A Hole in the Ground

by Andrew Garve

  A man had started to blow a bugle—a man with a bicycle and a pair of lungs that reminded Julie of Joe Halliday. Presently, when he had drawn a crowd, he began to read out an announcement. Traill listened, interested but uncomprehending, and then glanced at Julie. “What does he say?”

  “He says the town will be en fête on Saturday—they’re raising money for new church bells. I should think it ought to be rather fun.”

  “Could be. They sure enjoy themselves when they get started. I came on a village yesterday evening where the whole population seemed to be out, dancing. Feast of the Assumption, I think they said it was. I darned nearly joined in. Well, now, how about some more drinks? Same again, Mrs. Quilter? What about you, sir?”

  Quilter, who had been sitting with the old abstracted expression on his face, started. “Why, yes—thanks.”

  Chapter Three

  Traill drifted away after dinner and they saw no more of him that evening. His impact, however, remained. To Julie it had been like a breath of fresh air to meet a thorough-going extrovert who was absorbed in a practical job and cared nothing for politics. Quilter had been stimulated by him in a different way and after a spell of taciturnity at dinner he began to talk with something of his old animation and fire. He had, he told Julie, nothing whatever against Traill personally—but that attitude of his …! Everyone knew that the West Indies were grossly exploited, and no man of any feeling would attempt to minimise the fact. Of course, Traill was a geologist—what with his microscope and his strata he probably hardly noticed what went on in the lives of people around him. An unconscious tool of the oil companies …

  Julie didn’t attempt to argue. Laurence could say what he liked as long as he said something—anything was better than moroseness. She found it impossible to share his indignation, but he didn’t seem to mind, and it was good to see him stirred by something again—even if it wasn’t by her!

  Next day Traill went off early—from her window Julie saw him leave in the jeep just after nine. Laurence asked her what she would like to do and she said she wouldn’t mind spending another day lazing on the banks of the Dordogne. The atmosphere of acute strain had gone, but there was still no real companionship. Julie’s new role, it soon appeared, was that of audience. Laurence seemed on the point of spontaneous combustion over the Korean war, and as she lay listening to his derisive comments on the United Nations, MacArthur and Chiang Kai-shek she reflected that his views seemed to be getting steadily more extreme and hoped for his own sake that he would moderate them when he got back to England. Between his outbursts she dangled her toes in the water and read a soothing travel book by Freya Stark.

  When they returned to the hotel in the early evening Traill was already on the terrace and they joined him as a matter of course.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment,” Quilter said, as Julie settled herself in the basket chair which the American politely held for her. “I must get a paper before the kiosk shuts.” He went off across the street with his usual brisk stride.

  “I guess I ought to buy a paper one of these days,” said Traill with a lazy smile. “Well—have you been having a good time?”

  “Very pleasant, thank you—but very quiet. And you?”

  “I’ve had a terrific day. I went down that Gouffre place they talk about so much—Padirac. It sure is impressive.”

  “It frightened me,” said Julie. “I was glad to get out. Laurence was absolutely fascinated by it, though.” She didn’t add that that was practically the only time that he’d shown any interest in anything. “It was all I could do to tear him away. He had our poor boatman in a maze with his questions.”

  “Did you have to translate for him, too?”

  “No, thank heaven,” said Julie with a smile. “Laurence’s French is pretty good.” She turned and watched her husband slowly approaching across the terrace, reading the Continental Daily Mail as he walked. Suddenly he stopped, concentrating on something with an anxious frown, and then he came swiftly across to them.

  “I say, Julie, there’s been a bad fall at Whitehanger. Seventy-three trapped.”

  “Oh, Laurence!” Julie took the paper with deep concern. Whitehanger was one of the biggest collieries in West Cumbria, and she knew a great many of the miners and their wives. “Hope Fading,” she read. Seventy-three men! Seventy-three families! She let the paper drop into her lap. “Oh, God, how frightful!”

  “Frightful!” Quilter echoed, and sat down. “You know, darling, I think I ought to go back.”

  “Do you really?”

  Traill got up. “I’m sorry about this, folks. Guess I’ll see you later.”

  Julie gave him a rather strained smile and turned back to Quilter. “Well, if you think we can do any good, Laurence, of course we’ll go. But do you think we can? When that explosion happened at Fotherdown and we went over I felt horribly in the way. You know how a community like that closes up when there’s a disaster—they don’t really want outsiders around and you can’t wonder at it.”

  “We’re hardly outsiders,” said Quilter. “A colliery disaster has a public angle and I’m the M.P.—I’ve got responsibilities. Besides, what do you think our opponents will say if I don’t put in an appearance? ‘Where was your M.P.?’ they’ll ask. ‘Gadding about on the Continent.’ I can’t afford to let that happen—it’s going to be too near a thing as it is.”

  Julie looked at him in astonishment. “I see,” she said. “You’re not usually so frank, are you?”

  “I’m being realistic,” he said angrily. “Damn it, it’s the usual thing to show some interest on these occasions, quite apart from feelings. It’s expected. Why do you suppose the King always sends a message?”

  “It’s certainly not because he wants votes,” she said with unusual bitterness.

  It suddenly came over her again what a total fiasco this holiday had been, and she felt utterly miserable. She had tried, she knew she had tried hex utmost, to make it a happy one, but somehow it had been doomed from the start. To say that Laurence had been unco-operative was putting it mildly. He had not once, it seemed to her now, been spontaneous and natural with her. This return to England—if he had really cared about the miners and their bereaved families she would have gone with him willingly, even though she might think it a mistake. But to go with him in this mood, this hard, calculating mood—her whole nature revolted.

  “Of course, if you’ve made up your mind,” she said in a remote voice, “I suppose there’s nothing more to be said. I’d better start packing.”

  “Now look, darling, don’t go flying off the handle like that. Please understand that I don’t want to upset the holiday any more than you do, but it’s part of the job and I must. That doesn’t mean that there’s any necessity for you to come, though.”

  “Of course I must come. I can’t stay here without you.”

  “Why not? It’ll only be for a day or two. I can get a train into Toulouse or Bordeaux first thing to-morrow—possibly even to-night—and I can fly from there. I’ll see the trade union chaps and start a fund and say a few appropriate words and then I’ll fly straight back. Let’s see, where are we now? Wednesday. Why, I’ll probably be back by Sunday.”

  “If that’s how you want it …” Julie’s face was hard and set.

  “It’s not a question of how I want it, sweetheart—it’s the sensible thing to do. Obviously I’ve got to fly if I’m to be there in time to do any good—and the car will have to be driven back. You don’t want to do that journey all by yourself. Besides, we’re not booked to cross until the 29th, and we won’t have a hope of getting the car over before then, not in August.”

  “So I’m to stay here?”

  “Yes, darling, just until Sunday. I’m sure that’s the best way—really.” He bent to kiss her, but she turned her head.

  “We’d better go and find a time-table,” she said. “It seems as though my main function in life is to say good-bye to you on station platforms.”

  They went in, and Qu
ilter explained the situation to the hotel people, who were all concern and helpfulness. Telephone calls were put through to stations and air terminals and in half an hour everything was arranged. There was a train to Toulouse at 9.40 that evening and a plane to London via Paris in the morning. The necessary reservations were made, and June went upstairs to pack Laurence’s case.

  They dined with time to spare, and after dinner she went with him to the station. He was laconic on the journey, his thoughts evidently far away.

  “You’ll look after yourself, won’t you?” he said, as he hung out of the train window. “Mind how you drive! Promise?” His eyes held hers for a moment, and there was the old twinkle in them. Julie felt like flinging herself into the carriage with him. Then the train gave a little toot and began to move.

  “I’ll be counting the days,” she called, and stood waving and watching until the tail lights were out of sight. Then she turned and walked slowly to the car. Now that he had gone she felt quite stunned by the suddenness of it all Traill was back on the terrace when she reached the hotel and she stopped to tell him her news.

  “Well, if that isn’t the darnedest luck!” he said, and he looked really sorry. “Still … Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday—it’s not so long. It’ll go in a flash. Have a drink, won’t you, it’ll cheer you up.”

  “Not just now, thanks. I’m a bit tired, I think I’ll go to bed. Good-night, Mr. Traill.”

  “Good-night—sleep well. And if there’s anything I can do at any time, just call on me.” He smiled at her, the warm friendly smile that she liked so much. It was an anaesthetic, dulling pain.

  Chapter Four

  Traces of the overnight depression were still with Julie when she woke next morning to find herself alone in the big double room, but she had too resilient a nature for the mood to last. As she pushed the shutters wide open and looked out on the sunlit terra cotta roofs and heard the sounds of happy laughter from the street, her spirits rose. While she dressed, she made plans. It would be rather fun, she thought, to take a solitary prowl through the older parts of the town. She had walked round once with Laurence but it hadn’t been very satisfactory because their tempo was so different. She liked to linger and he always wanted to push on. She liked to squeeze the maximum of satisfaction out of the present and he always thought there’d be something better round the corner. She still remembered an occasion in Cornwall when she’d wanted to spend some time in a village famous for its pottery works and he had insisted on pressing on to their morning’s objective still many miles away. “Any climb with a view at the end of it is worth more to me than a dozen pottery factories,” he’d said, and she’d toiled up the steep hillside behind him, too breathless to register even a mild protest. And then a mist had come down and they hadn’t been able to see the view after all. She was still smiling at the recollection as she went lightly downstairs.

  She spent a blissful morning poking about in little back-street shops, buying presents for small nephews and nieces and talking to the voluble shopkeepers. That was another thing—Laurence didn’t really like meeting new people and he nearly always shied away from casual conversations so that they rarely had much contact with the locals when they were away. In half an hour she was able to learn more about Pouillac and its life than she had picked up in the whole of the previous week. When she had finished her shopping she paid a second visit to the fascinating IIth century cathedral, which she hadn’t been able to look at properly before because Laurence couldn’t bear the smell of incense and what he called “the tawdry trappings of organised religion.”

  She bought a newspaper just before lunch to see if there was any more news of the colliery disaster, but there wasn’t. She lunched alone, with a book beside her plate, and spent the afternoon sitting under the chestnuts on the terrace, reading in a rather desultory way. When the sun began to lose its fierceness she took a stroll through the town to see how the workmen were getting on with the decorations. The place was already taking on a pleasantly festive air, particularly in the main square, which had been given over to sideshows and roundabouts and a large open space for dancing. The prospect of weekend gaiety made her feel lonely again and she drifted back to the hotel.

  The second day was only a slight variant of the first, except that it seemed to pass more slowly. She took the car out to the quiet spot that she and Laurence had liked, but she had never enjoyed driving by herself, and picnicking alone wasn’t very exciting. As on the previous evening, she accepted Benson Traill’s invitation to a before-dinner drink. It would have been pleasant to pass much more time with him, for she found him attractive, but loyalty to Laurence made her ration herself where his company was concerned. It wasn’t worth while getting even slightly involved merely to relieve a few days’ monotony. Traill himself was strictly formal in his attitude, although it was obvious that he enjoyed being with her. He went off somewhere every morning in his jeep, full of zest and interest, and was always so cheerful in the evenings when he recounted his activities that Julie felt quite ashamed of her own insufficiency.

  By Saturday morning she was able to start thinking of Laurence’s return and even went so far as to borrow an air time-table to see when she might begin to expect him. That was one admirable thing about him—he was meticulous in the way he kept to arrangements. This time, of course, he’d been necessarily vague, but he had mentioned Sunday and he’d certainly make it if he could. For once, she felt glad that he was such a hustler—she really wouldn’t have been able to stand much more of this holidaying alone.

  She was unable, after all, to make anything of the timetable and presently took it back to the office. As she passed the letter-rack a familiar handwriting caught her eye. She snatched at the letter in sudden apprehension and tore it open with fingers that trembled a little. If he had bothered to write, it could mean only one thing. She ran her eye quickly down the page and then took the letter out with her on to the terrace and sat down and read it again.

  There was a note of haste about it, as though he were frantically busy. Adam Johnson, it said, had been most relieved when he had turned up and emphatic that he had done the right thing to return. He had been over to the pit and seen some of the bereaved relatives and the injured men, and he’d opened a Fund with a cheque for £500. Unfortunately he’d found himself more tied up than he’d expected to be, and it would probably be another day or two before he could get away. He hoped that she was enjoying herself, and was sure that the holiday must be doing her good anyway. The letter ended perfunctorily, “Love, Laurence.”

  Another day or two. That could mean anything. With all her heart Julie wished now that she had insisted on going back with him. He was sure the holiday was doing her good! How astonishingly insensitive he could be sometimes! Or was it that she expected too much? Wearily she wondered, and as so often happened she ended up by accusing herself. She had to remember that Laurence was more absorbed in his work than most men and that she liked him that way. She would have hated to have an uxorious husband. He couldn’t be finding the atmosphere of Coalhaven very pleasant and he was probably as fed up as she was. She pushed the letter into her bag, unable to look at it again, but it was herself she was annoyed with.

  So now what? How on earth was she going to pass the time? It wasn’t that there was nothing to do in this place—far from it—but loneliness was a creeping, paralysing thing that froze interest and energy. A day or two was hardly long enough to make new friends, and anyway she didn’t feel inclined to attach herself to any of the self-contained French families in the hotel. She could write to Laurence, of course—but at present she distrusted her mood. She would do that this evening. In the end she went out for another of her solitary strolls.

  When she returned to the hotel shortly after five, Traill was sitting on the terrace. He looked up at her approach, and his welcoming grin was by far the nicest thing that had happened to her that day. “Hello, there!” he called “How are you doing?”

  She subsided into t
he chair beside him. “I’m hot.”

  “That I can believe—you walk about so much. Mad dogs and English women …!”

  “I’ve got to do something,” she said.

  He looked at her in surprise. “Cheer up—to-morrow’s Sunday. You’ll be okay as soon as that M.P. of yours gets back.”

  She gave a wry smile. “It seems I’m to be a grass widow for several more days. He’s been delayed.”

  “Ah!” Traill regarded her thoughtfully. “That is tough.” He held out a packet of cigarettes and Julie took one gratefully. “Look,” he said when he had given her a light, “why don’t you snap out of it and have a bit of fun?” This is no way to go on, mooning around the joint day after day.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Well, suppose I take you out to dinner for a start?”

  “I’d adore that,” she said.

  “Okay, it’s a date. And look—let’s get this straight right now. The way I see it, it’s pretty darned stupid for you and me to go around on our own. I guess we could have a lot of fun if we teamed up for a day or two, and so far as I’m concerned it’d be strictly on the level. I’ve no territorial ambitions. All right with you?”

  “All right with me,” she said with a smile.

  “Fine. Will you meet me here at—well, say quarter after six?”

  She nodded happily and jumped up. “I’d better go and change. You’re rather sweet, Ben—did you know that?”

  She went to her room feeling ridiculously like a schoolgirl about to be taken out for the first time. After her bath she made herself up with care and put on a favourite frock of pale yellow linen, knowing how well it set off her tan. Flowery earrings in white china added a gay, light-hearted touch.

  When she went downstairs at twenty past six, Traill was waiting for her. He had changed into a very light tropical suit that would have gone better with an open Cadillac than a jeep.