“Shall we go down to lunch?” Mrs. Stratton asked, there’s a main restaurant, but I thought it would be better to eat in the Regency Room. There shouldn’t be many people there at this time.”
Not many, but all millionaires, Gail noted, after a glance round the tables. Millionaires — and somewhat musty. The whole place, she thought suddenly, was out of date. And Mrs. Stratton was out of date. Success, instead of bringing her into line with the new, infinitely more informal way of life, had thrown her back; she was trying to buy, as everybody else in this overblown building was trying to buy, protection from the harsh winds of change. She was making up for the hard years by reaching backwards to a vanished world of leisure and luxury, imagining that she had found it in this setting. Gail eyed their fellow-lunchers; two night club owners, four film stars, half a dozen old women flashing diamonds. Money, money, money, she thought, not without sense of outrage; her family, though illustrious, was impecunious.
The food was good, but the service, Gail thought, was geared to the semi-moribund clientele. The two smiling young waiters had obviously been trained to serve with smiling, unhurried grace. The inordinate delay between ordering and eating made Gail so irritated that she had to fight against a desire to thump her fist the table and yell to them to bring on the funeral meats.
Mrs. Stratton, who seemed to suffer no pangs of hunger, opened her bag and put a card on the table beside Gail.
“Those are the times, in case I forget,” she said. “The flight number and the time of arrival in Bordeaux. I thought it would be sensible to book a room at a comfortable hotel for the day—your car ferry arrives at dawn, and I shall be there before eleven. You must go to the Duchesse and have a good breakfast and I’ll join you there. I’ve written down the address. You’ll find a room booked for you.”
This evidence of good organisation was so different from Mrs. Westerby’s haphazard plans that Gail found herself laughing.
“Share it,” invited Mrs. Stratton.
“It isn’t a joke—I was just thinking how difficult you must have found it to pin Mrs. Westerby down to times and places.”
Mrs. Stratton raised her eyebrows.
“You’ve seen her since the reception?”
“I had to go and have lunch with her at her house; she had been talking to Mr. Frank about a paper her father wrote and I went to fetch it.”
“Did you get it?”
“Not at first. Mrs. Westerby couldn’t find it. That’s why I laughed just now—at the contrast between the way you do things, and the way she does them. I rather like her,” she added, for reasons not clear to herself.
“A great many people do. I think perhaps it’s because she reminds people of one of those large, shaggy sheepdogs. I remember thinking, the first time I met her, that I’d have a lot of fun watching her. But” —a shadow crossed her face—“that wasn’t quite the way it turned out.” She raised her dark, rather mournful eyes to Gail’s. “Did she talk about my . . . about her brother?”
“Yes, a little. She showed me a photograph.”
“That is something I couldn’t . . . When someone has died, I think their photographs should be put away for a time. The ordeal of meeting them in a room, everywhere you turn, is . . . Do you agree?”
“It depends,” said Gail thoughtfully. “If you feel that way, it’s silly to keep photographs lying around. My grandmother took the other view—that just because you’re dead is no reason for sweeping away everything of yours that reminds people you’re not there any more. That sounds involved, but my brother and sister and I had our parents gazing at us from every corner of the room. Nice in one way, because we felt they were present —and they never changed, never grew old and ugly.”
She forgot the subject of photographs in her relief at seeing food placed before her. Her appetite seemed out of keeping with the bored indifference shown by everyone else towards the delicacies on their plates.
Mrs. Stratton watched her with envy.
“I used to enjoy my food, once,” she said. “I liked cooking, too—not dull, basic things, but exotic dishes. It wasn’t much fun eating them alone. My husband only liked the plainest food, and later, of course, he could eat hardly anything. I learned to cook invalid dishes, and my meals were usually just finishing up what was left.” She put down her fork and spoke slowly. “It was extraordinary, you know, to listen to Mrs. Westerby going on and on and on about this and that remedy for chest and lung complaints, when all the time . . .”
“Yes, I know. She told me.”
“Perhaps I oughtn’t to talk about her, or about him—but you’ve been drawn into this trip, and even though you’re not doing more than taking me to the cottage, you’re bound to learn a good deal about me, or about Mrs. Westerby, on the way. The trouble is that it’s so difficult to mention her without seeming disloyal. The last impression I want to give you is that I didn’t, or don’t like her. As I said, I was prepared to like her very much —but I don’t think she ever reconciled herself to her brother’s marriage. She came to visit us in Cornwall, but when my husband’s health got worse, I felt —and sad to say, he felt, too—that she was better away from us.”
“Is that why you went to live so far away?”
“Did she tell you that?”
“She gave the same reasons as you did,” Gail said, “but was your real reason to get away from her?”
“I went,” admitted Mrs. Stratton, “because Cornwall looked as far away as I could get from what I suppose we must call her kindly interference. She hasn’t got much imagination, I’m afraid; she couldn’t see that a sister looking after a bachelor brother was one thing; a sister-in-law appearing with old family remedies and out-dated advice and-worst of all—complaints about the treatment her brother was receiving—”
“She said you nursed him devotedly.”
“She did?” Mrs. Stratton smiled. “That was nice of her. I nursed him devotedly because I loved him. But it would have been easier if she had been the kind of person who could have adapted herself to the new circumstances. I don’t honestly think she was unduly possessive, although she—and his parents, too—treated him like a baby for so many years; I think she was just unable to see how very differently he felt about everything after his marriage. He was grateful to her, of course, but he was rather bitter about the fact that she and his mother had reared him in a semi-invalid atmosphere, protecting his lungs, which were perfectly sound, and neglecting his digestive organs, which were anything but healthy.”
Gail felt that part of the responsibility must be shared by the old family doctor, and remembered that Mrs. Westerby had mentioned him as one of the reasons for settling in Cornwall. She gave the question all the attention she could spare from cracking lobster claws—and then heard Mrs. Stratton answer it.
“In the end,” she said, “nothing mattered—that is, no remedies would have done any good. It was wonderful to have Dr. Belldon—not only as a doctor, but as an old family friend, who could come in every day and talk about old days and old friends to Edward. He was wonderful.”
“Was he at the reception? No.” Gail answered the query herself. “No, he wasn’t. I sent out the invitations, and there was no Dr. Belldon among them.”
“I owe him all the comfort I’m enjoying now. It was he who first read my book. It was he who insisted on my letting him have it, so that he could show it to somebody who could judge it impartially. He brought it up to London when he came to visit some friends, and then he met Christopher Beetham and . . . well, you know the rest of it.”
Gail wished that there could be less of Mr. Stratton and his last illness. The waiter was hovering, the vast menu was being offered once more —page three, chocolate mousse, peach ice and other things which Mrs. Stratton waved aside but which a working girl might put away without harm. It was bad luck about poor Mr. Stratton, but life had to go on.
Mrs. Stratton became aware of the waiter; she resumed her role of hostess and suggested fresh strawberries. Over coff
ee, she agreed reluctantly that Gail would soon have to go back to the office.
“When you’re married,” she said, “you’ll look back and wonder why you looked forward to being free all day. I certainly did. Is this your first job?”
“Heavens, no! Fourth. Coffee bar, but I hated the hours. Model, but I hated the hanging about. Then secretary to a rather nice man who had something to do with wool—and now the Beetham Brothers.”
“Boy friends?”
“Nothing serious.”
“There can’t be any shortage.”
“No. I’m lucky —or unlucky. Every friend of my brother’s who passes through London is given a free pass to his share of the flat. They thump up the stairs—there’s no lift—in the early hours, singing songs about Lulu-my-Lu. I’ve nearly been ejected twice.”
“Evicted.”
“Well, thrown out.” She picked up her handbag. “I’ve really got to go. It’s been a wonderful lunch—thank you so much.”
“Don’t lose the card I gave you.”
“I’ll remember anyway: the Duchesse at Bordeaux on the ninth of June. I ought to warn you that my brother’s car is a bit rattly.”
“I shall enjoy it—rattles and all. We might— ”
She stopped abruptly, and Gail saw her eyes widen and then darken with anger. At the same moment, she heard sounds—sounds that were familiar. She did not need to look towards the door to know that Mrs. Westerby was making an entrance.
When she did look, she found the spectacle interesting—and instructive; it was clear that this was the one eventuality the Flamingo had not been prepared for: somebody whose appearance suggested she should be kept out, but whose accent and bearing proclaimed that she should be let in.
Mrs. Westerby did not wait for the management to make up its mind; she dealt with the head waiter with the same easy authority she had shown towards Miss Teller.
“Out of my way, my good man,” she ordered in her most resounding boom. “No, I don’t want lunch, thank you; I wish to speak to a relation of mine who—Oh, there she is! Anita, my dear, how lucky to catch you both.”
She marched firmly towards her objective. She was dressed, to Gail’s dismay, in the Robin Hood hat and the flowing dress. Her cloak was spotted with rain. She had draped two scarves and some beads about her neck, and she was wearing Oliver Cromwell’s shoes. She looked even more grotesque than she had done at the Beetham Brothers’ reception.
“I wanted to catch Gail,” she shouted. “Thank goodness you’re still here, my dear. It’s about the paper—you remember the little paper I promised to give your nice Mr. Frank? It’s gone. I’ve hunted and hunted, and I can’t find it anywhere. I can’t imagine what—”
“You gave it to me,” Gail said.
“I what?”
“You gave it to me when I went to lunch with you on Sunday.”
“I gave you the little paper?”
“Yes.”
“The one I said I would send to Mr. Frank?”
“Yes. I gave it to him on Monday morning.”
“Then can you wonder,” Mrs. Westerby asked everybody impartially, “that I spent this morning hunting in vain? Where did I find it, my dear?”
“In a drop-front desk.”
“Extraordinary! And to think that I worried for nothing. I had made a promise, you see, and when I promise anything, I like to carry out my promise. What, I kept asking myself, would Mr. Frank think of me? And you say that all the time, he had it safely in his possession?”
“Yes.”
“Then I broke in and interrupted your nice little lunch all for nothing. My memory must be going.” Mrs. Westerby gave her head a hard thump by way of punishment. “I shall take myself off.”
Mrs. Stratton had said nothing. She sat very pale and still, watching the furtive smiles on the faces of those seated at neighbouring tables. Now she looked up. “Gail was just leaving,” she said.
“Then perhaps she could drop me somewhere—we could share a cab.”
“I’m going back to the office by bus,” Gail said. “I can get from door to door, so it’s not really worth while taking a taxi.”
“Then I shall walk. It will do me good,” Mrs. Westerby said. She retrieved the damp umbrella that a waiter had succeeded in wresting from her. “We shall meet at the cottage. Au revoir! Au revoir!”
Her exit was watched by every eye; amused smiles were on every face. Without a word, Mrs. Stratton rose and made her way to the door, Gail by her side. Mrs. Stratton had a rigid, almost a wooden look.
“At her house”— Gail was struggling with a diminishing regard for Mrs. Westerby—“she seemed rather nice.”
“Did she?” Mrs. Stratton asked mechanically.
“She was much quieter, and she wasn’t wearing those awful... I mean, she looked just like everybody else.”
“That’s rather hard to believe.”
“I know she was pretty dreadful just now—and at the reception. There seems to be something about you that . . . what I’m trying to say is that she seems to me to be doing her best to impress you, to—”
“She has succeeded in making a fool of me—twice. I suppose you told her you were lunching with me today?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
They had reached the lift. Mrs. Stratton held out a hand and spoke in a warmer tone.
“Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry I let her upset me and spoil the end of our nice lunch together. She’s not trying to impress me, I’m afraid; I think she merely likes to be seen in my company. They say that success has its penalties; this is certainly a severe one.”
Gail could not imagine Mrs. Westerby basking in anybody else’s sunshine—but she did not say so. She went back to the office, and found Miss Teller waiting for her in her room.
“Well, how did the lunch go?” she asked.
“All right—until Mrs. Westerby burst in.”
“To lunch—uninvited?”
“No. Just to tell me she’d spent the morning looking for the paper she’d already given me and which I’d already given Mr. Frank. Now tell me she’s not crazy—in spurts.”
“She’s not crazy. What are you looking for?”
“The Stratton file.”
“It isn’t there. What do you want to know?”
“Nothing much —just the sequence of events.”
“I can give you that. Book received by Christopher about the beginning of October. Husband died Christmas Day. Book read by us early January and accepted. After that the deluge—literally. But we had to go a bit slowly because of the recently-widowed angle. End of March, widow emerging, or recovering; book business getting urgent. April . . . well, you’ve caught up now, I suppose?”
“Yes. Thanks.”
“Now you can fill in for me. What’s the idea behind this joint trip out to France? By joint I mean Stratton-Westerby. It’s a long way to go, isn’t it, just to look at furniture?”
“Not if it’s all genuine Louis Quinze.”
“And if it is, what’s Mrs. Stratton going to do—ship it all home?”
“I don’t know. Mrs. Westerby’s going because she’s in charge of the keys and the caretakers.”
“And because she wants to be there to catch any crumbs that fall, I daresay. In other words, to retrieve any of the old family pieces that slip by Mrs. Stratton. Want some advice?”
“Not particularly, but go ahead.”
“Don’t let yourself get too involved with Mrs. Westerby.”
“I’m not likely to. Why not?”
‘‘I couldn’t say, exactly. It’s just a feeling I’ve had since that reception—something about her didn’t seem to me to add up. Just you watch yourself.”
Gail stared at her in amazement.
“You’re not serious?”
“Yes, I am serious. I’m not trying to put lurid ideas into your head. All I’m saying is that if I were you, I’d watch Mrs. Westerby.”
“In the intervals between watching myself?”
&n
bsp; “You can laugh if you like, but you’ve known me long enough to credit me with some horse sense. What I’m telling you is simply this: that if you don’t look out, you’re going to get yourself too involved with this Stratton-Westerby set-up.”
And those, Gail admitted long afterwards, were the truest words anybody ever uttered.
Chapter 5
The car ferry was full to capacity. The decks were thronged with noisy groups, some wearing armbands, others club badges to link them together. It seemed to Gail that she was the only person travelling alone.
In her cabin, a two-berth, she found no sign of a second occupant, and allowed herself a faint hope that she might be left alone; the berth was undoubtedly booked, but people missed boats, she mused hopefully, or changed their minds at the last moment, or died.
She was disappointed, but not surprised, to hear a voice outside shouting the number of the cabin—and then the door was thrust open and an enormous rucksack appeared, apparently without human support. Dangling from it were a tin mug, a large whistle, a water flask and an enamel basin. It dropped with a thump to the floor, revealing, framed in the narrow doorway, a squat, thickset woman in khaki shorts, khaki shirt and khaki jacket. She looked incredibly muscular.
“’Morning.” Having barked this abrupt greeting, she stood gazing round the small cabin. “Not much room, I must say. Going all the way?”
“No. Only to Bordeaux.”
“Thank God for that. Can’t stand people in with me. Shift that second case of yours, will you? Never understand why people have to travel with an entire trousseau. One of my women out there”— she jerked a chin towards the corridor and bent to unfasten the rucksack—“turned up with God knows how many bits and pieces. ‘No, you don’t, my good woman,’ I said at once, ‘no, you don’t; the coach won’t fit all that lot, so you’ll have to leave half of it behind.’ Left her calling me names. I’m used to that. You get used to anything, in this job.” She swivelled round in order to allow Gail to read the scarlet band, white-lettered, she wore round her left arm: Organiser, Pontefield Hikers’ Rally. “This year, we’re taking the coach to Leixões. Then I drive it up to the port country and leave it in a garage, and we hike for ten days. Then home again. We’ve always got a definite objective; we don’t just walk round the district looking at the scenery. We try to learn something. Last year, Tours and the chateaux. Year before, Holland and the dykes. My own idea; I was the founder. Always a round dozen of us, all women. I won’t be responsible for more than a dozen, and I won’t take anybody without a fitness test. My name’s Bluett. Married, but not living with him. Who are you?”
The Stratton Story Page 7
