“That meant I was halfway home. And of course it explained so much. When Rage said the room was haunted, years ago, although he didn’t know it, he was flicking her on the raw. He was affirming the belief of which she was so much ashamed. And so she went off the deep end. And she wouldn’t believe him on Monday, because she was sticking so hard to her self-respect.
“She insisted on my staying to dinner – that you know. And when I was going, she said a most charming thing. ‘I’m a stiff-necked old fool, Mr Basing. But when I let Toby go, it tore my heart. He’s all I’ve got, you see. Thank you very much for giving him back.’”
All our arrangements had been made.
The Rolls was ready and waiting, and we were to leave for France on Thursday at three o’clock. That night we should cross from Newhaven to Dieppe: and the following evening we hoped to arrive at Pau. This would mean a run of more than five hundred miles; but the Rolls and I could do it – provided the roads were good. The traffic was then so slight that I knew I could count it out. But if the roads were ‘patchy’… Anyway, it would be an adventure.
But when, on Thursday morning, Berry came down to breakfast at ten o’clock and then asked me to help him to take his seat, I added my weight to my sister’s arguments.
“You’re not fit to do it,” I said. “Damn it, my back will be aching before we get to Bordeaux.”
“Good,” said Berry. “That’ll learn you. As a matter of hard fact, the only ease I’ve known in the last five days is when I’ve been in the Rolls. That back seat’s just right – far better than any chair.”
“Perhaps it is,” said I, “for forty or fifty miles at twenty-five miles an hour. But we’ve got to shift tomorrow: and five hundred miles is the very deuce of a run.”
“I won’t be thwarted,” said Berry. “I will have my change of air.”
“But, my darling,” said Daphne, “it’s absurd. This morning you come down at ten.”
“That’s not my fault,” said Berry. “It took me nearly ten minutes to leave the bath. I occupied it all right, but the evacuation was fearful. And then I couldn’t dry between my toes.”
“I begged you to let me help you.”
“I know, I know, my sweet. But you’d only have strained yourself. What I need is a crane.”
“And tomorrow you leave – not the bath, but the ship at half-past five.”
Berry stifled a scream – and drank heavily before replying.
“That’s – that’s all right,” he said. “I’ll forgo my bath tomorrow. Then I shan’t have to get up before half-past three. That’ll be just cock-crow, won’t it? You know, I never did like fowls.”
“But it’ll kill you,” cried Daphne.
“No, it won’t,” said her husband. “I shall let a steward into my secret, and he can do up my shoes. That’ll save me twenty minutes. And at Rouen we’ll stop at a barber’s, and I can be shaved.”
“That’s just what we can’t do,” said I. “We shan’t have time. Besides, the shops won’t be open. I hope to be clear of Rouen by half-past six.”
“Chartres will do,” said Berry.
“Look here,” said I. “I don’t want to spoil your fun. But I want to get Jill to Pau by tomorrow night. Well, I shan’t do that if I’m driving an ambulance.”
Berry expired.
“Can you get this?” he said. “I am not a sick man. I’m not suffering from typhoid or pneumonia or even bubonic plague. I don’t think I’ve ever felt better. But certain muscles in what is called ‘the small’ of my back are temporarily out of commission, thus putting it beyond my power to move with that careless carriage which ordinarily distinguishes not only my goings out, but my comings in. This condition has its inconveniences. Should a loved one let fall her nose-wipe, I should be unavoidably prevented from restoring that humble but necessary appendage. But it does not prevent me from being transported from one locality to another. My temperature will not rise—”
“Mine will,” said I. “If we strike a bad patch, you’ll yell that you’re being murdered and that if I don’t slow down—”
“In such an unlikely case, I shall withdraw. As previously contemplated, I shall leave the automobile at the next convenient town. The French are very solicitous. The moment they hear my screams—”
“I can see,” said I, “that we’re in for a lively run. Fancy threading a market town with somebody yelling blue murder down every street.”
Daphne cupped her face in her hands and looked at me.
“I wouldn’t come with you,” she said, “for fifty thousand pounds.”
“My sweet,” said Berry, “listen. I know this blasted complaint. Unless I take some action, it may very well continue for two or three weeks. No treatment is any earthly. Bridget the Good has ironed me – without the slightest result. But a change of air may do it – a startling change. And that I shall get tomorrow, if I set out today. If I can’t go on, I promise I’ll stop at Chartres. But I hope that I shall get better with every mile.”
“It’s very drastic,” said Daphne, finger to lip.
“So are my seizures,” said Berry. “More than once this morning ‘the pains of hell gat hold upon me’ – and then some. The worst occasion was when I was engaged with my coiffure. You may have heard me exclaim.”
“I remember it perfectly,” said Daphne.
So did everyone within doors.
“Precisely,” said Berry. “And so I seek to lay your alarms by an excursion. Be of good cheer, my poppet. Your lord will return restored.” He looked at me. “I believe I could do another kidney. Don’t bother to taste it first.”
At two of the following morning our packet was berthed at Dieppe. Ten minutes later, the AA man came to my cabin, as I had desired.
“Good morning,” I said. “I’m going to disembark at half-past five. Major Pleydell is far from well, and we’ve got a long way to go. There’s two hundred francs for the Customs, if I am on the road at a quarter to six.”
“Very good, sir. May I have your papers? They’ll be putting the Rolls ashore in a quarter of an hour.”
The papers passed.
“And petrol?”
“I’ll have two cans here, sir. And then if you’ll drive to the garage, we’ll fill up there.”
“That’s the style,” said I. “See you at half-past five.”
The AA man withdrew, and I went to sleep again for two hours and a half…
From the quay, at half-past five, I watched a procession take shape.
First came Jill, walking backwards and doing her best not to laugh. Then came my brother-in-law, supported by cabin stewards, one upon either side. He was dwelling freely in French on the joys of early rising and confessing to ‘a foolish desire’ to die in the Pyrenees. As he made to step up on the gangway, he let out a roar of pain, and his two supporters clasped him, imploring him to go gently and not to exhaust himself.
Standing beside me, the only Customs officer on duty was deeply moved. Indeed, it was thanks as much to his emotion as to my two hundred francs that the Rolls slid off the quay at eighteen minutes to six.
As we pulled up at the garage—
“There you are,” said Berry. “Who says I don’t pull my weight? But for me, you’d have been there for half an hour.”
This was true. The bonnet had not been opened and our baggage had not been touched.
Ten minutes later, we whipped past the sleeping hotels and on to the Rouen road.
We met no traffic at all, and the road from Dieppe to Rouen had recently been remade. As we entered the city’s suburbs, I glanced at the clock in the dash. Five and twenty minutes to seven. At least, we had started well.
The road out of Rouen was shocking, and, though Berry never complained, I had to slow down. Some of the pot-holes were monstrous. So, for perhaps three miles. But the long, steep bill had been mended; and from there to Pont-de-l’Arche we went like the wind. I whipped the Rolls over the cobbles and let her go at the hill – the long hill that parts th
e forest, as a barber will part a man’s hair. The surface was good, and we scudded up to the crest, as a bird on the wing. But we lost ten minutes in Louviers – more than that: for there it was market-day, and the peasants and all that was theirs were ruling the streets. By the time we were clear of the town, it was five and twenty to eight.
Ten minutes later, we stopped to break our fast by the side of the way…
The morning was big with promise: so far as I saw, there was not a cloud in the sky. Soon it was going to be immensely hot. The countryside was lovely: Husbandry seemed to be at the top of her form.
“It’s gorgeous,” said Jill. “I knew it was going to be.” She turned to Berry, devouring a sausage-roll. “How’s your back?”
“It might be worse,” said Berry. “Very much worse. Just after leaving Rouen, I thought we’d left the road. In fact, I think I lost consciousness. But except for that explosion of agony, which I trust you will observe I suppressed, my suffering has been more or less normal. And now what about our progress? Are we up to time, brother?”
“I’m afraid we’re not,” said I. “Sixty miles in just under two hours is no damned good. The French are really hopeless. Louviers, I can forgive. Markets are wholesome things, and I hope they survive. But it’s nearly six years since the war, and look at that road out of Rouen – a busy port. Think of the damage done to vehicles using that three-mile stretch.”
“That,” said Berry, “explains its condition. The garagistes of Rouen are paying the Surveyor of the Department five hundred francs a week, so long as that stretch of road is not remade.”
“That,” said I, “is entirely probable. But if the garagistes of all the principal towns on our route have had the same idea – well, we shan’t get to Pau tonight.”
“Who cares?” said Jill. “I told my babies tomorrow – just in case. At least – I told Meakin to tell them. All the same, why shouldn’t we do it? As long as we’re in by eleven – we mustn’t be later than that.”
“I’ll do my best, my darling.”
“Quite so,” said Berry. “Er, quite so. But don’t abuse the car. I mean, I should be mentally uneasy if I felt you were doing that. After all, she was constructed to be used on roads – not rockeries.”
“Shall I be frank?” said I.
“You can have a stab,” said Berry. “From what I’ve seen of you, I should judge that estate to be beyond your reach.”
“Whenever I drive the Rolls, I consider the car first and the passengers afterwards.”
“I see,” said Berry. “What a very beautiful thought. Is Fitch, whose wages I pay, afflicted with the same outlook?”
I raised my eyebrows.
“I think it more than likely.”
“Give me strength,” said Berry. “Here am I, a simple—”
With one consent, we hustled him into the car.
We made good time to Chartres, and reached the ancient city at half-past nine.
I turned to Berry.
“All right?” I said.
“The faculty of speech,” said Berry, “is still retained. I nearly lost it as we were entering Dreux. I am forced to the merciful conclusion that the garagistes of Dreux can only afford fifty francs. Never mind. There’s quite a good barber—”
“Not on your life,” said I. “Besides, you’ve done your bit.”
“Oh, I’ve shaved all right,” said Berry. “But I must have a pine shampoo. They’re wonderfully refreshing. Besides, what about the pâtés? You can’t thread Chartres, without purchasing one of its pâtés.”
I spoke over my shoulder.
“I’m going to have a damned good try.”
“Vandal,” said Berry. “Your idle words—”
My cousin raised her voice.
“Let’s just look at the windows, Boy. I mean, we can’t go past them and not just pay our respects.”
“If you put it like that, my sweet…”
I drove to the cathedral forthwith – and there the glory of Chartres detained us for half an hour.
More to silence Berry than anything else, I then made for a shop which purveyed the pâtés de Chartres. It was as we were regaining La Place des Epars that Cousin Jill let out a cry.
“Stop, Boy, stop. There’s Patricia.” She leaned out of her window. “Patricia. Patricia, darling.”
Mrs Simon Beaulieu stopped in her stride. So did most within earshot. Then Jill was out in the street, and Patricia’s arms were about her, and everyone was smiling – to see Beauty living with Kindness before their eyes.
It was to our great content that Patricia Bohun, spinster, had married Simon Beaulieu less than a month ago: it was to our great concern that, immediately after their marriage, the two had disappeared. We had an uneasy feeling that here was no honeymoon. Though they were made for each other, they had so little money: and, by her marriage, Patricia had lost what she might have had. And now we had stumbled upon them… Of course we devoted an hour to their splendour of faith and love.
It was long past eleven o’clock when we picked our way out of Chartres. And from Chartres to Pau is more than four hundred miles. Still, the road to Tours was perfect – too good to be true. We crossed the Loire at exactly a quarter-past one.
Behind me, Berry was speaking.
“The hour produces the inn. Not to lunch at The — would be evidence of insanity.”
“No, you don’t,” said I. “We’ve plenty of sausage-rolls.”
“Oh, I can’t bear it,” screamed Berry. “Damn it, we’re going right by it: we don’t even have to turn off. Thirty minutes of civilization – that’s all I ask. Besides, I don’t fancy any more sausage-rolls. A cup of cold Madrilène – Oh, and what about beer? I can’t face a sausage-roll without a bottle of beer.”
“Be quiet,” said Jill. “You had two bottles at Chartres.”
“My perspiratory ducts have dealt with them. And one ought to soak the system in weather like this. After all, you water the garden: why not the flesh?”
“We’ll stop at a café,” I said, “and buy some bottles of beer. And ten minutes later, we’ll lunch by the side of the way. There’s a steak-and-kidney pie that we haven’t touched.”
“You can have it for me,” snarled Berry.
“That’s the idea,” said I. “We’ve got to get on. Of course, if you want to stay here…”
“My back’s no worse,” said Berry, “if that’s what you mean.”
“Then we’ll do it yet,” said I – and spoke as a fool. Ten miles south of Tours, they were mending the road.
We had lunched – I think, very well – and Jill and I were discussing the Beaulieus’ happy state, when I sailed round a bend at sixty, to see the shocking apparatus two hundred paces ahead. The epithet is deserved. France does most things by halves – but not her roads. When she remakes a road, she does the whole width at once; and the traffic which has to use it can take its chance.
After ploughing my way through metalling, waiting upon steam-rollers and, finally, helping two mules to drag a laden water-cart out of my path, I coaxed the Rolls on to a surface which would have done yeoman service in one of Chaplin’s films. The road had been torn in pieces – and that, for mile after mile.
I was very close to despair when we came to the end of this stretch: but, such is human nature, the sight of a four-mile reach, as straight as a ruler, as smooth as a racing-track, revived the hopes I had had. If we had seen the last of our troubles… I might have known. Three miles south of Chatellerault, without the slightest warning, we flounced clean into a section that might have been planned in Hell.
Only the Surveyor of a Department of France could have issued an order at once so futile and so preposterous. The road, which was pitted with pot-holes, had lately been lavishly tarred. The tar had not been covered, and there had been no rain. The road was no longer a road: it was now a long, long waste of pools of tar.
There are times when I dream of that stretch – some nine miles long. (I should, of course, have turned
off. But this was a part of the country I did not know, and I was always hoping that every bend was hiding the end of the tar.) Though we moved at ten miles an hour, our wings were dripping before we had covered two. And a lorry came lurching by, to spatter the windows and wind-screen… As it flung on its way—
“Isn’t that nice?” said Berry. “Never mind. They say butter’s very good. We’d better have tea at Poitiers. If we save our pats, we can smear them over the door-handles. Then, when we want to get in, we shan’t get tar on our gloves. All the same, I can’t help feeling they’ve overdone it. If we meet much more traffic, we shan’t be able to see. And I do hope we don’t have a puncture. If we do, you must be careful to lay the tools on the step. Otherwise, they might get some tar on them. Oh, I suppose the step’s swamped. In that case, I should put them in your pocket… I beg your pardon… Oh, how rude. After all, I was only envisaging such a catastrophe. You see, with my back as it is, I can only advise. And nothing would distress me more than to have to view your embarrassment. Here’s another road-hog coming. Put your foot down, brother, and give him some tar to taste.”
I did so – with no compunction.
With a howl of apprehension, the driver cowered away…
And then we were half a mile off, but the lorry had come to rest by the side of the way.
Such things are not motoring.
As I have said, our ordeal was nine miles long: but when, two miles short of Ruffec, the same thing started again – the road pock-marked with pot-holes brimming with tar – I determined to turn at that town and hope for the best.
And so I did.
That we could not reach Pau that night was now very clear. I decided to make for Bergerac – not much more than a hundred miles away. Less perhaps; but I only knew my direction and I had not brought a map.
The afternoon was now over, and evening was coming in. And I think we were, all of us, glad of the lesser roads. Their surface was very fair, and because they were none too wide and the wayside trees were full, often enough we drove through a tunnel of living green. Then, again, we ran cheek by jowl with the countryside. We smelled the scent of the meadows and breathed the cool of the woods: we heard the speech of the water, as we passed over a bridge: and these things were better than liquor, after the burden and heat of that trying day.
Berry Scene Page 21
