The Portuguese Escape

by Ann Bridge

  ‘Oh, was she?’ Richard was pleased, and his pleasure did not escape the priest.

  ‘Very much so. I thought him quite enslaved—as that young lady enslaves, and will continue to enslave, so many. Could it be arranged through her?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so—he may have been enslaved today, but she barely knows them, and it’s asking quite a lot, isn’t it? Anyhow they go to the country tomorrow’, Richard added, remembering Luzia’s Medusa face when she had announced this.

  ‘But better still! To this wonderful house up near São Pedro do Sul? Nothing could be more suitable for the purpose. Do you know them well enough to propose it?’

  ‘NO, Monsignor, I don’t!—and I wouldn’t if I did,’ Richard said, with vigour. ‘Why don’t you ask them yourself?—you know everyone.’

  ‘The Ericeiras only very slightly. And to tell you the truth, Dona Maria Francisca is rather too holy for my taste!’ Subercaseaux said, with a sudden boyish gleam of mischief.

  Richard laughed.

  ‘Well, in any case this is Major Torrens’ pidgin, so let him arrange it—I won’t.’

  ‘But how can he? He is a stranger here.’

  ‘I know that; but his friend Miss Probyn—how far she works with him I don’t know, nor if they are fiancés—but in any case she is a close friend of his, and she’s practically part of the Ericeira family; she was governess or something to Luzia, that lovely girl of the Duque’s, for most of last year—she’s staying there now.’

  ‘Tiens!’ Mgr Subercaseaux said. ‘Ah, then through her no doubt all can be arranged. I think you will be seeing Major Torrens—will you suggest it to him?’

  ‘I hope to goodness I don’t see the Major!’ Richard exploded; ‘and if I do I’d rather leave it alone. Once for all, Monsignor, I am a regular member of a law-abiding diplomatic mission, not one of your cloak-and-dagger men, and I do beg you to remember it.’

  Subercaseaux made no reply whatever to this except to smile his fine, rather subtly secretive smile as they strolled back towards the steps.

  Their prolonged colloquy had not been entirely unobserved. When Hetta went down into the crowded courtyard she had found her mother by no means in a hurry to leave; she hung about, rather at a loose end, and was pleased to be accosted by M. de Kállay, the old Hungarian journalist whom she had met, and liked, at the Countess’s cocktail-party. ‘I hope no one is making you do anything?’ was his greeting—Hetta laughed and said No.

  M. de Kállay always knew everything, and had his private sources of amusement.’ Come and let me show you something else,’ he said, after Hetta had expressed her pleasure in the azulejo coats of arms—he led her, hobbling up the steps, to the garden, and across to a small stone seat set in an embrasure in the parapet overlooking the Rua Arriaga, where a little tablet stated that King Edward VII had sat there on Palm Sunday, 1903.

  ‘Such a pity they have not put up another one to say that Edward VIII sat here on Bank Holiday, 1936,’ he chuckled. But as they walked back towards the steps his sharp eye noticed Atherley and the Monsignor patrolling the lawn at the farther end of the garden. He stood still to watch them.

  ‘I wonder what plot Richard Atherley and this old serpent Subercaseaux are hatching,’ he observed. ‘They are together for a long time. Do you know?’ he asked, wheeling round on her.

  ‘No—I have wondered myself,’ Hetta said, laughing.

  ‘But is he not in your pocket?’

  ‘No; in my mother’s if in anyone’s—which I doubt,’ the girl said. M. de Kállay pinched her arm gaily.

  ‘I see you are learning—you are very ready. Well done —mes felicitations! But you know quite well which of them I meant.’

  ‘Of their plots, in any case, I am quite ignorant,’ Hetta said lightly—she thought, rather uncomfortably, that there had been a certain intention behind the journalist’s question.

  Her drive back to Estoril was uncomfortable too. The Countess was tired, and fatigue with her was apt to take the form of irritability, as it does with so many of us. She had not managed to meet the Ericeiras—something Hetti could so easily have brought off, if she had any tact and social sense at all!—and altogether she was thoroughly disgruntled, and took it out on her child. She was still scolding Hetta for her gaucherie with the French Ambassador when they reached the hotel; in the lift she was perforce silent, but as they went into the apartment she completed a long tirade by saying—‘If you will perpetrate these gaffes in society, you will never make the most of your opportunities.’ She was thinking of Hetta’s meeting the Pretender and his wife at Mme de Fonte Negra’s, a thing which had rankled in her mind ever since.

  Letters in the Countess’s flat were always placed on a fine old chest in the lobby off which the main rooms opened—Countess Páloczy went at once to examine her mail. There was a note which she passed to Hetta and several, including a stiff white envelope, for herself—she carried them through into the salon and began to open them. After a moment or two she broke into joyful exclamations. ‘Oh, how wonderful! At last!’ Hetta was reading her own note for the second time, and made no reply; but Dorothy Páloczy was one of those people who have to get a response to their own feelings of the moment, whatever they may be, and no matter from whom—forgetting her vexation with her daughter she got up, a little heavily, and went over to her holding out a large card.

  ‘Look! Here is my invitation to the wedding!’ she said. ‘How splendid of Monsignor Subercaseaux—I’m sure he arranged it, though he said he couldn’t.’

  ‘How nice, Mama. I am very glad,’ Hetta said pleasantly—of her own part in the affair it never occurred to her to utter a word, but a tiny rather wry smile, which she could not help, played about her wide decided mouth.

  ‘And what is your letter?’ her mother asked, now all benignity.

  ‘The Comtesse de Bretagne asks me to lunch on Sunday. But we are going to those American friends of yours at the Avix, are we not?’

  ‘Oh, what nonsense! Of course you must go. A royal invitation is like a royal command; one cannot refuse. Let me see it.’ Hetta handed her the note in silence. ‘Very pleasant—delightfully expressed. The sudden visit of the Archduke of course fully accounts for the shortness of the invitation, but it is courteous of her to apologise for it. Write at once and accept—I will send Oliveira with the note this evening.’

  ‘Oliveira has been out all day,’ Hetta observed. ‘Can we not post it?’

  ‘Certainly not—it must go tonight.’

  ‘Then what about the Salzbergers?’

  ‘Oh, they don’t matter in the least! I will ring up and explain to them. Write your note, Hetti,’ the Countess said, pushing the bell.

  Richard Atherley, too, was slightly tired after the party. He did not dislike the social side of his duties, which came easily to him, but he took them seriously and did them well; and to spend two-and-a-half hours remembering faces and names, and thinking of something polite, and if possible not wholly meaningless to say to several hundred people is in fact quite tiring. When the last guest had gone and he had had a whisky-and-soda with the Loseleys—the Ambassador always liked such little relaxed post-mortems on these occasions—he had still to go back to the Chancery to sign letters and take a look at his tray. He walked round there—uphill, downhill, uphill again; the Lapa quarter is very accidenté—thinking longingly of the supper Joaquina would have ready for him, and of his armchair, his novel— a new Waugh, thank God—his slippers, and his small bright log fire. But when he pushed open the high heavy baroque doors of the Chancery and walked across the hall, Tomlinson, the messenger, started up from behind the sort of counter at which he received messengers from other Chanceries, and similar lesser orders of creation.

  ‘There’s a gentleman to see you in the waiting-room, Sir.’

  ‘God Almighty! I really can’t, at this time of night,’ Richard broke out.

  ‘Gentleman’s been there nearly two hours, Sir. I told him you was at the party and it was no good p
honing, and that you’d be in a hurry when you did come in—but he said he’d wait.’

  ‘Who is it, Tomlinson?’

  ‘That tall gentleman with red hair; Mr. Melplash’s contact, Sir, isn’t he?’

  Richard groaned—and then with difficulty restrained laughter. Trust Chancery messengers to know everything! —especially if their wives, as they so often are, were Embassy telephone operators. He wasted a moment on a crazy speculation as to what Tomlinson would say if he were there and then to ask him—‘Where shall we put Father Antal, this Hungarian?’ Tomlinson, he felt sure, would not be taken by surprise; probably he would have some extremely sensible suggestion.

  ‘All right, Tomlinson. I’ll just go and clear up, and ring down when I’m ready.’

  ‘Very good, Sir. I hope the party went well, Sir?’

  ‘Splendidly, thank you, Tomlinson.’ He went upstairs.

  There was, mercifully, very little to do—Richard did it, then rang his bell; a moment or two later Tomlinson ushered in Major Torrens.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you so late,’ that gentleman said as he sat down, ‘but matters have become a little crucial.’

  Richard pushed the Alentejo cigarette-box across the table.

  ‘I know—I’ve heard it all,’ he said, rather brusquely. ‘And I want my supper! Of course Father A. can’t stay where he is; he’s got to be put somewhere else—really safe, this time. You’d better get Julia to take him to the Ericeiras’ country place, hadn’t you?’

  The Major gaped at him in such complete astonishment that again Richard nearly laughed. ‘How on earth do you know about this?’ he asked.

  ‘The Monsignor has just been pouring it all out to me at the party.’

  Torrens looked vexed.

  ‘Why should he tell you?’

  ‘Why indeed? Why you all go on pestering me about what is no concern of mine I can’t think! But since you have waited nearly two hours to tell me yourself, I suppose Subercaseaux felt the same about it,’ Richard replied, unanswerably.

  ‘What did the old boy want to go out and say Mass for?’ Torrens said, with irritation. ‘He was safe enough indoors.’

  ‘Oh rubbish, Torrens. If the opposition hadn’t known something about your famous homme de confiance’s hide-out already, they would never have spotted Father Antal creeping round to the Alfama at 6 a.m. Anyhow, it seems to me that the answer is quite clear—send him to the Ericeiras.’

  ‘But they’re in Lisbon—Julia’s staying there.’

  ‘I know she is—but they go to São Pedro do Sul tomorrow.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Miles away, up towards the North. They have a vast baroque mansion there—complete with private chapel, so there need be no running out to say Mass,’ Richard said, grinning.

  The Major reflected.

  ‘Would they have him? And the Monsignor too? He’ll have to go as well, as I daresay you’ve realised, since you seem to know so much!’

  ‘There’s plenty of room for him in that house, anyhow! But why don’t you see Julia? She’s the person to organise all this—the Ericeiras eat out of her hand. Rather a godsend for you, I should have thought.’ He got up, glancing at his wrist-watch. ‘I’m so sorry, Torrens, but I really must go.’

  The Major remained seated.

  ‘Atherley, do let your supper wait for another ten minutes,’ he said, imperturbably. ‘This is quite important.’

  ‘I realise that, but fortunately for you you have the answer—Julia. Why don’t you go to her and settle it at once?’

  ‘But how is he to get there? That’s a point, even if these people agree to take him in, about which you sound so uncommonly certain.’

  ‘I only know Julia—I thought you knew her even better than I do,’ Richard said smoothly; he observed with rather malicious pleasure a certain reddening of the Major’s face. ‘As to how he gets there, I’m sure they will have a domestic chaplain, like all Portuguese of that class; borrow a clerical outfit from the Monsignor, and let him go up in the car, or the ox-wagon, or whatever chaplains travel in in this country! The real chaplain can follow on by train—if the thugs catch him they’ll soon let him go when they find they’ve got nothing on their hands but a dumb antiquated priest, who can’t speak a word of anything but Latin and Portuguese.’

  Major Torrens emitted a rather reluctant laugh.

  ‘How detailed and knowledgeable you are! Why should you be surprised that we all apply to you?’

  ‘Well apply to Julia now—I’m going home,’ Richard said. ‘Come on; clear out—I want to lock my door.’ He spoke with a friendly firmness that made Torrens laugh again. ‘And don’t, repeat don’t, go ringing me up tonight to tell me in guarded language how you’ve got on, because I’m going to bed,’ he added, as they walked in single file along the absurdly narrow corridor and down the wide stairs to the hall. Tomlinson, behind his counter, heard them laughing, and reflected that Mr. Atherley would always have his joke.

  Chapter 8

  When in Lisbon the Ericeiras usually dined at eight forty-five—if they were alone both Nanny and the chaplain dined with them; he did so at all times, to say grace. On that Friday evening Elidio, the elderly manservant, after a muttered colloquy at the dining-room door with someone unseen sidled up to Nanny and whispered something. Luzia, whose ears were still sharp enough to hear the squeak of a bat on the wing, caught the words ‘Urn Senhor Ingles’ and ‘Menina Juli’: she said at once, and out loud—’ Who is it, Elidio? I wonder if it could be Atherley.’

  ‘Mr. Atherley, if you please, Luzia,’ Nanny said repressively. Asking permission from Dona Maria Francisca she got up and left the room; Julia went on eating her dinner in silence, with her usual relish. After a few moments Nanny returned and resumed her seat and her meal, also without saying anything.

  ‘Nanny!’ Luzia said after a moment, fuming—‘who is it?’

  ‘All in good time, Luzia. Go on with your dinner.’ She turned to Dona Maria Francisca with the announcement that she now had a full clutch of twelve bantams’ eggs ready to set; could she have one of the grey hens to hatch them, if there was a broody?—the cook’s wife had promised to look after them. (This in fluent Portuguese.)

  ‘Better take the eggs up to Gralheira with you, Nanny; then you can look after them yourself,’ the Duke said, also in Portuguese. ‘You are a witch with those absurd little birds.’

  At last the meal in the great room came to an end; Dom Pedro, the chaplain, said grace a second time, they crossed themselves, and the little party filed out. The Duke asked for coffee to be served to him in his study, as he had work to do, but his sister said, as she always did—’ Do you take coffee with us, Miss Probyn?’

  Julia was speaking aside with Nanny.

  ‘May I come presently, Dona Maria Francisca? It appears that there is someone who wishes to see me.’

  ‘Very well. Luzia, you can come with me,’ the older lady said, slightly compressing her lips; much as she liked and respected Miss Probyn she could not wholly approve of people who paid calls during dinner—or indeed called at all so late in the evening.

  Julia Probyn, while exercising to the full the rather remarkable degree of freedom accorded by custom to a ‘Miss’ in Spain and Portugal, had equally respected the privacy of her employers when she was Luzia’s governess; indeed, until Richard Atherley had come to see her two days before no friend of hers had ever crossed the Ericeiras’ threshold, apart from Richard’s midnight peep at old Manoel’s hooded chair, and she was not best pleased to learn from Nanny that Major Torrens was waiting to see her in the schoolroom.

  ‘What a time to come!’ she said, as Dona Maria Francisca and the reluctant Luzia disappeared in the direction of the drawing-room. ‘How boring.’

  ‘He’s a magnificent-looking man, isn’t he?’ Nanny observed, suspecting the veracity of Julia’s last words. ‘If Luzia saw him I daresay she wouldn’t keep on so about Mr. Atherley.’ Julia laughed as she went upstairs.

&nb
sp; ‘My dear Hugh, what on earth is this in aid of?’ she asked as she entered that bare English-looking schoolroom. ‘Dona Maria Francisca doesn’t allow “followers”, and nor do I.’

  The Major, justly provoked, replied by enveloping her in a vigorous and rather stifling embrace.

  ‘Hugh!’ Julia protested, when she could speak—‘What on earth has come over you?’

  ‘Only you, my dear, as usual—except that I’m not usually as weak as I am at this moment.’

  ‘Why are you weak?’ Julia asked, sitting down in one of the shabby armchairs.

  ‘Because I’m starving; because I’ve been waiting to see Atherley in that revolting Chancery for two mortal hours; and because I’m in a jam which I think only you can get me out of.’

  Julia got up slowly, opened a cupboard, and drew out a tin of Huntley and Palmer’s biscuits, which she handed to him.

  ‘That’s all I can do about the starvation,’ she said— ‘Now tell me about the jam.’

  ‘Oh, wonderful!’ Torrens said, cramming Petits Beurres into his mouth.

  ‘Well?’ Julia asked, after a few moments.

  ‘Do you suppose—I expect you’ll think me quite crazy —but do you imagine that your employers could conceivably be persuaded to put Father Horvath up for a few days?’

  ‘Are you talking about the Ericeiras?—because they’re not my employers any more.’

  ‘Damn you, Julia, don’t be so pernickety! Yes, I do mean your ex-employers, the Ericeiras, as you know quite well.’

  ‘And who is Father Horvath? Hetta’s priest I suppose. I thought she called him something else.’

  ‘What does it matter what she called him?’ Torrens asked, with all the irritation of a hungry and worried man. ‘Yes. But do you think they would put him up?’

  ‘They’re going away to the country tomorrow.’

  ‘I know. That’s rather the idea.’

  ‘What’s gone wrong?’ Julia enquired. ‘I thought you’d poked him away somewhere here in Lisbon, to have meetings with a contact.’

  ‘So we had, but that’s all compromised—don’t ask me how! I thought it was cast-iron, but it isn’t. They can’t meet safely in Lisbon any more.’