Flora Mackintosh and The Hungarian Affair
Page 13
“What are you reading?” Antal asked, just as a large rat ran across Flora’s shoe, very nearly causing her to scream.
“Greats,” Teddy replied with a shudder. “In retrospect, an extremely poor decision on my part. Translating “veni vidi vici” seems to be about all I can muster, and the less said about my Greek the better.”
“It just so happens,” Antal said, kicking a rat from his own shoe with the precision of a fly-half, “that I myself read Classics at Cambridge, many years ago. If you can get me safely to England, young man, I should be more than happy to tutor you for a few weeks.”
“Sir,” was all Teddy was able to offer in response, moved as he was by the enormous self-sacrifice of Antal’s offer.
“We’re nearing the end of the passage,” Bertie said over his shoulder, as Flora shone the light on what appeared to be a heavy wooden door. “Quiet now.”
Flora flicked off the torch as Bertie crept towards the door, straining to hear signs of movement on the other side. Satisfied by the echoing silence, he took the door’s metal ring in his hand and twisted it slowly. The creaking of the hinges filled the air, and the group held their breath as Bertie eased the door open and moved forwards with his gun at the ready.
“All clear,” he called back after a moment, and the rest of the collective moved out of the tunnel and into the shop’s small storeroom. “We don’t have much time, chaps – the Germans are sure to discover the tunnel before too long. Best say your goodbyes whilst I get my bearings.” And with that he moved to the other end of the room, wiped the dust from the window-pane and stared intently at the horizon.
Antal and Flora looked at one another. “Not much time for a proper catch-up now, I fear,” Flora said with a rueful smile. “And there’s so much I should like to talk to you about.”
“Your father would be very proud of you, Anasztázia,” Antal replied, pulling his niece into a quick hug. “I promise I shall find you as soon as I’m in England.”
“Please do,” she said, smiling through her sudden tears, before taking the painting from him and tucking it under her arm. “You must come to tea – I’m sure mama would be delighted to see you again.”
“Right,” Bertie said in his efficient way, signalling to Teddy to come to the window. “The road to Szentendre is thirty degrees in that direction, so I imagine your vehicle must be a mile or so across those fields.”
“That’s right,” Teddy said, scrutinising the scene and nodding in agreement. “She’s just out of sight, behind that dip.”
“Jolly good,” Bertie replied, offering his hand to Teddy. “The Cynthia-Rose is forty-five degrees that way, so this is it.”
“Pip,” Alice said with a broad grin. “I thought I might have a small party at Ma and Pa’s for New Year’s – you must come with Flors, Bertie.”
“Delighted,” Bertie replied, as Flora gave her friend a meaningful glare. “Until then.” Turning to Antal, he saluted and said, “Get in touch once you’re back in England, sir. I‘ll do my best to get to the bottom of the leak, and let you know when it’s safe to come in. In the meantime, I’ll make sure that the list ends up in the right hands.”
Antal pushed open the side-door next to the window, looked up and down the small cobbled path for any Germans, and nodded at Bertie. “I’ll see you in London, then. Come along, you two.” And with that Alice, and Teddy slipped out of the door and made off across the fields.
Bertie took the painting from Flora and smiled down at her. “Ready, Flors?” he asked.
“Lead the way,” she replied, nodding briefly. With a deep breath and a quick backward glance, Flora followed Bertie out into the afternoon light.
ELEVEN
Four hours later the Cynthia-Rose glided across Wimbledon Common, landing effortlessly in the darkness. Flora, who had much missed Pongo’s scarf on the return journey and was longing for a comb, gingerly ran her fingers through her knotted hair. She was, she realised, in urgent need of a gin and tonic.
“I wonder,” Bertie asked, as he tucked the painting under his arm and helped Flora down from the air-craft, “whether you might like to join me for supper, Flora?”
She glanced up at him as her feet sought solid ground. “What date is it?”
“December 15th, I believe.”
“I don’t think I have any prior engagements,” she said slowly, after a moment’s contemplation. “So yes - that would be very nice, Freddie.” Now that they were out of Hungary, and after some careful consideration during their journey home in the Cynthia-Rose, Flora had decided that the time had come to use Bertie’s real name. She wasn’t sure if she was quite ready to forgive him for his subterfuge, but neither was she willing to participate in a game of false identities. Pongo, Flora recalled with a frown, had once tried to maintain a second life in London to aid her fledgling career as an actress. It hadn’t ended well – either for the fictitious “Tuppence Crawley”, or for Pongo – particularly when Pongo’s father had found himself watching “Tuppence” make her debut on the London stage in a decidedly racy adaptation of The Duchess of Malfi. “Oughtn’t we deliver the painting to someone trustworthy in your mob first?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea for the time being, Flors,” Freddie said, throwing the cover over the Cynthia-Rose and guiding Flora towards his car. “I’ve made alternative arrangements.”
“Oh?”
“I wonder,” Freddie said thoughtfully, as he pulled a pair of cigarettes from his pocket, “have you ever been to Blenheim?”
Flora accepted one of the Austrian gaspers and looked up at Freddie with interest. “I haven’t, I’m afraid. Although I hear Mr Churchill is absolutely charming.”
“He is indeed,” Freddie replied. “And he’s invited us to dine with him this evening.”
Flora paused for a moment, her eyes widening: the adventures of the past few days had not, apparently, entirely exhausted her capacity for surprise. Recovering her poise almost instantaneously, however, she moved towards the car and said over her shoulder, “I hope I’ll have a chance to drag a comb through my hair before we head off for Oxford, Freddie. One doesn’t want to appear vain, of course, but Mrs Churchill might not be terribly impressed if I arrived looking as though I had just emerged from a hedgerow.”
“Hardly that,” Freddie snorted, looking across at Flora who had, as far as he was concerned, maintained an untarnished glamour throughout their extraordinary time together. He jumped into the driving seat and, just before firing up the engine, turned to face her. “Before we go in search of a change of clothes and a hot bath, however….” Flora’s heart lurched as Freddie gazed into her eyes. “Flora Mackintosh - I’ve been wanting to kiss you for days. Would you mind terribly if I did so now?”
Looking back at him, Flora realised that she was entirely amenable to being kissed by Freddie. Given how much they’d been through together, however, and knowing how fond she was of him, she decided to lay her proverbial cards on the table: no one would accuse Anasztázia Medveczky of being as cavalier with Freddie’s heart as Antal had been with Anaïs’, she thought to herself, sternly. “No, Freddie, I wouldn’t mind at all.”
“The thing is,” she continued, stopping Freddie in his tracks and wishing she didn’t look quite so dishevelled for this romantic denouement, “I intend to go to Cambridge next year, where I shall write what will be, for many, the seminal work on Henry James. I know of course that a kiss is just a kiss, but I certainly don’t want to…well, to lead you on, Freddie.”
Now, this was something of a first for Freddie. One wouldn’t exactly call him a prolific kisser, but he’d had enough turns under the mistletoe to know that this was an unusual reaction. Rather than being deterred, however, this sudden declaration of independence only served to make him like her even more. “Flora,” he said gravely, his eyes full of laughter, “I have no intention of putting a spanner in the works. If it would be helpful, however, I promise never to try to kiss you when you are in the throes of intellectua
l inspiration.”
“Well then,” Flora replied, greatly cheered by his understanding response, “as you were, Freddie.”
THE END