by Ann Bridge
Milcom stood for a moment looking after her; then he pulled out his watch. Just on nine—he would have to hurry. Ramming his hat down on his head he too went up the path. But all the way back to the hotel, and on his long following journey, he was aware of a curious sense of having been in some way soothed, if not comforted. At least she had afforded him a genuine distraction, giving him something besides his own wretchedness to think about. What an extraordinary child! And often, during the next few days of tension and suspense before the offensive began, and the following weeks of confusion, fatigue and danger, he found himself, at the most unexpected moments, recalling Rosemary Oldhead, and her extraordinary gesture of fearless pity and love.
Rosemary herself contrived to conceal all knowledge of her escapade from both her parents. It was more than ever desirable just then to conceal things from Mr. Oldhead. His rheumatism, in the increasing cold, was beginning to bother him again, and he was getting discontented with St.-Jean-de-Luz. This town, though visitors do not always realise it at first, is not a good place for rheumatic subjects; its very name, if one knew Basque (which nobody does) would tell one so. For St.-Jean-de-Luz means, not Saint John of Light, as most people very naturally suppose, but Saint John of the Marshes; the streets down by the harbour are built on the swampy flats at the mouth of the Nivelle, and the suburbs which are steadily spreading inland behind the railway-station have their foundations on the town’s rubbish, tipped out onto the marshy water-meadows along the river to afford holding for bricks and mortar. This, carping persons say, accounts for the condition which gives the place its other, mocking nick-name of St.-Jean-des-Puces,—Saint John of the Fleas. Certainly there are a great many fleas—and what with them, and his rheumatic twinges, and the cold, and his worry about the Civil War—the futile desperate worrying of the inactive over a cause dear to their heart—Mr. Oldhead, in those last days of December nineteen hundred and thirty-eight, was getting very grumpy indeed.
The chilly winds out of doors had latterly driven him more and more into frequenting the Bar Basque; it was warm there, and the gossip of the journalists did something to allay his nervous irritable thirst for news. Suspense about the Franco offensive was now at fever-pitch in St.-Jean, and on the morning of Milcom’s departure Mr. Oldhead, about noon, betook him to the Bar for his usual glass of sherry and spot of gossip.
He ran into quite a mouthful of news, as it happened. Crumpaun, Carrow, Crossman and Hever were all there, discussing with great animation an item collected by the indefatigable representative of Hooters. A very large number of planes from Russia, long awaited and long delayed, were at last said to be about to arrive in France—possibly had already arrived. Crossman was jubilant; fifty or sixty extra planes might make all the difference to the Republicans in the coming offensive—it was the German-Italian command of the sky, he said (as everyone already knew) which weighted the scales so heavily in Franco’s favour.
This news delighted Mr. Oldhead too; he sipped his sherry with relish, while he registered agreement with Crossman.
Provided there wasn’t any more sabotage, Crumpaun said, throwing his usual philosophical lump of caution into the conversation; those damned wreckers were everywhere.
“Here, listen, Crumpaun, don’t start dismal-jimmying like that,” Carrow said, irritably. “I guess there isn’t going to be any more sabotage. No one this side knows where those planes are, and there aren’t any runways left for the espions to cross the frontier any more—thanks to you and that smart little girl of yours, sir,” he added, turning to Mr. Oldhead. “There’s been no wrecking worth mentioning since that col was blocked.”
The episode of the photographs, the Old Parrot, and Rosemary’s and Crumpaun’s expedition had become common property among the journalists, and had brought Rosemary a certain fame; so much so that Mr. Oldhead had quite got over his resentment, and secretly nourished a modest pride in his intelligent and tight-lipped child. But on this occasion he did not accept Carrow’s tribute with his usual demure satisfaction. Instead he set down his glass of sherry on the table so sharply that it spilt, and sat bolt upright in his chair, staring straight ahead of him, without making any reply at all. At Carrow’s words, like a thunderclap, had come to him the recollection of the Arbre de Noël in the Grotte de Sare. No, by Jove—all the frontier runways were not closed; whether spies used it or not, that stone ladder was still open to them—the safest, the most secret route of all. And it must be closed at once. He rose, beckoning to Crossman, and led him down to the far end of the room, where they stood whispering together for some moments. Then Crossman, nodding, returned to the group of journalists, and Mr. Oldhead went out, leaving his sherry unfinished. (Crossman, needless to say, finished it for him.) Mr. Oldhead tramped back to the hotel, told Rex to order a car, and sat down, early as it was, to lunch; he was just finishing when his wife and daughter came in, at the usual hour.
“Got to go out—back for tea,” was all he would vouchsafe in answer to their questions; Rosemary needn’t think she was the only one who could keep her own counsel!
“Daddy’s really getting impossible,” Rosemary said resentfully, looking after his departing back. “Really, if we’ve got to have lunch at twelve-thirty it’ll be the end!”
But Mr. Oldhead, that usually quiet and liberal-minded man, drove off to Bayonne in a state of savage satisfaction. At last he could do something that might help the Republican cause; he ought to have done it long ago, and not let Crossman talk him out of it. Pray God he was in time. “Faster,” he kept telling the driver, who was anyhow shooting along the winding blue-grey ribbon of road at the usual reckless pace of the hireling French chauffeur. In his hurry he had omitted to go up and get his thick overcoat, and in his thin one he was cold—but what of that? At the Préfecture he told his tale with such convincing detail that he was readily believed—all the more because suspense about the offensive was as prevalent in Bayonne as elsewhere. There was telephoning—orders were given; Mr. Oldhead was effusively thanked. Driving back under a leaden sky which threatened snow he was colder than ever; he shivered, his leg began to hurt. But a Republican fervour, burning in his heart, warmed him within.
Once back, his errand safely accomplished, Mr. Oldhead could not refrain from telling his family what he had done. Rosemary listened with knitted brows, and as usual betook herself to her own room to think it over. Oh well, she thought, sitting at her small writing-table, on which her Spanish copy-books were spread out, it didn’t so much matter. It couldn’t affect Raquel now anyhow, as she was going away. She sighed—oh dear! How much she would miss her dear Condesa. On the open copy-book before her was a page of Spanish written in Raquel’s bold pointed hand—one of the exercises that she had occasionally set to help her little friend; it was one of those small kindnesses that were intensely characteristic of her. She would never set her another! No more exercises; no more walks, and morning coffee together, and laughter and fun. And no more Milcom either, suddenly appearing to make life, for both of them, flame up into wonder. Lousy—everything was lousy in the end; but one knew that in advance—one expected it. But this morning—he had been nice; he had neither snubbed her nor laughed at her. And he had said that he wouldn’t forget that she had done it. She was glad that she had. Rosemary had no qualms, no regrets. Tilting the table-lamp, putting on her reading spectacles, she settled down to translate the Condesa’s last exercise.
Mr. Oldhead meanwhile, warmed with tea and achievement, got his wife to rub his leg, rested and read The Times; shortly before seven, saying that he might be a bit late for dinner, he put on his thickest overcoat and a scarf, and stumped off to the Bar Basque. “I’ve got to see Crossman,” he said.
Crossrnan was not there when he arrived, but Crumpaun, Hever, Carrow and the rest were already in session, still discussing the Russian planes and the possibilities of sabotage. To journalists short of material, to have thrashed out a subject exhaustively before lunch is no reason at all for not repeating the process before din
ner. Mr. Oldhead sat rather silent, watching the door; he made no reference to his dash to Bayonne. When Ladislas the waiter brought fresh drinks, Oldhead made the others stop talking; when he attempted to linger in their vicinity, Hever shooed him off, menacingly—whereat Ladislas grinned his Central European grin, showing his splendid mouthful of white teeth. At about seven-thirty the door opened, bringing a gust of cold air, and Crossman walked in; his red face was redder than ever, he stamped his feet and beat his arms about his body before taking off his hat, coat and muffler—he yelled to Ladislas for a double whiskey and soda. “Hell, it’s cold,” he said. And nodded reassuringly to Mr. Oldhead.
“Here, where’ve you been at this time of night, you old rip?” Crumpaun asked him.
“Doing some reporting, old thing—covering a break,” Crossman retorted, burying his purple face in his whiskey-glass.
“Take your nose out of this, laddie,” Hever said threateningly to Ladislas, who retired laughing. “Now then, spill it, Crossey.”
“Is it all right?” Mr. Oldhead asked in a low voice, leaning over to Crossman.
“Right as rain. Ten of ’em there, and more up the road—motor-cycle combinations, guns, and the whole outfit,” Crossman replied. “Anyone got a stinker?”
“Here, what is all this?” Carrow asked. “You and Crossey in on some racket together?” he asked Mr. Oldhead. “Poaching, eh?”
“Oldhead, Oldhead & Oldhead, Inc.—Supersleuths,” chanted Crossman, on whom the whiskey was taking its usual immediate effect.
Hever quietly impounded his glass.
“Not another drop till the beans come pouring out, Crossey my boy,” he said amiably.
“All right—all right; give a fellow a chance. It’s only that we—or rather the child—spotted another sneak-way t’other day, over at the Grotte de Sare; and when this plane racket came up, Mr. O. here thought the matter better have attention. So he pranced into Bayonne this afternoon to tip off the cops. And I just breezed over to the bally old grotto to check up, and found results satisfactory—Gardes Mobiles all over the place. So that job’s done. And now, Tom, I’ll trouble you for my glass.” He raised it. “Here’s to Miss Rosemary Oldhead, the Queen of Counter-Espionage.”
“I never knew a man get so tight, so quickly, on so little liquor,” Hever observed in an undertone to Crumpaun, while they drank.
“Did you get any photographs?” Carrow asked Mr. Oldhead.
“No—he’s put wise to that, Carrow; no more free photos to the Press! He stands over the boy-friend while they’re being developed now,” Crossman answered irrepressibly.
“No, I didn’t,” Mr. Oldhead replied for himself. He rose stiffly, and stiffly struggled into his overcoat—having not the good news that he had come for, he wanted to go home. “Thank you, Crossman. Good night.”
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
He stumped back through the bitter streets to the Grande Bretagne, ignoring the cold, and thoroughly pleased with himself.
His satisfaction over this coup not only raised Mr. Oldhead’s spirits, it seemed actually to improve his physical health as well; when, two days later, the Archdeacon invited him to a round of golf on the Chiberta course, just beyond Biarritz, to Ethel Oldhead’s surprise and pleasure he accepted, though the weather was colder than ever—quite Christmassy, as she said. She and Rosemary were taken along for the drive. Mrs. Oldhead was to be dropped in Biarritz—with Christmas only four days off, she wanted to do some shopping; Rosemary, who—as has been said—loathed Biarritz, took her ever-present Spanish exercise-books along—if they would put her out on the Chambre d’Amour, she said, she would find a sheltered corner to work in, and would walk to the Club House for tea at four-thirty.
The Chambre d’Amour is the name given, Heaven knows why, to part of the sandy stretch of dunes, pine trees and windswept shore which begins at the bathing-place just beyond Biarritz, and continues to the mouth of the Adour at Bayonne. In summer it is thronged with sea-bathers, sun-bathers, and picnickers—but in winter it is practically deserted. Rosemary, decanted from the Archdeacon’s car, strolling along, observed that there seemed to be no one about except herself.
No wonder, she thought, as she sought a sheltered spot. A bitter northeaster was blowing offshore, raising little flurries of sand between the dark trunks of the pines, and sending smoking ribbons off the exposed tops of the dunes; great rollers were coming in from the Bay of Biscay, their white crests blown off backwards by the wind. Eventually she went right down to the beach, and tucked herself under the low unfinished sea-wall which here protects the coast from the winter storms; there, in an angle of the wall, she was comparatively warm—and quite hidden, as it happened, from anyone walking along the path above. As she settled herself down, in full sight of the waves, she noticed with surprise that she heard them very little—the wind carried their thundering out to sea; on the other hand it brought clearly to her ears every sound from the landward side: the bray of a donkey tethered under the pines, the honking and engine-roar of cars that passed along the road. She began to work, and was soon absorbed in her task.
Rosemary liked Spanish, and had made a good deal of progress with it in the past three months—apart from her lessons, she had spent a lot of time talking it with the Condesa, and she could now follow pretty accurately the conversations of the Executioner with his friends in the hall of the hotel. So when, after a time, she heard voices, men’s voices, speaking Spanish close by, it was natural enough that she should prick up her ears and listen.
“… Exasperating that you should be delayed like this,” were the first words she caught—“And possibly dangerous. But tomorrow night all should be arranged at the far end. I will let you know, in any case. Those damned French!—I wish I knew what had possessed them to do this just now.”
“Then, since I must in any case wait another day, can I not see her? It is the last chance, and she is so near. There is no risk, I assure”—the voice faded, as the speakers passed out of hearing.
This fragment intrigued Rosemary enormously. ‘Delayed like this’—‘damned French’—and Spaniards talking! And out here on the Chambre d’Amour, on this intolerably inclement day! She must go into this. Very cautiously, she poked up her head till she could look over the top of the low sea-wall. The two men had come to a halt some thirty yards away from her, on the Biarritz side; they were still talking, though now the wind carried their words out to sea—but their attitudes and gestures were the very diagram of an argument; beyond them, some distance along the shore, a big car was standing solitary on one of the parking-places to which sandy tracks lead down from the road. Straining her eyes, Rosemary studied the pair. One was tall and slight, and there was something vaguely familiar about his head and profile; the other shorter, stouter, and older—as he turned fully in her direction, gesturing negatives with his hands at his companion, she recognised the Old Parrot.
This discovery flung Rosemary into transports of excitement. It was!—it was!—it must be the closing of the Grotte de Sare that they were talking about, and the Old Parrot was the super-spy! But who was the other? She could not see, for now—how maddening!—they had both turned their backs towards her. But there was something curiously familiar and distinctive about the young man’s walk—either she had seen him before, or he walked like someone she knew. Who was it? Who was it? But before she could catch the elusive memory, they stopped again, turned and came back towards her—and now she knew where she had seen the younger man. He was the splendid peasant who had talked to her outside the Grotte de Sare, on the day when she discovered the Arbre de Noël route, though now he was dressed in an ordinary town suit and light overcoat.
Her heart beating with excitement, Rosemary cautiously withdrew her head out of sight, and sat listening, while her thoughts raced. So he was the spy! And her Father’s intervention had prevented him from getting back that way—“at the far end” must mean somewhere near Perpignan, at the other end of the fronti
er. But who was the “her” he wished so much to see? She checked her speculations as the voices came within earshot again, and strained to catch the words.
“… you can let me know the date and place exactly,” the first voice said—the Parrot’s. “Whatever the risk, you must remain until you have secured those details. As to how you will let us know, probably this time you must” … Again the voice faded out, as their walk took them out of hearing—and again Rosemary’s thoughts darted this way and that over the words. Thank God he wasn’t caught, anyhow! was her first instinctive reaction. After a moment or two she poked her head up once more, but quickly withdrew it again. They had parted; the Old Parrot was coming back towards her, alone; the young man was strolling on in the opposite direction, towards Bayonne. Huddled down, hardly daring to breathe, she listened to the Spaniard’s heavy steps go creaking and scrunching past her on the sandy track. When the sounds had quite ceased, she poked her head up once more. Hunched in his overcoat—the pepper-and-salt overcoat that he had worn that day at Jacques’—the Parrot was trudging along towards the car; the young man was still strolling in the Bayonne direction, but slowly, pausing now and then to throw a stone out to sea. Alternately crouching and peeping, Rosemary waited till she saw the older man enter the car and drive off. By this time the young man was some three hundred yards away; when the car had gone, he turned and began to walk back in her direction; but still slowly, as if purposelessly—and still pausing to send stones spinning seawards.
Instantly, without a thought of the risk she might be running, she decided to intercept him. Seizing a moment when he was watching one of his flung stones fall short of the incoming breakers, she popped up over the wall, copy-book and all, and sat down under the lee of one of the loose concrete blocks with which the wall was, one day, to be finished, but which now lay scattered by the shore track. The block, though large, afforded little shelter—goodness, it was cold!—but Rosemary did not care; opening her copy-book on her knee, pencil in hand, she pretended to be absorbed in her work. If only he would come as far as where she sat!
