‘Oh, yes, it was held up at Trinidad. It’ll be landing here just after five.”
A man who was standing near Douglas at the counter butted in and said:
“Are you asking about the aircraft from Buenos Aires? It was supposed to arrive at ten this morning. Its now expected about five o’clock.”
“I’ve just been told,” Douglas said.
“That’s all right. I thought you were having difficulty.”
Douglas turned back to the clerk, and asked him if Miss Waring was on board.
“Yes she is,” the clerk said. “She made the trip for one of our girls who’s got pneumonia. She wasn’t too pleased about it.”
He was ashamed now that he could ever have doubted her; but at the same time he felt a wonderful sense of happiness and relief. He turned to go. As he left the office the man who had butted in at the counter came up to him again and said:
“Excuse me, old man, but are you going out to the airport?” Douglas said he was, and the man asked, “Would you mind if I joined you? The company haven’t a car going out for another hour.” He was a bouncing little chap in a Panama hat and khaki shirt and shorts. There was an expensive miniature camera on a strap round his neck.
“I’m hiring a car,” Douglas said. “I haven’t picked it up yet.”
“I don’t mind coming along with you—not in the least.
“All right,” Douglas said.
The chap grinned. “My name’s Burroughs. How do you do?” He shook hands.
“Are you meeting someone at the airport?” Douglas asked. “Or catching a plane?”
“Neither—I’m just taking a few snaps. I do them in colour, you know.”
They walked along to the garage together. The car was a large Chevrolet saloon, with a tank to hold thirty gallons. Douglas had it filled right up to the top. As they were driving out into the road, Burroughs said:
“This isn’t the way, old chap. You don’t mind me telling you, do you?”
“I have to make a call before we go to the airport.”
He pulled up in a road just off Harbour Street and went into the agent’s office. He had already arranged by letter about renting the bungalow. Inside the office there were photographs of the bungalow in a showcase: flat roofed, and gleaming whitely amongst the palms on the edge of a beach near Ocho Rios. There were also photographs of the interior, with wrought-iron standard lamps and ultra-modern easy chairs. The rent was fifteen pounds a week. He paid over the money. The agent counted the notes and said:
“It is a very choice spot, sir. We always let it to Americans in the winter season.”
It was now the summer season. He took the keys and went out to the car, where he found Burroughs writing in shorthand in a loose-leaf notebook on his lap. He explained hat he had been keeping an hour-by-hour account of his trip ever since he left England—he sent it back to his sister, who typed it out (“She’s glad of the bit of extra money”) and sent it to his daughter who was at boarding-school. As they drove out towards the airport, he asked Douglas to stop the car. He got out and put the camera to his eye and pointed it at the harbour, and then came back and said:
“It wasn’t the shot I wanted, after all. I try to get decent ones to make into slides. They’ve asked me to give a lantern-lecture at my girl’s boarding-school when I get back.”
They stopped again a bit later, and afterwards Burroughs said:
“Well, I took it. It may come out all right. But I don’t like to print anything that wouldn’t look well in the Geographic. I use that as my standard.”
It was half-past four when they reached the airport. There were several large hangars built at the elbow of the Palisadoes, with the runway going out to sea. One of the hangars was the customs shed. Douglas parked the car and stood about with Burroughs near the barbed wire that surrounded the field. There were two huge silvery four-engine machines glinting on the tarmac.
“K.L.M. and Pan-American,” Burroughs said. “I’ll catch the Pan-American as she goes off.”
He held up his camera and caught instead a gale of dust as one of the engines started up, slapping out a harsh tattoo in the sultry tropical air. Then another engine started up, and there was more dust.
“I ought to have expected that,” Burroughs said. He began cleaning the camera with his handkerchief. “I’ve lost a good shot now. Don’t worry, though—I’ll get the next one.”
The aircraft had reached the end of the runway. It paused, and then swung round through a semicircle, and paused again, revving its engines. Then it swung back through the semicircle and revved the engines again. It was like an actor making last bows to each section of an audience.
“Boxing its compass,” Burroughs said. “I’d need a movie to put that over properly.”
The aircraft suddenly pressed forward with a burst of tremendous exertion, as if straining against a leash. A moment later the leash seemed to snap. Its motion became effortless as it passed down the runway and lifted into the air. Beyond the town it turned and began to climb, heading back over the school and the mountain ranges.
“It’s a wonder they don’t have any crashes up there,” Burroughs said.
“Extraordinary.” He was not in a mood to give Burroughs his life history.
The noise of the engines melted away as the aircraft disappeared behind the Peak. A minute later, as if it was the same aircraft returning, another came into earshot. It appeared as a fishy black speck like some primitive organism seen in a microscope.
“This isn’t yours,” Burroughs said. “It’s from the wrong direction.”
“I’ll leave you here,” Douglas said. “I’m going into the shed to see what’s happening.”
“I’ll come with you.”
Inside the shed Burroughs bounced up to an air-line official and asked about the Buenos Aires plane. The official said it was due at ten-past five.
“It’s due at ten-past five,” Burroughs said.
“Is it a friend you’re meeting?”
“Yes, but she may not be on it.”
“Don’t worry, she’s sure to be.”
“She may not.” As though Burroughs would have known.
“Wait a minute.”
He disappeared. A Pan-American Constellation manoeuvred up to the shed, making a terrific din. It was going on to Curaçao, and only three or four passengers got out. One was a burly white-haired man with a flashy American tie, who looked like a jovial but dishonest Senator on the films. There were a good many people waiting by the barrier. Douglas mingled with them, hoping Burroughs wouldn’t find him. He took out a cigarette. The white paper absorbed the perspiration from his fingers. Presently Burroughs touched his arm. He was holding a sheet of paper.
“I’ve borrowed a passenger list. What’s your friend’s name? We can see if she’s on it.”
“She won’t be,” Douglas said. “She’s one of the crew.”
“Really? You ought to have told me.”
“I didn’t know what you’d gone off for.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll let them have this back.”
The Senator had only one tiny suitcase. He was a huge man. They let him straight through the customs. He gave the tiny suitcase to a porter. The Constellation taxied off. Douglas dropped his cigarette on the concrete floor. The end had come to pieces in his damp fingers. Burroughs came back and said:
“They’re splendid girls, some of these air-hostesses. I’ve any amount of admiration for them. What do you say to us making up a party tonight?”
“I’m afraid we can’t,” Douglas said.
“No? Well, let’s talk it over when she arrives. I’m glad I’ve run into you. I like making new friends.”
Another aircraft taxied on to the tarmac outside the shed. He hadn’t noticed it land. The red swallow was painted on its side.
“This is it,” Burroughs said. “It’s a minute early.”
Douglas went close to the barrier. The engines of the aircraft stopped. A flight of aluminium steps was trundled across. There was a nonce on the steps that said “No Smoking.” The door opened and a stewardess came out and Burroughs said:
“You know why I came out for this trip, don’t you?”
The stewardess was small and dark. She stood at the bottom of the steps as the passengers began to disembark. Presently he caught sight of the other stewardess standing inside the doorway. It was Judy. She was making the passengers duck as they came through. He pulled out another cigarette and lit it.
“And after the funeral,” Burroughs said, “I decided there’d be nothing like travel to help me get over it.”
Everyone came to Jamaica to get over things. He wondered how he could shake off Burroughs.
“Of course, I’d my daughter to think of, but I’ll be back in time for her holidays.”
It was extraordinary how many passengers the aircraft could hold. There might have been a trap-door behind, like the sentry-box in the stage revue from which the entire army of the chorus emerges. One woman came out with two babies. Then a prosperous Negress with a pigskin bag, and then a dark little Jew whom for one awful moment he thought was Louis. Then a bejewelled woman with fox-furs over her arm and then an unhurried Englishman in a city suit. Then the procession ceased and Judy disappeared into the empty bowels of the aircraft, and he stamped out his cigarette again and waited, and then she came to the door again with a handful of papers, and ducked through and came out into the sunlight on the steps, and at the same time he saw that it was not Judy at all—it was a girl who bore no resemblance to Judy beyond the colour of her hair. He waited, and no one else came.
“Excuse me,” he said to Burroughs.
He went over to the customs official.
“Is this the Buenos Aires plane?”
“Yes; it’s from Trinidad.”
“I know it’s from Trinidad—but did it come from Buenos Aires before that?”
“Yes, from South America.” He was busy.
“From the Argentine?”
The official turned to a passenger: “Have you anything . . . ?”
He found a chap with a red swallow on his cap.
“Is there any other aircraft from Buenos Aires today?”
“Not until Monday. Were you expecting someone?”
“I thought a friend might be on it.”
“I’ve the passenger list here.”
“No,” he said. “It doesn’t matter.”
He stared at the empty aircraft. He felt for another cigarette, but the packet had fallen to pieces in his pocket. Then he saw the girl he had mistaken for Judy. She was hurrying through the special entrance in the barrier. He stopped her and asked:
“Do you know what’s happened to Judy Waring?”
“Yes,” she said. “I came up in her place.”
“She’s still in Buenos Aires?”
“Yes, she’s left the company.”
“Left the company?” he said. “Why?”
She waved her papers and moved away.
“I say, I’m awfully sorry. I’ve got to rush . . .”
“But why’s she left the company?” he said.
Burroughs’s Panama hat appeared.
“I expect she’s ill,” he said.
“I don’t know,” the girl said.
“Look, I must know what’s happened to her,” he said. “I was expecting her.”
“Well, wait here a second, will you?” She went off.
Burroughs said, “It’s winter in the Argentine now. She may have caught something.”
The girl had disappeared. The other stewardess had disappeared too. Then the fair one came back. She said:
“All I know about Judy is that she wanted to stay in Buenos Aires. She kicked up an awful fuss with the company. In the end, they let her. I was dragged out of the office at the last moment for this trip.”
“You mean she’s not coming back?”
“She may come back later,” Burroughs said.
“I don’t know,” the girl said. “The company may bring her back to Jamaica. I don’t know.”
“She left her stuff here.”
“That’s her look-out. She may be having it sent down. I know she cabled someone here.”
“How long ago?”
“Nearly a week, I should think.”
“Well, thanks,” he said. “She may have sent me a cable and I didn’t get it.”
“That sort of thing’s happened to me before now,” Burroughs said.
They went back to the Chevrolet. The road passed the quarry where the convicts worked. The convicts had all gone home, but Burroughs decided to take a snap of the place where they would have been working otherwise. The quarry reminded Douglas of the boatman whose brother had been a warder, and that reminded him of lunch under the cactus, and he wondered if Burroughs would notice the heat burning behind his cheeks at the memory of what a fool he had been made to look. He began to feel sick. “We could have a good evening by ourselves,” Burroughs said. “I’m quite free tonight.”
“I’ve a lot to do.”
He had to elaborate an excuse all the way back to Kingston. He dropped Burroughs at the Myrtle Bank. It was where he was staying.
“Anyhow, you’ll know where to find me, won’t you?” Burroughs said.
It took him five minutes to close the door of the car.
Then Douglas drove to the cable office. He asked the clerk if there had been a cable for him during the last week. The clerk was an elderly Jamaican with gold-rimmed spectacles and grizzled hair. He was anxious to be helpful. He searched through a ledger.
“Yes, there was one four days ago.”
“I never received it.”
“Please wait,” he said.
He went away. When he came back, he was peering at a piece of paper.
“It came on Tuesday,” he said. “It was sent to your local post-office. I can’t understand why you didn’t get it.”
“It was probably a mistake at the school,” Douglas said. “May I have that copy?”
He took the cable, and put it in his pocket and left the office. He walked across the road to the Chinese grocer’s to buy some cigarettes. The Chinese assistant was a long time bringing the change. He looked at the covers of the comics on the clothes-line. This was how he used to delay opening letters from Caroline, to show her he didn’t care. The assistant brought the change and he strolled back to the car. He got into the car and lit a cigarette. As he held up the flame he noticed his hand was shaking. He threw the match out of the window, and took the cable from his pocket and laid it on his knee. It had come by the fastest service. It said:
realize you will never forgive or understand how much i wanted you but louis very ill and desperately needs me stop am therefore staying argentine stop oh darling im sorry
It was unsigned. What a pity, he thought, that she hadn’t signed it “Your ever-loving Innocent-of-Heart.” It would almost have made up for telling him she had burnt Louis’ address.
He took a taxi back to the school.
It had taken him half an hour to come to this decision—half an hour walking up and down Harbour Street pretending to look at shop windows. It had occurred to him to stay in Kingston and get drunk and go to a brothel, but only because in circumstances of this sort it was the conventional practice. He could work up no enthusiasm for seeking oblivion in debauchery. Nor could he face a night by himself in the mediocre, suffocating city. The only other alternative was to take Burroughs to the bungalow; but that would have been rather overdoing the salt in the wound.
He did not relish the thought of returning to the school for the week-end, either—he was going to look damned silly after th
e fuss he had made about going off; but in one respect he was glad to get back there at once: to have it out with Pawley and his wife about the cable. As he thought about this in the taxi going up, his anger grew hotter. He had no doubt at all that Mrs. Pawley had withheld the cable from him maliciously. It was Mrs. Pawley who had caused him, for almost a week, to live in a state of intense and excited anticipation. It was Mrs. Pawley who had allowed him to hire the car, rent the bungalow, and stand gloating over the showcase of photographs at the agents’. It was Mrs. Pawley who had been responsible for the last ordeal at the airport. It was Mrs. Pawley who had let him go on making a fool of himself when Judy was four thousand miles away locked in the arms of Louis. He didn’t know whether Pawley had had anything to do with the cable or not, but now his fury was extending rapidly from this specific outrage to include all the faults he had ever found with the school. By the time he reached the school the anger was burning in him with the heat and thrust of a blow-lamp.
Douglas got out at the gate and gave the driver the four pounds that he had agreed to pay, because he hadn’t felt like quibbling over this excessive price down in Kingston. The driver counted out the notes as if he was astonished not to find more, and looked at Douglas reproachfully for a tip. Douglas told him to go to hell, and picked up his bag and went straight down to Pawley’s bungalow.
Pawley was sitting by himself on the verandah, working on some papers. When he saw Douglas he registered considerable surprise.
“Hullo, Lockwood. What an extraordinary thing! My wife said only half an hour ago that she thought you’d be back before Monday.” He goggled inquiringly as Douglas came up the steps. “You look rather upset. Nothing wrong, I hope?”
Douglas said, “Does your wife take in cables that are sent up from the post-office?”
“Yes,” he said, puzzled. “She usually does. The runner has instructions to deliver everything to this bungalow.”
“There was a cable for me on Tuesday,” Douglas said. “Your wife didn’t give it me.”
Pawley unhooked his spectacles from his ears and began to wipe them, looking at Douglas vaguely with his unfocused eyes. After a while he said moderately, as if prepared to give the benefit of the doubt:
The Shadow and the Peak Page 24
