The Woman at The Door

by Warwick Deeping

  “No you don’t, my dear. Get down to the job.”

  She hesitated. No, she could not possibly touch his foul feet. She bent down to place Luce’s spare pair of boots within his reach, and suddenly a long arm shot out, and his fingers fastened on her wrist.

  “Come on. No bloody tricks. If your toff turns up, I’ll see to it he ain’t giving me lip.”

  He was a strong brute, and he dragged her down on her knees. His sensual face terrified her. She wanted to scream, and was afraid of making things worse.

  “Please let me go.”

  “Get on with it. You can begin by taking my boots off.”

  And then she saw that other head appear above the slope of the field. She struggled to free herself.

  “John.”

  The tramp let go of her wrist and got up with clumsy precipitation. He had left his stick and sack on the grass, and he grabbed them. His lower lip stuck out as he looked at Luce. For the moment he could see nothing but the head and face of the gentleman.

  “Afternoon, guv’nor; the lady ’as given me a pair of boots.”

  Luce’s eyes were full of a blue glare. He came on towards the hollow, and gradually the bulk of him was revealed to the blackguard below.

  “I’ll take the boots with me, guv’nor, in my sack.”

  “O, will you!”

  Luce deposited the milk-jug and bag of eggs on the grass, and with an air of concentrated grimness loomed down upon the invader. The man raised his stick.

  “You keep y’ands off me.”

  “Drop that stick, damn you.”

  The fellow aimed a half-hearted blow at Luce which Luce’s big arm smothered. He caught the man by the arm, his fingers grinding into the muscles, and for a second or two they stood looking into each other’s eyes.

  And suddenly the fellow cringed.

  “All right, guv’nor, that’s enough.”

  With his other hand Luce twisted the stick out of the man’s fingers, and giving the arm a final crunch, flung him off.

  “Clear out, or I’ll take you down to the village and hand you over to the police.”

  There was no vacillation in the manner of his going. He clumbered with ragged alacrity up the grass slope, and Luce followed him as far as the field-gate. Nothing would have pleased Luce better than to have dusted the blackguard’s back with his own ash stick, but even in the chastening of such beasts discretion had to be exercised.

  With the tramp disappearing down the lane, Luce walked back to the hollow, to find Rachel holding his pair of boots. He would have said that she looked both scared and contrite.

  “John, I’m so sorry. I thought I might get rid of him if I——.”

  He went and took the boots from her, and tossing them into the caravan, put an arm across her shoulders.

  “The damned scallywag! I should like to have pitched him over the gate. Next time we want things, we’ll go and get them in company.”

  “You couldn’t have done more to him.”

  “No, it wouldn’t have been tactful!”

  “Do you think he will go and complain?”

  And suddenly Luce laughed.

  “Hardly. He’ll be walking fast and furiously for the next county in his own blackguardly boots. But, my dear, you mustn’t tremble so.”

  “It seems to have brought all the bad things back, John.”

  “Has it? Well, I must make up for that. I won’t leave you alone again. Sit down. I’ll make the tea.”

  2

  But this incident seemed to cast them back into the mouth of the perilous pit out of which they had climbed. As they sat in the grassy hollow after the evening meal Luce divined in her a frightened restlessness. Ponderous clouds were coming over the hill, and the night seemed to promise rain. The distant sea looked oiled and black.

  Her face was as overcast as the sky. The shadow of the wood spread across their green hollow, and Luce, absorbing her sadness, felt that this hazardous holiday had become once more a flight from sinister realities. Little gusts of wind tumbled over the stone wall and into the hollow, and made the green tent breathe in and out.

  He could not shrug the feeling off, and it gave him to think in terms of reality. If there was to be exile for both of them, let it be accepted, and the ultimate hazard met without sentimental procrastination.

  He put it to her gently as they sat there in the draughty dusk.

  “What about turning back, and facing the final act?”

  She looked at him almost with relief.

  “Yes, John, let’s get it over. It’s come back, like a pain.”

  “I understand. We’ll start on the last stage to-morrow.”

  He spoke quietly and calmly of the adventure in an effort to reassure her. They would leave the caravan parked at some quiet farm, and pretending that they had been called home for a few days, take an early train to London. There was nothing to prevent them travelling on the same day by one of the boat trains. He would have to call at his bank, but that could be done en route. He had decided on the Dover-Ostend crossing. At Bruges he would see her settled at some quiet hotel, and return to deal with the car and caravan, and arrange for his final flitting.

  “Old T. can help us tremendously in that way. I should be away from you perhaps for a fortnight.”

  He was relieved to find that she welcomed this curtailing of her season of suspense.

  “I shall be glad to get it over, John.”

  “Have you any French?”

  “A little.”

  “Mine is a little rusty, but we can alter that. Bruges is a lovely old place. We can go on from there to Basle. We shall have to explore Switzerland for the kind of little place we want.”

  The one thing that still worried her was his future, the life of an exile.

  “It’s so terribly final, dear.”

  “Afraid?”

  “Yes, for you.”

  “Try and look at it in this way, as a beginning all over again. Before all this happened I had come to one of those phases when a man feels rather finished with life. I don’t feel like that now.”

  “But, John, how are you going to explain your giving up the tower?”

  “O, that can be managed between Mr. Temperley and myself. Let us say that I found it rather too lonely.”

  3

  Three days later they were camped in the orchard of a Buckinghamshire farm, tucked away in a valley between high beech woods. Two miles away lay the village of Candover, and beyond Candover, Aylesbury and a main line. Luce had chosen Candover on the map. He had found Fox Farm after exploring up a lane, and both the farm and its old people had been kind to them. Very friendly relations had been established over milk and eggs, and Mr. Bristow’s dippings into Luce’s tobacco-pouch.

  On the second day Luce took the car out, drove thirty miles, and posted a letter to Mr. Temperley. Its delivery, with “Urgent” upon the envelope, and its fabricated and emotional message made the asking of a favour both natural and inevitable. Mr. Temperley’s response was prompt and adequate.

  Luce found the old people at tea, Mr. Bristow in his shirt-sleeves, for the weather was hot.

  “We’ve just had some rather bad news. My wife’s mother is dangerously ill, not expected to live.”

  “Poor dear,” said the old lady.

  “We shall have to leave here early to-morrow. It means breaking up the holiday,—but there is a chance of our being able to finish it. I’m wondering whether you would let us leave the car and caravan here.”

  Fox Farm had no objection.

  “You see, it would be much easier for us to take the train to London. I suppose I could get a car from Candover to drive us to Aylesbury?”

  “Sure,” said the old man.

  Luce walked into Candover and at a local garage he arranged for a car to pick them up at eight o’clock next morning. The garage had been able to supply him with a time-table. They could catch a train at Aylesbury that would land them in London soon after half-past nine. Luce happen
ed to know that two boat trains left Victoria, one at 10.30, the second at eleven. The eleven o’clock train would allow them fifteen minutes in which to show their passports at the barrier and get aboard the boat. Luce decided on the second train.

  They packed their suitcases overnight. Luce had bought a packet of labels in Candover, and it was he who addressed them, Luce, Grand Hotel—Bruges. He had stayed many years ago at the Grand Hotel et du Commerce in the Rue St. Jacques, an old white place with a courtyard and garden.

  He put those labels in his pocket for attachment later. Also, his cheque-book.

  “To-morrow—we shall be in Bruges.”

  For, already the inevitable suspense of the next few hours had begun to show itself in her drawn face and little restless movements. Almost, she could not believe that the thing was possible. She had moments of secret panic when she foresaw the closing of the net. But she talked of trivial things. Luce was leaving some of his personal belongings in the caravan, and she found herself asking him whether he had packed a sufficiency of socks.

  That night he slept with her in the caravan. The day had been close and thundery, and about two in the morning Luce woke to hear heavy rain drumming on the roof of the van. The storm itself was over the hills, and an occasional glare of summer lightning lit up the windows and doorway of the van. On just such a night as this she had come to him at the tower. He raised himself on one elbow. A sudden glare revealed her to him, lying quite still, eyes wide open.

  “Hallo, awake?”

  That most obvious of remarks seemed to hide its foolish face in the darkness. Yes, she had been awake for more than an hour, listening to the distant rumblings that were like the voices of outraged and remorseless gods. Was life just a bundle of coincidences? The stress of this storm revived stark memories, and made her more terrified of to-morrow.

  “It might be an omen, John.”

  “Nonsense.”

  He felt that she had to be reassured like a frightened child, and sitting up and slipping out of his bunk he went to the door.

  “Just rain and summer lightning. The people over the hill are getting the real thing. And to-morrow night you’ll sleep in Bruges.”

  He turned in the narrow space.

  “Like the door closed, dear?”

  “No, I would rather have it open.”

  He bent down and kissed her, but her face was almost cold and unconsenting.

  “If things should go wrong, John.”

  “They won’t.”

  “I wouldn’t mind for myself. I’ve been—happy. But you?”

  He kissed her again; this time on the forehead.

  “Things are not going wrong.”

  He was never to forget the beauty of that summer morning with its freshness and its rain-washed sky, the glittering orchard, the hurried breakfast in the farmhouse kitchen. If Rachel’s face was somewhat the face of tragedy, that was understandable to the two old people. Luce was handing over the keys of the caravan and a pound note to Mr. Bristow when they heard the car in the lane.

  The woman kissed Rachel.

  “I do hope you’ll find your mother better, my dear.”

  Rachel was mute, but she returned that kindly kiss.

  Luce picked up the suitcases, and they went down through the wet garden to the waiting car. A light breeze was ruffling the beech trees. And with the car running down the lane, Luce became conscious of a movement beside him. He found her putting on those smoked glasses. He smiled and nodded. She felt for his hand and held it.

  “Not much wind, and a good crossing. All’s well with the world.”

  She answered him with a little pressure of the fingers.

  The journey to town was third class and without incident. At the terminus Luce gave the taxi-driver the address of his bank. They had to wait five minutes for the bank doors to be opened, and leaving her in the taxi, Luce went in and wrote and cashed a cheque. London was just London, multitudinous and complex, and somehow reassuring to these two fugitives. Luce’s only prayer was that he would not be confronted that morning with any familiar face.

  At Victoria he handed over the suitcases to a porter, and leaving Rachel in a corner of the booking-office, went to take their tickets. The eleven o’clock train was waiting. They followed the porter through the barrier.

  “British passports, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  Had they Pullman seats? No. But there were some ordinary coaches on the train, and the porter put them into a first-class smoker. When the man had gone Luce took the labels from his pocket and attached them to the suitcases. They had the compartment to themselves for the time being. Luce looked out of the near window at the people strolling or standing on the platform. No one whom he knew. He got out, closing the door after him, and walking down the platform to the paper stall bought a Times and a Telegraph. Returning, he passed Rachel the copy of the Daily Telegraph; she was in the far corner, facing the engine. He sat down, and opening The Times, looked at her meaningly over the top of the paper, and then submerged himself behind it. She understood; she raised her screen.

  Someone got in, and Luce, glancing quickly over the top of The Times saw a man in a soft black hat, with a black beard, a continental person. Excellent! Luce glanced at his watch. Ten minutes to eleven. Mr. Blackbeard was rummaging in an attaché case. He brought out a cigar, looked at Luce and the veiled lady.

  “Will madame object?”

  “No, sir. Please smoke.”

  Mr. Blackbeard was to be their only travelling companion, and he showed no interest in a quiet little woman who wore spectacles. Nor did he object to Rachel’s window being half-way down.

  She sat and looked at the country. It was just England in the summer, nor could she feel sentimental about it with reality sitting close to her like a too candid friend. She was very near to the edge of panic. She sat and confronted her crisis like a woman before her mirror on a day when she is feeling faded and afraid of her years. “I can’t go on, John.” Her presentiments were all for disaster. She was in a mood to presume that Dover would be packed with secret sleuths watching the faces of those who travelled. She would be recognized, or some official would detect that faked passport.

  Folkestone, acres of tiles and slates and chimneys, and a flat and distant sea. Hills upholstered in green plush, chalk cliffs, a thin blue sky. She was aware of Luce looking at her and making a gesture. She was to remove those spectacles. She put them away in her bag. She was trembling. She had a feeling that her very knees would betray her.

  Luce observed the sea through a gap in the chalk scenery.

  “Good crossing. We’ll have lunch on the boat.”

  Lunch! Was he pretending, or did he feel as confident and as consoling as he looked? How was she to know that the inner man was quaking like a jelly? The train was running into the harbour station. Mr. Blackbeard had put some papers away in an attaché case, and was getting into an overcoat! Luce stood up and removed the suitcases from the luggage rack. She was aware of being comforted by his broad and beneficent back.

  She could not flinch now. A porter was taking their suitcases.

  “Ostend boat.”

  “Right, sir. No. 73, sir.”

  He handed Luce a metal number plate.

  “Any chance of a cabin?”

  “Certain to be, sir. I’ll see the officer on board.”

  She could not say how or why, but courage came to her. She had felt faint in the carriage, tremulous and cold. He slipped a hand under her arm, and she was aware of him looking down at her with the eyes of a lover.

  “Tails up, my dear!”

  That was the sort of humorous touch she needed. They went down the platform arm in arm, like the conventional and happy holiday couple, towards the passport officials at the barrier. Before reaching the queues Luce paused and looked amused. What an absent-minded beggar!

  “Passports! Of course.”

  While feeling in his breast pocket for the documents, he studied the officials at the ba
rrier. Yes, even officials and their temperaments might be assigned a vital significance in a crisis such as this. After making sure that his own passport was uppermost, he selected a large and middle-aged supervisor who was dealing with the queue on the extreme left. Gently pushing Rachel in front of him, he proffered the two passports, and smiled in the face of authority. The official opened the first passport, glanced first at the photo, and then at Luce’s face. He did not trouble to open the second passport, but having glanced at the name on the white label, he handed both passports back to Luce.

  They were through.

  Luce, stuffing the little blue books back into his pocket, took Rachel’s arm. They did not speak, or look at each other. The Ostend boat was berthed a little way up the quay, and the sunlight was playing on her white upper-works. Luce was smiling. He followed Rachel up the gangway, to find his porter and a Belgian officer waiting for them.

  “Cabin No. 10, sir.”

  “Splendid.”

  They walked along the deck to No. 10. The porter put their luggage inside, was tipped, and departed. And suddenly Rachel felt faint. She sat down on one of the bunks, with her head swimming. Luce was outside the cabin, speaking to a white-coated steward.

  “Could we have some lunch brought up to the cabin?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, and the wine list—too, please.”

  By way of creating a friendly feeling Luce tipped the steward in English money.

  “I suppose you can get an English note changed for me?”

  “Yes, when I bring you the bill, sir.”

  Luce re-entered the cabin, closed the door, and with a glance at Rachel’s face, sat down on the bunk beside her.

  “Feeling a little—overwhelmed?”

  With closed eyes she let her head rest against his shoulder.

  “O, my dear, I didn’t think it could happen.”

  “But it has happened.”

  4

  Luce ordered champagne. If it was a pagan gesture, he could number himself among the physicians, for his companion had suffered from too much emotion, and too little sleep. The sea was a quiet sea, and the boat was not too crowded, but when two fussy people, who nibbled at each other like rabbits, showed a desire to establish themselves in deck-chairs outside cabin No. 10, very politely Luce interposed.