A Game of Consequences

by Shelley Smith

  ‘Thank you, ma mère.’

  ‘How can I help you, Monsieur?’

  ‘I turn to you at this moment of my total anguish and despair to entreat you, Madame, to accord to my poor children your Christian charity and give them shelter for a few days. A week at the most. Hear me, I beg, before you speak,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I have so little time, and there are still all the arrangements to be made concerning my dear wife before I leave.’ (On the sofa Dinah and Biddy yawned and kicked their legs to and fro, while Jerry talked on and on; it was the most boring room they had ever been in, there was absolutely nothing to look at, not even a view from the window, only a blank wall. They sighed and hoped he would not be much longer. ‘I spy with my little eye,’ whispered Biddy once again. But they had already spied everything that had a name.) ‘For I have to leave tonight for South America, where I have a business appointment of the utmost importance the day after tomorrow in Santiago. There is no possible way of breaking it. I must be there. Not to be would create a financial disaster of the greatest magnitude, in which the livelihood of many thousands of people would be lost. What am I to do, ma mère? I cannot take my poor little girls with me, much as it grieves me to leave them behind at such a cruel moment in their lives. And there is no time for me to make other arrangements for their protection. I am forced to throw myself on your mercy; you, who in the name of your Lord and Saviour, regard the welfare of the motherless. I would pay generously for their keep,’ he added, drawing out his wallet, ‘and would also like to make a contribution for your own orphans, indicative of my gratitude,’ he said, laying some large notes on the desk. He saw her glance at them. ‘You will not refuse me. It is for so short a while. I will certainly be back for them within ten days. And if you should have need of me for any reason, you can cable me either to the Hotel Almeria or to Hernanos y Hijo, Calle Puyo 8, Santiago de Chile,’ he scribbled the address on a piece of paper as he spoke. He pushed it, with the notes, towards her.

  Her long suave hands were linked, the beads of her rosary dripping between her fingers, her head bent. Considering the matter from a practical point of view? Or praying.

  ‘Very well, Monsieur. I will take your little ones. Have no fear.’

  ‘You have lifted a great burden from me. I thank you.’

  ‘Remember me in your prayers.’

  ‘I will,’ He rose. ‘And now a few moments more, if I may, to say goodbye to my children and to explain to them why they are here. It will cause them, I fear, great distress.’

  The nun inclined her head graciously, and turned away so that the little scene might be more private.

  He had accomplished this part successfully; the harder part was to come.

  ‘Listen, darlings, I have something to tell you.’

  ‘Oh, Jerry, can’t we go now! Please. We’ve been here such hours.’ Dinah cried impatiently.

  ‘I want you to listen to me carefully and try to understand, and not make a fuss. It will only be for a few days.’

  ‘What will?’

  He stroked their silky hair:

  ‘I purposely didn’t tell you before, but when I spoke to Tom last night he told me that he and Kate had to go away for a day or so, quite unexpectedly and unavoidably, and they wanted you to stay here, at this sort of boarding-school, till they come back.’

  ‘I don’t want to stay here!’ Dinah cried in horror. ‘This awful place! Why can’t we stay at the villa, with Yvette? She could look after us.’ She pulled at his lapels, pleadingly.

  ‘Is that the maid? Kate said she wouldn’t feel happy leaving you there, she wouldn’t feel you were safe.’

  She began to cry:

  ‘But we shan’t be happy here. How beastly of Mummy. I hate grown-ups, they never think about children. Why can’t we go on staying with you?’

  Jerry said quickly:

  ‘Listen, it’s all arranged. You’ll just have to accept it. You can’t stay with me, because I’m going back to England. Don’t make a scene in front of this lady, who’s being so kind as to put you up, you’ll hurt her feelings. Besides, it’s frightfully rude. Just try and make the best of it. Oh well, if you’re going to cry like a couple of great babies I shall simply say goodbye.’

  They ran after him, howling:

  ‘Don’t go! Don’t leave us, Jerry. Please. Oh please, Jerry, darling Jerry.’

  But darling Jerry had fled, and behind them came the swift soft steps of the nun lady who, with a hand on their shoulders, drew them to her, kneeling and pressing their weeping faces to her stuffy bosom, talking to them quietly and pointing to the statue of the man with the red heart. Their own hearts were as heavy as stone, filled with oppression and dread. Perhaps the red heart meant that his heart ached too. A statue that like a picture told a story, Dinah thought, and looked at it with a certain wan interest …

  A bell began to peal with rapid reverberations and they were led down the long corridor to another part of the building.

  ELEVEN

  Since Eskdale had ordered Tom to stay by the phone and wait for his call, the Ransomes did not dare leave the premises. They passed a wretched day.

  ‘Why doesn’t he ring? Why doesn’t he ring?’ Kate moaned fretfully. ‘Tom, I think we should go to the police. I really do.’

  ‘No, darling. Not yet. Be patient. He’ll phone. He said he would.’

  ‘They could be anywhere by now. He could have smuggled them out of the country even.’

  ‘Now why should he want to do that? How absurd! He wouldn’t want to lumber himself with a couple of kids. He was always very fond of them, you know that, and they’re probably all having the time of their lives. Come on, it’s your turn,’ he said, for they were playing Scrabble in a desultory way.

  After which they moved on to Backgammon for a while. And then had a couple of games of Russian Bank, when Tom glanced up and saw that Kate was soundlessly weeping.

  ‘Don’t, darling, please. I can’t bear it.’ He took her hand. He would have liked to say: ‘There’s really nothing to worry about,’ but couldn’t since he didn’t believe it himself however much he tried to persuade himself it was so.

  ‘There’s something wrong, I know it, I feel it. Or why should he have gone off with them in that extraordinary manner? Such an odd unnatural way to behave.’ She brushed a hand across her eyes. ‘I mean, why didn’t he look us up first of all? That surely was the obvious thing to do.’

  ‘It’s no good talking about it. We ask the same questions over and over and we just can’t come up with the answers. Shall we finish this game or are you tired of it?’

  *

  Eskdale, on the other hand, had enjoyed his day. He had spent it at the race-course at Cros de Cagnes, and although he had not made any spectacular wins he was in a cheerful frame of mind because he felt himself to be on a lucky streak. He was looking forward to the evening, pitting his wits against the other. He could feel the familiar tension and excitement. He savoured the thought of the cat and mouse game ahead of him.

  It was getting quite late by the time he rang. Stars were already spearing through the falling veils of dusk. He told Tom merely to meet him in Nice, at the Café des Flots Bleus on the Place Masséna.

  ‘Got that?’

  ‘Yes. What time?’

  ‘I’ll be waiting for you.’

  Kate naturally wanted to go too, but Tom had his own good reasons for insisting upon going alone.

  Like the young Spartans combing their hair before the Battle of Thermopylae, or like Keats ‘adonising’ himself with washed face, clean shirt and neatly tied shoelaces before his battle with the Muse of poetry, so Tom spruced his appearance with a shower and a shave and donned fresh jeans and a high-necked sweater as appropriately casual wear for his particular encounter with the enemy, which would appear like the meeting of two friends for a drink in agreeable surroundings.

  Kate was sorting the cards for a game of 2-pack patience and did not look up as he passed through the room and dropped a kiss on her
bent head.

  It was a waste of time, he told himself sharply as he drove along the Moyenne Corniche with the lights twinkling far below, thinly among the dark headlands and in rivers of light outlining the curving bays, a waste of time listening to that voice in his head contending fiercely with an opponent who never got the chance to answer. It was no use making up arguments in advance, because in actuality one was never given the opportunity to say the things one had planned. Better, far better, to trust to the inspiration of the moment. Wisest of all was to leave the talking to Jeremy. And above all, not lose his temper. However he might feel, he must keep his tongue between his teeth. He would do well to remember that Jeremy was a murderer and murderers were dangerous. He was probably mad and madmen were dangerous too.

  Absorbed in his thoughts, Tom must have been driving faster than he knew, for suddenly he saw Nice spread out beneath him like an island in the surrounding darkness. He came down Cimiez and along the Avenue de la Victoire to the Place Masséna and drove around it slowly, looking for the café and somewhere to park the Mercedes.

  It was easy to pick out Jeremy. He was seated in the front row of the tables spread across the pavement. He was looking very debonair and handsome, lounging there at his ease in a dark-red towelling shirt, and Tom felt an angry flush rise to his face. But he forced a smile to his lips and greeted him with a casual, ‘Hi!’ and a half-raised gesture of his hand.

  ‘Ah, here you are,’ Jeremy said amiably, kicking out a chair for him. ‘Sit down. What’ll you have to drink?’ He signalled to a waiter as he spoke.

  He was being his courteous civilised self, and Tom wanted to smash his face in. Instead of which he ordered a cognac and, seeing a little pile of saucers stacked in front of the other, asked if he’d been waiting long.

  ‘Oh no. It’s so pleasant just to sit here and watch the people pass. I must say you’re looking remarkably fit. Living the good life obviously agrees with you. Kate all right?’

  ‘Yes … yes, I think so.’

  ‘That was a very nice Merc, you were driving just now. Have you come into a fortune?’

  ‘A fortune? Hardly,’ Tom said with his widest smile. ‘The Merc, goes with the job.’

  ‘Oh, the job! Yes, I remember you mentioned you had a job in your letter, but you never said what it was. It must be something pretty good if it runs to a Merc. Do tell me about it.’

  ‘Oh, it wouldn’t interest you,’ Tom said on a note of finality.

  ‘You couldn’t be more wrong. It interests me enormously.’

  ‘It’s really not very exciting,’ Tom said, trying desperately to think of a likely business for an Englishman in this neck of the woods. He recollected the occupation of a chap he’d run into a couple of weeks ago, and annexed the part for himself. ‘I run an agency, selling yachts to people who can afford to buy them.’

  ‘Good heavens, do you really? I had no idea you knew anything about boats.’

  ‘There’s nothing much to it. It’s easy enough to pick up the jargon, and the customers usually know far less than oneself. People who go in for yachts are so well-to-do that the boats practically sell themselves.’

  ‘Fascinating. So you’re doing well?’

  ‘I make a comfortable living. We’ve rented a nice villa not far from where the children go to school.’ And without changing his tone or his expression, he went on without a pause: ‘Why didn’t you come in to see us when you were so near? What made you take them away without telling us? Such a crazy thing to do! It was a job to stop Kate going to the police.’

  ‘Yes, it must have been difficult, but I knew you’d manage. We’ll talk about that later. I’m so glad to hear you’re doing well. A far cry from the world of pictures though. Have you given that up completely?’

  ‘It gave me up long ago, if you remember.’

  ‘Ah well, as long as you’re happy. You must give me the address of your agency and I’ll pay you a visit.’

  ‘Why, are you in the market for a yacht? I suppose you would be now.’

  ‘Not exactly. Not yet. But I expect to be quite soon. I rather fancy the idea of cruising about the Mediterranean; it sounds so delightfully restful after what I’ve been through these last weeks.’

  ‘I’ll do my best to fix you up.’

  ‘I know you will. We owe each other a good deal, one way and another.’ Jeremy touched a waiter’s arm as he went by and ordered two more drinks.

  Tom said in a low insistent tone:

  ‘Where are the children, Jeremy? I’m so disappointed not to see them, I thought they’d be here.’

  ‘Did you really? I’m afraid that wasn’t feasible. They’re probably fast asleep by now.’

  ‘I want to see them.’

  ‘Well, of course you do. And I’m sure they’re simply longing to see you too. Dear little things, we had such a good time together. They really enjoyed themselves.’

  ‘You haven’t left them on their own, have you? They’ll be scared out of their wits.’

  ‘Oh, you fond parents!’ Jeremy said with a good-natured laugh. ‘You really mustn’t worry so, they’re quite all right.’

  ‘You don’t understand. They’ve never been left alone at night.’

  ‘As if I’d let them come to harm. My dear fellow, I assure you they’re every bit as precious to me as they are to you and Kate.’

  ‘I don’t understand any of this. What are we doing here? Why can’t we go and collect them now?’

  ‘My dear chap, what we’re doing here is having a friendly chat and a few drinks, that’s what we’re doing. After which we’ll find a quiet restaurant where we can talk undisturbed. We have a lot to discuss.’

  The waiter set down fresh drinks and flapped away some spilt liquid with his serviette.

  ‘What is there to discuss? I wish you’d tell me what it’s all about.’

  ‘You’ll find out,’ said Jeremy, lifting the Campari to his lips. ‘It’s queer, you know, somehow I never imagined we’d meet again. Did you? The end of the episode seemed to signify the end of our agreeable but tenuous acquaintance. As though the circles we moved in were never likely to coincide again. It’s funny but I have the impression now that those days were better than they seemed at the time. It’s like another age. I can hardly believe it was such a short while ago. But then I’ve been through a pretty rough time. A lot has happened to me.’ Jeremy swallowed half the Campari and regarded it thoughtfully against the light. ‘Whereas you, I suppose, have been living the life of Riley.’

  Tom made no answer. His gaze wandered idly over the crowd and paused on a woman, with hair that looked as if it was made of silver lurex, a great pair of tits, and a wide red smile like Rory’s. Her eyes, swimming between their rushy-fringed banks, met his and for a moment her tongue gleamed between her teeth. Jeremy turned his head to see what Tom was staring at.

  ‘Christ!’ he said softly and laughed.

  Tom gave the faintest reciprocal smile, acknowledging the absurdity and the pathos. But he was thinking of something else. He turned the glass stem between his fingers and after a certain consideration drank some of the contents. And then:

  ‘I heard about Rory’s death,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It was a dreadful shock. Dreadful. I couldn’t believe it. I wouldn’t have thought it possible. In the circumstances, I mean.’

  ‘I thought you must have heard about it somehow or other, since you didn’t ask after her.’

  ‘I would have written, but — ’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I thought you’d probably understand.’

  ‘I’m afraid I never gave it a thought; I had other things on my mind just then.’

  ‘I really didn’t know what to say. I was so horrified. Poor Rory, what a cruel and unnecessary fate.’

  Jeremy said: ‘I’d rather not talk about it just now, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Shall we go, then?’

  ‘If you like.’ Jeremy called the waiter, paid
, and the two walked away, threading through the traffic as they crossed the square.

  ‘My car or yours?’

  ‘Oh, we can walk, it’ll do us good. The Manoir Normand is only ten minutes or so from here, in the Rue de France.’

  They sat facing one another at a table against the wall. There was a pleasing old-fashioned absence of chichi about the place, as befits the kind of restaurant that serves a mainly masculine clientele: like an English club.

  They ordered. A silence fell upon them while they waited. Then with a curious expression on his handsome face, Jeremy remarked; ‘Do you know that it is a year almost to the day since we ran into one another in The Flying Fox?’

  ‘Is it?’ the other said indifferently. ‘Is that significant?’

  ‘I rather think so. Look how it has altered both our lives.’

  The other was silent for a while, as though considering the matter, and then at last he suggested: ‘You mean, Rory might still be alive.’

  Jeremy gave him a sharpish look but was prevented from answering by a flurry of waiters serving food, opening the Pouilly Fumée.

  ‘That may be so,’ he said when they had departed, ‘but it wasn’t what I mean. Rory died because she was smashed out of her mind. Not only tight as a kite, but drunk as a skunk. I couldn’t do a thing with her,’ he said with some bitterness, ‘she was beyond help.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really? Do you think I didn’t try, man? God, the horror of that night is something I shall never forget.’

  ‘Must we talk about it?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid we must. It’s relevant, don’t you see, to what came after.’

  ‘I’d so much rather not hear.’

  ‘How else am I to make you understand what happened?’

  ‘All right. Go ahead,’ Tom muttered, wondering what kind of story the man would come up with to cover the inescapable facts. He picked at his fish, and added, like the tiny prick of a stiletto the point of which has been tipped with some poison whose effect may only be felt later: ‘I can’t imagine how you came to go to Upperdown at the very time when you knew perfectly well that it was about to catch fire. I should have thought it was asking for trouble.’