Here Be Dragons

by Stella Gibbons

  She saw his tall figure as a dark blur through the clouded glass panels in the front door. But there was something … it wasn’t quite … she opened it quickly, and her heart seemed to stop.

  The policeman touched his helmet, looking at her steadily with light, severe eyes. He did not say anything for a moment. Over his shoulder Nell saw the soft dim lights suddenly going up in the blue air of the road.

  “Does John Gaunt live here?” he said at last.

  “Yes.” Her lips felt cold and stiff but her voice sounded ordinary. She did not take her eyes from his.

  “Is he in?”

  “No. No, he—he isn’t.”

  “When do you expect him in?”

  “I don’t know, I’m afraid.” Now she was all caution. There was one thought: just one: to keep him from them. But what had … She shut off the wild questions.

  “You are Miss Gaunt? His sister? Or do you just live in the house?”

  She explained who she was, and who lived in the house, adding that her parents were out, and John’s father and step-mother at present in the country. She knew that it was no use keeping any information back, and also that it would be very silly to make him angry. She spoke in a businesslike way, keeping her eyes always fixed on his, and praying that he would not ask her to tell him about John’s habits and the places where he might be, and she did not smile, in case he should think that she was trying to placate him; she did not know that her cool voice was becoming haughtier with each answer and that her face was very pale. The front of her linen blouse was shaking with her heartbeats.

  “Well, now I’ll tell you what it’s about,” the policeman said when she had answered all his questions, and in spite of her fear she felt some relaxation in the tension, the severity, of the atmosphere: it did not lessen her apprehension at all.

  “He didn’t report for his Medical Examination for the Forces yesterday. Is he ill?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “It’s a serious offence, unless he had an excuse through illness.”

  Then it came. He looked at her piercingly. “Do you know where he is?”

  She shook her head.

  “You’ve not even got an idea where he might be?”

  Again she wagged her head, then compelled herself to say, “I have absolutely no idea,” thanking God that she hadn’t.

  “You’re sure, Miss Sely? If you have, and you’re concealing information, it could be serious for you, you know.”

  “I haven’t seen him—we none of us have—for days.”

  “Oh? How many days?”

  “About—four, I think.” Yes, it must be four days; four this evening.

  “Four days. Does he often go off for four days like this?” She shook her head once more. “Thank you.” He was putting away a notebook. “If he turns up, tell him to report immediately to the place stated on his instructions.”

  He touched his helmet again and went lightly down the steps; he was a slender man whose narrow foxy face had no trace of the fox mask’s furtiveness, not yet old enough to feel pity for a frightened girl. He had rather enjoyed frightening her. He had not liked the cool voice.

  Nell shut the door and went and sat down on the stairs. She felt sick, and if John had been there she would have raged at him. Trouble; there was never anything, where he was, but trouble: mystery, intrigue, shadiness, sudden departures, not turning up; he made trouble wherever he went.

  But where was he now? Her anger died away as alarm took its place. She remembered the fits of mysterious anguish, the despair which she had not been able completely to dismiss to herself as ‘silly’, the friends who were rather more than peculiar; suddenly she remembered, having not thought of them again until this moment, her glimpse of the faces when the woman opened the door in that house beside the olive-coloured canal: weazened, blinking, full of absorbing secret life. Their own affairs: the words came to her as she sat crouched in the twilit hall: busy about their own affairs. Was he with those faces, at last?

  She straightened herself, and got up and turned on the light. The delicate shadows cast on the wall by the sycamores vanished and the hall looked ordinary again, a place to be passed through on the way to somewhere, to get somewhere, to get something done.…

  But what?

  She felt that the one thing she could not bear was to hang about; waiting; doing nothing.

  Only whatever she did—and what could she do?—it must not be anything that would make matters worse for him.

  If they could be worse.

  It seemed to her that this first foolish step on the wrong side of the law was fatal. It had in itself the threat of a steady downward walk from now onwards. There wouldn’t be any turning back.

  The telephone bell rang, and in the midst of her half-distracted moving about the hall she started violently.

  “Nell? Thank goodness it’s you. I’ve had the police here about John. Do you know where he is?”

  “Oh—Aunt Peggy … no, I don’t. We haven’t seen him for days. They’ve been here too.”

  After nearly fifteen minutes’ talk nothing had been arranged except that if either household had any news of him they would telephone the other at once. Lady Fairfax was so bitter that Nell’s own anger faded almost completely: it seemed that her aunt’s chief concern was for her career. She had appeared to love John, when talking about him six months ago during Nell’s first visit to Odessa Place, but since then she had become even better known: it was hardly possible now to open any kind of paper or pass a hoarding lately without seeing her face or her name, and of course she dreaded the possible ugly publicity. And John’s father, she assured Nell, would feel just the same: he was on the up and up now, in the clear again at last; just beginning to get back into the public eye and make a lot of money. He would be absolutely livid. And the fool-boy; what good did he think this would do?

  Nell put down the receiver at last. So it looked as though there was no-one now to help John, except herself.

  That was a dangerous state of mind to be in. She knew it, afterwards; quite soon after she was on her way to him she knew it, only by then, of course, it was too late. But tonight the reluctant love, denied and ignored throughout the summer, took its revenge: it assumed entire charge of her, so that all she felt was the longing to help him, and to give.

  For the moment she could do nothing about that. She ate some bread for her supper, standing by the kitchen dresser staring at the table; she must be very tired; she did not seem able to pull herself together. She kept remembering how she had told him that he could rely on her, when they were in the café. I’ll believe that when you prove it. She could hear his voice now.

  Oh blast. Robert was coming at eight. She roused herself, and crossly got together the cups and the tray and the biscuits … why people had to stuff themselves immediately after supper with biscuits …

  Robert gave her a second look when she opened the door to him. He had never yet seen her absent-minded because of some secret distress, but she was so this evening, and if anything could have pushed him into asking her to become engaged (oh, only on trial, just to see how they got on) it was that. He had often imagined himself comforting her, but until now had always seen her in command of herself. He liked her even better like this.

  She was undoubtedly worried about something. She was trying to give him her attention, but twice she forgot what she was saying, and she handed him sugar for his coffee, and she was flushed. All the time he was telling her about last Saturday’s match at Hitchen, he was wondering if he should ask her if there was anything he could do, or if something was the matter, and he had almost decided that he would, when she started up.

  “There’s the telephone!” She ran out of the room without another word.

  Robert leant forward in his chair and stared at his large clasped hands. That cut he got on Saturday was healing nicely. Not so good; it looked as if she was expecting someone to telephone, and now they had. ‘He’ had, presumably. B
ut somehow Robert had thought that he would know if ever Nell fell in love. He knew, of course, that she was not in love with him.

  “I’m sorry to have been so long,” she said briskly, when she came back (and that made him suspicious, too, because she had not been unusually long). “More coffee?” He shook his head.

  “I say,” he said—knowing it wiser to say nothing, but she looked so utterly stricken—“is anything the matter?”

  “Yes.” She did not hesitate for an instant. “I’ve just heard that a friend of mine is very ill.” She looked straight at him; and her eyes were hard as the turquoise stone.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Bad luck. Is there anything we can do?”

  We! He wasn’t going to choose this evening to get sentimental? She knew he was being kind; she ought to be pleased; she didn’t care what he did; all she wanted was to be with John, and help him. She shook her head.

  “No.”

  “I’m afraid you’re awfully worried.”

  “Yes. So if I behave rather peculiarly you must excuse me.”

  Her voice sounded older; it reminded him of a woman he had once known in Sydney, and he knew then that she loved this friend who was ill. His heart ‘sank’; he could almost feel it.

  “I expect you’d like me to go,” he said. “It must have been a shock.”

  But she answered quickly. “Oh no—please don’t go yet. I like having you here.” She smiled stiffly. “The parents won’t be back until nearly twelve, and I’d rather you stayed, really.”

  If she were left alone she might get into a panic and tell someone … try to borrow some money … do something that would make matters worse. She would try, of course, not to, but she simply was not sure of herself any more. She had never felt like this before. It was love, of course; when once you let love get hold of you, and admitted that it had, everything else went. She had seen it happen to three other people and now it was happening to herself.

  So he sat down again and they talked about Uncle James and the Espresso bar; that possibility seemed as unreal as it was unlikely to Nell just now, but Robert thought it would be splendid to have Nell running an Espresso bar even in far-away Knightsbridge; she wouldn’t be so keen on settling down then with this friend who was ill. And he might always die. Robert did not exactly hope that he would. But he was not going to wish the blighter a speedy recovery. He might have, if the figure’s anonymity had not in some way reduced the conception of serious illness; but as it was he only said, “Good-bye; take care of yourself, Doctor Livingstone,” as he kissed her gently at the front door. The lightness of his step as he went away did not betray the heaviness of his heart.

  Nell did not want to take care of herself. She had always preferred taking care of other people.

  She went straight to the telephone and made some enquiries from Victoria Station; wondering as she did so whether the police and the military were tapping the line. Everything sounded easy, so far; she looked out the passport which Elizabeth had insisted upon her securing when there had been that plan for their going in the autumn to Portugal which the Jamaican invitation had altered; she put out warmer clothes ready for the morning; she made sure that she had small change; she even pushed some cheese and bread into her coat pocket. She could get French money, she knew, on the boat.

  She arranged a supper for the parents, leaving on the tray a note saying that she was going off at the crack of dawn tomorrow morning to look for work, and had gone to bed early. Then she had her bath, set the alarm and took four aspirins.

  She had to sleep. She could not face lying awake for most of the night, hearing over and over again the hoarse faint voice; far-away; despairing—

  “Nello, I’m awfully ill. I ran away to get out of my Medical and I must have caught a chill and it’s suddenly got worse. Nello darling, you must come. The concièrge doesn’t speak any English …”

  Her own suddenly frantic questions, but remembering through the breaking-away of concealment and control to keep her tone low because of Robert in the drawing-room, and the petulant reply in the hoarse but recognizable voice, “In Paris. I told you. Can’t you hear? You must come, Nello. Can’t you fly over, tonight?”

  “Yes, of course I’ll come. I’ll try to come tonight. But … John, are you there? Listen, the police have been here …”

  Then: “Oh God,” exasperatedly, rather than in alarm, from the other end of the line, and her own hurried begging for the address … quick … and of course the pencil by the telephone was broken as usual … but she had managed to get it down.…

  “You said I could rely on you, Nello,” almost whispering.

  “You can, darling. I’ll come. Only—John, are you there?—I’ve just remembered, I’ve only got about five pounds in cash and isn’t it about seven to Paris by air—”

  “Nello, you said I could rely on you …”

  “I’ll come. I’ll come by boat tomorrow. But don’t expect me until later. …”

  “Don’t tell anyone. You mustn’t. Swear.”

  And her own low trembling voice promising, swearing, not to breathe a word to anyone; just to get to him somehow, anyhow, tomorrow, as soon as she possibly and humanly could … and then she had begged him please, please, to go back to bed and try not to worry. She would be there. She was coming.

  Then she had said, louder, “John?” The line seemed to have gone dead. But it had not; there had been a flood of irritable French in a woman’s voice; presumably the concièrge’s, and she had refused to listen to Nell’s questions, and of course every word of French had gone out of Nell’s head, and then there had been the impersonal voices of the operators, English and French, who had made the connections. Then silence.

  She had put back the receiver and stood still for a moment. She was compelling herself to make plans, forcing all feeling aside. She mustn’t tell anyone. That was the first thing to hang on to. And Elizabeth had flown that morning to Jamaica so there was no hope of borrowing five pounds from her to make up the sum for the journey by air. Air was quite out; she must go by train and sea.

  She must not make Robert suspicious by sending him off too early. How late could one make enquiries at the Continental section at Victoria? John was very ill.… No. Mustn’t feel. Shut it away.

  Robert would be suspicious now, perhaps, if she loitered outside much longer. Must go back to the drawing-room.

  Thank heaven the telephone was not exactly outside the door.

  Then she had composed her expression, or hoped that she had, and gone back to him.

  Now, she tried to compose herself for sleep. One of the tablets had melted in her mouth, with its intolerably bitter taste. She was nearly, exhaustedly off, when a whole new plan suddenly reared itself, based on the idea of borrowing her fare for BEA from Aunt Peggy with a series of fantastic lies, and woke her up again. She dismissed it after a struggle, and then heard the parents come in; and one strike; and two. She just did not hear three.

  By the time she was half-way across the Channel on the next day, the house still asleep in the morning light and her journey to Victoria by the yet-uncrowded Underground seemed to belong to another world.

  It was a cloudy day; the calm sea swung and rolled, and below the sides of the ship it thrust marbley inlays of foam under the green water, while far on the horizon there sometimes struck down on the grey expanse a white beam from the sun; then the clouds closed over once more.

  The boat, a French one, was not very crowded, and Nell could have had a chair, but she was too restless to sit down. She leant against the rail, with the Selys’ smallest suitcase at her feet (less likely to provoke interest or notice if one carried some luggage, however exiguous), and stared unseeingly at the water fleeting past. She never cared much for Nature at any time, and now the most that the vast, rather melancholy grey silk sea, the grey voile sky, did for her was to soothe her a little unconsciously. She admired nothing of what she saw; she missed entirely the true thrill felt at first standing upon a real ship; only her vi
sit to the restaurant in search of something to quench her persistent thirst faintly aroused her interest; what would it be like to work here? Otherwise, nothing distracted her thoughts from their concentration on the one object.

  The ship was almost half-way across when a voice addressed her in French. She looked up quickly and dazedly: a slight fair young man with a fair moustache was leaning on the rail at her side and smiling at her.

  “I’m sorry …?” she said, uncertainly.

  “Oh, you’re English. I beg your par-don; I thought you were a compatriote. French. I’m sorry, mam’zelle.”

  “It’s all right,” she said. Then she stopped thinking about it.

  He was saying something else; in English this time.

  “What? I’m sorry.”

  “I said that you look French, mam’zelle. It explains the mistake.”

  “Do I?” She had not spoken to anyone but officials for so long that her voice sounded peculiar to herself. She looked at him with the eyes like turquoise stones.

  “Do you mind if I speak with you?” he said instantly. He had a terrifically sporting check cap, silly, but somehow smart. If he had a sister she probably wore her hats very well.

  “No. It’s all right. I’m sorry.” Then she pulled herself together. He would think she was mad, and she must not, whatever she did, make herself conspicuous.

  “I think it’s getting a little rougher, don’t you?” she said.

  “Oh no, I don’t think so. I think it will be nice all the way. You are a bad sailor, are you?”

  Followed a talk about sea-sickness which he seemed to enjoy, and which Nell did not find irritating. In fact, without knowing it, she was relieved to escape from thoughts and feelings endured now in silence for some eighteen hours. She was not accustomed to fear and anxiety and they had been punishing her cruelly. While chatting with Georges Simon (she managed to avoid giving him her name for a little while, but in the end he got it out of her) she could even forget her half-expectation of being met by the police at Boulogne. She saw them in helmets, though later she realized that they would of course be wearing those peaked caps.…