by John Gardner
I turned my head away as Jane Patterson, followed by a loaded porter, headed towards the first-class coaches. She still wore the green coat with fur collar and cuffs, and the big hat shadowed her face; walking with purpose, as though embarking on a one-way ticket.
I grinned at Poppy who was all animation, and at that moment the Cook’s man, with his uniform cap and gold embroidery, came in to talk with the elderly couple. As he went out I asked him if there would be any difficulty in getting a seat on the express to Basle in the morning. He thought there would be no problem and said he would see me at the Gare du Nord when we arrived that evening. I told him that I might want two tickets and Poppy looked bewildered.
‘Can your Mama do without you for a couple of days?’ I asked when the Cook’s courier had gone.
‘Are you suggesting a dalliance?’ she giggled.
The elderly couple looked embarrassed and went back to fiddling with their tickets. Nobody else came into the compartment.
‘Wouldn’t you kick yourself if you never had the chance to see Basle again?’
‘I’ve seen it — all trams and bankers.’
There was a whistle blast from the platform and a great hiss accompanied by a steamy hoot from the engine far up the track.
‘You’ve never seen it by moonlight, I bet.’
The carriage jerked as the engine took the strain.
‘I’ve booked you a room in Basle. I hoped you’d come on with me.’
We had to lean forward to speak because of the noise as we rattled out of Victoria, threading through the dirty brick walls and clumped houses. Her face went grave.
‘You really mean it, Sim, don’t you?’
Smoke from the engine billowed past the window: like being in an aeroplane going into cloud. I nodded yes without using my vocal chords.
‘But you’re on an adventure.’ The smile had stopped lighting up her eyes.
‘You’re the best adventure I’ve known since …’
‘Since Sarah?’
‘Since I can’t remember.’
‘Even though I didn’t write to you all that much? I’m a selfish bitch, Sim, you must know it.’
‘Just come and keep me company.’
‘Is that all?’
‘What else could there be?’
‘I think you might want some kind of disguise. Me along to explain why you’re there. It’s complicated.’
‘That’s part of it, but it would still be good to have you along because you’re you.’
She gave a little pout. ‘Thanks.’
We were gathering speed and I could hear the dining car attendants coming down the corridor, taking orders for coffee and sandwiches.
‘Please come.’
‘Sim, it’s difficult.’ She gave a little sigh. ‘I have to spend some time with my mother. I want her to come back to England.’ She turned her head, glancing out of the window, then back again. ‘She spends her life between Paris and Juan. I’m scared stiff for her, Sim. Scared that she’ll be trapped.’
‘You think it’s coming as well?’
I must have sounded diffident because two spots of colour appeared high on her cheeks.
‘And you don’t?’
My hand lifted as though to stave off attack, but she went on. ‘Don’t say you’re as complacent as the rest. Tessa’s as bad, she just shrugs and says Chamberlain has the right idea — he’ll keep us out of it this time. Why should we fight for other people? Let them get on with it. It makes me sick.’ An exasperated sigh. ‘Some of the French are just as bad. We won’t fight. What’s the point? Hell, Sim, people can’t see further than their noses. They can’t see what is obvious and plain: these madmen intend to rape Europe and we just sit there saying tut-tut. England with its pretty little villages. You should have seen the Paris Exhibition; England was represented as all hunting, shooting and fishing. A tiny side of the insular coin. Go to the Midlands and the North, look at the sheep plunging into the City every day. Give us our jobs, keep us happy. Workers unite. We’re a nation of ostriches, Sim. The rich man in his castle keeping a dead system alive, the worker at his lathe agitating about his rights. Keep the class struggle going, but don’t get involved with Hitler. Keep him happy.’
I leaned forward to rest my hand on her knee.
‘I’ve seen it already, Pops. In Spain. You’re right. Of course you’re right. It is going to happen, and God help us then because we won’t be ready. There is no possible way we can stand aside. We’re already involved, and a hundred Neville Chamberlains can’t change that.’
She shook her head, ‘I’m sorry. Of course I’m anxious. Mother doesn’t see it and I want her out while there’s still a chance.’
‘I only ask for a couple of days, old thing. Two days in Basle, then you can go back to Paris and talk with your mama.’
The door slid open and the dining car attendant informed us that coffee was being served. The elderly couple, who had been bent over their itinerary, beat a hasty retreat. I caught the attendant by the sleeve.
‘Any chance of coffee in here?’
He said he would enquire, so I slipped him a florin. Five minutes later he was back with a pot of coffee and a plate of smoked salmon sandwiches.
‘It’s a tempting offer.’ Poppy sipped at the brew, clinging on to her cup to stop it slopping over as the train rolled on into Kent.
‘The garden of England,’ I muttered.
‘Two days only?’ she asked. On the horizon a small area was being rained upon by dark grey clouds.
‘No more. Bit of a lark.’
‘Where’re you staying tonight?’
I had not made up my mind. There was always the Terminus in the Boulevard Denain. I had stayed there before, one could always get a room.
We had nearly got to Dover when she said, ‘I’ll try. After all now I’m a novelist a bit of adventure wouldn’t come amiss.’ The enthusiastic grin was back.
We caught a glimpse of Jane Patterson on the steamer as we walked to and fro up to the chain with its notice which said FIRST CLASS PASSENGERS ONLY. Then again as we crossed the lines at Calais to climb aboard the Paris express on which we ate a huge five course lunch for next to nothing, while viewing the flat route to Paris through dirty windows — lines of poplar trees and overworked land dotted with villages and buildings which seemed strangely impermanent.
‘France is so cheap,’ Poppy was flushed with the wine. ‘One should become a gourmet in France. I just become a glutton.’
And so, in the half light of dusk, with a cold wind in the streets and a hint of rain, we arrived in Paris where everything smelled and tasted and sounded far better than it did back in London.
We took our time disembarking and did not spot Miss Patterson at all, though I did notice one of the bowler-hatted and belted raincoat men lingering in the main concourse.
I grabbed the Cook’s man and arranged tickets to Basle while Poppy set off for her mother’s apartment in the Rue Lauriston, having extracted a promise from me to call on them later than evening.
Poppy’s mother had been an actress, though Sarah always bitchily maintained she was really a chorus girl who had married well. Whatever the truth, her husband had died on the Somme and out of some sentimental idea of being nearer to his memory Mrs. Cooke had gone to live in France in the early twenties.
I had never met her before that one night in Paris, and I would have liked the opportunity to tell Sarah that Poppy’s mother was either a very good actress or a pretty high-class lady. She put the fear of God into me and, over dinner, took me through a question and answer routine which would have done credit to a suspicious duchess interrogating a would-be son-in-law.
‘She likes you very much,’ whispered Poppy when this formidable lady absented herself for a few moments after coffee had been served. She could have fooled me.
Towards the end of the evening when every topic had been exhausted, including the arrogance and indolence of the working classes, the extravagance of the a
ristocracy, Hitler’s rapaciousness, Mussolini’s vulgarity, and sadness over the resignation of Mr. Eden, she suddenly asked, ‘Are you children sleeping together?’
Taking what was left of my courage, I replied baldly, ‘Not as yet, Mrs. Cooke.’
‘How good,’ she cooed with an icy smile. ‘I thought most of the young English and Americans did. But I think you’re very wise to take your time. It’s not quite the same over here, of course — Catholic country, they’re always more reserved about that sort of thing in Catholic countries.’
‘I noticed quite a lot of young women offering themselves on the streets.’
‘That’s altogether different,’ she dismissed it with a regal wave. ‘No, one of my close friends tells me that seducing a French virgin is rather like being present at an execution. They make a terrible fuss. I hope Poppy’s never like that.’
‘Your mama’s quite a character,’ I ventured as we were making arrangements to meet at the Gare de l’Est in the morning.
‘Woman of a thousand faces,’ Poppy sighed. ‘The trouble is that she can never remember which part she’s playing. She maintains that Noel says she would be the world’s greatest character actress if she could only sustain. Tonight she started by playing the grande dame and ended up as the dotty modern mother. I’m sorry about that.’
‘I’m not.’ I paused. ‘Will you make a fuss?’
She gave a bright and beautiful smile. ‘I didn’t, my dear,’ she said, kissing me lightly on the cheek.
We decided that Poppy should watch out for Miss Patterson on the Paris-Basle express. That way I would be able to bury myself behind the previous day’s continental Mail and so keep out of sight. She hogged the window from the moment we went on board, and we ended up by nearly fighting, for by five minutes to nine Poppy had not reported La Patterson’s arrival.
‘You must have missed her,’ I hissed.
‘We’ve been here since eight and she has not come on, Sim. Do you think I’m some kind of half-baked idiot?’
‘I didn’t say that. I simply suggested that you must have missed her.’
‘I’ve hardly blinked. I haven’t taken my eyes off the platform. I’ve been leaning out of this window since the flood.’
‘Not even when the French gentleman dropped his cigar down the German lady’s décolleté ...?’
‘I didn’t see that.’
‘Just goes to show that you’re unobservant.’
‘Nuts.’
‘Don’t take that tone with me.’
She had to stand on tiptoe to push her head out of the small sliding partition at the top of the window, so all this was conducted, sotto voce, from an awkward position.
‘Whoops, here she comes now. Ought to enter her for the Cheltenham Gold Cup, she’s beating the porters hollow.’
‘Come on, girl,’ I muttered, conscious of the commotion being caused by the porters as they neared the outside of our compartment.
‘Oh Lord, I think she’s coming in here,’ breathed Poppy.
‘Never, she’s travelling first.’
‘Unless she’s cutting down on expenses now she’s abroad.’ She dropped her voice, ‘Coming past now.’
I held up the Mail and heard the click of feet go by. ‘She’s well away. I say ...?’
‘Something up?’
Poppy was still craning out, slewing her head from side to side. There was a blast from the guard’s whistle and much flag waving as we jerked forward. Poppy slumped into the seat next to me. We were both getting odd looks from fellow passengers.
‘Strange,’ she bit her lip and tiny creases formed on her brow. ‘You remember that couple of chaps you said could be embassy men — bowler hats and raincoats?’
I did a fair imitation of a nodding Buddha.
‘One of them came on to the platform and jumped on to the train just as we were pulling out. Looked like he was following her.’
One of Fox’s minions? I wondered. Hide and seek across Europe was a game I did not fancy. It could be coincidence, but we would have to watch our backs. I only prayed that Bruno had got the photograph of Jane Patterson and was able to identify her. For my part I could not have picked Bruno out in a crowd of two. Now we simply had to play at being tourists, or lovers, or, with luck, both. I wished I had brought a Baedeker or a Michelin Guide.
Poppy broke the silence. ‘I wonder if our rooms will be on the same floor.’
‘Execution time?’
‘I didn’t come all this way just to have a journalistic adventure.’ Her eyebrows arched. ‘You can get your story. I want to catch up with some experience of sin.’
I remembered then that I had stayed — it seemed a hundred years ago — for one night in Basle with Sarah on our honeymoon: I couldn’t remember the name of the hotel, the period was blurred in memory like a film run too fast and out of focus with faulty equipment. Only a large room with a huge wooden bed and Sarah being at her unbridled best.
The rain, hinted in Paris the night before, was giving its all when we got to Basle, though the air was slightly warmer. In the mountains it would be washing the snow away and causing heartbreak to the skiing fraternity. In Basle it was bleak and miserable with everyone looking grave and preoccupied. Perhaps it is the Calvinist purity which makes the Swiss appear to dwell constantly on hidden sins. They all looked as guilty as Judas.
At the Jura, with the noisy trams clanging and clanking outside, the woman at the reception desk viewed us with friendly displeasure, as though she suspected we were up to no good and felt that she would have to answer for it personally on the day of judgement. Yet she still gave us rooms next to each other, though not before making certain that the adjoining door was locked and bolted. Clean and comfortable was right, though the comfort remained oppressive with the usual heavy furnishings. It was like being in a Victorian wardrobe.
We had eaten on the train, though that did not quell Poppy’s desire for coffee and cakes within half an hour of our arrival. I unpacked only what was necessary, washed in the big porcelain handbasin, and took her downstairs to satisfy the immediate internal needs, pausing to tell reception that I was expecting a visitor.
Poppy was on her first slice of a glazed open tart when Bruno Haas arrived.
I suppose I had expected to see a Swiss version of Puiley; instead he looked like a banker, clean and polished in a double breasted grey suit. There was none of the frantic concern about him that you see in British journalists. We shook hands and I offered him coffee which he accepted, though it seemed only out of politeness.
‘You followed her?’ I asked, low as though being overheard by hidden watchers.
‘Oh yes. There was no problem. She is with a man — though I did not see him. In an apartment not far from here. Dufourstrasse, near the Kunstmuseum. Number forty-three, apartment eight. It is leased in the name of an Englishman. Fyffe.’
‘And you haven’t seen him?’
‘No. He has had the apartment for about a month.’
‘You’re thorough, Bruno, I’ll say that for you.’
He switched his smile on and off without humour. ‘I am a professional journalist. Why would I not be thorough?’
I reckoned that he was a year or two younger than I and wondered how you got to be a journalist in Switzerland. I did not suppose it was the old routine of starting off with a provincial paper and moving upwards. You probably had to put your name down for it on your first day in school. Or perhaps your father did it for you at birth.
‘You can take me there?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, I suppose I’d better go and have a look.’
‘Just look?’ asked Poppy, her mouth half full of cake. There was a large crumb just below her bottom lip and I had to fight a desire to lick it off.
I thought about it. ‘No. I need a story, and this is really the crunch. I would imagine that it’s Hensman holed up on the Dufourstrasse.’
‘You think we should both go?’ Haas brushed some imaginary pie
ces of cake from his immaculate trousers.
‘No. If there’s a story you’ll get it at the same time as us. I think I should just walk in on them.’
‘If he’s desperate ...’ began Poppy.
‘Then it’ll be unpleasant for a while. But even Hensman’s going to think twice about violence to a newspaper man.’
We arranged for Bruno to drop me off. Poppy was to stay at the hotel. If I had not returned in two hours, she was to ring Bruno who would come straight round to Dufourstrasse with the police. I did not like that part of it, but it seemed a sensible precaution and I did not foresee the most drastic action having to be taken.
Poppy squeezed my hand before I left, then returned to her cakes and coffee. Outside, the rain was putting up a good imitation of a deluge. Haas appeared to take. it personally as we hurried to his car. I couldn’t have afforded a Fiat Balilla in a hundred years.
It was not the car for old Bruno, either. He drove it with the kind of panache more associated with the Birmingham City Tramway Company than a two seater open sports. We got very wet and a lot of people used bad language — directed at us.
The row of buildings which included number forty-three was the usual hodge-podge of continental styles: a high long terrace which squeezed in a whole array of different facias, as though they had been tacked on to one another by different sets of builders, each one anxious to maintain a single effect and yet show individuality. This led to a mixture of doors, balconies and coping stones. The colour was universally light grey which matched the weather admirably.
Bruno wished me good luck as we pulled up in front of the high door, overset with a framework of iron scrolls and bars. Above the drenching rain I told him I would be in touch within an hour or so, and then hurried to shelter.
