The Collected Short Stories

by Jeffrey Archer

  The porter looked down at the fourteen bags. “All right,” he said reluctantly.

  Henry and Victoria stood patiently in the cold as the porter loaded the bags onto his trolley and trundled them off along the platform.

  “Don’t worry, my dear,” said Henry. “A cup of Lapsang Souchong tea and some smoked salmon sandwiches and you’ll feel a new girl.”

  “I’m just fine,” said Victoria, smiling, though not quite as bewitchingly as normal, as she put her arm through her husband’s. They strolled along together to the end carriage.

  “Can I check your tickets, sir?” said the conductor, blocking the entrance to the last carriage.

  “My what?” said Henry, his accent sounding unusually pronounced.

  “Your tic-kets,” said the conductor, conscious he was addressing a foreigner.

  “In the past I have always made the arrangements on the train, my good man.”

  “Not nowadays you don’t, sir. You’ll have to go to the booking office and buy your tickets like everyone else, and you’d better be quick about it, because the train is due to leave in a few minutes.”

  Henry stared at the conductor in disbelief. “I assume my wife may rest on the train while I go and purchase the tickets,” he said.

  “No, I’m sorry, sir. No one is allowed to board the train unless they are in possession of a valid ticket.”

  “Remain here, my dear,” said Henry, “and I will deal with this little problem immediately. Kindly direct me to the ticket office, porter.”

  “End of Platform Four, governor,” said the conductor, slamming the train door, annoyed at being described as a porter.

  That wasn’t quite what Henry had meant by “direct me.” Nevertheless, he left his bride with the fourteen bags and somewhat reluctantly headed back toward the ticket office at the end of Platform Four, where he went to the front of a long line.

  “There’s a queue, you know, mate,” someone shouted.

  Henry didn’t know. “I’m in a frightful hurry,” he said.

  “And so am I,” came the reply, “so get to the back.”

  Henry had been told that the British were good at standing in lines, but as he had never had to join one before that moment, he was quite unable to confirm or deny the rumor. He reluctantly walked to the back of the line. It took some time before he reached the front.

  “I would like to take the last carriage to Dover.”

  “You would like what?”

  “The last carriage,” repeated Henry a little more loudly.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but every first-class seat is sold.”

  “I don’t want a seat,” said Henry. “I require the carriage.”

  “There are no carriages available nowadays, sir, and as I said, all the seats in first class are sold. I can still fix you up in third class.”

  “I don’t mind what it costs,” said Henry. “I must travel first class”

  “I don’t have a first-class seat, sir. It wouldn’t matter if you could afford the whole train.”

  “I can,” said Henry.

  “I still don’t have a seat left in first class,” said the clerk unhelpfully.

  Henry would have persisted, but several people in the line behind him were pointing out that there were only two minutes before the train was due to leave, and that they wanted to catch it even if he didn’t.

  “Two seats then,” said Henry, unable to make himself utter the words “third class.”

  Two green tickets marked “Dover” were handed through the little grille. Henry took them and started to walk away.

  “That will be seventeen and sixpence, please, sir.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” said Henry apologetically. He fumbled in his pocket–and unfolded one of the three large white five-pound notes he always carried on him.

  “Don’t you have anything smaller?”

  “No, I do not,” said Henry, who found the idea of carrying money vulgar enough, without it having to be in small denominations.

  The clerk handed back four pounds and a half-crown. Henry did not pick up the half-crown.

  “Thank you, sir,” said the startled man. It was more than his Saturday bonus.

  Henry put the tickets in his pocket and quickly returned to Victoria, who was smiling defiantly against the cold wind; it was not quite the smile that had originally captivated him. Their porter had long ago disappeared, and Henry couldn’t see another in sight. The conductor took his tickets and clipped them.

  “All aboard,” he shouted, waved a green flag, and blew his whistle.

  Henry quickly threw all fourteen bags through the open door and pushed Victoria onto the moving train before leaping on himself. Once he had caught his breath he walked down the corridor, staring into the third-class carriages. He had never seen one before. The seats were nothing more than thin worn-out cushions, and as he looked into one half-full carriage, a young couple jumped in and took the last two adjacent seats. Henry searched frantically for a free carriage, but he was unable even to find one with two seats together. Victoria took a single seat in a packed compartment without complaint, while Henry sat forlornly on one of the suitcases in the corridor.

  “It will be different once we’re in Dover,” he said, without his usual self-confidence.

  “I am sure it will be, Henry,” she replied, smiling kindly at him.

  The two-hour journey seemed interminable. Passengers of all shapes and sizes squeezed past Henry in the corridor, treading on his Lobb’s handmade leather shoes with the words:

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Sorry, guv.”

  “Sorry, mate.”

  Henry put the blame firmly on the shoulders of Clement Attlee and his ridiculous campaign for social equality, and waited for the train to reach Dover Priory Station. The moment the engine pulled in, Henry leaped out of the carriage first, not last, and called for Albert at the top of his voice. Nothing happened, except that a stampede of people rushed past him on their way to the ship. Eventually Henry spotted a porter and rushed over to him, only to find he was already loading up his trolley with someone else’s luggage. Henry sprinted to a second man, and then on to a third, and waved a pound note at a fourth, who came immediately and unloaded the fourteen bags.

  “Where to, guv?” asked the porter amicably.

  “The ship,” said Henry, and returned to claim his bride. He helped Victoria down from the train, and they both ran through the rain until, breathless, they reached the gangplank of the ship.

  “Tickets, sir,” said a young officer in a dark blue uniform at the bottom of the gangplank.

  “I always have Cabin Number Three,” said Henry between breaths.

  “Of course, sir,” said the young man, and looked at his clipboard. Henry smiled confidently at Victoria.

  “Mr. and Mrs. William West.”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Henry.

  “You must be Mr. William West.”

  “I certainly am not. I am the grand pasha of Cairo.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, sir, Cabin Number Three is booked in the name of a Mr. William West and family.”

  “I have never been treated by Captain Rogers in this cavalier fashion before,” said Henry, his accent now even more pronounced. “Send for him immediately.”

  “Captain Rogers was killed in the war, sir. Captain Jenkins is now in command of this ship, and he never leaves the bridge thirty minutes before sailing.”

  Henry’s exasperation was turning to panic. “Do you have a free cabin?”

  The young officer looked down his list. “No, sir, I’m afraid not. The last one was taken a few minutes ago.”

  “May I have two tickets?” asked Henry.

  “Yes, sir,” said the young officer. “But you’ll have to buy them from the booking office on the quayside.”

  Henry decided that any further argument would be only time consuming, so he turned on his heel without another word, leaving his wife with the laden porter. He strode to the booking offi
ce.

  “Two first-class tickets to Calais,” he said firmly.

  The man behind the little glass pane gave Henry a tired look. “It’s all one class nowadays, sir, unless you have a cabin.” He proffered two tickets. “That will be one pound exactly.”

  Henry handed over a pound note, took his tickets, and hurried back to the young officer.

  The porter was offloading their suitcases on to the quayside.

  “Can’t you take them on board,” cried Henry, “and put them in the hold?”

  “No, sir, not now. Only the passengers are allowed on board after the ten-minute, signal.”

  Victoria carried two of the smaller suitcases, and Henry dragged the twelve remaining ones in relays up the gangplank. He finally sat down on the deck exhausted. Every seat seemed already to be occupied. Henry couldn’t make up his mind if he was cold from the rain or hot from his exertions. Victoria’s smile was fixed firmly in place as she took his hand.

  “Don’t worry about a thing, darling,” she said. “Just relax and enjoy the crossing; it will be such fun being out on deck together.”

  The ship moved sedately out of the calm of the harbor into the Dover Straits. Later that night Captain Jenkins told his wife that the twenty-five-mile journey had been among the most unpleasant crossings he had ever experienced. He added that he had nearly turned back when his second officer, a veteran of two wars, was violently seasick. Henry and Victoria spent most of the trip hanging over the rails getting rid of everything they had consumed at their reception. Two people had never been more happy to see land in their life than they were at the first sight of the Normandy coastline. They staggered off the ship, taking the suitcases one at a time.

  “Perhaps France will be different,” Henry said lamely, and after a perfunctory search for Pierre, he went straight to the booking office and obtained two third-class seats on the Flèche d’Or. They were at least able to sit next to each other this time, but in a carriage already occupied by six other passengers, as well as a dog and a hen. The six of them left Henry in no doubt that they enjoyed the modern habit of smoking in public and the ancient custom of taking garlic in their food. He would have been sick again at any other time, but there was nothing left in his stomach. He considered walking up and down the train searching for Raymond, but feared it would only result in him losing his seat next to Victoria. He gave up trying to hold any conversation with her above the noise of the dog, the hen, and the Gallic babble, and satisfied himself with looking out of the window, watching the French countryside and, for the first time in his life, noting the name of every station through which they passed.

  Once they arrived at the Gare du Nord Henry made no attempt to look for Maurice but simply headed straight for the nearest taxi rank. By the time he had transferred all fourteen suitcases he was well down the line. He and Victoria stood there for just over an hour, moving the cases forward inch by inch until it was their turn.

  “Monsieur?”

  “Do you speak English?”

  “Un peu, un peu.”

  “Hotel George V”

  “Oui, mais je ne peux pas mettre toutes les valises dans le coffre.”

  So Henry and Victoria sat huddled in the back of the taxi, bruised, tired, soaked, and starving, surrounded by leather suitcases, only to be bumped up and down over the cobblestones all the way to the George V.

  The hotel doorman rushed to help them as Henry offered the taxi driver a pound note.

  “No take English money, monsieur.”

  Henry couldn’t believe his ears. The doorman happily paid the taxi driver in francs and quickly pocketed the pound note. Henry was too tired even to comment. He helped Victoria up the marble steps and went over to the reception desk.

  “The grand pasha of Cairo and his wife. The bridal suite, please.”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  Henry smiled at Victoria.

  “You ’ave your booking confirmation with you?”

  “No,” said Henry. “I have never needed to confirm my booking with you in the past. Before the war I—”

  “I am sorry, sir, but the ’otel is fully booked at the moment. A conference.”

  “Even the bridal suite?” asked Victoria.

  “Yes, madam. The chairman and his lady, you understand.” He nearly winked.

  Henry certainly did not understand. There had always been a room for him at the George V whenever he had wanted one in the past. Desperate, he unfolded the second of his five-pound notes and slipped it across the counter.

  “Ah,” said the reservations clerk, “I see we still have one room unoccupied, but I fear it is not very large.”

  Henry waved a listless hand.

  The clerk banged the bell on the counter in front of him with the palm of his hand, and a porter appeared immediately and escorted them to the promised room. The clerk had been telling the truth. Henry could only have described what they found themselves standing in as a box room. The reason that the curtains were perpetually drawn was that the view, over the chimneys of Paris, was singularly unprepossessing, but that was not to be the final blow, as Henry realized, staring in disbelief at the two narrow single beds. Victoria started unpacking without a word, while Henry slumped despondently on the end of one of them. After Victoria had sat soaking in a bath that was the perfect size for a six-year-old, she lay down exhausted on the other bed. Neither spoke for nearly an hour.

  “Come on, darling,” said Henry finally. “Let’s go and have dinner.”

  Victoria rose loyally but reluctantly and dressed for dinner while Henry sat in the bath, knees to nose, trying to wash himself before changing into evening dress. This time he phoned the front desk and ordered a taxi as well as reserving a table at Maxim’s.

  The taxi driver did accept his pound note on this occasion, but as Henry and his bride entered the great restaurant he recognized no one and no one recognized him. A waiter led them to a small table hemmed in between two other couples just below the band. As he walked into the dining room the musicians struck up “Alexander’s Ragtime Band.”

  They ordered from the extensive menu, and the langouste turned out to be excellent, every bit as good as Henry had promised, but by then neither of them had the stomach to eat a full meal, and the greater part of both their dishes was left on the plate.

  Henry found it hard to convince the new headwaiter that the lobster had been superb and that they had not purposely come to Maxim’s not to eat it. Over coffee, he took Victoria’s hand and tried to apologize.

  “Let us end this farce,” he said, “by completing my plan and going to the Madeleine and presenting you with the promised flowers. Paulette will not be in the square to greet us, but there will surely be someone who can sell us roses.”

  Henry called for the bill and unfolded the third five-pound note (Maxim’s is always happy to accept other people’s currency, and certainly didn’t bother him with any change). They left, walking hand in hand toward the Madeleine. For once Henry turned out to be right, for Paulette was nowhere to be seen. An old woman with a shawl over her head and a wart on the side of her nose stood in her place on the corner of the square, surrounded by the most beautiful flowers.

  Henry selected a dozen of the longest-stemmed red roses and placed them in the arms of his bride. The old woman smiled at Victoria.

  Victoria returned her smile.

  “Dix francs, monsieur,” said the old woman to Henry. Henry fumbled in his pocket, only to discover that he had spent all his money. He looked despairingly at the old woman, who raised her hands, smiled at him, and said:

  “Don’t worry, Henry, have them on me. For old times’ sake.”

  A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE

  Sir Hamish Graham had many of the qualities and most of the failings that result from being born to a middle-class Scottish family. He was well educated, hardworking, and honest, while at the same time being narrow-minded, uncompromising, and proud. Never on any occasion had he allowed hard liquor to pass his lips, an
d he mistrusted all men who had not been born north of Hadrian’s Wall, and many of those who had.

  After spending his formative years at Fettes School, to which he had won a minor scholarship, and at Edinburgh University, where he obtained a second-class honors degree in engineering, he was chosen from a field of twelve to be a trainee with the international construction company TarMac (named after its founder, J. L. McAdam, who discovered that tar when mixed with stones was the best constituent for making roads). The new trainee, through diligent work and uncompromising tactics, became the firm’s youngest and most disliked project manager. By the age of thirty Graham had been appointed deputy managing director of TarMac and was already beginning to realize that he could not hope to progress much farther while he was in someone else’s employ. He therefore started to consider forming his own company. When, two years later, the chairman of TarMac, Sir Alfred Hickman, offered Graham the opportunity to replace the retiring managing director, he resigned immediately. After all, if Sir Alfred felt he had the ability to run TarMac, he must be competent enough to start his own company.

  The next day young Hamish Graham made an appointment to see the local manager of the Bank of Scotland who was responsible for the TarMac account, and with whom he had dealt for the past ten years. Graham explained to the manager his plans for the future, submitting a full written proposal, and requesting that his overdraft facility might be extended from fifty pounds to ten thousand. Three weeks later he learned that his application had been viewed favorably. He remained in his lodgings in Edinburgh, while renting an office (or, to be more accurate, a room) in the north of the city at ten shillings a week. He purchased a typewriter, hired a secretary, and ordered some unembossed letter-headed stationery. After a further month of diligent interviewing, he employed two engineers, both graduates of Aberdeen University, and five out-of-work laborers from Glasgow.

  During those first few weeks on his own Graham tendered for several small road contracts in the central lowlands of Scotland, the first seven of which he failed to secure. Preparing a tender is always tricky and often expensive, so by the end of his first six months in business Graham was beginning to wonder if his sudden departure from TarMac had not been foolhardy. For the first time in his life he experienced self-doubt, but that was soon removed by the Ayrshire County Council, which accepted his tender to construct a minor road that was to join a projected school to the main highway. The road was only five hundred yards in length, but the assignment took Graham’s little team seven months to complete, and when all the bills had been paid and all expenses taken into account Graham Construction made a net loss of £143. 10s.6d.