered, natural outgrowths of the beautiful countryside, rather than excrescences, and did not advertise themselves. Only a church at the far end—a grey, square-towered, flint-walled church, stood out boldly as the road wound around the foot of Caster Head and disappeared into the valley beyond.

"Sea View Terrace" carved in stone above the central villa of the row, showed that its builder at least had thought them worthy of a name. But the two young Canadians felt, as every stranger who ever saw them had felt, that these cramped, undetached dwellings with their tiny gardens and ornately ugly railings would have better suited the cheaper suburbs of a huge city than this hamlet nestling below the downs of the Norfolk coast.

"Some Shrine!" remarked Sergeant Sam, with disgust.

His friend looked at the row, rubbing his chin appraisingly. His eye passed along the little villas, and just as it reached Number 5, the door opened and a group of elderly people came out and turned along toward the church.

Joe Mackell started across the road but the group had passed along before he could speak to any of them. "Number 5 is the house," he said, "I wonder who those people are. I wanted to ask who lives there. Mother wanted to know."

As he spoke, the door opened again. A woman stood on the top step,—white-haired, broad, blocky, almost stout, with heavy brogues and a heavier stick. She slammed the door firmly behind her, and as she put the key in her pocket, looked enquiringly at the two young soldiers standing almost in her gateway.

Joe Mackell saluted as she came down the steps. He felt a little foolish as he asked apologetically if she lived there.

Her eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. "I do," she said.

Sam grinned at his friend's embarrassment. Joe cleared his throat. "Well—er—I guess—that's all I wanted, Ma'am." He was floundering badly. He hadn't got her name—or anything! The stolid face and pale blue eyes that stared so unwinkingly did not help at all! But she made no move and he had a chance to finish the errand which now seemed even crazier than it had when he talked it over with Sam in London.

"I know I seem like a nut," he burst out as the silence grew embarrassing, "but I wonder—would you mind—I know it sounds crazy—I'm not trying to be fresh—but mother said I was—" This last touch he realized must sound the most fatuous yet of the idiocies he had perpetrated, "—said I was to find out the name—if you don't mind," he concluded lamely.

There was a ghost of a smile on the woman's lips as she scrutinized the two young men, one after the other, carefully. "I don't mind," she said at last with ironic emphasis on the "I". Nevertheless she did not answer,—just continued to look at the young Lieutenant. Sam had apparently been eliminated from whatever calculations she was making.

"So your mother wanted you to find out, did she?" the white-haired woman reflected. "In that case, I think—I am sure, in fact, that I can tell you your name almost as certainly as I can tell you my own. You are Joseph Mackell." Her eyes flickered from his face to his shoulders for a second. "Lieut. Joseph Mackell" . . She thought for a moment, "—of the Montreal Rifles at present, previously of Baie Verte, of the Province of Quebec, in the Dominion of Canada."

Joe Mackell, amazed, and feeling more foolish than ever, could only confirm this dry diagnosis, hoping that his original question would soon be answered so that he could get away and finish the rest of his errand. He hoped it would not prove as embarrassing, but was beginning to take a dim view of the prospects,—based on his experience of Caster End, to date.

But he had to wait. The woman seemed to enjoy his discomfort. In fact, she gave Sam Thomas a brief glance which he interpreted as a sharing of mutual amusement at Joe's discomfiture. Suddenly she took a step forward, opened the gate, and pointing at the door with her stick, said abruptly, "Come in. I'll solve the mystery for you over tea."

The two young men marched in silently. If it had not been for that brief glance, Sam would have felt as silly as Joe. As it was, he was agreeably intrigued.

The woman opened the door with her latchkey and led the way into the narrow hall. Straight ahead was a steep staircase. On the right a door opened into a little parlor with a bay window. It was crowded with books, papers, furniture, and pictures, all of which seemed extravagantly superior to the pokey little villa which housed them.

"Sit down," said their hostess. "Make yourselves at home—cigarettes in the box—be with you in a minute."

She went out and down the passage to the back, leaving the young men in dazed silence.

Joe looked at Sam, started to speak, thought better of it, shrugged his shoulders and sank back on the morocco cushions. The mystery would have to unravel itself without any aid from him.

Sam merely grinned cheerfully and lit a cigarette from the silver box. He was content and unworried. This trip to Caster End was his friend's worry, not his. In a few days they would be on their way back to Canada with the last of the occupation troops. This trip which Joe had been so keen on, was as good a way of spending his leave as any.

A gaunt maid, looking very aged indeed in her ultra smart little cap and apron, came in, drew out an inlaid mahogany table, spread a cloth, and went out.

Once more Sam grinned,—and was caught in the act as their hostess re-entered. She had changed her heavy tweeds for a light silk dress, and he decided that she was not quite as stout as he had thought,—though stout enough! It was only her solid but well-shaped legs and her firm stance which prevented her looking ungainly as she stood in the door-way, watching them with the same slightly ironical expression. Sam decided that the honor of the Canadian Army called for some effort to take command of the unusual situation. Both young men had jumped to their feet as she appeared, and now Sam, standing very straight, rallied for a counter-attack. "I must apologise for my friend, ma'am," he explained gravely, "for not introducing me. He gets rattled. All right in a battle, but hopeless in society; and he's not accustomed—" he paused, and coughed as dramatically as he could, "—to English manners. My name is Sam Thomas of the Royal Canadian Artillery. I am very happy to meet you, Mrs.—er—?"

"Miss," she corrected calmly. Sam's counter-attack wavered. She came in, stood by the tea table looking at them for a moment, and when Sam found no words available for an effective reply, chuckled audibly. "Well, well!" she said, in a different tone. "I've got you boys rattled. I don't know what the younger generation is coming to! I knew your father, Joe, but I never saw him lose his nerve except when I first met him in this very room and he tried to stand at attention and salute, with his foot in a basin of water!" She laughed heartily. "I'm Dorothy Brador."

Joe's jaw dropped. "Well, I'm—but—what on earth are you doing here?" he began, and recovered himself. "Sorry, I didn't mean it that way. I meant that I thought you lived up at Bradderham Hall. I've got a letter for you. We were just going along there as soon as we'd looked at Number 5 here."

He pulled out a rather worn envelope.

"It's an introduction Mother gave me. She said you'd be glad to see me." He grinned a little, rather sheepishly. "I hope she's right, but you got us rattled,—Mysterious Lady at Number 5, sort of thing. Hope you didn't mind."

The stout woman laughed heartily again, as the ancient maid brought in a large silver salver with the tea things.

"I don't blame you! I felt quite a bit surprised myself for the first few months in this place. But the Huns got one wing of the Hall with incendiaries, and the other was taken over by the Air Force, and as I'm Chairman or something or other of pretty well every war activity in the village, from Girl Guides to Women's Land Army, I didn't want to leave the place where I was more or less useful, and moved into the only empty house there was. It has a lot of advantages too these days, with no servants, gardeners, chauffeurs, or gasoline, or anything else you need in a big house."

She broke off abruptly, "Buns, jam? The Air Force hasn't got the farms, luckily, so I can still feed my guests." She looked at Mackell meditatively. "So you are Joe Mackell. I recognized you, young man, as soon as you began expressing an interest in Number 5. There's not another Canadian alive, I expect, who has even heard of it. But I think I would have recognized you anyhow. You're very like your father, except for those eyes." She stared at them frankly, her head tilted slightly sideways. "Your mother was the most beautiful girl I ever knew."

Joe blushed furiously under his tan. His dark eyes and long lashes had caused him considerable heart-burning in his younger days. In his otherwise ruggedly masculine face they seemed exotic, and had brought him many unwanted nicknames and battles which had blacked them even more exotically than nature. He changed the subject. "It's a coincidence, your being here, Miss Brador. I expect you're missing a lot, being turned out like that,—but in a way it's lucky for us,—saves us a trip."

He looked at the glowing fire and the bright tea things while chewing a large, richly buttered, toasted bun. "And I'm sure it wouldn't—couldn't be more comfortable at the Hall than here."

"More tea?" Miss Brador asked cheerfully.

"Sam," said Joe suddenly, when the cups were being filled. "Your self-introduction to Miss Brador was a wash-out,—all about yourself,—a mere microbe,—nothing about Miss Brador. And Mother says, and you can take my word for it, she's always right, that Miss Brador is the finest," he ticked off the points on his upraised fingers, "—the sweetest,—the kindest woman in England, so you're getting more than buttered buns out of this visit and don't you forget it, Sergeant!" He grinned mischievously as their hostess colored. He had regained his normal self assurance. "And by the way, Miss Brador," he added, "I've got another message for you from Mother, besides that letter."

He walked around the tea table, bent down, and kissed her heartily on the cheek. "There," he said firmly, "that's from Mother, and I promised on my word of honor that I'd give it to you before I left England, so please don't throw me out."

Dorothy Brador smiled at him kindly. "I won't, Joe," she said. Then, after a moment's thoughtful silence, she sighed. "I won't, Joe. I like you Joe,—I like you,—for your name."

Joe had not given that kiss until he had made sure that this Miss Brador was a good sport, but now there was something new in the atmosphere,—he would have defined it as something "soppy", and he preferred the genial good fellowship which had preceded it. But it was Dorothy herself who brought the atmosphere back to normal. She seemed to jerk herself out of the past. More buns were passed, more tea was poured, and when the tray was carried out, they settled comfortably by the fire, and as cheerfully as ever, she demanded, "Now, Joe, let's hear all about how you got here."