by Andrew Garve
Julie spread out their picnic lunch and they ate with good appetites. Laurence seemed to have withdrawn into silence again, so Julie read out the most interesting bits from the guidebook she had bought in Pouillac—about how the cave had been discovered because a boy’s dog had disappeared down a tiny hole, and he’d gone after it, and how the paintings on the walls were supposed to be thirty thousand years old. After a while, discouraged by his apparent lack of interest, she stopped reading aloud and read for her own information.
Shortly before two they set off up the path, following the direction of an arrow that said “Grotte.” The entrance itself looked rather like that of a well-kept family sepulchre, with a green galvanised iron door built into yellow stone at the foot of some steps. One of the French families was already waiting on a near-by bank, its members chattering excitedly, and a man in a beret and braces was sitting a little apart, chewing a wisp of grass. There was as yet no sign of the custodian.
Presently the American came sauntering up the path. He was a big, broad-shouldered fellow, with crisp dark hair and a pleasant, good-humoured expression. His face, deeply tanned as though he had spent months in hot sunshine, wore a look of quiet contentment, and his general air suggested that he had all the time in the world at his disposal. He stopped for a moment as he drew level with the Quilters and Julie thought he was going to come over to them. However, he seemed to sense Laurence‘s unsociability, for he passed on and stood smoking by the iron door.
Deliberately, Julie got up and joined him at the bottom of the steps. Laurence’s gloomy presence had suddenly become intolerable to her. The American smiled at her and she thought how refreshingly casual he looked in his plaid short-sleeved shirt and his light drill trousers. She smiled back at him.
“Cigarette?” he said, holding out a crumpled packet of Chesterfields and following up with his lighter. He glanced towards the door. “I’m told this is really something.”
“Yes, I’m so excited. I’ve wanted to come here for years.”
“Well, this is the moment. Here comes the guy with the keys.”
By now a couple of dozen people had emerged from the wood in little groups, and as the guide unlocked the door they trickled in behind him. Julie became aware of Laurence beside her in the dim light, but still he said nothing. When everyone had bought their tickets the guide moved off and they descended two flights of rather damp stairs and entered the lighted cave.
The paintings on the limestone walls began almost at once, and Julie was so entranced that she followed the guide’s rapid discourse with only half her mind. They were much larger, much clearer, and much more dynamic than she had expected. The colours, mostly red and black, had a quite unexpected freshness. There was a frieze of deer, fleeing across a stream; a great black bull nearly six yards high with an amazingly expressive head; two horses so vigorous and full of movement that they looked as though, they might gallop away. Julie, moving slowly through the chamber, had an impression of a wild animal frolic. She tried to imagine thirty thousand years ago, and the squat ape-like men who had been moved to artistic creation, but failed utterly. Turning to comment on it all to Laurence, she found that he was away in the front as usual, a step or two ahead of the guide.
It took just over half an hour to complete the circuit. As they strolled back towards the entrance, Julie saw that the American was having language trouble. From what she could hear he was trying to find out from the guide whether the black and red paint represented different periods and if so which was the older, and after a moment or two she went to his rescue. Within a matter of seconds she had become deeply involved, for now that he had an interpreter the American appeared to be absolutely bursting with questions. Some of them were most technical, about rock strata and fossil remains. Julie’s French was fluent and she had great feeling for the language, but you needed, she decided, something more than a French great-grandmother to be able to handle a conversation full of words like “palæozoic” and “cretaceous.”
However, the American seemed most grateful. “That sure was kind of you,” he said in his slow, pleasant drawl as they joined Laurence outside the cave and began to walk down the hill together. “I’d give a lot to talk French like that—I have quite a job getting by.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Julie, “if those are the sort of questions you want to ask. It all sounded horribly erudite.”
He looked at her for a moment in mild surprise, and then grinned. “I guess so—it just happens to be my line of country. I’m a geologist, you see, and that guide really knew his stuff.”
“Rather a busman’s holiday for you, surely?” said Quitter.
“Maybe it is at that, but it suits me. I’m finding everything fascinating—never came across a place so packed with treasures. Are you folks staying around here?”
“We’re at Pouillac,” Julie told him.
“Is that so? I’m heading that way myself to-morrow—I’m told it’s fine and central for the district. Is the town very full?”
“Not at all. If you do come, you should stay at the Lavendou. It’s most comfortable, and Michelin gives it a star for food. ”
“I’ll remember that—thanks a lot. Maybe I’ll be seeing you.” He smiled at them, clambered into his jeep, and was off down the road.
“What a nice man!” said Julie.
Quilter made a faintly derogatory sound. “Not bad for an American. Individually they’re often all right. Collectively, of course, they’re impossible.”
“You only think they’re impossible because you don’t happen to like what they’re doing in the world,” Julie said. “It’s nothing but political bias on your part.”
“Nonsense!” said Quilter sharply. “It’s just ordinary common sense. They’re going to drag us into a war if we’re not darned careful. And if they win it, which God forbid …” He rammed the car savagely into gear and let the clutch in with such a slam that Julie gripped the door-handle in alarm.
He drove down the hill without looking at her. The sudden explosion of verbal violence had relieved him like the bursting of a boil and now he began to feel ashamed of himself. He had been behaving unpardonably to Julie, he knew that. It had been sheer sadism, the way he’d been crushing her spirit. He hadn’t even enjoyed it, either—it was just that he hadn’t seemed able to help himself. He’d been wretched, unspeakably wretched, and he hadn’t been able to snap out of it, so he’d tried to take it out of Julie. He realised now that all this leisure alone with her had been a mistake—he’d never throw off the effects of Anstey that way. It was only in action that he could hope to forget.
Action, that was the thing! No good dwelling on the past—he must work the poison out of his system instead of bottling it up. He must make a fresh start. Julie had said that he was still young, and that was true. There was still time to prove himself, to force recognition, to re-establish himself in his own esteem. Anstey had been a defeat, a humiliation, but of so desperate a kind that it should be just the stimulus he needed. It wasn’t the smug and contented who left their mark upon the world; it was the angry, the hurt, the men of stricken pride. The men who had lost so much that they had little more to lose.
After the long night of depression his mood had changed so completely that he felt almost elated, and immediately he wanted Julie to change too. He gave her a quick glance, wondering how he should approach her, conscious of her tight-pressed lips.
“Darling,” he said at last, “wouldn’t it be rather nice if we went back along the river and picked ourselves a quiet spot for a swim?”
“If you like,” she said.
His hand reached out to hers. “Julie, I’ve been an awful boor—I don’t know what’s been the matter with me you must have had a hell of a time. But it’s all over now, honestly. Please forgive me, sweetheart.”
Julie tried to think of something to say, and couldn’t. She turned her head away from him, her eyes brimming with tears.
Chapter Two
The A
merican turned up at Pouillac the next evening while Julie and Quilter were sipping aperitifs on the hotel terrace. They saw him go inside and after a while he came out with the porter and had his luggage taken in from the jeep. Presently he came wandering over to the terrace.
“Hello, there!” he called cheerily as he recognised them. Julie waved, but felt slightly nervous. Laurence had been much less of a bear to-day, and she wanted to keep him that way. And after what he’d said about Americans …
It was Quilter himself who thrust back a chair invitingly. “Won’t you join us?” he asked.
The American hesitated for a moment, but Julie’s smile seemed to reinforce the invitation. “Well, that’s mighty kind of you. I guess I’d better introduce myself—Benson Traill is my name.”
“And ours is Quilter. I’m Laurence Quilter and this is my wife Julie.”
“Glad to know you both.” Traill took the proffered seat, his face puckered in a thoughtful frown. “Laurence Quilter—now that’s a name I seem to know.”
Julie caught Laurence’s faintly smug expression and laughed. “Isn’t that nice for you, darling?”
He said, “What will you drink, Mr. Traill?”
“I’ll have a Scotch, if I may. I can’t seem to get along with these sweet apéritifs they serve.”
“I don’t like them much, either,” agreed Julie, who was drinking gin and French and beginning to feel very comfortable and relaxed. She was glad he had joined them—a trio was so much easier than a tête-à-tête when you were in process of making a rather difficult personal adjustment. “You managed to get fixed up, then, Mr. Traill? What do you think of the hotel?”
“It’s swell—I’ve no complaints at all. They’ve given me a room with a cute little terrace all covered with flowers and vines—just like a bit of the Garden of Eden.”
“But no Eve?”
“No Eve—I’ve still got to find her.” He smiled at Julie with eyes that were deep hue and twinkling, and his glance warmed her and made her feel happy. The thought flashed across her mind, “this man likes me,” and she was surprised at the refreshment it brought, as though a stream had begun to flow in an arid desert.
Just then the waiter arrived and Quilter gave the orders. Traill was still searching his memory. “It’s an extraordinary thing—I could swear …”
“You don’t have to,” Julie said. “Laurence is a Member of Parliament—perhaps that’s why the name seems familiar to you.”
Traill’s face cleared. “Sure—that’s it—Laurence Quilter. You asked a lot of questions in your Parliament when there were riots in the West Indies last fall.”
“I did make a bit of a nuisance of myself,” Quilter agreed, “but I’m surprised you should know about it.”
“That’s easily explained. My company operates in Trinidad—I’m actually an oil geologist. The riots weren’t far from our doorstep.”
“I see.” Quilter looked a bit sardonic. “Then I dare say you didn’t agree with the line I took?”
“I guess not, now I come to think of it, but then I’m no politician.”
“As a Labour M.P.,” Julie said, “Laurence must always support the downtrodden workers.” Her teasing smile robbed the remark of any malice.
Traill’s gaze rested for a moment on Quilter, appraising his expensive clothes and general air of privileged well-being. Then he glanced at Julie and grinned. “Sure!” he said.
The waiter returned with the drinks and Quilter sorted them out. “Well—cheers!” he said.
“Your health!” said Traill, raising his glass to each of them in turn. “I must say this is a great pleasure.”
“For us, too,” said Julie. “Tell me, Mr. Traill, what exactly is an oil geologist?”
Traill laughed. “He’s the guy that gets all the kicks when the company drills to fifteen thousand feet on his advice and finds no oil.”
“What a frightful responsibility! Are you supposed to be some sort of diviner?”
“You could put it like that—we’re supposed to work out the likely places, anyway. It’s not quite as chancey as using a twig—we have some pretty slick gadgets these days to help out and they give us a good idea where the oil-bearing, strata should be. It’s still true, though, that you can spend a million dollars drilling three miles of damn all and you quite often do.”
“It must be a thrill when you’re right.”
“I’ll say it is. When the old Schlumberger log’s slapped down in front of you and you see it showing a nice thick layer of oil-bearing sands you feel like bustin’ out all over. But the whole thing’s a tremendous gamble—you can never be certain what you’re going to get till you’ve drilled, and that’s specially true of Trinidad.”
“This is where I really start to show my ignorance,” said Julie. “I gather Trinidad is in the West Indies but I’m sure I couldn’t find it on a map. All I know about it is that it’s a British colony.”
“It used to be,” Quilter said grimly. “A good chunk of it is now an American base. We traded the site during the war for an old destroyer or two.”
Julie gave him a reproachful glance but Traill seemed unconcerned. “I guess I’ll have to watch my step with you, Mr. Quilter—I see you’re a man of strong feelings. Have a cigarette?”
“Thank you,” said Quilter. “I meant nothing personal, of course.” He leaned forward and gave Traill a light. “Have you ever thought of moving on from Trinidad to, say, Venezuela? It’s much less of a gamble there, isn’t it?”
“You bet! But it’s a darned sight less interesting from my point of view. In Trinidad, you see, the formations are all broken up—geologically it’s one of the most complex small places you could find—so there’s a problem worth getting your teeth into. When there’s a lake of oil stretching for miles, like in some of the Middle East fields or Texas, well, you can’t miss—you hardly need a geologist.”
“I suppose,” said Julie, “you sit in an office with a little hammer, cracking stones?” She knew she sounded absurd, but somehow she couldn’t resist drawing Traill’s attention to herself. There was a depth in his voice, a friendly. warmth in his expression that affected her like sunshine after days of greyness. She felt herself thawing out, becoming human and feminine and frivolous. It was almost like the first stage of getting drunk.
He turned amused eyes on her. “Not exactly that. The office work is mostly with a microscope. You see …” He broke off. “Say, are you folks sure this isn’t boring you?” “On the contrary,” said Quilter, “it’s most interesting.”
“I think so, but millions wouldn’t. Anyway, what happens is that when we drill I’m presented from time to time with “cores”—that’s cylindrical bits of rock cut out at various depths for me to work on. Well, rocks often contain minute fossils, called forams, that tell us the age and nature of the strata, so we pick these out under the microscope and file them away on slides so that in time we can build up a pretty complete geological picture I’ve a collection of about three hundred thousand of them.”
“That isn’t what gave you your tan, though,” said Julie irrelevantly.
“You’re right there—all it gives you is eyestrain. There’s a good deal of field work as well—we have to go out into the bush with gravity meters and seismograph detectors and often we’re out all day and every day for long stretches. Darned hot it is, too.” He looked mischievously at Quilter. “Quite hot enough without having people set fire to the wells …”
‘Who on earth sets fire to the wells?” asked Julie.
“No one, at the moment, but it did happen not so long ago. People sent in from outside the fields to make trouble—Communists, I guess. Communist-led, anyway.”
Quilter gave a snort. “You Americans see Communists everywhere.”
“Well, sir, there are quite a few around.”
“Perhaps there wouldn’t be so many if the workers got more benefit from their oil.”
“You may be right, at that,” said Traill easily. “It’s a bi
g question. They don’t do so badly—not in Trinidad, anyway.” He grinned. “They’re pretty smart. You should see them bringing out their washing when we have trouble with a well.”
“Their washing!” Julie exclaimed.
“Sure. As soon as a well starts misbehaving and there’s a bit of oil flying around they collect all the old clothes they’ve got and stick them in the way. Then they claim compensation. I don’t blame them, but it’s a mistake to think that it’s the oil companies who get up to all the tricks. Myself, I reckon there are about eight sides to every question.”
“You’re very tolerant,” Quilter said dryly. “One side is usually enough for me.”
Julie reached for her drink. “Why is it,” she demanded, “that when two men get together they must always argue?”
“You’ve got something there,” said Traill lazily. “I guess this is no time or place to be discussing serious things, not when we’re all supposed to be on holiday.”
“Do you get long holidays, Mr. Traill?”
“Three months every three years, apart from short local leave. It suits me pretty well that way—I can really go places in three months.”
“What are you planning this time?” Julie was almost painfully anxious to keep away from controversial subjects—she felt she couldn’t bear to see Laurence become argumentative and bitter again.
“Well, I’ve done quite a bit already. I had the jeep shipped to Lisbon and came overland through Spain. When I’ve finished here I’ll be going on through Switzerland, Germany and Holland.”
“But not to England?”
“Yes. I’ll be ending the trip there. I’ve got to hand back the jeep. I borrowed it from a guy I know in the U.S.A.F., stationed near Mildenhall …” He broke off as sounds of a sudden disturbance came from across the street. “Say, what’s going on there, I wonder?”