The Dangerous Years

by Richard Church

Launching a Boat

  When Mrs. Winterbourne went down to the lounge to find a newspaper which she might take to read as a persuasive to her afternoon nap, she met Colonel Batten, who was on his way out.

  “You can’t waste this winter sunshine,” he said, when she told him of her purpose. “Break your habit for once. It is good to break away from habits. It helps us to forget that we are prisoners.”

  She needed little prompting, for since Christmas Day the regularity of her life had been much disturbed. She had seen the colonel frequently, and with increasing attachment. It had not been necessary to tell Joan of these encounters, some by appointment, others of chance, or what seemed chance.

  “I’m helping young Adrian to sail his boat.” The colonel took her hand and looked into her eyes. It was an appealing gesture, characteristic of him, as she had already found out. That was perhaps what attracted her; the boyish confidence, as though he assumed that she was here to be depended on, to be appealed to, to decide things for him. Yet with this, he contrived to be very masculine, very protective. He gave her the impression almost of physically enveloping her. And that was a comfortable sensation, after so many years walking alone against the east winds of life.

  “You don’t mind if our friend Sturm comes too?” he said, as though she had already agreed to accompany the party. “I’d sooner we were alone, but it has already been arranged. You see, Sturm wants to know the boy more intimately, if he is …” The colonel stopped, afraid that he had said too much. Mary loved that out-of-countenance hesitancy. It was part of the innocence of the man.

  “I’ll come,” she said, “wait while I fetch my coat.”

  She reappeared in a half-length Persian lamb coat, with hat to match. The effect was dainty, giving her a diminutive quality that enhanced her trim figure and the lovely outline of her cheeks and brow. Her silvery hair peeped out from the toque. The colonel’s eyes were hungry.

  “Mrs. Winterbourne,” he said, “Mary …!” And he adjusted the silk handkerchief at her throat. Before she could restrain herself, or consider the consequences, she took his hand and held it still, within an inch of her throat. “Please,” she whispered.

  “I know! I know!” he answered, hoarsely. Then he turned and propelled the swing door, urging her along. When they were outside, he took her arm, and they walked up the road without speaking for several minutes, both considerably agitated.

  “Where do we meet Mr. Sturm?” she asked at last, and with some effort of will.

  Batten did not reply. He had not yet returned to earth. Mary felt herself being half-carried along, like a Sabine woman.

  “How long have you been alone?” he asked. She knew what he meant.

  “He was killed in the Battle of Loos,” she replied, amid a conflict of feeling.

  Amongst those emotions was a sense of gratitude to her companion for bringing the memory of her husband into the relationship. It was as though he were being consuited, asked for his approval; everything above-board. She looked at the man walking beside her, and saw no stranger. Perhaps the pressure of her arm on his hand, drawing it to the side of her breast, was involuntary. It was instantly responded to.

  “Look, Mary …” he began. But he could find no word. After some hesitation, he answered her previous question. “Sturm is meeting us at the pond in the Gardens. Ah! There’s the infant, waiting with the concierge outside the flats. They’re great friends. That man used to be a bandsman in the Alpine Corps. But Adrian makes friends everywhere—though he is an odd boy, more odd than at first appears. He seems a quiet youngster; not particularly bright, you understand. Not at schoolwork, though it is early days yet. His father is concerned about that, you know. Half the trouble is over this determination that he shall be an all-round fellow when he grows up. There’s something almost classical about my brother. He should have been the Master of a college at Cambridge or Oxford. He’s all for the well-balanced character. Something of a Spartan, perhaps.”

  “Do you disagree with that … Tom?”

  She used his name with only the faintest hesitation: and he was too interested in his nephew to notice the approach. The boy’s personality must be pervasive.

  “Not in principle. But I don’t find it easy to live up to: though I ought to, since it’s part of a soldier’s training. We aren’t always a perfect fit, are we, Mary? Do you find it so? Are you content with what circumstances have tried to make you?”

  “That is difficult to answer.”

  “Yes, I can answer for you. I am content with what I see. It is something quite lovely, Mary. Something that I would not have expected to find in this world.”

  “Please; you frighten me. I can’t live up to that, can I?”

  “Could you live down to me, Mary? Could you?”

  She had no answer to that. The intensity alone frightened her, while it made her feel slightly drunk, emotionally drunk.

  “Here is Adrian,” she said, as calmly as possible. And they both greeted the boy, who picked up his boat and struggled with it until his uncle took it from him.

  The child was so intent upon his errand that he hardly noticed Mrs. Winterbourne, and she was amused to see that the colonel, who a moment ago had been criticising his brother’s aim in making the boy conventional, took the child’s enthusiasm immediately as a breach of manners, and spoke sharply.

  “You remember Mrs. Winterbourne, Adrian!” It was an order, not an introduction.

  But the boy remained perfunctory in his recognition of this intruder upon his pleasures. Mary was conscious, almost, of a slight antagonism. Could it be that he recognised her indifference to his musical ability? She asked herself that, and felt guilty. After all, the child could not help being slightly abnormal. So she told herself, and with that she made an effort to ingratiate herself; though it was an effort, for her interest was really with his uncle; and that again gave her a sense of being about to commit a misdemeanour.

  All this took place in her mind while they were walking towards the Luxembourg, the colonel solemnly carrying the boat, his stick hanging loosely on his arm, to which the child also clung, dancing along with a hop, skip and jump, unable to contain himself for eager anticipation.

  Mary was the only detached member of the party; a kind of appendage. But she was happy enough, for it was good to be allowed to share this adventure. It revived the youth of the world, and made her feel that the trees were bursting into leaf again, though the year was already at the brink of its grave, and what lay ahead was uncertainty and a further decline toward old age and a burden of perplexing problems. Even with that prospect, her heart beat bravely, and her instinct urged her on.

  “You had no chance to answer me,” said the colonel suddenly, as they passed through the gate of the Gardens. He had turned his head, and was looking down at her with a reverence that hastened that heart-beat whose vigour had already made itself felt, weakening her by its strength, a physical paradox that both warned her and added to her recklessness. Nature cannot always be wrong, she silently commented: though what she meant by ‘nature’ she was not yet prepared to admit to herself.

  “How can I answer?” she said, after this tumult of cogitation: and by way of reparation for being so unsatisfactory to him, she took the stick from his arm and carried it for him. He appeared to be satisfied by that bit of miming, and the party proceeded happily, until it reached the pond, where Mr. Aloysius Sturm sat waiting, puffing at a cigar, and so rotund in his winter coat that he looked like a stationary locomotive.

  His quick eyes instantly detected the party among the people approaching the pond, and he rose to meet them.

  “Well, Mrs. Winterbourne, this is an unexpected pleasure. We had not anticipated that …” but his attention wandered. He was studying the small boy with the mop of lank hair and keen little face. He watched the fingers at work so intelligently among the rigging of the boat. Their skill appeared to give him confidence, and he smiled down benevolently, his face breasting the clouds of cigar-smoke like t
he sun sailing through an April day.

  The colonel was down to boy-level, and Mary was so intent on his movements that she had not noticed when he thrust his gloves into her hands, in preparation to crouching down beside the boat, and talking across it volubly to his nephew. He had apparently forgotten her, and also the main purpose of this adventure, and the American impresario who had started it.

  Mary and Mr. Sturm were thus left facing each other, smiling with a shared indulgence.

  “Well,” he said, “this does me good, Mrs. Winterbourne. I take it that you approve?”

  “What does that include, Mr. Sturm?” she asked. Her smiling eyes reassured him, and he recognised an ally.

  “More than we can talk about here, ma’am. But I will confide in you; I will say that I know something big when I see it. And that boy has got a future, Mrs. Winterbourne. Believe you me!”

  “And you want that future to begin now?”

  He twinkled, making an upward gesture with his cigar in a fat hand, and half-turning away as though she were perhaps a little too perceptive.

  “You’ve said it! But it’s not as simple as that. The boy’s parents, you understand, Mrs. Winterbourne. They are not too easy, not too easy. People cannot always accept the plain facts, the facts that lie before their noses. Even when you can smell genius a mile off—but look at that! My, he’s a quick one, that lad! Did you see the way he launched that boat? A load of intelligence behind that; and he’s only nine years of age, Mrs. Winterbourne. I should say that boy has a practical turn of mind. He thinks through those hands—and that is what you want with a musician; an executive musician. It’s a matter of feel. A real musician has a dozen senses instead of five, and they are all in the tips of his fingers. Now look you here …”

  “It is useless, Mr. Sturm. I am not musical. But I can believe that where there is a talent of any kind, it should be developed and used. That is what I heard you saying at the Christmas dinner, was it not? But you failed to impress Dr. Batten. He is very English, you know; and the English like to keep their children young as long as possible; and they suspect professionalism, especially in the arts.”

  “You are a very discerning woman, Mrs. Winterbourne. I can see that you agree with my friend the colonel.…”

  “Oh, and he thinks with you that something should be done straight away to start the child on his career as a pianist?’’

  “I am hoping he will bring his influence to bear on the family, Mrs. Winterbourne. If you have any, I will beg you to use it. I am certain that Dr. Batten will be influenced by your opinion. I could see that he listened to you while we were sitting around there on Christmas Day.…”

  “But I was quite a mouse, Mr. Sturm. I said nothing.”

  “Well,” he said dryly, “I would like to take the colonel’s views on that point. From what he tells me of his brother’s reactions to your personality, Mrs. Winterbourne … But you know how it is. We have to go cannily in these matters. All this cross-talk can lead to many a tangle. But you may be sure, my dear lady, that Dr. Batten thinks a deal, a very great deal, of your capacity.…”

  “Capacity for what, Mr. Sturm?” she said.

  “You look at me as you say that, Mrs. Winterbourne, and though I am no longer a young man, I can tell you that my knees tremble. Now if I were a Hollywood tycoon, I would be signing you up here and now.”

  “It is an English habit always to suspect that a compliment disguises an ulterior motive, Mr. Sturm. We are such an inexpressive nation.”

  “Now that’s old-fashioned stuff, lady. Don’t give me that. I’ll confess that indeed I have an ulterior motive. But that does not change the value of my tribute to a beautiful woman. No, ma’am. That is a matter of actuality; something I see in front of me, you understand. And I speak my mind, without fear or favour. But I do want to tell you something more. Where I see talent, I go all out for it, Mrs. Winterbourne. You watch me, and see what happens!”

  “I shall be most interested. Though I think the child should have full consideration.”

  Mr. Sturm waved his cigar again, dismissing any suggestion to the contrary, and then both he and Mrs. Winterbourne were drawn into the more immediate project, which was to reset the sails of the boat. The first launching had not been successful, for the wind had turned the vessel and driven it to shore again. The three adults and Adrian crouched round it, but as Mrs. Winterbourne could do nothing, and could not understand what had to be done, she quickly resumed a more general interest, standing over the three males, looking down at them with amusement, almost with affection, the colonel’s gloves and walking-stick in her hands. She had not seen her daughter emerge from the vague mass of humanity on the farther bank of the pond, to be quickly swallowed up again.

  The re-launching of the boat was successful, and the swanlike creature, a living beauty, went breasting across the water with the ripples at its bows, bobbing over the miniature billows in mid-ocean, and missing by one miracle after another the high-powered craft and the sailing vessels whose traffic was of such great concern to the hundreds of watchers on the bank.

  At last the old-year sun began to sink behind the trees of the Luxembourg, and the temperature fell instantly. Mary shivered, and the colonel felt her discomfort, with that physical sympathy that is so delicious, and so dangerous, between a man and a woman when they are becoming mutually interested.

  “Time, Adrian!” he commanded, “tea-time!” And the boat was drawn out of the water when it next touched shore. Quickly stripping it, with the boy’s help, he picked it up, ignoring the fact that Mary still carried his gloves and stick.

  “Now for home,” he cried. “And you will come in for a cup of tea, both of you?”

  “I must get back to Joan,” said Mary, suddenly contrite and anxious, realising that she had deserted her daughter all the afternoon.

  She left them at the corner of the Rue Campagne-Première, and hurried through to the hotel. But she was conscious that the colonel had halted his small and marine procession, to watch her out of sight.

  Chapter Twelve

  Judas Also Wept

  Colonel Batten carried the boat, walking sternly ahead after he had watched the trim little figure disappear up the side-street. Between him and Aloysius Sturm danced the boy Adrian, still enraptured by the success of his boat in its swanlike voyages across the pond. He could talk of nothing else, and his bright eyes flashed upward, seeking one joyous certainty after another as he chattered to the elders towering above him; while from time to time he put up his hand and touched the boat, as it were a living creature whom he loved.

  “I shall sail my boat to China,” he told Mr. Sturm, who had taken him by the other hand.

  “To China! That’s a long way across the ocean, my boy. And why to China?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Because … because,” the vivid little face was only momentarily perplexed, “… because I know a Chinaman. He comes and fetches one of the children from school every day, and he speaks to us, and tells us about China. It’s a big place, and there are thousands and thousands of boats on the river there, and people live on them. I want to live on a boat, and sail on for ever. I’m going to be a sailor, and captain of a ship.”

  These pulses of imagination were accompanied by violent leaps into the air that almost wrenched Mr. Sturm’s arm from its socket.

  “But that would have to be a steam-ship, made of iron.”

  The old man was caught up in the nervous intensity of the child’s imagination.

  “No, it wouldn’t, not if I’m a pirate captain.”

  “So you want to be a pirate captain, eh? Now that’s a big undertaking, young fellow. I tell you what! I guess you had better employ me as your shipping agent.”

  The child eyed him with renewed interest, grateful for this unexpected collaboration in his fantasy.

  “What’s an agent?”

  “Well, he’s the fellow who gets all the contacts, kind of; and also all the kicks when anything goes wrong.”


  “Don’t harp on it!” said Colonel Batten fiercely. He was obviously uneasy at the thought of this campaign, and the part which he might have to play in it.

  “If I capture the ships, will you sell the diamonds, and the slaves, and the bars of gold?” Adrian was consolidating the partnership.

  “That I will. And I’ll plan the voyages for you and your messmates; and see about provisions, and the keeling of your vessel from time to time.”

  “What’s keeling…?” The boy let nothing pass that he could not understand, unless it was something outside the range of his immediate enthusiasm.

  But they had now reached home, and the piracy compact had to wait. Adrian ran up the stone stairs to the front door of the flat, and hammered on it with his fist. The old servant appeared, her face flushed with the heat of her kitchen. She looked rather discontented, and stared at the two men with suspicion.

  “Doctor and Madame are both out,” she said, picking up the boy’s overcoat, which he had thrown off and dropped on the floor.

  “Hi!” shouted the colonel to the vanished Adrian. The boy peered mischievously round the door of the sittingroom. “That’s not the way to deal with your clothes.”

  “Ach! Là, là! It is a male,” said the maid, and she took the outdoor clothes from the hands of the adults, hanging up the garments, and in the process of serving throwing off her resentful mood. “You will go into the salon and I will bring you some English tea.”

  Meanwhile, Adrian was at the piano. His face still shone with eagerness.

  “Listen, this is how my boat goes over the water,” he cried, boastfully. He opened the lid, paused for a moment or two, saying, half to himself, “Like this … like this …” and narrowing his eyes, frowning slightly, then, with a tiny ejaculation of breath, beginning to play.

  At first, he played only with his left hand, and his frown suggested that he was annoyed by the difficulty of stretching a full chord. A running bass emerged, in the rhythm of a barcarolle, and to this, after several bars, he introduced a theme with the right hand. This sank and was lost. He brought out another, and cast it on that rolling bass. It survived, floated along, spread, and then settled down to the rhythm of the medium carrying it. It was a clear, long theme, and the American, standing just inside the open door of the salon, looked at the colonel and nodded his head sagely, while he began to grope with one hand for a pocket containing his cigar-case. He took a cigar, produced a pocket-knife with a gold handle, and stood inert, waiting, incapable of co-ordinating thoughts and movements. He was stilled, hypnotised. Colonel Batten stood at the end of the piano, his attention divided between his nephew and the American agent. His blue eyes were watchful, but evasive. He might have been anxious, or he might have been slightly ashamed of something.