Oriental Hotel

by Janet Tanner

  ‘Why did you come? You must have known seven months ago that trouble was brewing.’

  ‘I didn’t realise the seriousness of the situation. My mother was very ill – dying! I felt I really had to come and see her.’

  ‘And now you want to get back to your son?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You miss him?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So why did you leave in the first place?’

  ‘I thought it would only be for a little while. I never dreamed that anything like this would ever happen and …’

  ‘All right. Spare me the details,’ he said, interrupting her. ‘I’ve heard them once already this evening, when the Comtesse pleaded your case very eloquently.’

  A quick rush of gratitude to the Frenchwoman was followed almost at once by sharp annoyance. So he was going to react as she had expected!

  ‘If you already knew, why did you let me go on explaining?’ she flared.

  ‘I suppose I was interested to hear how you would excuse yourself.’

  ‘I see. Well, I’m sorry if all this is a game to you. It’s very far from being a game to me.’

  The tears were very close again, threatening to spill over. How could she suddenly be so emotional? Until the last few weeks she hadn’t cried in years, and she certainly had no intention of letting him see her tears now.

  ‘I heard this evening that my son is ill,’ she said, with a jerk of her head. ‘That is the only reason why I decided it was worth at least asking if there was anything you could do to help me. I should have known it would be just an entertainment to you and I’m sorry to have taken up your time.’

  She turned away, holding back the tears with determination. ‘Arrogant bastards!’ Gordon had said. As usual, he had been right.

  ‘Just a minute.’ His voice arrested her. ‘Don’t go rushing off in a paddy.’

  She swung round, eyes blazing. ‘Don’t tell me what to do.’

  He laughed outright. ‘ Not if you want me to help you, anyway.’

  Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You said you wanted me to help you.’ The amusement was in his tone as well as his face. ‘I can’t do that if you go dashing off.’

  ‘But …’ She still couldn’t believe what he was saying.

  ‘I’m on my way to Hong Kong. I have a passage on a troop-ship. Now, I can’t make any promises, but if you wish I will do what I can.’

  ‘You’re going to Hong Kong?’ She felt bemused suddenly, able to take in only one point at a time. ‘ Then …’

  ‘I said I can’t make any promises.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can do.’

  She looked at him and all at once was afraid she was going to faint. Conversations, music, all was reduced to a thick buzz and his face seemed to blur before her eyes.

  ‘Thank you.’ Her voice was tight from exercising so much self-control.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t thank me yet! There may be nothing I can do. Now, if you will excuse me …’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said.

  They moved apart at the same moment, neither wanting to prolong the conversation, but by the lift she stopped and looked back over her shoulder.

  He was almost at the entrance to the bar, a tall well-muscled figure. She noticed to her surprise that he limped, but it was merely a passing observation. Her mind was too occupied with his promise to try to help her.

  Perhaps I was wrong about him, she thought. Perhaps he’s not like the rest of the Brittains after all.

  And was surprised to find how much she suddenly wanted to believe that.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Well, ma chère, and have you any news yet?’

  It was mid-afternoon at Shepheard’s and less than twenty-four hours had elapsed since Elise had returned to her suite to find Gerald Brittain occupying it, but it could have been a lifetime.

  ‘No news.’ The tension of the day showed in her face. Hours of waiting and wondering, hours when hope and despair had chased one another in tight circles. He had said he would try to help, but what could he do? What could anyone do?

  The Comtesse had not appeared for breakfast. She took it as was her habit on a tray in her room – black coffee and croissants on a silver tray set with a single fresh orchid – and it had been midday before Elise had seen her to apologise for the scene in the dining room the previous night.

  ‘I’m sorry. It was unforgivable of me, but you still put in a good word for me.’

  The Comtesse shrugged. ‘I did my best – ‘I knew you behaved so only because you were upset. But my best, I’m afraid, was not good enough.’

  Elise looked at her in surprise.

  ‘This time I was unable to make my powers of persuasion work for me.’ The Comtesse’s eyes shuddered in genuine regret, but she did not frown – frowns produced wrinkles. ‘ Monsieur Brittain was – how do you English say it – a nut I could not crack!’

  ‘But he is going to help me – or at least he is going to try,’ Elise said. ‘I went to see him last night and he promised to do his best.’

  ‘Really?’ Scarlet fingernails plucked thoughtfully at scarlet lips.

  ‘Really! I was as surprised as you. In fact, I can hardly believe it now.’

  ‘Well, well.’ The Comtesse paused for a moment. ‘Call me a fanciful old woman if you like, but I have a feeling that our Monsieur Brittain is not quite what he seems,’ she said thoughtfully.

  ‘Not a hard-hearted tycoon, you mean?’

  ‘No. More than that. Something I cannot quite put my finger on, ma chère. He tells me he is on his way home to Hong Kong. Did he tell you that also?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’ Elise was too tightly strung with anxiety to take much notice of what the Comtesse was saying.

  ‘And did he also tell you that he was being invalided out of the Royal Air Force?’

  ‘Invalided?’

  The Comtesse had Elise’s full attention now. ‘But he looks …’ – she broke off, picturing the spare muscular frame and the deeply tanned face – ‘ in the best of health,’ she concluded feebly.

  The Comtesse smiled. ‘ I could not agree with you more. Apparently, however, he was seriously wounded when his plane crashed last autumn – he was a fighter pilot, one of ‘‘ the Few’’ as they so picturesquely call them. He smashed his leg and damaged the tendons in his right hand and is no longer fit to fly a Spitfire. So they are sending him home.’

  ‘I see.’ Elise found herself remembering the limp she had noticed almost unconsciously and also the slightly awkward way he handled his cigarette. Standards were high for RAF fighter pilots, she knew, but she had not realised how high. ‘ I would have thought in time of war they could have found him something else to do. But then I suppose if he’s typical of the Brittains, he can manage to extricate himself from anything he finds unpleasant.’

  ‘You do despise the family, do you not, ma chère? If you have had bad dealings with them, I suppose that is only natural. And yes, I do think he would make a very bad enemy. But ah, Elise, to have such a man on your side – it is worth swallowing a little pride for, I think?’

  There was a faraway look in the china blue eyes and in spite of her anxiety Elise laughed.

  ‘Comtesse – I believe you’ve taken a fancy to him.’

  ‘And why not? He is the most attractive man I have seen in a long, longtime. If I were not an old woman …’

  ‘Old, Comtesse? You? Never!’

  ‘Ah yes, it is so, I’m afraid. The days have gone when I would have danced until dawn with a man like that until he drank champagne for breakfast from my slipper. But you, Elise …’ Her glance was speculative.

  ‘You forget I am a wife and mother,’ Elise said and wondered why she had stated it with such vehemence. ‘I cannot dance till dawn either. And if it were not for my husband and child, I would never have needed to seek Mr Brittain’s company in the first p
lace.’

  ‘True, true!’ the Comtesse conceded. ‘And now I have to meet my friend Lady Mortimer for a little chat and the rest we old women cannot do without. ‘But perhaps you will meet me in the lounge for tea? By then you may have news. You don’t mind if I leave you now?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  In one respect Elise preferred to be alone rather than having to make conversation when her mind was chasing in circles and she was tense with waiting; but at least when the Comtesse was there the minutes passed unnoticed, and when at four the old Frenchwoman arrived she was already sitting in the lounge and watching the door with deceptive composure.

  If only Gerald Brittain returned with good news before Gordon’s promised phone call came through! she thought. If only she was able to tell him that at last she was on her way! But if the answer was no, or if the news of Alex was bad …

  Her stomach seemed to fold up and her hands clenched. The Comtesse, noticing, patted her arm comfortingly.

  ‘Worrying will do no good, ma chère. Have some tea. A cucumber sandwich, perhaps?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Elise could not face the thought of food.

  Tea was brought and poured and the two women sat pretending to drink it while the minutes slipped slowly past.

  ‘If he had been able to arrange anything, surely he would have been back by now?’ Elise said. ‘He has probably encountered the same blank wall that I did and doesn’t want to face me and admit it.’

  ‘Perhaps we were wrong in thinking it was today he said he would try.’

  ‘Perhaps we were wrong in thinking he would try at all!’ The despair had begun creeping up on her like a black fog once more. ‘After all. Why should he?’

  ‘Why, indeed?’

  From where she sat the Comtesse had the best view of the lobby and she stiffened suddenly. ‘Ah, Monsieur Brittain returns! He is here now, ma chère.’

  All her waiting seemed to crystallise into that one moment and Elise found herself trembling violently – the shivering seemed to have got into her very bones.

  He won’t know we’re here, she thought foolishly, and almost as if he had read her thoughts, she saw him turn his head and look directly over at them.

  ‘Courage, ma chère.’ The Comtesse’s fingers, long and delicate, gripped Elise’s wrist with incredible strength. ‘He has seen us. He comes now.’

  The breath was tight in her throat; this was no different from the countless other times when she had waited for a reply to her request, she told herself, yet she knew it was not true. This was different. It was a chance – a possibility. The last chance perhaps. And yet … oh God, he looked so stern – so serious.

  I can’t bear it, Elise thought, I can!t bear to hear him say no like all the others …

  But aloud she said, ‘Mr Brittain.’

  ‘Mrs Sanderson.’ He stood looking down at her with that infuriating imperturbability. He was going to extract the last ounce of flesh in revenge for her snubbing him, she thought.

  ‘Did you manage to …’ Her voice tailed away.

  ‘Of course.’One corner of his mouth moved, the only visible sign that he was actually rather pleased with himself. ‘I’ve arranged a passage for you: You’ll be on a ship called the Stranraer – the same ship I’m travelling on – as far as Bombay. There will be a change after that, but at the moment I’m not quite sure what the arrangements will be. The Stranraer used to be a cruise liner, by the way, but now it’s a troop-ship, so it won’t be quite what you’re used to, I’m afraid.’

  She didn’t even notice the sarcasm. She was trembling even more violently now as disbelief faded and relief began to rush in.

  ‘But how? How did you manage it?’ That was not what she had meant to say at all.

  ‘Ma chère!’ the Comtesse chided her.

  ‘It’s all right, it’s no secret. I told them that Mrs Sanderson’s presence in Hong Kong was absolutely vital to the war effort. It seemed to work.’ He turned to Elise. ‘For the record I told them that you were a secretary with your husband’s electronics firm and that it couldn’t function properly without you. If anyone asks you, for God’s sake keep the story going or they will have you off that ship so fast your feet won’t touch the gangplank.’

  ‘Of course.’ Slowly it was filtering through. ‘When are we going – where do we sail from?’

  ‘We sail tomorrow from Suez. I’m going down by train, leaving Cairo at ten in the morning. You can travel with me if you like.’

  ‘Ten – yes! Oh, good heavens! There must be a thousand and one things I have to do.’

  ‘But first, ma chère, you will take a cup of this most delicious tea. Monsieur Brittain – can I persuade you to join us?’

  He shook his head; there was a wicked twinkle in his eyes.

  ‘Thank you, Comtesse, but no. And Mrs Sanderson, if I may say so, looks as if she could do with something a great deal stronger than tea.’

  She felt the colour begin to rise in her cheeks, then suddenly she was laughing. It seemed a lifetime since she had last laughed.

  ‘Mrs Sanderson feels quite drunk already. Mr Brittain, I don’t know how to thank you.’

  He straightened, removing his hands from his pockets and smoothing down his uniform jacket.

  ‘It’s all right. I’ll see you at the station tomorrow, just before ten.’

  He turned and crossed the lounge, but this time Elise did not watch him go. Joy and relief were bubbling up through every pore, catching her unawares, tossing and spinning her, making her laughter come again in quick short gasps.

  ‘Oh, Comtesse – Comtesse!’

  ‘Did I not tell you Monsieur Brittain is quite a man?’ She leaned over, touching Elise’s hand lightly. ‘I shall miss you, ma chère. But when this war is over, you will come to visit me in my beloved France, will you not? And you will bring with you the little one? I would like to see him. Do you promise this to an old woman?’

  ‘Of course I promise. Oh, Comtesse …’

  ‘Calm down now and drink your tea. Before leaving, ma chère, you have much to do.’

  It was true: now that she knew she was to leave early the next morning Elise’s head swam with all she had to attend to.

  She asked Reception to prepare her account and a maid arrived to pack her things into the set of luxurious Moodler cases which Gordon had given her for the trip.

  But beneath the relief and excitement that came from knowing that at last she was going home, Elise was conscious of a niggle of foreboding. She had had no news yet today about Alex and was almost afraid to allow herself to become too ecstatic in case it tempted fate.

  Too often the world worked that way, she thought, raising you up only to knock you down. She was going home, but the journey would take her six weeks at least and if Alex were really ill six weeks could be too long.

  Anxiety gnawed at her again and she reached for the telephone. She wouldn’t wait for Gordon to call her – she would place the call herself.

  But even so it was an hour before the connection was made. As the telephone shrilled she sat up eagerly.

  ‘Hello? Gordon?’

  ‘Mrs Sanderson, is that you?’ The voice was light, with the unmistakable Asian lilt. ‘This is Su Ming here.’

  Su Ming! Across the miles Elise pictured the Chinese amah – small and neat, her round face framed by shining black hair, her slanting eyes dark and alert.

  ‘Is Mr Sanderson there, Su Ming?’

  ‘No. I am sorry, he is not. He had to go out.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her heart sank. ‘How is Alex, Su Ming?’

  ‘He is OK.’

  ‘What do you mean – OK? Mr Sanderson told me yesterday that he was ill.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ A pause. ‘I thought he said not to worry you, Mrs Sanderson.’

  ‘But I am worried. How is he, Su Ming?’ Her voice was sharp. I’m his mother, for God’s sake! she wanted to add.

  ‘He is the same. Dr Cromer says we must wait.’

  ‘That w
as what he said yesterday. Hasn’t he been today?’

  ‘Yes. That is what he said today.’

  Tight strung as she was, Elise felt as if she was suffocating in cotton wool. It seemed she would have to leave in the morning without further news. How many days would it be before she could telephone again? As long as it would take to teach their first port of call, she supposed. With a jarring shock she realised how little she knew about the voyage ahead of her.

  ‘Listen, Su Ming, when Mr Sanderson gets back will you be sure to ask him to call me?’

  ‘He said he may be very late, Mrs Sanderson. He tried to telephone you before he went out, but there were no lines.’

  Again the feeling of claustrophobia attacked Elise; again she pushed it aside. She had put up with the constant lack of communication for seven months, but it wouldn’t be necessary for much longer. Tomorrow she was going home!

  ‘In case he can’t get through, will you please tell him I’m leaving Cairo tomorrow?’ she said. ‘I’ll be in touch again as soon as I can.’

  ‘You have a passage?’ Su Ming sounded surprised.

  ‘Yes.’ Elise left it at that. She could picture Gordon’s face when she told him it was thanks to a Brittain that she was on her way – it would not be a pretty sight. ‘Will you tell him, please, Su Ming?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And hug Alex for me.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Goodnight, Su Ming.’

  Elise hoped that Gordon would manage to get through before she left Cairo, but although she stayed close to the telephone all evening it did not ring and at last she was forced to accept the fact that she would have to leave without the comfort of his voice and without further news of Alex.

  But at least she was leaving. That, she told herself, was the most important thing. For about six weeks she would be utterly cut off while she was travelling, but then no more phone calls, no more waiting for lines that were busy or distorted, no more asking someone else to kiss her son goodnight.

  And no more sleeping alone.

  She looked at the bed, turned down by the maid to reveal sheets of cream silk; then at the nightgown of coffee-coloured silk spread out ready for her, and wished the thought held more promise.