The Lighthearted Quest Page 4

  Mr. Consett, during the second round of drinks and over dinner at the Oviedo, continued to cross-examine Julia about Colin and her trip. At one point he asked how the orange-selling venture had been financed. Julia had no idea, but unguardedly let out the fact that nine months earlier the balance of Colin’s account at Duntroon had been transferred to the Banque Regié Turque at Casablanca. Mr. Consett pounced on this piece of information like a peregrine on a pigeon.

  “Transferred it to Casablanca? How big was the balance?”

  “I haven’t the smallest clue,” said Julia. “Why?”

  “Because it’s illegal, for a sum of any size. My dear Julia, surely you know about currency restrictions?”

  “Well, yes, for travelling. I never thought of that,” said Julia candidly. “But old Mr. Maclntyre at the Bank of Scotland in Duntroon would never do anything illegal, from what Edina says.”

  “I must look into this,” said Mr. Consett, with more animation than he had yet shown—“the Bank of England will know. Nine months ago, you say?”

  “Oh, Geoffrey, please don’t go making trouble! Edina and Aunt Ellen have quite enough bothers on their plate as it is, without you stirring up the Bank of England with your beastly bureaucratic spoon.”

  “My dear Julia, do be your age! What all these papers employ you for I can’t think,” said Geoffrey. He often tried, rather helplessly, to impose his superior knowledge on his love by way of subduing her—a futile process always, and particularly unsuccessful in Julia’s case. “If what has been done is within the regulations it can’t make trouble,” he pursued; “and I agree that the Bank of Scotland are about the last people in the world to slip up. But if the sum was of any size there would have to be special permission for the transfer, and to obtain that reasons would have to be given. I think I might be able to find out what those reasons were. It certainly wouldn’t be given for hawking oranges!”

  “I wish you wouldn’t use words like ‘obtain’,” said Julia petulantly.

  “Oh, darling, what a clown you are! Don’t you see that I may be able to help you in this lunatic search-party of yours?” the young man said, reaching for her hand across the table.

  Many hands, and often, are held in the Oviedo—Julia was not in the least embarrassed, and suffered poor Mr. Consett to ciasp, and even to kiss, her long fingers with their glistening pale pink-tips. Satisfied for the moment—and the waiter arriving with a fresh dish—the young man returned to the subject of her journey, in a more tranquil spirit.

  “Where are you sailing to, on your cargo cockleshell?” he asked.

  “Tangier—it seems to be the only place boats stop at, going that way. And it’s quite a good jumping-off place for all the rest, I gather.”

  “An excellent one; and a most darling place in itself—like Glentoran,” he said, smiling his rather unexpectedly warm smile. “They’re doing some very interesting bits of excavation there, too.”

  “What sort? Neolithic?” Julia knew very little about archaeology, but her prolonged acquaintance with Geoffrey Consett had resulted in her having to hear a good deal about it, and she had picked up some of the words.

  “No, no—Roman, and some possible Phoenician too; old La Besse has been working on a fascinating site which is undoubtedly Roman on the top storey, so to speak, but shows signs of Phoenician stuff below that. The amusing thing is that it seems to have been a factory.”

  “A factory? Goodness, what on earth of?”

  “Wine, oil, and they think salt fish—there are pits that suggest fish-pickling more than anything else.” He suddenly became enthusiastic. “You ought to see all that, Julia—I envy you going off there now. Look out for old La Besse.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “It’s not a he, it’s a she. An immensely old Belgian lady with a beard! And she sticks at it—she’s out on that site day after day, with her rag-time team of Berber labourers, for six or seven hours at a time.”

  “When were you there?” Julia asked—“I never heard about all this.”

  “Oh, last winter,” said Mr. Consett, trying unsuccessfully not to look too conscious. Last winter had been during the period when he was sulking after being refused by Julia. “She’s tremendous fun,” he went on rather hastily—“and all that stretch of coast is simply stuffed with Phoenician graves, too.”

  “What are they like?” Julia enquired, less out of any particular interest in Phoenician graves than from a good-natured desire to co-operate in covering up the embarrassment about last winter.

  “Dug out of the rock, I believe, I never saw much of them—I hadn’t time. They’re mostly rifled; the Berbers go at them like mad.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “Oh, the jewellery. Exquisite golden things turn up sometimes.”

  “How enchanting!” said Julia; her eyes shone, kindled by the thought of jewellery in any form. “I’d love to see those.”

  “I’ll give you a letter of introduction to Mme La Besse,” said the young man—“I’ll air-mail it to Tangier. Where shall you be staying, by the way?”

  “The Villa Espagnola—moderate, but Cook’s say the food and beds are all right.”

  Mr. Consett jotted the address down.

  “There are other things you must do in Tangier if you are going to be there, Colin or no Colin,” he said, rather sen-tentiously. “For one, you must go up to the Kasbah, the old Moorish city, on a Friday to see the Mendoub go to the Mosque for his devotions. He has a lovely cavalry guard, all over tassels.”

  “Who’s the Mendoub?”

  “The Sultan’s representative in the International Zone—a sort of Viceroy, on the smallest possible scale. The Kasbah’s lovely, anyhow; the Terence Monteiths have a house there which is quite delicious—look out for them too.”

  “The Monteiths have a place next door to Gientoran,” said Julia—“but I don’t suppose I shall meet them.”

  “Oh, you will—everyone usually meets everyone in Tangier. And don’t on any account miss old Lady Tracy—she’s lived there for a hundred years, and knows everything; in fact she’s quite likely to be able to throw some light on Colin.”

  “Not an old lady of a hundred, surely,” said Julia sceptically.

  “You don’t know Lady Tracy,” said Geoffrey Consett with finality.

  Chapter 3

  The Vidago got off more or less on time the following night. Julia stayed down at the docks till the ship sailed; it occurred to her that there might be the makings of an article for Ebb and Flow in dockside life, so she put on a dirty old featherweight silk mackintosh, such as can only be bought in Italy, visited her new friends in the office and chatted with the crane-driver and the stevedores in the shed; she learned all the details of the fight, anxiously listened to over the wireless by everyone she met, though Murphy’s army of backers had not returned—“Oh, they won’t show up now till Monday,” said the red-haired man in the office. She had various drinks; the first was with the crane-driver, who had taken a fancy to her, at lunch-time; with delightful hesitation he asked if she ever fancied a glass of port?—and when she said she did, led her out to a small cheerful pub, where the fight was also being discussed eagerly. Her lunch she ate on board in the small saloon, along with Captain Blyth and the officer with the beard, who proved to be the Mr. Reeder whose soda the chief steward had ‘borrowed’ for her the night before; this meal, as it was to do throughout the voyage, took place at twelve-thirty—Julia was late, and when apologising to the Captain explained that she had been having drinks with the crane-driver. She noticed that the mate eyed her rather curiously on hearing this.

  “At ‘The Prospect of Whitby’ I suppose,” said the Captain.

  “Oh, no—is that near here?”

  “Not far off. You ought to see it, if you don’t know it.”

  It rather surprised Julia that the Captain of the Vidago should be so accessible before sailing; liners’ captains, in her experience, kept themselves incommunicado except when on the high seas. But she had still a lot to learn about the ways of cargo-boats: both the hours of meals on board, and the general uncertainty which governs their movements. She was late again for supper, a form of high tea, not having realised that it would be at five-thirty; to repay much hospitality in the little office she had gone over at about five p.m., taking with her a bottle of Bourbon, a farewell offering from an American officer who had fallen under her spell—Julia hated rye whisky, but thought it might go down well in the office, which it did; therefore she was late. But it was over a Scotch with the Captain at nine that she had her real shock. He mentioned casually that they would be putting in at ‘Casa’. (He pronounced it ‘Cahssa’.)

  “Where’s that?”

  “Casablanca.”

  “Goodness, are we going to Casablanca?”

  Julia had booked to Tangier, understanding that that was the Vidago’s first port of call; she listened with impatience to Captain Blyth’s slowly-pronounced explanation of some failure to deliver part of the cargo for ‘Tangiers’, as he called it, and how instead they had loaded up with tractors and saloon cars for ‘Cahssa’. If they were putting in at Casablanca she might be able to see Paddy Lynch, and cause him to make enquiries about Colin through the Banque Regié Turque; but then, if Geoffrey’s probings at the Bank of England yielded any fruitful results, she ought to know what they were before accosting Paddy.

  “How long shall we have at Casablanca?” she asked, practically cutting into the Captain’s softly-spoken sentences.

  “About twelve hours—maybe twenty-four. You never know to an hour or so.”

  Julia got up, moving a good deal faster than she normally moved.

  “Where can I get to a telephone?” she asked. “Do excuse me, but if we’re going to Casablanca I ought to get hold of someone at once. The office will be shut of course—damn!”

  There was a telephone kiosk by the other dock gates, nearer the ship, the Captain told her. Julia remembered those gates, that was the exit which she and the crane-driver had used on their way to the pub.

  “Well, if you will forgive me, I’ll fly and telephone,” she said.

  “You’ll be back by nine-thirty, won’t you?” the Captain said. “I oughtn’t to let you off the ship now, it’s ten past nine.”

  “Oh, yes, I’ll be back in loads of time. How sweet of you. That perishing Mr. Scales might have told me about going to Casa of course—what a blot the man is,” said Julia, hurriedly downing her whisky; she heard the Captain’s slow chuckle as she hastened out.

  She was out of luck. When she had pattered through the rain to the red kiosk, a desolate little monument to who knows what ardent or despairing last-moment conversations, and put in her three pennies, there was ‘No Reply’ from Geoffrey’s flat. Julia said “Damn” again, pressed Button B, and tried the Garrick—the Club porter, after a prolonged interval, informed her that Mr. Consett was not in the Club. She stood for a moment or two in the cold stuffy little wood-and-glass box, smelling of stale tobacco-smoke, casting about in her mind as to where else she could try, but no brilliant idea occurred to her. Julia had a strongly-held theory, upon which she often acted with success, that in any crisis there is always something clever to do if one can only calm down and think what it is—she therefore calmed down and thought hard, in that telephone box by the London Dock gates; but nothing occurred to her except a strong desire to go and ask kind fatherly Captain Blyth what on earth she could do to get a message ashore at that time of night? Julia did not then know that the Vidago’s captain was commonly known as “Cheery Blyth”, or to his ship’s company simply as “Cheery”; but in her moment of need she felt the want of his cheerful kindness, and after splashing back over the wet cobbles and scrambling and slipping up the greasy gangway, she boldly tapped on his door.

  “Gracious, you are wet,” he said, as she entered on his “Come in.” “Get your call all right?”

  “No. In fact I’m in rather a jam. I suppose there’s no earthly means of getting a letter ashore, now?”

  “Take off that wet mac thing—I’ll dry it in my bathroom,” said the Captain; he took it from her and disappeared through an inner door. Returning—“You’d better have some whisky,” he said levelly; “don’t want to start off with a cold.”

  “But can I get a letter ashore?” Julia asked, as he poured her out a stiff glass.

  “O’ course—the pilot will take it when we drop him, down the river; easiest thing in the world,” said Cheery Blyth, cheerfully.

  “Oh, splendid. What time will that be?”

  “Some time after midnight. Now you’d better put in your own soda, and get it right.”

  Blessing the kindly little man, warmed and comforted, Julia sat contentedly in his cabin till a fair rather sleek-haired young man entered to announce that the Vidago was about to get under way. Captain Blyth ignored this information till he had effected a rather formal introduction—“Miss Probyn, this is our second officer, Mr. Freeman; Freeman, this is our passenger, Miss Probyn.” After which he went leisurely into his inner cabin and emerged in an oilskin and a cap heavy with gold braid, Julia’s mackintosh over his arm.

  “Oh, thank you. But who do I give my letter to?” Julia asked.

  “Put it on my desk—I’ll leave my door open, and see that it goes.”

  By now Julia felt sure that it would. She went to her cabin and scribbled a note to Geoffrey, telling him that they would be calling at Casablanca, and that he should therefore hurry up his enquiries at the Bank of England, and airmail the results to her. Then the idea struck her—where should he write to? Poste Restante? A considerable experience of the difficulty attending the extraction of letters from Postes Restantes in France and the Iberian Peninsula had made Julia cautious; she decided that Geoffrey’s letter had better be sent care of Paddy Lynch—she must just risk the Lynches being away. She would have written to Paddy too, but she hadn’t enough stamps left for airmail, and the Captain and apparently everyone else was either on the bridge or for’ard ringing bells and shouting, as the Vidago nosed and edged her way through incredibly narrow locks and channels, gently bumping, sometimes, against the stone sides, on her way to the open river, Tying a scarf round her head Julia went on deck and watched this process for a while. Deck hands ran to and fro, slinging hempen fenders over the side when a bump seemed imminent; arc-lights fizzed above dark water, dirty with refuse of all kinds; figures in oilskins moved about on the wet cement which in this strange world represented land, shouting directions—once one of them bellowed for ‘the keys’, and some keys tied to a piece of wood were flung down to him. That small circumstance intrigued Julia very much; but it was wet and cold, and on the whole rather monotonous—she went back to her snug little cabin, turned in, and slept.

  Julia thoroughly enjoyed her voyage on the Vidago. Crossing the Bay of Biscay in January is not normally regarded as a pleasure-trip, but the weather was not excessively bad, and the little vessel rode well, lightly surmounting huge seas that would have dealt shuddering blows to a big liner. Indeed in every way, Julia felt, a small cargo-boat had immense advantages over the leviathans on which she had hitherto done her ocean travel. Personal relations, if slight, were genuine as far as they went; one met the officers at all meals anyhow, and chatted as human beings do over their food—what was wholly and mercifully absent was the forced and bogus heartiness obtaining on large passenger-boats, with their ghastly organised deck-games and evening gaieties. She spent much of her time in her cabin—since except the gloomy little dining-saloon there was nowhere else to sit—or in the pilot’s cabin next door, which she used as a study-cum-luggage room, tapping away at an article on ‘Dockside Diversions’ for Ebb and Flow. Now and again, for air, she went on deck; she asked Captain Blyth if he minded slacks on board—such already was her feeling for the little Skipper—when he said “No, very sensible,” she wore those, with a duffle-coat and fleece-lined rubber zip-boots to the knee superimposed for her outings. Julia had swithered about taking those boots on a journey into sunshine, it seemed so silly; but she had decided to ‘for the Bay’—in fact they were to stand her in good stead on many journeys in Morocco.

  The first time that Mr. Reeder, the mate, encountered her on deck thus equipped, he looked her up and down and said—“Jolly good boots. Where did you get the duffle-coat?”

  “Buntings, in High Street, Kensington,” said Julia—“they go in for war surplus.”

  She asked him about the shipping that dotted the horizon in all directions—the eastern approaches to the Bay seemed almost as full of traffic as Piccadilly—and had pointed out to her tankers, long, low, and ugly; tramps of various sorts, apparently all familiar to Mr. Reeder: “That’s a John Doe Line,” he would say of some spot on the skyline; “They’re small coal-boats.” Near the French coast, off Ushant, lively little fishing craft bobbed about on the grey-blue waters, causing Julia to opine that it must be frightfully difficult to avoid them at night, especially in fog.

  “Not any more—radar’s made all that easy,” he said.

  “Oh, have you got radar?”

  “Naturally,” he said, rather huffily.

  “I wish I could see it,” said Julia.

  “You must ask the Old Man about that,” said Mr. Reeder, repressively. “I’ve no objection to passengers on the bridge, in fact I like the company, but it can’t be done unless he says so.”

  Of course Julia asked Captain Blyth at the very next meal, which was one of those rather indigestible spam-and-salad, cake-and-scone collations at the distasteful hour of five-thirty p.m., if she could go up on the bridge some time to watch the radar functioning.

  “Yes. Better come up tomorrow night, when we shall be off Finisterre—then you’ll see the land on it as well as the ships.”

  They slogged down across the Bay, that evening and that night; next morning Julia awoke to see a rather thin watery sunlight seeping in at her cabin window. She scrambled hastily out of her bunk—a drawer, half-pulled out below it, she had learned to use as a ladder—and ran across to the window to look out. Yes, sun it was, albeit rather faint as yet; in London one had forgotten that such a thing as sunshine existed. And the sea was blue too—faintly blue; anyhow not that cold steely grey. She felt extraordinarily exhilarated as she climbed back into bed just as Andrews, the steward, tapped on the door with her morning tea; he came in wearing his usual rig-out of shirt-sleeves, no collar, a puce pull-over, and a dark stubbly chin. “It looks a nice morning, Miss,” he said—Andrews was evidently slightly exhilarated too.