Emergency in the Pyrenees

by Ann Bridge

‘Oh, dear Nick! This is exactly how I have been feeling. You understand everything!’ Luzia exclaimed, greatly relieved.

  Nick too was enormously relieved, as well as startled, by the implications of this—they answered all the questions that he had so carefully refrained from putting. He wanted very much at least to take Luzia’s hand, but managed not to. After a pause—.‘Well, don’t ever forget that I love you’ he said. ‘Let’s leave it at that.’ (The Heriots were all great ones for leaving things at that.)

  ‘Yes, let us do this.’ Suddenly she gave a little broken laugh.

  ‘You must pick up Madame Bonnecourt outside the Hotel de France at half-past five, to take her home; she goes to the cinema after the coiffeur. I have told your Mother that I arranged this, though it will make you so late.’

  ‘Of course I’ll do that. But why do you laugh?’

  ‘Because this matters so little, and we so much; and yet it must be arranged. Your Mother promised to tell you, but now I do.’ She went quickly away to her room.

  * * *

  Luzia was rather thankful that organising Julia’s move to the Victoire kept her out of the house for practically the whole of the next day. Lady Heriot, with her usual wise kindness, arranged that old Pierre should drive her there early in the morning, instead of either twin; there was a big basket of roses in the car, and another with assorted vases. ‘They never have any vases that it’s possible to arrange flowers in in these small hotels’ she said to Luzia, as she saw her off. ‘Tell Mrs. Jamieson that they’re mine, and she’ll see that they come back.’. ‘Oh yes, of course you’ll want to lunch there’ she pursued, in reply to a remark of Luzia’s. ‘No point in running to and fro all the time! I’m sure the Colonel will bring you back. Don’t get too tired, my dear.’

  At the Victoire the all-time valet-de-chambre carried the baskets up to Mrs. Jamieson’s room; at Luzia’s request he brought her a jug of water to fill the vases, and looked on with pleasure while the girl arranged Lady Heriot’s roses. The room was large, with two French windows giving onto a wide shady verandah; as a result of Luzia’s urgency with the patron it now contained a reasonable number of chairs and small tables—when the roses were disposed about it the general effect was very pleasant. Satisfied, Luzia walked round to the clinic, and set to on Julia’s packing. Philip Jamieson was there.

  ‘Ah, good. Julia wouldn’t let me touch a thing till you came! Now, is there anything I can take along in advance?’ Luzia said he could take the sherry and the vin du pays out of the cupboard, and most of the suit-cases which she and Dick had, so happily, brought down together from Larége. Oh, poor Dick, the girl thought sadly, as she folded nightdresses and stowed slippers and toilet accessories. There was really not much to do; Julia had brought very little in her hurried flight to the clinic, when Bonnecourt had packed for her.

  ‘I could really have done that myself’ Julia said, when Luzia had finished. ‘However, I’m most grateful to you. Now sit down and rest for a minute, till Philip comes back.’ She thought the girl’s face looked rather drawn, and was anxious to learn how she had got on, if at all, with the awkward task of dismissing one young man and accepting the other; she wished she had thought of some errand to dispose of her Philip for longer. Luzia, for her part, was equally anxious to tell her most trusted friend the new developments. There would be much more unpacking to do at the Victoire than the packing here, since Julia would want all her things out, now that she was up and about—and probably Colonel Jamieson would be hanging round the whole time. But she felt nervous about embarking on a difficult explanation which might be interrupted at any moment; she felt unwontedly nervous, anyhow. In fact a moment later Philip Jamieson walked in.

  ‘All set?’ he asked. ‘You’ve made the room lovely with all those flowers’ he said to Luzia.

  The words ‘the room’ gave Luzia the cue that Julia had sought in vain.

  ‘Colonel Jamieson, just one thing. Did you try the light by the bed? It had only a very weak bulb in it; I told the patron to put in one of 60 watts, so that Mrs. Jamieson could read in bed, but I stupidly forgot to look at it just now. I am not sure that he would keep his promise.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. But we can see to that this afternoon. Come on, now.’

  ‘No, Philip’ his wife said, in her slowest tones. ‘This afternoon I shall want to be quiet, when this kindest child has done my unpacking—I shan’t want any fusses over lamps! Do please go and check on it at once; if it isn’t a 60-watt bulb, go and buy one. A 75 would really be better—you know what my eyes are like.’ (In fact Julia’s immense and beautiful eyes were both myopic and weak.) ‘There’s heaps of time before déjeuner’ she added.

  The Colonel, obediently, went off. But Julia had picked up her cue, too.

  ‘That was clever of you’ she said. ‘Now, dear child, do tell me how you are getting on—if you would like to, of course.’

  ‘I wish to’ Luzia said, with her usual direct simplicity. She recounted how she had made the excuse of telephoning to give poor Dick his congé two days before. ‘Because really, Miss Probyn, I found all this so troubling that I wanted to en finir as soon as possible.’

  ‘Naturally; I quite understand. And what have you done about Nick?’

  ‘I had no need to do anything! This good Dick told his brother himself, the same evening.’

  ‘Oh, well done Dick. You’re right about all the Heriots being nice! Well, and then?’

  ‘Then yesterday I had a most dismal drive up to Larége with Nick to bring Madame Bonnecourt down to see you’ the girl said, with a half-rueful, half-comic little grimace. ‘I had looked forward to it! But of course I did not know that Dick had told him, and he could not know whether I knew or not, so it was merely embarrassing, and empty!’

  ‘How wretched for you both!’ Julia exclaimed; she could so well envisage that abortive drive, and was full of sympathy. But Luzia must have had some further reason for knowing that Dick had reported his dismissal to his twin. ‘So then?’ she asked.

  ‘Yesterday morning I remained at the Victoire, seeing about your room, till Madame B. and I went out to luncheon. But when I came back—I was so énervée, trying to think what to do, that I forgot to get any flowers in the town—I went to the rose-garden to pick some, and Lady Heriot was there, and said that she would do it. Oh, if something really happens she will be the kindest of belles-mères!’ the girl exclaimed. ‘She thinks of everything to make all easy for me.’

  ‘But is anything likely to happen?’ Julia asked—she was tantalised by all this round-about story, sorry as she was about Luzia’s predicament, and longed to get to the point.

  ‘I think perhaps yes; presently. When I went indoors—Lady Heriot insisted that I should go and rest—Nick intercepted me; he said it was a good opportunity, as everyone was out.’ She hesitated for a moment, and then went on: ‘He told me, then, that Dick had let him know that I would never marry him; but he felt it was too soon to settle anything between us two. I feel the same; it would be inconvenable, at this moment. But later on he wishes to come to Gralheira, and meet Papa; and I think that then, things may arrange themselves.’

  ‘And would you like to marry Nick, apart from his helping your Father?’ Julia was still acutely conscious that she was responsible for leading Luzia into this imbroglio, and that she would be going back to Portugal, completely out of reach, in forty-eight hours; she felt that she must know where the girl herself stood.

  ‘Yes’ Luzia said, this time without the smallest hesitation. ‘I am quite decided. He is tao bom’—she fell into her native tongue to express her sense of Nick’s goodness. ‘Miss Probyn, how often does one find a man who even when he is in love puts the feelings of others before himself, is honourable, has delicacy? I have not met any such yet, except Nick!’ She paused. ‘And you say “apart from” his helping Papa, but I cannot put these things apart!’ she stated roundly—’they belong together.’

  Julia fastened on one phrase in Luzia’s words: ‘even wh
en he is in love’; she dealt with it.

  ‘Has he said that he is in love with you?’

  ‘Yes. He said I should remember that, till we meet again.’ The girl’s sudden expression of happy confidence made any question about her own feelings unnecessary.

  ‘Dearest, I am so glad’ Julia said. She would make a point of seeing Nick, and forming her own opinion, while she was at the Victoire; there would be plenty of time before young Philip Bernard would be à terme, and strong enough to undertake the flight home to England. Meanwhile her husband’s judgment was wholly in favour of Nick.

  ‘I wonder how much the old Heriots know’ Julia speculated—‘I mean, about you and Nick.’

  ‘I think she has some idea’ Luzia was beginning, when Philip walked in.

  ‘It was only a 40-watt bulb!’ he exclaimed. ‘Really, French hoteliers! I bought a 75 one and put it in myself; and I told that wretched old patron that I wasn’t paying any damned surcharge either! Now, shall we go?’

  Julia looked at her watch.

  ‘If I could fit in one more feed before lunch, I shouldn’t have to come dashing back the moment after’ she said. ‘Luzia, do go and see the old sage-femme, and ask her, would you? It’s not far off the time, anyhow.’

  The sage-femme agreed to the baby’s being fed fifteen minutes early, and herself suggested that he should be given a bottle for the next meal—’ Then Madame can get some rest after her déménagement, and need only return at 4.30. Since the child does so well, one feed of le Glaxo will do him no harm.’ So the Philipino, as Julia had begun to call him, was nursed, and then the little party went off to the Victoire.

  Julia was delighted with her room, the profusion of flowers, and the cool shady balcony. ‘Perfect!’ she said.

  ‘The food’s pretty poor’ Philip warned her.

  ‘Never mind; I have a splendid appetite.’ After lunch they had coffee brought up to the verandah; then Julia lay on her bed while Luzia unpacked and stowed everything in accordance with her wishes, Philip parking the suit-cases on an inner corner of the balcony, where no rain could reach them.

  ‘Dear child, how good you are to me!’ Julia said, when all was done.

  ‘You have been good to me in the past, for a long time’ the girl replied. She had no wish to leave, and was glad when Julia caused Philip to have tea brought up; afterwards Mrs. Jamieson went off on the first of many sunny strolls from the hotel to feed the Philipino—down the drive under the acacias, along the Route de Toulouse, and in at the gate of the clinic, where a room was provided for nursing. Luzia stayed and talked with Philip, who spoke with gratitude of all she had done for his wife. ‘She’d have been sunk without you. I hadn’t realised what the position is now at Larége about—er—domestic help and so on; I never dreamt of your having to do what you did.’

  ‘I enjoyed everything’ Luzia said, pleasantly.

  ‘Well, I hope your Father won’t be furious when he hears about it’ Philip said, a little anxiously. He knew, far better than the British press ever encourages its public to realise, the immense importance of good relations between England and Portugal from the strategic angle, with the Azores commanding the Western Approaches. He also knew precisely how important a figure the Duke of Ericeira was in the counsels of his country, for all his retired life on his estates for so much of the year. And his daughter had scrubbed Julia’s floors!—as well as doing much of her cooking, and all her washing-up.

  ‘I tell Papa what I think fit, in my own way’ Luzia said, coolly. ‘In any case it was not Julia’s fault; she had no idea of the circumstances at Larége when she invited me’ she added, with a faint glint of malice. Like Lord Heriot, the girl thought Philip Jamieson had been extraordinarily reckless over the whole plan; she could not resist, at last, this slight dig at him. ‘After all, she had never been there,’ she observed dispassionately. As the man stared at her, actually blushing a little—the implication of blame in her words was so clear, for all their restraint—’ Let us be thankful to le bon Dieu for the Heriots with their car, and all their help; and also for this good Bonnecourt’ Luzia pursued, looking him straight in the face. ‘Without them, we should all have been what you call “sunk”, Colonel.’

  Perhaps it was just as well that at that moment Julia walked in.

  ‘Greedy pig, the Philipino’ she announced, sitting down. ‘Nearly the whole of both sides, this time! He prefers Mother to “le Glaxo”, it seems. Philip, is it too early for a spot of sherry before Luzia goes back? I believe stout is the thing to nurse on, but one can’t get it out here, and one must have some restorative.’ She had noticed her husband’s face, and a certain rather complacent expression on Luzia’s; when he went in from the balcony to fetch the sherry—‘What have you two been talking about?’ she asked, in a lowered voice.

  ‘Life at Larége!’ Luzia said, with a mischievous little smile.

  Chapter 15

  There was quite a party at the station on Monday to see Luzia off: all four Heriots, and Julia as well as Philip Jamieson. ‘Of course I must come’ Julia said firmly to her husband. ‘The creature can have a bottle, like he did on Saturday.’

  All railway farewells are apt to be mildly awkward occasions; there is too much time to fill in, and generally anything there is to say has either been said already, or cannot be said in public. Both the twins were rather tongue-tied; they set out Luzia’s suitcases, and stood at the ready at the edge of the platform; the elders talked. Lady Heriot embraced the girl warmly. ‘It has been the greatest possible pleasure to have you with us.’ The only surprise was afforded by old Lord Heriot, who said, grasping Luzia’s hand and shaking it up and down—‘Haste ye back! You can’t come too soon.’ The twins avoided one another’s eyes, and looked at the luggage; as the train drew in Dick leapt aboard, found a seat, and opened a window; Nick passed the cases up to him. Luzia gave Julia a last fond hug, and climbed into the train; Dick beckoned her along the corridor to her place.

  ‘There you are—not such a crowd today.’

  ‘Thank you so very much, Dick’ the girl said. ‘You have been so good.’

  ‘Nothing to thank me for’ the boy said awkwardly. ‘Goodbye, Luzia.’ ‘Best of luck,’ he mumbled, as he went out and down the corridor; Luzia dabbed sudden tears from her eyes before she went to the window, and waved to the little group on the platform as the train pulled out.

  Driving back to the Victoire—‘Well, it looks as though the old boy wouldn’t mind her as a daughter-in-law, even if she is an R.C.’ Philip said to his wife. ‘What a démarche, from him of all people!’

  ‘Yes, I daresay she has subjugated him’ Julia said. ‘She does do that to lots of people.’ She glanced with a certain amused interest at her husband; she was still wondering what Luzia had said to him about ‘life at Larége’, but had refrained from asking. ‘Not you, though, I fancy’ she said now, in an oblique enquiry. She did so hope that Philip and her precious Luzia had not, and never would, ‘get across’ one another.

  ‘She’s a cool little cuss’ Philip said, with a non-committal expression.

  ‘Oh Philip, she’s much more than that!’ his wife protested. What could Luzia have been saying?

  ‘Yes, she is’ he agreed, as he swung the car into the drive of the Victoire. ‘She’s dead honest, and I’m sure she’s completely trustworthy; one can’t say that of everyone.’ But he didn’t explain—few men care to admit to their wives that they have been ticked off by a young girl. Julia was left guessing. ‘Honest’ gave her a faint clue; ‘trustworthy’ none. She had never given a thought to the dear old Duque’s importance from the diplomatic angle, and did not guess at her husband’s professional anxiety about his daughter having scrubbed her floors. She changed the subject.

  ‘I should so like to see Lady Heriot’ she said, as she got out of the car, ‘and hear what she thinks about it all. I wonder if you could get her to come round.’

  ‘I’ll ring her up’ Philip said. The Victoire did not run to telephones in
the bedrooms, but as they went into the hall the patron met them with an important expression; there had been an urgent call from Paris for M. le Colonel; he should ring back the moment he came in. He handed Philip a small, rather crumpled piece of paper, on which had been scrawled, in purple pencil, a familiar number.

  ‘Thank you; I will see to it.’ Upstairs he said to Julia—‘That’s the Office. I think I’ll ring them from the Heriots; then I can ask Lady H. at the same time if she could come round and see you.’

  The call proved to be a message from Major Hartley in London, passed on by the Paris Office, announcing the safe arrival of Colin and Bonnecourt at Glentoran; Philip, as so often before, received it in Lord Heriot’s study, and jotted it down on the block which always lay by the telephone, a pencil fastened to it by a length of string. Of course no names were mentioned. ‘Your wife’s cousin and his companion have arrived at where you might expect; they got a plane a day early.’ Then followed a typical Hartley-ism; the Major was the most humane of men, and loved it when things turned out right, and he could give pleasure. ‘Young C. says his chum is thrilled with the place, and the house, and his job; and his wealthy employer seems very pleased with him. They’re ready for Madame at any time; and the chum particularly wanted her to be told that the house is fully furnished; she need not bring anything.’ Then a sort of post-script—‘I’ve ordered the camels.’ Major Monteith, who read the message verbatim over the telephone to Philip, said—‘I’m not sure about that last word. Can it really be “camels”?’

  ‘Yes, that’s quite correct’ Philip said.

  ‘But I thought from what London said that these blokes were going to Scotland. Can camels live in Scotland?’

  ‘No; and they’re not wanted to. Thanks, M.’ He rang off.

  Lady Heriot gladly agreed to come and see Julia after tea. ‘I should have suggested it sooner, only I didn’t want to burden her. But I thought she was looking blooming at the station. Very well—5 o’clock.’