Two Silver Crosses, page 23
‘Little brother can do it,’ George said. ‘He’s the brains of the family.’
‘Give it here, then,’ Johnny said brusquely. His impoliteness wasn’t intentional, even though George had been putting him down. Now that his thirteenth birthday was approaching, he was in the gawky stage of adolescence with a pimply face, lank brown hair and limbs that had suddenly grown too big for him and were usually out of control. His voice was hard to control too, and he blushed as he took the postcard.
But he understood the French. ‘She’s staying with a very good friend,’ he translated. ‘She is well. She is happy. She doesn’t forget you nor the house. Which house?’
‘This one, you clot,’ his brother said. ‘They used to live here, didn’t they, Babbers?’
‘Anything else?’ Miss Babbacombe said, hoping for a clue.
‘Something about the Sorbonne,’ Johnny said after rereading the card, squinting with effort.
‘What’s that?’ Agnes wanted to know.
‘University of Paris,’ her son said nonchalantly. ‘Tell you what Babbers, I reckon she’s a student.’
‘She could well be,’ Agnes said. ‘She’s the right age for it.’
‘Twenty,’ Miss Babbacombe agreed, nibbling at a bourbon biscuit. ‘Always thought they’d be bright. Didn’t I tell you? Now this is something to tell your Mr Crabbit.’
Which was how Charlie found himself summoned to ‘the presence’ again.
‘How d’you fancy another trip to France?’ Mr Crabbit said, trimming his cigar.
Charlie endeavoured to be polite and sensible, but his heart was racing. ‘Very much, sir. When?’ Next week? The week after? Ever since his return he’d been racking his brains to find a way to get across the Channel and see Jeannie again. Another commission from the Holborns had seemed the only solution. Now here it was.
The answer was a disappointment. ‘Middle of October. Apparently, they’ve had a card from the other twin. Emily. Mrs Everdale thinks she’s studying at the Sorbonne. Wants us to make enquiries. We could write, of course, but it’ll be probably be quicker to send you courier.’
Charlie swallowed his impatience and looked obedient. ‘Yes, sir.’ But he was thinking, October’s eight weeks away. How can I wait that long? I’ll write her another letter and tell her I’m coming back. She might answer that. And, if she doesn’t, I’ll write another one. And another one after that, if I have to. Faint heart never won fair lady.
He was busy composing the letter in his head when he got back to Abbeville Road that evening.
Grandpa Jones had been reading a copy of a magazine with pictures of the Spanish revolt on the centre pages, and sat in Dad’s chair in the chimney corner, holding forth about the Republicans and the Civil Guard.
‘Look a’ this Charlie,’ he said. ‘Says ’ere they’re ferrying troops over from Morocco. The army of Africa in Spanish Morocco. See? Hitler’s been sending ’em planes. Planes from Germany and Italy. See.’
‘You don’t wanna hear a load of ol’ rubbish about some stupid ol’ war, do yer darling?’ Aunt Grace said from her opposing chair.
‘No,’ Charlie said. ‘Not much. I’d rather clear the table for supper.’
‘I think it’s awful,’ Mum said from the scullery. ‘All those poor people getting killed. I though we ’ad enough a that the last time. ’Lo Charlie. Have a good day?’
‘What’s for supper?’ Charlie said, sniffing his way into the scullery. Fried onions! Smashing!
‘Liver an’ bacon.’
‘Lovely grub!’ Dad’s voice called from the hall. ‘Smells a treat. You taken out a lease on that chair, Grandpa?’
‘Keeping it warm for yer,’ Grandpa said unabashed. But he removed himself from the chair and Dad sat in it and eased off his boots.
‘Got a bit a news for you lot,’ he said.
‘What’s that?’ Mum called above the hiss of frying.
‘How d’yer like a seaside holiday?’
‘Be lovely,’ Mum said. ‘When?’
‘Week after next. Job’s due to finish Friday. Me an’ the boys got to talking. Might be an idea to hire a charabanc and all cut off to Margate for a few days. We could take bed an’ breakfast somewhere. What d’yer think? He’d let you off, wouldn’t he, ol’ Mr Thing-a-me?’
‘’Spect so,’ Mum said. ‘Wouldn’t half be nice.’
But Grace was scowling. ‘Oh, not bed an’ breakfast, Stan,’ she protested. ‘I couldn’t be doing with that.’
‘Stay here then,’ Stan said, putting on his slippers. ‘You don’t ’ave to come with us.’
‘I can’t do that,’ Grace wailed. ‘Who’d cook me meals?’
‘Do it yourself,’ Stan said, grinning at her. ‘Make a nice change. Change is as good as a rest.’
‘You’re the most selfish man I ever come across,’ Grace complained. ‘Don’tcher never think a no one but yerself? How am I supposed to cook meals? I shall go an’ stay with our Maud. She’ll ’ave me. I can’t be doing with bed an’ breakfast.’
Stan ignored her. ‘Whatcher think Rube?’ he asked.
‘It’d be lovely,’ Ruby said. ‘Yes, please. Set the table for me, Charlie, there’s a dear. I shall be dishing up directly.’
‘Grandpa?’
‘Count me in,’ the old man said, flushing with pleasure. ‘Yes. Be lovely. I’ll pay me way a course.’
‘Four of us, then,’ Stan said. ‘You an’ me an’ Rube an’ Charlie.’
‘No,’ Charlie said, making his mind up as he spoke. ‘Not me. I couldn’t get time off. Not with this war in Spain. One of our best clients is out there selling arms. And, in any case, I’ve got to go to France again. If you don’t mind, I’d rather save up for that.’
Well, well, Stan thought, so we’re there are we? Well it’s only natural, when all’s said an’ done. Off on your own, trying your wings. You’ll be leaving the nest before we know it. He wondered how Ruby would take that. But he had too much natural tact to comment or argue. ‘Three then,’ he said amiably.
‘You don’t wanna go to France,’ Grace protested. ‘It’s all Froggies in France. Dirty mucky lot, the Froggies. They don’t have lavvies, you know. You’ll wanna go to the seaside with yer mum an’ dad. Breath a fresh air. Plate a whelks.’ And she sang in her awful cracked voice,
‘Oh, I do like ter stroll along the prom, prom, prom, while the brass bands play tiddlely om pom.’
‘Leave the boy be,’ Stan said. ‘He knows what he wants. Don’t yer son?’ And he gave Charlie a wink with the eye that Grace couldn’t see.
It’s true, Charlie thought, as he cut into his first slice of liver. I know exactly what I want. It’s whether I shall get it that’s open to doubt.
That night he wrote a cheerful letter to Jeannie explaining about his commission and asking whether she would allow him to come to Amiens and take her out to dinner.
Or to the pictures or anywhere else you might fancy. Just say the word.
But no word was forthcoming. So he wrote again.
I shan’t give up unless you write back to me to tell me you’re engaged to someone else. If I don’t hear from you, I shall write again in three days’ time.
Which he did.
‘What am I going to do about him?’ Ginny said to her sister, half flattered, and half exasperated.
Emily could hear the confusion in her voice. ‘What do you want to do?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know.’
Emily could see the choices quite clearly. ‘Would you like to see him again? Or do you wish he’d stop writing and leave you alone?’
Ginny thought about it. She was growing accustomed to receiving letters from him now and she had to admit she enjoyed them. ‘Of the two,’ she admitted, ‘I think I’d probably rather see him.’
‘Then write and say so.’
It was a difficult letter to write because she didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but on the other hand she didn’t want to encourage him too much.
If you come to Paris in October, she wrote, and you have a reason to visit Amiens which will not take you out of your way, I should be happy to have a meal with you,
Mes amities,
Jeannie Lisieux.
‘I’ve kept it short,’ she said to Emily, ‘and I’ve written it under Veronique’s address because of Maman, and I haven’t signed my real name either because there’s no need for him to know that.’
‘So now we’ll see,’ Emily said, grinning impishly. ‘Can we answer Ken’s letter now? I want to tell him what sort of bird-table to build.’
How unromantic, Ginny thought, as she took up her pen again. It’s all furnishings and factories with these two.
And they still hadn’t said a word to Maman.
Chapter 16
It is remarkable how a change of mood can alter the appearance of a place. Paris in October was very different from the summertime city that had daunted Charlie Commoner. Now, with Jeannie’s letter in his pocket, the place looked richly coloured and welcoming. Along the boulevards the chestnut trees were in their autumn glory, their amber leaves edged with wine red, and the buildings were a warmer colour, too, under a sky smudged by the smoke spiralling up from every chimney.
It wasn’t just the buildings, either. People looked different as well, from the businessmen striding purposefully across the roads in their stylish suits to the poor kids in shapeless coats and grubby ankle socks quarrelling like sparrows on their way to school. He looked at them with affection, voluble newspaper vendors in their kiosks, workmen in their inevitable blue, sharp-eyed and unshaven, with cigarettes stuck to their lower lips, plump, black-clad women carrying home bundles of long loaves. There were even a couple of fashionable ladies strolling down the boulevard in that film-star way of theirs, furs slung elegantly across their suited shoulders, smart hats worn at an angle, high-heeled shoes clicking on the pavements. As he ran down the steps into the mustiness of the Métro he felt as if he’d come home.
Work first, he told himself, and then Amiens in the evening. He had two full days in which to find his heiresses. Or his heiress. Because there might only be one at the university. He’d written to all the colleges to advise them of his visit, so it shouldn’t take too long. Now that he knew the place, he felt he could cope with anything.
There was plenty to cope with, even for a young man who’d spent the last four years in a solicitor’s office and knew from experience that bureaucracy thrives on delay.
For a start, there were more colleges than he’d been given on his original list and each one had its own registration system. To make matters worse, even though he’d arrived fully prepared with all the necessary credentials and copies of the correspondence, it was almost impossible to get hold of anybody in charge of the records.
All through that Thursday he was passed from office to office, kept hanging about in draughty corridors and on one occasion forgotten about altogether. By the end of the afternoon he’d only got a clear answer from the Sorbonne itself and it wasn’t the answer he wanted. There was no student on the records called Holborn, neither for this academic year nor for the three preceding years. Plainly this search was going to take a lot of effort.
But for the moment he didn’t have to think about it. He’d done what he could for one day. Now he had a date in Amiens with Jeannie. He went galloping down the steps of the nearest Métro, too eager and excited to walk.
In their last exchange of letters Charlie and Ginny had arranged to meet on the cathedral steps at eight o’clock but, propelled by excitement, he caught an earlier train and arrived with more than half an hour to spare. Never a young man to wait with patience, he prowled and fidgeted, round and round the square, up and down the steps, smoking one cigarette after another and so tense that his neck and shoulders were aching. Oh come on! he urged. Come on! Where are you?
Ginny was on her way to their tryst, but unlike Charlie she was walking slowly, held back by uncertainty and a guilty conscience. Even now, after thinking about it for weeks, she wasn’t at all sure she was doing the right thing. It was a temptation to be spending an evening with a young man who’d declared his love for her so passionately and openly, and besieged her with such wonderful letters, but she wasn’t sure it was wise, given all this business about the illness. Worse, it was certainly deceitful. She hadn’t said anything to Maman and she ought to have done. It was a sin not to. Which was why she was feeling guilty. She’d discussed it with Emily over and over again but failed to come to any conclusion. Wouldn’t she have been more sensible to refuse him? Wasn’t hiding it from Maman a sure sign that things weren’t as they should be? On top of all that there was still the illness to be considered — and what Maman would say when she finally had to be told. If she finally had to be told. It was all very troubling.
But when she turned into the square and saw him standing on the cathedral steps, so tall and blond and English, she realised how much she’d wanted to see him again. He’s very handsome, she thought. Vron’s right about that. And she suddenly remembered how tender his eyes were, lovely grey-brown eyes with long straight eyelashes.
Before she had time to think of anything else, he looked up and saw her and ran down the steps to greet her. He caught her by both hands almost as if he was going to kiss her, making her heart give a sudden leap. His face was shining with pleasure at the sight of her and his eyes were as tender as she remembered them, and as full of love.
‘It is good to see you again,’ he said. ‘How are you?’
‘Cold,’ she said, answering him in English. A mist was rising from the river and the air in the cathedral square was dank.
‘We’ll get inside in the warm,’ he said at once. ‘Where would you like to go?’
‘For dinner?’
‘Yes, of course. That’s what we said.’
It was a great treat to dine out. She was used to eating sandwiches and coffee in her lunch break in the café round the corner, but a three-course meal in the evening was quite another thing. And an expensive one. Mindful of his pocket, and not wanting to be seen, she chose one of the cheaper restaurants in the old quarter.
It was a bad choice. The room was dark and greasy, the food poorly cooked and there were only three other customers, so even though they talked to one another in English their conversation was self-conscious and stilted.
They talked about ‘safe’ things, like his journey to France and what they’d been doing at work since they last saw one another.
‘What job are you doing now?’ she asked.
‘Here in France do you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, still the heiresses. They’re at the Sorbonne. Or at least one of them is. Or might be. I’ve got to find out.’
‘You’ve been looking for them for ages,’ she said. ‘Don’t you get bored with it?’
‘No. I’ve made up my mind to find them, you see.’
‘I’d have given up long ago.’
‘Patience is a virtue.’
She dimly remembered Miss Babbacombe saying something like that and the memory made her smile. ‘Are you patient?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said honestly. ‘Not really. I am when I’m at work but waiting to see you again was hideous. I don’t know how I managed it.’
The tone of their conversation was getting too intimate for comfort. Glancing behind her at the other diners, Ginny shifted in her seat and bit her underlip.
‘You’ll have to translate this menu for me,’ Charlie said, deftly rescuing her.
They chose steak au poivre. But that wasn’t a wise choice either, as Ginny discovered after the first leathery mouthful.
Charlie struggled with his meat until he’d eaten half of it, but even he was defeated.
‘It’s like an old saddle,’ he confided. ‘What have they done to it?’
She was embarrassed to have chosen so badly. ‘I’ve never been here before,’ she said apologetically. ‘I am sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Never mind. We’ll find somewhere else tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow,’ she said, and the thought of seeing him two evenings in a row made her panic. She would never be able to explain two evenings to Maman. ‘No, no. I’m sorry. I can’t see you tomorrow.’
He swallowed his disappointment with the last mouthful of half-chewed steak. ‘Saturday then?’
‘Here? In Amiens?’
‘Unless you could get to Paris? Could you? We could go to the pictures or the theatre or something.’
Paris was possible, and a lot more sensible than meeting here, where they could be seen. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I have to work in the morning, but I could go there afterwards.’
‘I’ll get all my work finished tomorrow,’ he promised, ‘or first thing Saturday morning at the latest and then we can have the rest of the weekend to enjoy ourselves.’ And he was thinking, it’ll be better in Paris. It’s more lively there.
It was late by the time they finished their meal, but she wouldn’t let him see her home.
‘I’ll catch a train,’ she said.
‘Do you live so far away?’ he said, hoping she would tell him where.
‘No, no. It isn’t far. I shall soon be there.’
‘Then I’ll walk with you to the station.’ If he could see what train she got on he’d know which direction she was going in.
But she said goodbye to him in the station entrance. Much too formally. ‘Thank you for the dinner.’
‘Such as it was,’ he said. ‘I’ll do better next time. See you on Saturday then. What train will you catch? If you can tell me what time you’ll get in, I’ll meet you at the Gare du Nord.’
She told him and was gone, leaving him to his disappointment and carrying her own back to Boves, chilled in a very chill night. It hadn’t been the sort of evening either of them had hoped for.
But the weekend will be different, Charlie vowed, his optimism returning as he boarded the train back to Paris. We were bound to be a bit awkward with one another after all this time. Now we’ve broken the ice it’ll be quite different on Saturday.
‘Give it here, then,’ Johnny said brusquely. His impoliteness wasn’t intentional, even though George had been putting him down. Now that his thirteenth birthday was approaching, he was in the gawky stage of adolescence with a pimply face, lank brown hair and limbs that had suddenly grown too big for him and were usually out of control. His voice was hard to control too, and he blushed as he took the postcard.
But he understood the French. ‘She’s staying with a very good friend,’ he translated. ‘She is well. She is happy. She doesn’t forget you nor the house. Which house?’
‘This one, you clot,’ his brother said. ‘They used to live here, didn’t they, Babbers?’
‘Anything else?’ Miss Babbacombe said, hoping for a clue.
‘Something about the Sorbonne,’ Johnny said after rereading the card, squinting with effort.
‘What’s that?’ Agnes wanted to know.
‘University of Paris,’ her son said nonchalantly. ‘Tell you what Babbers, I reckon she’s a student.’
‘She could well be,’ Agnes said. ‘She’s the right age for it.’
‘Twenty,’ Miss Babbacombe agreed, nibbling at a bourbon biscuit. ‘Always thought they’d be bright. Didn’t I tell you? Now this is something to tell your Mr Crabbit.’
Which was how Charlie found himself summoned to ‘the presence’ again.
‘How d’you fancy another trip to France?’ Mr Crabbit said, trimming his cigar.
Charlie endeavoured to be polite and sensible, but his heart was racing. ‘Very much, sir. When?’ Next week? The week after? Ever since his return he’d been racking his brains to find a way to get across the Channel and see Jeannie again. Another commission from the Holborns had seemed the only solution. Now here it was.
The answer was a disappointment. ‘Middle of October. Apparently, they’ve had a card from the other twin. Emily. Mrs Everdale thinks she’s studying at the Sorbonne. Wants us to make enquiries. We could write, of course, but it’ll be probably be quicker to send you courier.’
Charlie swallowed his impatience and looked obedient. ‘Yes, sir.’ But he was thinking, October’s eight weeks away. How can I wait that long? I’ll write her another letter and tell her I’m coming back. She might answer that. And, if she doesn’t, I’ll write another one. And another one after that, if I have to. Faint heart never won fair lady.
He was busy composing the letter in his head when he got back to Abbeville Road that evening.
Grandpa Jones had been reading a copy of a magazine with pictures of the Spanish revolt on the centre pages, and sat in Dad’s chair in the chimney corner, holding forth about the Republicans and the Civil Guard.
‘Look a’ this Charlie,’ he said. ‘Says ’ere they’re ferrying troops over from Morocco. The army of Africa in Spanish Morocco. See? Hitler’s been sending ’em planes. Planes from Germany and Italy. See.’
‘You don’t wanna hear a load of ol’ rubbish about some stupid ol’ war, do yer darling?’ Aunt Grace said from her opposing chair.
‘No,’ Charlie said. ‘Not much. I’d rather clear the table for supper.’
‘I think it’s awful,’ Mum said from the scullery. ‘All those poor people getting killed. I though we ’ad enough a that the last time. ’Lo Charlie. Have a good day?’
‘What’s for supper?’ Charlie said, sniffing his way into the scullery. Fried onions! Smashing!
‘Liver an’ bacon.’
‘Lovely grub!’ Dad’s voice called from the hall. ‘Smells a treat. You taken out a lease on that chair, Grandpa?’
‘Keeping it warm for yer,’ Grandpa said unabashed. But he removed himself from the chair and Dad sat in it and eased off his boots.
‘Got a bit a news for you lot,’ he said.
‘What’s that?’ Mum called above the hiss of frying.
‘How d’yer like a seaside holiday?’
‘Be lovely,’ Mum said. ‘When?’
‘Week after next. Job’s due to finish Friday. Me an’ the boys got to talking. Might be an idea to hire a charabanc and all cut off to Margate for a few days. We could take bed an’ breakfast somewhere. What d’yer think? He’d let you off, wouldn’t he, ol’ Mr Thing-a-me?’
‘’Spect so,’ Mum said. ‘Wouldn’t half be nice.’
But Grace was scowling. ‘Oh, not bed an’ breakfast, Stan,’ she protested. ‘I couldn’t be doing with that.’
‘Stay here then,’ Stan said, putting on his slippers. ‘You don’t ’ave to come with us.’
‘I can’t do that,’ Grace wailed. ‘Who’d cook me meals?’
‘Do it yourself,’ Stan said, grinning at her. ‘Make a nice change. Change is as good as a rest.’
‘You’re the most selfish man I ever come across,’ Grace complained. ‘Don’tcher never think a no one but yerself? How am I supposed to cook meals? I shall go an’ stay with our Maud. She’ll ’ave me. I can’t be doing with bed an’ breakfast.’
Stan ignored her. ‘Whatcher think Rube?’ he asked.
‘It’d be lovely,’ Ruby said. ‘Yes, please. Set the table for me, Charlie, there’s a dear. I shall be dishing up directly.’
‘Grandpa?’
‘Count me in,’ the old man said, flushing with pleasure. ‘Yes. Be lovely. I’ll pay me way a course.’
‘Four of us, then,’ Stan said. ‘You an’ me an’ Rube an’ Charlie.’
‘No,’ Charlie said, making his mind up as he spoke. ‘Not me. I couldn’t get time off. Not with this war in Spain. One of our best clients is out there selling arms. And, in any case, I’ve got to go to France again. If you don’t mind, I’d rather save up for that.’
Well, well, Stan thought, so we’re there are we? Well it’s only natural, when all’s said an’ done. Off on your own, trying your wings. You’ll be leaving the nest before we know it. He wondered how Ruby would take that. But he had too much natural tact to comment or argue. ‘Three then,’ he said amiably.
‘You don’t wanna go to France,’ Grace protested. ‘It’s all Froggies in France. Dirty mucky lot, the Froggies. They don’t have lavvies, you know. You’ll wanna go to the seaside with yer mum an’ dad. Breath a fresh air. Plate a whelks.’ And she sang in her awful cracked voice,
‘Oh, I do like ter stroll along the prom, prom, prom, while the brass bands play tiddlely om pom.’
‘Leave the boy be,’ Stan said. ‘He knows what he wants. Don’t yer son?’ And he gave Charlie a wink with the eye that Grace couldn’t see.
It’s true, Charlie thought, as he cut into his first slice of liver. I know exactly what I want. It’s whether I shall get it that’s open to doubt.
That night he wrote a cheerful letter to Jeannie explaining about his commission and asking whether she would allow him to come to Amiens and take her out to dinner.
Or to the pictures or anywhere else you might fancy. Just say the word.
But no word was forthcoming. So he wrote again.
I shan’t give up unless you write back to me to tell me you’re engaged to someone else. If I don’t hear from you, I shall write again in three days’ time.
Which he did.
‘What am I going to do about him?’ Ginny said to her sister, half flattered, and half exasperated.
Emily could hear the confusion in her voice. ‘What do you want to do?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know.’
Emily could see the choices quite clearly. ‘Would you like to see him again? Or do you wish he’d stop writing and leave you alone?’
Ginny thought about it. She was growing accustomed to receiving letters from him now and she had to admit she enjoyed them. ‘Of the two,’ she admitted, ‘I think I’d probably rather see him.’
‘Then write and say so.’
It was a difficult letter to write because she didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but on the other hand she didn’t want to encourage him too much.
If you come to Paris in October, she wrote, and you have a reason to visit Amiens which will not take you out of your way, I should be happy to have a meal with you,
Mes amities,
Jeannie Lisieux.
‘I’ve kept it short,’ she said to Emily, ‘and I’ve written it under Veronique’s address because of Maman, and I haven’t signed my real name either because there’s no need for him to know that.’
‘So now we’ll see,’ Emily said, grinning impishly. ‘Can we answer Ken’s letter now? I want to tell him what sort of bird-table to build.’
How unromantic, Ginny thought, as she took up her pen again. It’s all furnishings and factories with these two.
And they still hadn’t said a word to Maman.
Chapter 16
It is remarkable how a change of mood can alter the appearance of a place. Paris in October was very different from the summertime city that had daunted Charlie Commoner. Now, with Jeannie’s letter in his pocket, the place looked richly coloured and welcoming. Along the boulevards the chestnut trees were in their autumn glory, their amber leaves edged with wine red, and the buildings were a warmer colour, too, under a sky smudged by the smoke spiralling up from every chimney.
It wasn’t just the buildings, either. People looked different as well, from the businessmen striding purposefully across the roads in their stylish suits to the poor kids in shapeless coats and grubby ankle socks quarrelling like sparrows on their way to school. He looked at them with affection, voluble newspaper vendors in their kiosks, workmen in their inevitable blue, sharp-eyed and unshaven, with cigarettes stuck to their lower lips, plump, black-clad women carrying home bundles of long loaves. There were even a couple of fashionable ladies strolling down the boulevard in that film-star way of theirs, furs slung elegantly across their suited shoulders, smart hats worn at an angle, high-heeled shoes clicking on the pavements. As he ran down the steps into the mustiness of the Métro he felt as if he’d come home.
Work first, he told himself, and then Amiens in the evening. He had two full days in which to find his heiresses. Or his heiress. Because there might only be one at the university. He’d written to all the colleges to advise them of his visit, so it shouldn’t take too long. Now that he knew the place, he felt he could cope with anything.
There was plenty to cope with, even for a young man who’d spent the last four years in a solicitor’s office and knew from experience that bureaucracy thrives on delay.
For a start, there were more colleges than he’d been given on his original list and each one had its own registration system. To make matters worse, even though he’d arrived fully prepared with all the necessary credentials and copies of the correspondence, it was almost impossible to get hold of anybody in charge of the records.
All through that Thursday he was passed from office to office, kept hanging about in draughty corridors and on one occasion forgotten about altogether. By the end of the afternoon he’d only got a clear answer from the Sorbonne itself and it wasn’t the answer he wanted. There was no student on the records called Holborn, neither for this academic year nor for the three preceding years. Plainly this search was going to take a lot of effort.
But for the moment he didn’t have to think about it. He’d done what he could for one day. Now he had a date in Amiens with Jeannie. He went galloping down the steps of the nearest Métro, too eager and excited to walk.
In their last exchange of letters Charlie and Ginny had arranged to meet on the cathedral steps at eight o’clock but, propelled by excitement, he caught an earlier train and arrived with more than half an hour to spare. Never a young man to wait with patience, he prowled and fidgeted, round and round the square, up and down the steps, smoking one cigarette after another and so tense that his neck and shoulders were aching. Oh come on! he urged. Come on! Where are you?
Ginny was on her way to their tryst, but unlike Charlie she was walking slowly, held back by uncertainty and a guilty conscience. Even now, after thinking about it for weeks, she wasn’t at all sure she was doing the right thing. It was a temptation to be spending an evening with a young man who’d declared his love for her so passionately and openly, and besieged her with such wonderful letters, but she wasn’t sure it was wise, given all this business about the illness. Worse, it was certainly deceitful. She hadn’t said anything to Maman and she ought to have done. It was a sin not to. Which was why she was feeling guilty. She’d discussed it with Emily over and over again but failed to come to any conclusion. Wouldn’t she have been more sensible to refuse him? Wasn’t hiding it from Maman a sure sign that things weren’t as they should be? On top of all that there was still the illness to be considered — and what Maman would say when she finally had to be told. If she finally had to be told. It was all very troubling.
But when she turned into the square and saw him standing on the cathedral steps, so tall and blond and English, she realised how much she’d wanted to see him again. He’s very handsome, she thought. Vron’s right about that. And she suddenly remembered how tender his eyes were, lovely grey-brown eyes with long straight eyelashes.
Before she had time to think of anything else, he looked up and saw her and ran down the steps to greet her. He caught her by both hands almost as if he was going to kiss her, making her heart give a sudden leap. His face was shining with pleasure at the sight of her and his eyes were as tender as she remembered them, and as full of love.
‘It is good to see you again,’ he said. ‘How are you?’
‘Cold,’ she said, answering him in English. A mist was rising from the river and the air in the cathedral square was dank.
‘We’ll get inside in the warm,’ he said at once. ‘Where would you like to go?’
‘For dinner?’
‘Yes, of course. That’s what we said.’
It was a great treat to dine out. She was used to eating sandwiches and coffee in her lunch break in the café round the corner, but a three-course meal in the evening was quite another thing. And an expensive one. Mindful of his pocket, and not wanting to be seen, she chose one of the cheaper restaurants in the old quarter.
It was a bad choice. The room was dark and greasy, the food poorly cooked and there were only three other customers, so even though they talked to one another in English their conversation was self-conscious and stilted.
They talked about ‘safe’ things, like his journey to France and what they’d been doing at work since they last saw one another.
‘What job are you doing now?’ she asked.
‘Here in France do you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, still the heiresses. They’re at the Sorbonne. Or at least one of them is. Or might be. I’ve got to find out.’
‘You’ve been looking for them for ages,’ she said. ‘Don’t you get bored with it?’
‘No. I’ve made up my mind to find them, you see.’
‘I’d have given up long ago.’
‘Patience is a virtue.’
She dimly remembered Miss Babbacombe saying something like that and the memory made her smile. ‘Are you patient?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said honestly. ‘Not really. I am when I’m at work but waiting to see you again was hideous. I don’t know how I managed it.’
The tone of their conversation was getting too intimate for comfort. Glancing behind her at the other diners, Ginny shifted in her seat and bit her underlip.
‘You’ll have to translate this menu for me,’ Charlie said, deftly rescuing her.
They chose steak au poivre. But that wasn’t a wise choice either, as Ginny discovered after the first leathery mouthful.
Charlie struggled with his meat until he’d eaten half of it, but even he was defeated.
‘It’s like an old saddle,’ he confided. ‘What have they done to it?’
She was embarrassed to have chosen so badly. ‘I’ve never been here before,’ she said apologetically. ‘I am sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Never mind. We’ll find somewhere else tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow,’ she said, and the thought of seeing him two evenings in a row made her panic. She would never be able to explain two evenings to Maman. ‘No, no. I’m sorry. I can’t see you tomorrow.’
He swallowed his disappointment with the last mouthful of half-chewed steak. ‘Saturday then?’
‘Here? In Amiens?’
‘Unless you could get to Paris? Could you? We could go to the pictures or the theatre or something.’
Paris was possible, and a lot more sensible than meeting here, where they could be seen. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I have to work in the morning, but I could go there afterwards.’
‘I’ll get all my work finished tomorrow,’ he promised, ‘or first thing Saturday morning at the latest and then we can have the rest of the weekend to enjoy ourselves.’ And he was thinking, it’ll be better in Paris. It’s more lively there.
It was late by the time they finished their meal, but she wouldn’t let him see her home.
‘I’ll catch a train,’ she said.
‘Do you live so far away?’ he said, hoping she would tell him where.
‘No, no. It isn’t far. I shall soon be there.’
‘Then I’ll walk with you to the station.’ If he could see what train she got on he’d know which direction she was going in.
But she said goodbye to him in the station entrance. Much too formally. ‘Thank you for the dinner.’
‘Such as it was,’ he said. ‘I’ll do better next time. See you on Saturday then. What train will you catch? If you can tell me what time you’ll get in, I’ll meet you at the Gare du Nord.’
She told him and was gone, leaving him to his disappointment and carrying her own back to Boves, chilled in a very chill night. It hadn’t been the sort of evening either of them had hoped for.
But the weekend will be different, Charlie vowed, his optimism returning as he boarded the train back to Paris. We were bound to be a bit awkward with one another after all this time. Now we’ve broken the ice it’ll be quite different on Saturday.
