The Stratton Story Page 8

  Gail told her.

  “Staying at Bordeaux, or going on?”

  “I’m going to San Sebastian.”

  “Driving?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alone?”

  “No. I’m meeting a friend at Bordeaux.”

  “Bad idea, if you ask me. You shouldn’t tie yourself down if you’re going on a trip—a private trip, that is. You can always pick up someone if you want company. Is this chap French?”

  “No.” Gail felt almost ungrateful at returning so little for so much, but decided to use the technique employed by her brother when faced by impertinent or unwarranted curiosity. “No, not French.”

  “Spanish, I suppose.”

  “Sort of mixture.”

  “You want to watch foreigners—but I daresay you’re old enough to look after yourself.”

  Gail watched the contents of the rucksack being brought to light. She saw a small case containing papers, a plastic bag filled with toilet articles, one small and one large towel, one pair of very dirty white tennis shoes, two pairs of thick woollen socks, a crumpled map, a business-like-looking ledger and some spare khaki clothing.

  “I give them all a list and tell them that they’ve got to stick to it,” Mrs. Bluett explained, throwing a few things into a drawer. “The vital thing is weight; what hope have you got of keeping to schedule if women overload themselves and drop behind? And yet here’s this fool disobeying the rules before we even put a foot on the road. Staying long in San Sebastian?”

  “It depends.”

  “Well, don’t say I haven’t warned you; I can’t do more. Foreigners can let you down. Where did you come across this one?”

  “As a matter of fact, he was a waiter at this hotel I was staying at in London.”

  “That’s better than a hairdresser. Girl I know picked up a hairdresser and landed herself into a packet of trouble. Good-looking?”

  “Oh, very!”

  “They always are. Watch your money, that’s all I can say. Has he got any?”

  “Well, they always have at first, and they start off by lashing it out. But then somehow towards the end of the trip, they’re—”

  “—hauling it back again. The car’s yours, I suppose?”

  “No. As a matter of fact—”

  “His?”

  “No. It belongs to a Navy man. He let me borrow it, but I’ve got to take him back to England.”

  She saw dawning respect on Mrs. Bluett’s face.

  “Not getting in above your neck, are you?”

  Gail said she hoped not, and watched the other woman march out in search of something to eat. Walking into the snack bar just after the ship sailed, she met a battery of a dozen pairs of eyes, and knew that her history had been recounted to the party of hikers.

  She was glad to remember that there was always the certainty, when sailing from Southampton, of a brief interval during which travellers could brace themselves for the ordeal of the open sea. Gliding smoothly down Southampton Water, they could persuade themselves that the entire journey would be like this—decks level, rails drawing a straight line along the horizon. But the sea, for her, always seemed to have something grim in store-and this journey proved to be no different from any other. Only one night, but it was more than enough. Even the sight of the redoubtable Mrs. Bluett stretched, moaning and miserable, on the opposite bunk, stripped of all her bombast, could not alleviate Gail’s own suffering. Throughout the night, the waters tossed and the car ferry drove a relentless way through them at a steady twenty-two knots.

  But morning came, and with it the strength to rise and dress and go limply out to look at Bordeaux. There was not much time to look; the car ferry stayed a mere hour and a half, pumping fuel in at pressure and sending cars off at speed.

  From the dockside, Gail looked back at the ship and saw lining the rails the Pontefield Hikers, waiting to see her being met by a foreign mixture. Better to be thought abandoned in one sense than in the other, she thought, and glancing round, fixed upon a wild-haired, black-visaged young man lounging behind a pile of crates as the one most suitable to her purpose. Map in hand, she walked up to him, and for a few convincing moments could be seen leaning with him over the radiator of her car, map outspread, tracing a route. Dishonour satisfied, she drove away and turned south to find the Duchesse.

  It was three miles outside the town, on a slope overlooking the estuary of the Garonne. Gail knew Mrs. Stratton well enough to be certain that it would be well-starred, but she was surprised, nevertheless, by the luxury of the room to which she was led. Mrs. Stratton was not due for three hours, and had been firm in her refusal to be met at the airport; the hotel, she said, would send a car.

  Two people arrived in a car just before lunch. Gail had bathed and changed and now, the horror of the night forgotten, was sitting on a shady terrace, making the most of a long, cushioned chair, a cool, delicious drink and the exclusive attention of three white-clad waiters. Not thus, she mused, would she fare when she left Mrs. Stratton and picked up Tim; inexpensive night-stops, roadside picnics and fetch-it-yourself.

  She saw the car stop under the glass porch of the hotel. A man was at the wheel; beside him was a woman Gail recognised as Mrs. Stratton. She rose and went to meet her and saw her entering the hall escorted by two bellboys, a hall porter and the tall, middle-aged and distinguished-looking man with whom she had arrived.

  When Gail approached, Mrs. Stratton turned with a smiling welcome.

  “Gail, how nicel Did you have a good journey?”

  “Terrible. Waves like mountains.”

  Mrs. Stratton gave her soft laugh, and Gail thought for the first time that she could be called beautiful; she looked fresh and young and slim and composed, in a mauve wool suit, her head bare.

  The middle-aged man came to join them; Gail saw that he was well-dressed, with a thin, tanned face. His manner towards Mrs. Stratton was a mixture of deference and protectiveness.

  “Gail, this is Sir Hugo Nevitt. Your nice Mr. Thomas told him that I was travelling on the same plane, and asked him to look after me. Sir Hugo, this is my young friend Gail Sinclair.”

  Sir Hugo bowed, smiled and conveyed, gracefully and convincingly, his pleasure at having Mrs. Stratton as a travelling companion.

  “But Mr. Beetham has made me very angry,” he continued in his pleasant voice. “If he had thought of getting in touch with me earlier, I could have driven Mrs. Stratton to the airport. My flat is barely four hundred yards from the Flamingo. You came over on the car ferry, Miss Sinclair?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t your hardihood—I dodged the sea trip and came by air, and had a car waiting for me at the airport. I’m sorry it was so rough.”

  Gail had almost succeeded in placing him. The Nevitt Commission—something to do with adult education. He was bringing out a book on his findings, or his theories, or both; that accounted for the tie-up with Mr. Thomas. There was something else—yes, Miss Teller had called him a sheep in wolf’s clothing, but had not stopped to explain.

  Mrs. Stratton was being conducted to her room; for clients who were only staying for one day, and not even a full day, Gail thought that they were being given a gratifying amount of service.

  She went back to the terrace, and Sir Hugo followed her; he was lunching here, he explained, and Mrs. Stratton had very kindly agreed to let him join her. He said that he was on his way to Pau, to visit friends.

  He sent away one of the chairs and selected another which he thought would be more comfortable for Mrs. Stratton, then ordered a drink for himself and for Gail.

  “Mrs. Stratton is a charming companion,” he said, leaning back and stretching his long legs on the footrest. “It is very sad . . .”

  That, Gail told herself, was what she must keep remembering: how sad it was. She was on the sunny terrace of a hotel which the Guide Michelin awarded five little chateaux; she was sunk in foam rubber, drinking an expensive chilled drink and awaiting a probably
superb lunch—but it was very sad. To remind her, there was that mauve suit. Poor Mr. Stratton was dead and buried, and it was very sad.

  The table at lunch overlooked a garden brilliant with flowers. Lest Gail should feel herself left out—or because Sir Hugo wanted to devote himself to Mrs. Stratton—a young Frenchman who had got into conversation with them on the terrace made a fourth at the meal. He was thin and dark and amusing, and spoke almost perfect English. He was on his way to Paris, but he gave Gail to understand that he was ready to break his journey if there was any local fun to be had.

  “Why do you have to leave?” he demanded.

  “I’m driving Mrs. Stratton,” she explained.

  He raised one eyebrow and glanced across the table, and Gail agreed with everything he had not said: Sir Hugo’s admiration was undisguised, and his car was at the door; by all sensible standards a switch from Gail’s car to his would add to the pleasure of all parties.

  It was difficult to gauge Mrs. Stratton’s feelings; she smiled at Sir Hugo and laughed gently at the Frenchman’s nonsense, but she retained the slight detachment Gail was beginning to understand was characteristic. What was clear was that the two — Mrs. Stratton and Sir Hugo—made a perfect pair. A perfect pair in a perfect setting, Gail decided, and found herself wishing, to her surprise, that Mrs. Bluett would walk in and drop her rucksack and provide an earthy contrast to so much elegance.

  She expected to drive away after lunch, but when they rose, Mrs. Stratton went to sit on the terrace and with her went Sir Hugo. The Frenchman asked Gail what she proposed to do, and was delighted to hear that she was going up to bed; it would take him all the way to Paris, she thought, to recover from the blow to his pride and to his nose when she banged the door on his expectant face.

  She slept for an hour; when she went downstairs, she learned from Sir Hugo that he had been fortunate enough to get a room in the hotel at Chandon; they would be driving there in convoy.

  The departure was impressive; only the chef, Gail thought, failed to appear. Her brother’s car, standing behind Sir Hugo’s, looked like a seedy interloper. Whether it was the fact that she had had no breakfast followed by two drinks on an empty stomach followed by a rich lunch followed by a heavy sleep, Gail did not know, but as she got into the car beside Mrs. Stratton she found herself regretting having been caught up in this too-elaborate schedule. Plush hotels and baronets were all very well, but she could do without them on a Continental tour; she longed for her brother’s easy, casual presence and their programme of take-it-as-it-comes.

  She drove fast; the road was good, the scenery not yet of the kind to draw the eye. The car was going well. An occasional glance in the mirror told her that Sir Hugo was keeping pace with her.

  “How long are you going to stay in Chandon?” she asked Mrs. Stratton.

  “I wish I knew. Not long, I think; I want to get home and into a house agent’s. The Flamingo was all very well to stay in for a time, but I must get into a house of my own.”

  “Where do you plan to live?”

  “Oh, in London.” Mrs. Stratton sounded surprised. “I lived in London for years; I was living there when I met Edward. We kept on my flat until we moved to Cornwall—he wanted to keep it on longer, but it’s as well we didn’t; it would have been an extra burden.”

  She fell into a reverie, and Gail only broke in on it when she felt the air growing chillier.

  “Not too cold?” she asked.

  “Not a bit. I was just thinking that I can’t remember having driven in an open car before.”

  “If you feel it’s too cold, we can always put up the hood.”

  She thought she had never before met anyone who fussed so little. There was no fidgeting, no trite, irritating comment on the scenery, no forced conversation; there was in fact no conversation at all. Mrs. Stratton settled into her seat, folded her hands in her lap and gave herself up to enjoyment.

  She came out of a long silence to put a question to Gail.

  “How did you like Sir Hugo?”

  “He seemed very nice.”

  “He married one of the Degrelle sisters—have you ever heard of the three beautiful Degrelle sisters?”

  “Never.”

  “I hadn’t, either. It’s so difficult to know when to say so, and when to pretend. I hate pretending, but when a man tells you his ex-wife was a famous beauty, you hate to say you never heard of her. I got out of it by murmuring something or other. They’re divorced. His house is lovely—Mr. Thomas showed me some pictures in Country Life.” She paused and gave a sigh of pleasure. “Isn’t it a heavenly day? If only I could enjoy all this without the thought of having to meet Mrs. Westerby at the end of it . . . but I suppose you think I sound disloyal.”

  “Maybe I ought to murmur something or other.”

  Mrs. Stratton laughed. “Well, don’t blame me too much. Over here, so far from England, I feel freer, more able to say things—even unkind things. I’m willing to grant Mrs. Westerby all the virtues: kindness, well meaningness and all the rest. After that I can only say that I find her terribly embarrassing. How do you imagine I felt when she walked in, burst in, forced her way in to that reception or party or whatever it was, at the publishers? Did you welcome her when she waved a wet umbrella in the dining-room of the Flamingo? I didn’t.”

  “Do people really take much notice of eccentric characters?”

  “It depends how close they are to the character. It’s easy to smile at someone behaving oddly—so long as they’re not with you, or related to you. I hate to be the centre of a scene; I can’t bear seeing everybody round me staring and grinning. I loathe any kind of public disturbance, any kind of fuss. Don’t you?”

  “It depends. What our landlady calls a disturbance, my brother calls a mild party. It really does depend.”

  “Did you tell Mrs. Westerby we were meeting at the Duchesse?”

  “I think I mentioned it to her godson.”

  “Then either he didn’t tell her, or he kept her away,” Mrs. Stratton decided. “That’s a good sign. It shows that he can control her. What is he like?”

  “Well . . . tall, quiet. Not much small talk, but not heavy-going. Grown-up.”

  “At thirty-four? You surprise me.”

  “Age is nothing to go by.”

  “That’s true. Did he want to come on this trip?”

  “No, I don’t think he did.”

  “I sympathise with him.”

  She turned her gaze on the lovely scene, and it was some time before she spoke again.

  “You’re very quiet; what are you thinking about?”

  “My mother,” Gail said unexpectedly. “She and my father spent their honeymoon somewhere around here. I often wonder whether she knew what was ahead of her.”

  “What was ahead of her?”

  “Travel. But she was a home-maker; we’d arrive somewhere—wherever my father was sent to—and she’d have the house fixed up in less than no time: curtains and flowers, and meals adapted to the country and the climate, and everything running like a dream. Then, as soon as we’d got to know the neighbours, my father was transferred, and we packed up again. But my mother never stopped, never gave up, never thought it wasn’t worth while. I suppose that’s why I grew up believing that the most important thing of all is to make a home.”

  “Not every woman thinks so.”

  “Oh, I know. It’s not an argument I can support, and I don’t try. It just colours my outlook on men, that’s all. I go for the home-lovers.”

  “I’m surprised one of the home-lovers hasn’t persuaded you to make him a home.”

  “There’s no hurry,” Gail said, and was about to add that one was married for a long time, when she remembered that Mrs. Stratton had been married — twice — for a very short time.

  “It doesn’t do to have preconceived ideas on husbands,” Mrs. Stratton went on, “but most women do. I had. At least, I had the first time.”

  “He was an actor, wasn’t he?”


  “Yes. But he wasn’t a very good actor. His chief talent was running through money.”

  Gail said nothing; they drove on, every mile bringing them towards a peace and tranquillity that seemed to close round the car like a blessing. Towns and traffic seemed a thousand miles away. The only houses in view were Basque farmhouses with windows that blinked sleepily in the late sunshine. They passed oxen carts with picturesque yokes, lean figures in berets trudging beside them.

  Some distance ahead, Gail saw that the road was being widened; soon a workman signalled her on to a one-way track. Above it, set pleasantly on a hillside, she saw a small cafe; a terrace in front of it was set with tables; a few cars were parked nearby.

  “Would you like to stop for a drink?” she asked Mrs. Stratton.

  Mrs. Stratton shook her head.

  “Not unless you do.”

  “Then let’s get on,” Gail said, and ignored Sir Hugo’s hopeful signals on his horn.

  They passed a gang of workmen; the single track ended and Gail was flagged on by a grinning, grimy young workman who winked at her as the car went by. Round the next curve she saw a large, painted arrow pointing to a side road. She swung the car to the left and found herself almost immediately on a surface that made her slow to a walking pace. She looked dubiously at the rough track ahead.

  “How much of this, I wonder?” she asked.

  It was bad going. Mrs. Stratton braced herself as well as she could against the severe jolting. They passed piles of boulders on the hillside; above them, a party of road workers looked down at them and signalled; they were clearly indicating that the car was to go on and not go back, and Gail proceeded with more confidence. Feeling her way, she nosed along, avoiding the deeper ruts. Behind, mingling with the sounds coming from the workmen, she heard a shrill horn; glancing in the mirror she saw, far behind, Sir Hugo’s car.