Complete Works of Nevil Shute

by Nevil Shute

  They had taken eighteen hours over a journey that takes six in normal times. Howard was tired, very tired indeed. His heart began to trouble him at Boulogne and he noticed people looking at him queerly; he knew that meant that he had gone a bad colour. However, he had a little bottle with him that he carried for that sort of incident; he took a dose of that when he got into the train and felt a good deal better.

  He went to the Hotel Girodet, a little place just off the Champs Elysées near the top, that he had stayed at before. Most of the staff he knew had been called up for military service, but they were very kind to him and made him comfortable. He stayed in bed till lunch time the first day and rested in his room most of the afternoon, but next morning he was feeling quite himself, and went out to the Louvre.

  All his life he had found great satisfaction in pictures — real pictures, as he called them, to distinguish them from impressionism. He was particularly fond of the Flemish school. He spent some time that morning sitting on a bench in front of Chardin’s still life of pipes and drinking vessels on a stone table. And then, he told me, he went and had a look at the artist’s portrait of himself. He took great pleasure in the strong, kind face of the man who had done such very good work, over two hundred years ago.

  That’s all he saw that morning at the Louvre. Just that chap, and his work.

  He went on next day towards the Jura. He was still feeling a little shaky after the fatigue of the crossing, so that day he only went as far as Dijon. At the Gare de Lyons he bought a paper casually and looked it over, though he had lost all interest in the war. There was a tremendous amount of bother over Norway and Denmark, which didn’t seem to him to be worth quite so much attention. It was a good long way away.

  Normally that journey takes about three hours, but the railways were in a bad state of disorganization. They told him that it was because of troop movements. The Rapide was an hour late in leaving Paris, and it lost another two hours on the way. It was nearly dinner time when he reached Dijon, and he was very thankful that he had decided to stop there. He had his bags carried to a little hotel just opposite the station, and they gave him a very good dinner in the restaurant. Then he took a cup of coffee and a Cointreau in the café and went up to bed at about half past nine, not too tired to sleep well.

  He was really feeling very well next day, better than he had felt for a long time past. The change of air, added to the change of scene, had done that for him. He had coffee in his room and got up slowly; he went down at about ten o’clock and the sun was shining, and it was warm and fresh out in the street. He walked up through the town to the Hôtel de Ville and found Dijon just as he remembered it from his last visit, about eighteen months before. There was the shop where they had bought their berets, and he smiled again to see the name. Au Pauvre Diable. And there was the shop where John had bought himself a pair of skis, but he didn’t linger there for very long.

  He had his lunch at the hotel and took the afternoon train on into the Jura; he found that the local trains were running better than the main line ones. He changed at Andelot and took the branch line up into the hills. All afternoon the little engine puffed along its single track, pulling its two old coaches through a country dripping with thawing snow. The snow slithered and cascaded off the slopes into the little streams that now were rushing torrents for a brief season. The pines were shooting with fresh green, but the meadows were still deep in a grey, slushy mess. In the high spots of the fields where grass was showing, he noticed a few crocuses. He’d come at the right time, and he was very, very glad of it.

  The train stopped for half an hour at Morez, and then went on to Saint-Claude. It got there just at dusk. He had sent a telegram from Dijon to the Hôtel de la Haute Montagne at Cidoton asking them to send a car down for him, because it’s eleven miles and you can’t always get a car in Saint-Claude. The hotel car was there to meet him, a ten-year-old Chrysler driven by the concierge, who was a diamond cutter when he wasn’t working at the hotel. But Howard only found that out afterwards; the man had come to the hotel since his last visit.

  He took the old man’s bags and put them in the back of the car, and they started off for Cidoton. For the first five miles the road runs up a gorge, turning in hairpin bends up the side of the mountain. Then, on the high ground, it runs straight over the meadows and between the woods. After a winter spent in London, the air was unbelievably sweet. Howard sat beside the driver, but he was too absorbed in the beauty of that drive in the fading light to talk much to him. They spoke once about the war, and the driver told him that almost every able-bodied man in the district had been called up. He himself was exempt, because the diamond dust had got into his lungs.

  The Hôtel de la Haute Montagne is an old coaching house. It has about fifteen bedrooms, and in the season it’s a skiing centre. Cidoton is a tiny hamlet — fifteen or twenty cottages, no more. The hotel is the only house of any size in the place; the hills sweep down to it all round, fine slopes of pasture dotted here and there with pinewoods. It’s very quiet and peaceful in Cidoton, even in the winter season when the village is filled with young French people on their skis. That was as it had been when he was there before.

  It was dark when they drew up at the hotel. Howard went slowly up the stone steps to the door, the concierge following behind him with the bags. The old man pushed open the heavy oak door and went into the hall. By his side, the door leading into the estaminet flew open, and there was Madame Lucard, buxom and cheerful as she had been the year before, with the children round her and the maids grinning over her shoulder. Lucard himself was away with the Chasseurs Alpins.

  They gave him a vociferous French welcome. He had not thought to find himself so well remembered, but it’s not very common for English people to go deep into the Jura. They chattered at him nineteen to the dozen. Was he well? Had he made a good crossing of the Manche? He had stopped in Paris? And in Dijon also? That was good. It was very tiring to travel in this sale war. He had brought a fishing rod with him this time, instead of skis? That was good. He would take a little glass of Pernod with Madame?

  And then, Monsieur votre fils, he was well too?

  Well, they had to know. He turned away from her blindly. “Madame,” he said, “mon fils est mort. Il est tombé de son avion, au-dessus de Heligoland Bight.”

  2

  HOWARD SETTLED DOWN at Cidoton quite comfortably. The fresh mountain air did him a world of good; it revived his appetite and brought him quiet, restful sleep at night. The little rustic company of the estaminet amused and interested him, too. He knew a good deal of rural matters and he spoke good, slightly academic French. He was a good mixer and the farmers accepted him into their company, and talked freely to him of the matters of their daily life. It may be that the loss of his son helped to break the ice.

  He did not find them noticeably enthusiastic for the war.

  He was not happy for the first fortnight, but he was probably happier than he would have been in London. While the snow lasted, the slopes were haunted for him. In his short walks along the roads before the woodland paths became available, at each new slope of snow he thought to see John come hurtling over the brow, stem-christie to a traverse, and vanish in a white flurry that sped down into the valley. Sometimes the fair-haired French girl, Nicole, who came from Chartres, seemed to be with him, flying along with him in the same flurry of snow. That was the most painful impression of all.

  Presently, as the sun grew stronger, the snow went away. There was the sound of tinkling water everywhere, and bare grass showed where there had been white slopes. Then flowers began to appear and his walks had a new interest. As the snow passed his bad dreams passed with it; the green flowering fields held no memories for him. He grew much more settled as the spring drew on.

  Mrs. Cavanagh helped him, too.

  He had been worried and annoyed to find an English woman staying in the hotel, so far from the tourist track. He had not come to France to speak English or to think in English. For th
e first week he sedulously avoided her, together with her two children. He did not have to meet them. They spent a great part of their time in the salon; there were no other visitors in the hotel in between time. He lived mostly in his bedroom or else in the estaminet, where he played innumerable games of draughts with the habitués.

  Cavanagh, they told him, was an official in the League of Nations at Geneva, not more than twenty miles away as the crow flies. He was evidently fearful of an invasion of Switzerland by the Germans, and had prudently sent his wife and children into Allied France. They had been at Cidoton for a month; each week end he motored across the border to visit them. Howard saw him the first Saturday that he was there, a sandy-haired, worried-looking man of forty-five or so.

  The following week end Howard had a short talk with him. To the old solicitor, Cavanagh appeared to be oddly unpractical. He was devoted to the League of Nations even in this time of war.

  “A lot of people say that the League has been a failure,” he explained. “Now, I think that is very unfair. If you look at the record of that last twenty years you’ll see a record of achievement that no other organization can show. Look at what the League did in the matter of the drug traffic!” And so on.

  About the war, he said, “The only failure that can be laid to the account of the League is its failure to inspire the nations with faith in its ideals. And that means propaganda. And propaganda costs money. If the nations had spent one tenth of what they have spent in armaments upon the League, there would have been no war.”

  After half an hour of this, old Howard came to the conclusion that Mr. Cavanagh was a tedious fellow. He bore with him from a natural politeness, and because the man was evidently genuine, but he made his escape as soon as he decently could. The extent of his sincerity was not made plain to Howard till the day he met Mrs. Cavanagh in the woods, and walked a mile back to the hotel with her.

  He found her a devoted echo of her man. “Eustace would never leave the League,” she said. “Even if the Germans were to enter Switzerland, he’d never leave Geneva. There’s still such great work to be done.”

  The old man looked at her over his spectacles. “But would the Germans let him go on doing it if they got into Switzerland?”

  “Why, of course they would,” she said. “The League is international. I know, of course, that Germany is no longer a member of the League. But she appreciates our non-political activities. The League prides itself that it could function equally well in any country, or under any Government. If it could not do that, it couldn’t be said to be truly international, could it?”

  “No,” said Howard, “I suppose it couldn’t.”

  They walked on for a few steps in silence. “But if Geneva really were invaded by the Germans,” he said at last, “would your husband stay there?”

  “Of course. It would be very disloyal if he didn’t.” She paused, and then she said, “That’s why he sent me out here with the children, in to France.”

  She explained to him that they had no ties in England. For ten years they had lived in Geneva; both children had been born there. In that time they had seldom returned to England, even on holiday. It had barely occurred to them that she should take the children back to England, so far away from him. Cidoton, just across the border into France, was far enough.

  “It’s only just for a few weeks, until the situation clears a little,” she said placidly. “Then we shall be able to go home.” To her, Geneva was home.

  He left her at the entrance to the hotel, but next day at déjeuner she smiled at him when he came into the room, and asked him if he had enjoyed his walk.

  “I went as far as the Pointe des Neiges,” he said courteously. “It was delightful up there this morning, quite delightful.”

  After that they often passed a word or two together, and he fell in to the habit of sitting with her for a quarter of an hour each evening after dinner in the salon, drinking a cup of coffee. He got to know the children too.

  There were two of them. Ronald was a dark-haired little boy of eight, whose toy train littered the floor of the salon with its tracks. He was mechanical, and would stand fascinated at the garage door while the concierge laboured to induce ten-year-old spark plugs to fire the mixture in the ten-year-old Chrysler. Old Howard came up behind him once.

  “Could you drive a car like that?” he asked gently.

  “Mais oui — c’est facile, ça.” French came more easily to this little boy than English. “You climb up in the seat and steer with the wheel.”

  “But could you start it?”

  “You just push the button, et elle va. That’s the ‘lectric starter.” He pointed to the knob.

  “That’s right. But it would be a very big car for you to manage.”

  The child said, “Big cars are easier to drive than little ones. Have you got a car?”

  Howard shook his head. “Not now. I used to have one.”

  “What sort was it?”

  The old man looked down helplessly. “I really forget,” he said. “I think it was a Standard.”

  Ronald looked up, incredulous. “Don’t you remember?”

  But Howard couldn’t.

  The other child was Sheila, just five years old. Her drawings littered the floor of the salon; for the moment her life was filled with a passion for coloured chalks. Once as Howard came downstairs he found her sitting in a heap upon the landing at a turn of the staircase, drawing industriously on the flyleaf of a book. The first tread of the flight served as a desk.

  He stooped down by her. “What are you drawing?”

  She did not answer.

  “Won’t you show me?” he said. And then, “The chalks are lovely colours.”

  He knelt down rheumatically upon one knee. “It looks like a lady.”

  She looked up at him. “Lady with a dog,” she said.

  “Where’s the dog?” He looked at the smudged pastel streaks.

  She was silent. “Shall I draw the dog, walking behind on a lead?” he said.

  She nodded vigorously. Howard bent to his task, his knees aching. But his hand had lost whatever cunning it might once have had, and his dog became a pig.

  Sheila said, “Ladies don’t take pigs for a walk.”

  His ready wit had not deserted the solicitor. “This one did,” he said. “This is the little pig that went to market.”

  The child pondered this. “Draw the little pig that stayed at home,” she said, “and the little piggy eating roast beef.” But Howard’s knees would stand no more of it. He stumbled to his feet. “I’ll do that for you to-morrow.”

  It was only at that stage he realized that his picture of the lady leading a pig embellished the flyleaf of A Child’s Life of Jesus.

  Next day after déjeuner she was waiting for him in the hall. “Mummy said I might ask you if you wanted a sweet.” She held up a grubby paper bag with a sticky mass in the bottom.

  Howard said gravely, “Thank you very much.” He fumbled in the bag and picked out a morsel which he put into his mouth. “Thank you, Sheila.”

  She turned, and ran from him through the estaminet into the big kitchen of the inn. He heard her chattering in there in fluent French to Madame Lucard as she offered her sweets.

  He turned, and Mrs. Cavanagh was on the stairs. The old man wiped his fingers furtively upon the handkerchief in his pocket. “They speak French beautifully,” he said.

  She smiled. “They do, don’t they? The little school they go to is French speaking, of course.”

  He said, “They just picked it up, I suppose?”

  “Oh, yes. We didn’t have to teach it to them.”

  He got to know the children slightly after that and passed the time of day with them whenever he met them alone; on their side they said, “Good morning, Mr. Howard,” as if it was a lesson that they had been taught — which indeed it was. He would have liked to get to know them better, but he was shy, with the diffidence of age. He used to sit and watch them playing in the garden undern
eath the pine trees sometimes, mysterious games that he would have liked to have known about, that touched dim chords of memory sixty years back. He did have one success with them, however.

  As the sun grew warmer and the grass drier he took to sitting out in the garden after déjeuner for half an hour, in a deck chair. He was sitting so one day while the children played among the trees. He watched them covertly. It seemed that they wanted to play a game they called attention which demanded a whistle, and they had no whistle.

  The little boy said, “I can whistle with my mouth,” and proceeded to demonstrate the art.

  His sister pursed up her immature lips and produced only a wet splutter. From his deck chair the old man spoke up suddenly.

  “I’ll make you a whistle, if you like,” he said.

  They were silent, staring at him doubtfully. “Would you like me to make you a whistle?” he enquired.

  “When?” asked Ronald.

  “Now. I’ll make you one out of a bit of that tree.” He nodded to a hazel bush.

  They stared at him, incredulous. He got up from his chair and cut a twig the thickness of his little finger from the bush. “Like this.”

  He sat down again, and began to fashion a whistle with the penknife that he kept for scraping out his pipe. It was a trick that he had practised throughout his life, for John first and then for Enid when they had been children, more recently for little Martin Costello. The Cavanagh children stood by him watching his slow, wrinkled fingers as they worked; in their faces incredulity melted into interest. He stripped the bark from the twig, cut deftly with the little knife, and bound the bark back in to place. He put it to his lips, and it gave out a shrill note.

  They were delighted, and he gave it to the little girl. “You can whistle with your mouth,” he said to Ronald, “but she can’t.”