The Numbered Account

by Ann Bridge

  ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ Julia said easily. ‘I’m sure Jean-Pierre will sign as her guardian like a shot—after all, she’s been posing as his ward for weeks! Post the form to him at La Cure, will you?—and I’ll ring up and do the rest.’

  ‘The Pastor isn’t a British subject,’ Colin reminded her.

  ‘Oh, so won’t that do? Well then send me the form, and ring John at the Clinic and tell him to sign as her guardian!—he promised he’d see that it was arranged. I should have thought that there was so much on your files about Jean-Pierre that his signature would be accepted. But if you run into any snags ring me—Mrs. H. would sign, I’m sure. Now I really must go and eat—I’m fainting!’

  Over their delayed meal she told Mrs. Hathaway that the vital papers had reached the Embassy safely, and been retrieved by Colin’s people; she replied cheerfully to the good lady’s enquiries about Antrobus, and reported favourably on his condition. But it was with infinite relief that she at last slipped away to her cell-like room; there she had a good cry, and then lay down on her narrow bed and slept for a couple of hours.

  Later on she had plenty of time for thinking, and did a lot of it, reviewing her acquaintance with Antrobus from beginning to end. It was an unhappy process. Julia was as remorseless with herself as she frequently was with other people, and at one point she recalled that she had once made use of poor Geoffrey Consett and his infatuation for her own ends, in the Morocco business. Had John perhaps just been doing the same thing with her? No—honesty and common sense alike recoiled from the idea; that cock wouldn’t fight. From the moment of their encounter below the Sessel-Bahn he had known that Colin was her cousin, and hence must have assumed that she was committed to helping him; he had been at pains—and vast official expense—to get her whole record on the telephone from Hugh Torrens in London. Alas, she had to face it—in the common but all too accurate phrase, John Antrobus had simply been ‘amusing himself’ with her, and she had lost her heart and her head and been had for a mug.

  For the time being Julia was too fully occupied to mope. She had to write to the Pastor, asking him to get and send to her the essential facts for June’s fresh passport in her proper name; she told Mrs. Hathaway the girl’s story, far more fully than she had yet done, and explained that June would have to travel home with them. ‘I mean, I’ve got to take her, and I should so much like to go with you and act as courier—I could save you all trouble. But I’m afraid Watkins will be terribly despisey about her; servants are such frightful snobs! And precious June is just the lower middle-class type that good servants do despise. She’ll amuse you, I think, but I’m worried about Watkins.’

  ‘I will deal with Watkins,’ Mrs. Hathaway said, in a most convincing voice. ‘Yes, do let us all travel together, dear child; you will be the greatest help.’

  Nothing ever put Mrs. Hathaway about, and she willingly further agreed to sign a passport application form as June’s ‘guardian’, if necessary. ‘Poor child, I’m sure she needs a guardian, if ever a young creature did.’

  The application form arrived from Berne, and the facts as to June’s birth and parentage from Bellardon, by the same post. ‘We have decided to put “blonde” for her hair,’ the Pastor wrote, ‘though she has confessed to Germaine, as she did to you, that the present shade is artificial. Dr. Lavalle is treating her foot; he says there will be no permanent disfigurement, grâce à Dieu. This is a good child, as you said; she sits in the kitchen and slices the beans and peels the potatoes and shells the peas—Germaine finds her a great help. When do you come to us? We await you eagerly. Please make as long a stay as you can.’

  Colin’s covering letter was less helpful; he had changed his tune since that enthusiastic telephone call.

  ‘Here you are—but please don’t try on any funny-business about forged signatures of guardians! We don’t want to run into trouble.’

  Julia, anyhow overwrought, was infuriated by this. Here was Colin, like almost all junior officials, just making difficulties for their own sake. She filled in the form with everything except the signature of the ‘parent or guardian’, and then rang up her cousin’s number.

  ‘Oh, is that you? I want to speak to Philip.’

  ‘Philip Jamieson? Do you know him?’ He sounded astonished.

  ‘I want to speak to him,’ Julia repeated. At least she had now got the man’s surname—but was he a Major or a Colonel, like so many of them?

  ‘But look here,’ Colin was protesting, ‘you can’t bother him unless it’s urgent. If it’s just about that infernal girl’s papers, tell me what you want.’

  ‘What I want is to speak to Philip Jamieson. Do please get him.’

  ‘Well, hold on—I’ll see if he’s free.’

  Of course he was free; in a few moments Julia recognised the cheerful voice she had heard when she rang up from Merligen, saying—‘Is that Miss Probyn? What can we do for you? We’re prepared to do almost anything after what you’ve done for us! May I congratulate you on at least three separate excellent performances?’

  ‘Oh good. Yes, there is something you can do. I want the P.C.O. to give a passport to a British subject, to whom you really owe much more than you do to me. Colin is being rather tatty about it, and John A. is in hospital, flat on his back, as you know, so I don’t want to worry him. It’s this tedious “parent or guardian” business, as she’s technically “an infant”. Can I sign for her? Her only parent is her mother in London, an old widowed prole.’

  A jolly laugh came down the line.

  ‘Don’t worry. Have you got the date and place of birth, and the parents’ names, and so on?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got all that.’

  ‘How is she going to get home?’

  ‘I’m taking her myself, in ten days’ or a fortnight’s time.’

  ‘Where’s the other document? The one she came out with?’

  ‘I should think in the Super’s safe in Interlaken,’ Julia said. ‘I think horrible Mr. B. had it; and as he’s now “inside”, I presume the Swiss are keeping it as Exhibit A.’

  Again that jolly laugh.

  ‘Highly probable! But just check, will you?—and if she’s got it, turn it in here. Meanwhile shove in the form, and I’ll see that she gets a travel document to take her home without any “parent or guardian” trouble.’

  ‘Oh thank you so much.’

  ‘Shall you be coming to Berne yourself?—if so, we might meet.’

  ‘Possibly. We board our sleepers there,’ Julia said, rather cautiously.

  ‘Well let your cousin know if you do make any sort of stop-over. Goodbye.’

  In fact when they came to make their plans a stop-over in Berne was inevitable. Julia wanted to spend three or four days at La Cure when she went to fetch June, so when they had found a date on which they could book four sleepers from Berne to Calais it was arranged that Mrs. Hathaway and Watkins should travel to Berne four days earlier, under Julia’s escort, and stay in an hotel there to break the journey. Julia, arranging all this in Cook’s hot office in Interlaken, found it hard to resist the temptation to go round to the Justus-Klinik and see how John was, but she did resist it—that most terrible of all temptations, of knowing the beloved object a bare half a mile away. Partly at Mrs. Hathaway’s suggestion, partly to occupy her mind, she wrote an article on the economic self-dependence of Switzerland for Ebb and Flow; this didn’t help her much, since all through it recalled John’s remarks on the subject, and the places in which he had made them—the views, and tiny details of rocks and small groups of flowers. She wrote to Jean-Pierre about June’s bogus passport—had she got it or not? Then Mrs. Hathaway said they must write to June’s mother, who lived at Malden, in a road horribly called Something ‘Way’, and tell her the day and hour of her child’s return; of course Julia did this too.

  It was gradually borne in on the girl that these various suggestions of Mrs. Hathaway’s were made with a purpose—the purpose of affording her, Julia, distraction. On the first two da
ys after that disastrous interview in the Clinic her old friend had asked her how Mr. Antrobus was?—Julia said that she hadn’t heard. After that Mrs. Hathaway rang up the Clinic herself and made her own enquiries, the results of which she passed on, casually, to Julia. Quite evidently Mrs. H. had seen that something was up, and now had guessed that it had gone wrong; but she was the one person whose perspicacity Julia did not dread. Some time she would tell her all about it—had not Mrs. H. said that Antrobus was capable de tout? But not just now.

  Colin embarrassed and bothered her by ringing up several times to ask how John was? She gave rather vague replies, based on the reports given by the Schwester to Mrs. Hathaway.

  ‘But haven’t you seen him yourself?’ Colin asked at last, surprised.

  ‘No. Let it alone, will you?’ She rang off abruptly—to Julia it was really a relief when they heard that the young man was returning to London. She speculated occasionally as to whether John himself would attempt any further approach or farewell, even if it was only a note of thanks for packing and bringing round his things; she guessed that he would not, and he didn’t. This rather raised him in her estimation; he had had the quickness and tact to recognise the double import of the message she sent by the Sister when she dropped his luggage—‘Tell him it is too late.’ It was too late for anything more—even for the casual kindnesses of taking flowers or cigarettes. It was over.

  Colonel Jamieson—‘Philip’ proved to be a Colonel—in due course sent a travel-document for June. ‘The other one was where you supposed,’ he wrote laconically, and added—‘Here are your protegee’s tickets. I know how tiresome the travel-allowance is.’ An inner envelope contained a first-class ticket from Berne to London, a sleeper-ticket, and vouchers for meals.

  Armed with all these, Julia was ready to go to Bellardon; Mrs. Hathaway was beginning to feel that she had really exhausted the resources of Beatenberg, and to the girl’s infinite relief they left the torturing neighbourhood of John Antrobus two days earlier than they had planned, after a telephone call to La Cure. It was raining when der Chrigl drove them down in the Post-Auto, sounding his musical horn; the upper forests were shrouded in mist, and they splashed through puddles crossing the Bahnhof-Platz, where the cab-horses stood with dismally drooping heads, their coats streaked and dark with moisture. Apart from Mrs. Hathaway getting her feet wet, Julia was quite glad that the skies should weep as she left darling Interlaken, the sweet, beautiful little town where she had been so exquisitely happy and so miserably unhappy.

  In Berne she insisted on going with Mrs. Hathaway to her hotel and seeing her installed in good comfortable rooms; then she drove back to the Haupt-Bahnhof, where for the third time the same tall grey-blond porter took her luggage to the train for Lausanne. Just before it pulled out another passenger came into her carriage—with something like horror Julia recognised M. Kaufmann, of ‘Corsette-Air’.

  He recognised her too—Julia’s was a face that men remembered—but nothing could have been more genial than his manner.

  ‘Ah, Mademoiselle, quelle chance! Once more we travel together! Mademoiselle goes again to Geneva?’

  ‘This time only to Lausanne,’ Julia said. It was positively uncanny, sitting opposite this cheerful little man, with his natty summer suit and his brief-case, to think that she had penetrated into his house, spoken with his wife, heard his child screaming, and burgled his desk for vital information—while he now greeted her so warmly. Had the sour-faced Frau Kaufmann suppressed all mention of her morning visitor?—or had he heard, and failed to put two and two together? She enquired politely how his business was going?

  ‘Oh, very well indeed.’ Julia expressed satisfaction; he offered her a cigarette, and lit it for her.

  ‘Of course from time to time there arrive des embêtements’, he pursued, confidentially. ‘One expects to bring off a coup, and behold, something goes wrong at the last moment.’ (Like Hell it does! Julia thought to herself. But obviously the Frau had at least not described her.) She spoke sympathetically, and ventured the hope that he had experienced no serious contretemps?—she was burning with curiosity to hear what else he would say. Herr Kaufmann shrugged philosophically. These things were all in the day’s work—only one did not like to disappoint clients.

  Julia, who had so successfully caused two of his clients to be disappointed, made appropriate sounds—again, it seemed uncanny that he should be telling her this. The little man then asked politely how she was enjoying her séjour in Switzerland?—and added ‘Now this time, Mademoiselle really must see Mont Blanc! It is a perfect day—all the peaks are clear.’

  In fact it was a perfect day. The weather had lifted, and the Lake of Geneva shone a brilliant blue in the sun; at the right spot, this time, the little ‘Corsette-Air’ man pointed out to Julia Europe’s highest mountain, standing up like a vast pearl, projecting into the blue sky above the blue water. She looked at it with delight.

  At Lausanne she got a porter and was making her way to the platform for Bellardon when suddenly Jean-Pierre appeared, waving his black felt hat above his so un-clerical grey flannel suit.

  ‘Ah, there you are! I came on the chance; I had to be in Lausanne this morning, but I could not meet the earlier train, which we thought you might take.’ Julia explained about taking Mrs. Hathaway to her hotel, and apologised for not having telephoned—‘I really didn’t know exactly when I should arrive; and when I found out, there wasn’t time to ring up. I am so sorry.’

  ‘Do not torment yourself! Germaine is an adept at keeping late lunches for me—cold, or in casseroles. Do you call these hot-pots?’

  ‘No—a hot-pot is a special kind of food: we call those dishes with lids casseroles too.’ As they sped through the green fruitful countryside she asked after all the family; Jean-Pierre in his turn informed her that the Banque Républicaine had formally announced to him the recovery of the whole of Aglaia Armitage’s fortune.

  ‘The old de Kessler signed the letter, but it was not very informative, so I rang up Maurice Chambertin; like all bankers he was extremely cautious, but he allowed me to gain the impression that you had played a considerable rôle in this affair; and when I told him that you were coming to visit us, he said—“Ask of her.” So now I do ask you.’

  ‘Well really June played a much larger rôle than me,’ Julia said. ‘However, this is how it was’—and she gave him the whole story.

  ‘Made the exchange in the toilette! That was very rusé!’ the Pastor exclaimed on hearing about Andermatt; he bellowed with laughter when Julia recounted her triage of the papers in the ladies’ lavatory at the Fluss, and laughed more loudly still when she described how she had hidden the documents in a churn half-way up the Niederhorn. ‘Really, you should have one of the English decorations for this! You have earned it.’

  Julia couldn’t bear to go into the subject of decorations, because she and John had laughed about them together. Instead, she asked if the police had been after June in any way? ‘Of course she is involved, up to a point; she did impersonate Aglaia, and made false statements at the bank—but I tried to keep her out of trouble.’

  No, there had been no difficulties, he told her. ‘As La Cure is not registered as an hotel—though often it very much resembles one—I do not have to show the passports of my guests to the police, who in any case know me well. But I must say I feared trouble of some sort, since she was known to have been associated with that gang. How did you manage to avert it?’

  ‘Oh well, one way and another,’ Julia said, with studied vagueness. ‘Your police are really very nice, I think.’ She wanted to keep the Berne office out of it.

  ‘I expect they also think you very nice,’ he said slyly.

  They stopped in the nearest town to Bellardon for Jean-Pierre to make some household purchases for Germaine; Julia got out too, and stood in the little street in the hot sunshine, looking at the windows of the small shops, so curiously full of very up-to-date things. When the Pastor returned he threw his parcels into
the back of the car; as he held open the door for her to get in he saw her face in the strong light.

  ‘You look exhausted!’ he exclaimed—‘no, overstrained, rather. This whole affair must have worn on your nerves, I think?’

  Julia agreed that it had been rather anxious work. She had not realised that her unhappiness actually showed in her face, and was upset.

  ‘Well, with us you shall rest, and restore yourself. At La Cure there is, thank God, always peace. Oh—have you the new passport for la petite?’ he added, as they drove off.

  ‘Yes—its equivalent, anyhow. She can get home.’

  When they arrived Germaine and June met them on the doorstep; Julia noticed the surprise in her host’s face when the young girl threw her arms round her neck and kissed her, saying—‘Oh, it’s simply lovely to see you again! And thank you for sending me here; I am so happy,’ she added, with a grateful glance at her hostess. Germaine and June had already eaten, but they sat with Julia and the Pastor while they consumed the soup, the cold veal with salad, and the cheese which awaited them. Germaine too commented on how tired Julia looked, and after coffee dispatched her to her room to rest.

  ‘No, June; you are not to go up now—you can talk with Miss Probyn later.’

  ‘I thought I might unpack for her,’ June said. She was hobbling about quite actively with the aid of an ebonised stick shod with rubber, known as a Kranken-Stock, but she spoke perfectly unresentfully.

  ‘You shall help me with that when I’ve had a shut-eye, June,’ Julia said. She went up to her old room, and before lying down looked out of the window. Washing still hung along the lines beside the lawn, little apples were beginning to swell in the orchard-trees; the lilacs and peonies were over, but the familiar benign sense of peace and kindness reigned. She threw open a suit-case, took out a wrapper, and removed her pretty linen suit; as she lay down to rest she murmured—‘Blessed place!’

  She got an even stronger sense of the blessedness of La Cure from seeing June there. The little ill-educated English suburbanite, so many of her values completely shoddy, was the oddest possible inmate of that household; yet there she was, perfectly at home and as happy as a bird, with no sense of strain on any side—and moreover making herself quite useful. Germaine exercised on her the quiet discipline normal in those fortunate families where tradition is still strong; and June did as she was told, obviously with great contentment.