All through dinner, he could not stop staring at young Victoria, whose classical beauty was only equaled by her well-informed and lively conversation. He feared he might be staring too obviously at the slim, dark-haired girl with the high cheekbones; it was like admiring a beautiful sculpture and wanting to touch it. Her bewitching smile elicited an answering smile from all who received it. Henry did everything in his power to be the receiver and was rewarded on several occasions, aware that, for the first time in his life, he was becoming totally infatuated—and was delighted to be.
The ensuing courtship was an unusual one for Henry, in that he made no attempt to persuade Victoria to compliance. He was sympathetic and attentive, and when she had come out of mourning he approached her father and asked if he might request his daughter’s hand in marriage. Henry was overjoyed when first the General agreed and later Victoria accepted. After an announcement in The Times they celebrated the engagement with a small dinner party at the Ritz, attended by one hundred twenty close friends who might have been forgiven for coming to the conclusion that Attlee was exaggerating about his austerity program. After the last guest had left, Henry walked Victoria back to her father’s home in Belgrave Mews, while discussing the wedding arrangements and his plans for the honeymoon.
“Everything must be perfect for you, my angel,” he said, as once again he admired the way her long dark hair curled at the shoulders. “We shall be married in St. Margaret’s, Westminster, and after a reception at the Ritz we will be driven to Victoria Station, where we will be met by Fred, the senior porter. Fred will allow no one else to carry my bags to the last carriage, my darling,” explained Henry, “so that one cannot be disturbed by other travelers.”
Victoria was impressed by Henry’s mastery of the arrangements, especially remembering the absence of his manservant, Barker.
Henry warmed to his theme. “Once we have boarded the Golden Arrow, we will be served China tea and some wafer-thin smoked salmon sandwiches which we can enjoy while relaxing on our journey to Dover. When we arrive at the Channel port, we will be met by Albert, whom Fred will have alerted. Albert will remove the bags from our carriage, but not before everyone else has left the train. He will then escort us to the ship, where we will take sherry with the captain while our bags are being placed in cabin number three. Like my father, I always have cabin number three; it is not only the largest and most comfortable stateroom on board, but the cabin is situated in the center of the ship, which makes it possible to enjoy a comfortable crossing even should one have the misfortune to encounter bad weather. And when we have docked in Calais you will find Pierre waiting for us. He will have organized everything for the front carriage of the Flèche d’Or.”
“Such a program must take a considerable amount of detailed planning,” suggested Victoria, her hazel eyes sparkling as she listened to her future husband’s description of the promised tour.
“More tradition than organization I would say, my dear,” replied Henry, smiling, as they strolled hand in hand across Hyde Park. “Although, I confess, in the past Barker has kept his eye on things should any untoward emergency arise. In any case I have always had the front carriage of the Flèche d’Or because it assures one of being off the train and away before anyone realizes that you have actually arrived in the French capital. Other than Raymond, of course.”
“Raymond?”
“Yes, Raymond, a servant par excellence, who adored my father, he will have organized a bottle of Veuve Cliquot ’37 and a little Russian caviar for the journey. He will also have ensured that there is a couch in the railway carriage should you need to rest, my dear.”
“You seem to have thought of everything, Henry darling,” she said, as they entered Belgrave Mews.
“I hope you will think so, Victoria; for when we arrive in Paris, which I have not had the opportunity to visit for so many years, there will be a Rolls-Royce standing by the side of the carriage, door open, and we will step out of the Flèche d’Or into the car and Maurice will drive us to the George Cinq, arguably the finest hotel in Europe. Louis, the manager, will be on the steps of the hotel to greet us and he will conduct us to the bridal suite with its stunning view of the city. A maid will unpack for you while you retire to bathe and rest from the tiresome journey. When you are fully recovered we shall dine at Maxim’s, where we will be guided to the corner table furthest from the orchestra by Marcel, the finest headwaiter in the world. As we are seated, the musicians will strike up ‘A Room with a View,’ my favorite tune, and we will then be served the most magnificent langouste you have ever tasted, of that I can assure you.”
Henry and Victoria arrived at the front door of the General’s small house in Belgrave Mews. He took her hand before continuing.
“After we have dined, my dear, we shall stroll into the Madeleine where I shall buy a dozen red roses from Paulette, the most beautiful flower girl in Paris. She is almost as lovely as you.” Henry sighed and concluded: “Then we shall return to the George Cinq and spend our first night together.”
Victoria’s hazel eyes showed delighted anticipation. “I only wish it could be tomorrow,” she said.
Henry kissed her gallantly on the cheek and said: “It will be worth waiting for, my dear. I can assure you it will be a day neither of us will ever forget.”
“I’m sure of that,” Victoria replied as he released her hand.
* * *
On the morning of his wedding Henry leaped out of bed and drew back the curtains with a flourish, only to be greeted by a steady drizzle.
“The rain will clear by eleven o’clock,” he said out loud with immense confidence, and hummed as he shaved slowly and with care.
The weather had not improved by mid-morning. On the contrary, heavy rain was falling by the time Victoria entered the church. Henry’s disappointment evaporated the instant he saw his beautiful bride; all he could think of was taking her to Paris. The ceremony over, the Grand Pasha and his wife stood outside the church, a golden couple, smiling for the press photographers as the loyal guests scattered damp rice over them. As soon as they decently could, they set off for the reception at the Ritz. Between them they managed to chat to every guest present, and they would have been away in better time had Victoria been a little quicker changing and the General’s toast to the happy couple been considerably shorter. The guests crowded onto the steps of the Ritz, overflowing onto the pavement in Piccadilly to wave goodbye to the departing honeymooners, and were only sheltered from the downpour by a capacious red awning.
The General’s Rolls took the Grand Pasha and his wife to the station, where the chauffeur unloaded the bags. Henry instructed him to return to the Ritz now that he had everything under control. The chauffeur touched his cap and said, “I hope you and madam have a wonderful trip, sir,” and left them. Henry stood in the station, looking for Fred. There was no sign of him, so he hailed a passing porter.
“Where is Fred?” inquired Henry.
“Fred who?” came the reply.
“How in heaven’s name should I know?” said Henry.
“Then how in hell’s name should I know?” retorted the porter.
Victoria shivered. English railway stations are not designed for the latest fashion in silk coats.
“Kindly take my bags to the end carriage of the train,” said Henry.
The porter looked down at the fourteen bags. “All right,” he said reluctantly.
Henry and Victoria stood patiently in the cold as the porter loaded the bags on his trolley and trundled them off along the platform.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” said Henry. “A cup of Lapsang Souchong tea and some smoked salmon sandwiches and you’ll feel a new girl.”
“I’m just fine,” said Victoria, smiling, though not quite as bewitchingly as usual, as she put her arm through her husband’s. They strolled along together to the end carriage.
“Can I check your tickets, sir?” said the conductor, blocking the entrance to the last carriage.
“My what?” said Henry, his accent sounding unusually pronounced.
“Your tic … kets,” said the conductor, conscious he was addressing a foreigner.
“In the past I have always made the arrangements on the train, my good man.”
“Not nowadays you don’t, sir. You’ll have to go to the booking office and buy your tickets like everyone else, and you’d better be quick about it because the train is due to leave in a few minutes.”
Henry stared at the conductor in disbelief. “I assume my wife may rest on the train while I go and purchase the tickets?” he asked.
“No, I’m sorry, sir. No one is allowed to board the train unless they are in possession of a valid ticket.”
“Remain here, my dear,” said Henry, “and I will deal with this little problem immediately. Kindly direct me to the ticket office, porter.”
“End of Platform Four, governor,” said the conductor, slamming the train door in annoyance at being described as a porter.
That wasn’t quite what Henry had meant by “direct me.” Nevertheless, he left his bride with the fourteen bags and somewhat reluctantly headed back toward the ticket office at the end of Platform Four, where he went to the front of a long line.
“There’s a queue, you know, mate,” someone shouted.
Henry didn’t know. “I’m in a frightful hurry,” he said.
“And so am I,” came back the reply, “so get to the back.”
Henry had been told that the British were good at standing in queues, but as he had never had to join one before, he was quite unable to confirm or deny the rumor. He reluctantly walked to the back of the queue. It took some time before Henry reached the front.
“I would like to take the last carriage to Dover.”
“You would like what…?”
“The last carriage,” repeated Henry a little more loudly.
“I am sorry, sir, but every first-class seat is sold.”
“I don’t want a seat,” said Henry. “I require the carriage.”
“There are no carriages available nowadays, sir, and as I said, all the seats in first class are sold. I can still fix you up in third class.”
“I don’t mind what it costs,” said Henry. “I must travel first class.”
“I don’t have a first-class seat, sir. It wouldn’t matter if you could afford the whole train.”
“I can,” said Henry.
“I still don’t have a seat left in first class,” said the clerk unhelpfully.
Henry would have persisted, but several people in the queue behind him were pointing out that there were only two minutes before the train was due to leave and that they wanted to catch it even if he didn’t.
“Two seats then,” said Henry, unable to make himself utter the words “third class.”
Two green tickets marked Dover were handed through the little grille. Henry took them and started to walk away.
“That will be seventeen and sixpence please, sir.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” said Henry apologetically. He fumbled in his pocket and unfolded one of the three large white five-pound notes he always carried on him.
“Don’t you have anything smaller?”
“No, I do not,” said Henry, who found the idea of carrying money vulgar enough without it having to be in small denominations.
The clerk handed back four pounds and a half-crown. Henry did not pick up the half-crown.
“Thank you, sir,” said the startled man. It was more than his Saturday bonus.
Henry put the tickets in his pocket and quickly returned to Victoria, who was smiling defiantly against the cold wind; it was not quite the smile that had originally captivated him. Their porter had long ago disappeared and Henry couldn’t see another in sight. The conductor took his tickets and clipped them.
“All aboard,” he shouted, waved a green flag and blew his whistle.
Henry quickly threw all fourteen bags through the open door and pushed Victoria onto the moving train before leaping on himself. Once he had caught his breath he walked down the corridor, staring into the third-class carriages. He had never seen one before. The seats were nothing more than thin worn-out cushions, and as he looked into one half-full carriage a young couple jumped in and took the last two adjacent seats. Henry searched frantically for a free carriage but he was unable even to find one with two seats together. Victoria took a single seat in a packed compartment without complaint, while Henry sat forlornly on one of the suitcases in the corridor.
“It will be different once we’re in Dover,” he said, without his usual self-confidence.
“I am sure it will, Henry,” she replied, smiling kindly at him.
The two-hour journey seemed interminable. Passengers of all shapes and sizes squeezed past him in the corridor, treading on his Lobbs hand-made leather shoes, with the words:
“Sorry, sir.”
“Sorry, guv.”
“Sorry, mate.”
Henry put the blame firmly on the shoulders of Clement Attlee and his ridiculous campaign for social equality, and waited for the train to reach Dover Priory Station. The moment the engine pulled in Henry leaped out of the carriage first, not last, and called for Albert at the top of his voice. Nothing happened, except a stampede of people rushed past him on their way to the ship. Eventually Henry spotted a porter and rushed over to him only to find he was already loading up his trolley with someone else’s luggage. Henry sprinted to a second man and then on to a third and waved a pound note at a fourth, who came immediately and unloaded the fourteen bags.
“Where to, guv?” asked the porter amicably.
“The ship,” said Henry, and returned to claim his bride. He helped Victoria down from the train and they both ran through the rain until, breathless, they reached the gangplank of the ship.
“Tickets, sir,” said a young officer in a dark blue uniform at the bottom of the gangplank.
“I always have cabin number three,” said Henry between breaths.
“Of course, sir,” said the young man and looked at his clipboard. Henry smiled confidently at Victoria.
“Mr. and Mrs. William West.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Henry.
“You must be Mr. William West.”
“I am certainly not. I am the Grand Pasha of Cairo.”
“Well, I’m sorry, sir, cabin number three is booked in the name of a Mr. William West and family.”
“I have never been treated by Captain Rogers in this cavalier fashion before,” said Henry, his accent now even more pronounced. “Send for him immediately.”
“Captain Rogers was killed in the war, sir. Captain Jenkins is now in command of this ship and he never leaves the bridge thirty minutes before sailing.”
Henry’s exasperation was turning to panic. “Do you have a free cabin?”
The young officer looked down his list. “No, sir, I’m afraid not. The last one was taken a few minutes ago.”
“May I have two tickets?” asked Henry.
“Yes, sir,” said the young officer. “But you’ll have to buy them from the booking office on the quayside.”
Henry decided that any further argument would be only time-consuming, so he turned on his heel without another word, leaving his wife with the laden porter. He strode to the booking office.
“Two first-class tickets to Calais,” he said firmly.
The man behind the little glass pane gave Henry a tired look. “It’s all one class nowadays, sir, unless you have a cabin.”
He proffered two tickets. “That will be one pound exactly.”
Henry handed over a pound note, took his tickets, and hurried back to the young officer.
The porter was unloading their suitcases on the quayside.
“Can’t you take them on board,” cried Henry, “and put them in the hold?”
“No, sir, not now. Only the passengers are allowed on board after the ten-minute signal.”
Victoria carried two of the smaller suitcases while Hen
ry humped the twelve remaining ones in relays up the gangplank. He finally sat down on the deck, exhausted. Every seat seemed already to be occupied. Henry couldn’t make up his mind if he was cold from the rain or hot from his exertions. Victoria’s smile was fixed firmly in place as she took Henry’s hand.
“Don’t worry about a thing, darling,” she said. “Just relax and enjoy the crossing; it will be such fun being out on deck together.”
The ship moved sedately out of the calm of the bay into the Dover Straits. Later that night Captain Jenkins told his wife that the twenty-five-mile journey had been among the most unpleasant crossings he had ever experienced. He added that he had nearly turned back when his second officer, a veteran of two wars, was violently sick. Henry and Victoria spent most of the trip hanging over the rails getting rid of everything they had consumed at their reception. Two people had never been more happy to see land in their life than Henry and Victoria were at the first sight of the Normandy coastline. They staggered off the ship, taking the suitcases one at a time.
“Perhaps France will be different,” Henry said lamely, and after a perfunctory search for Pierre he went straight to the booking office and obtained two third-class seats on the Flèche d’Or. They were at least able to sit next to each other this time, but in a carriage already occupied by six other passengers as well as a dog and a hen. The six of them left Henry in no doubt that they enjoyed the modern habit of smoking in public and the ancient custom of taking garlic in their food. He would have been sick again at any other time, but there was nothing left in his stomach. Henry considered walking up and down the train searching for Raymond but feared it could only result in his losing his seat next to Victoria. He gave up trying to hold any conversation with her above the noise of the dog, the hen and the Gallic babble, and satisfied himself by looking out of the window, watching the French countryside and, for the first time in his life, noting the name of every station through which they passed.
Once they arrived at the Gare du Nord, Henry made no attempt to look for Maurice and simply headed straight for the nearest taxi rank. By the time he had transferred all fourteen cases he was well down the queue. He and Victoria stood there for just over an hour, moving the cases forward inch by inch until it was their turn.
A Quiver Full of Arrows Page 12
