by A. J. Cronin
‘Don’t eat them all over the car, boys. I’m sorry, but we must be off. You can sit under that tree and polish them off.’
In no time at all we were back at Mellington. When I had put away the car I went immediately to Dougal and told him I’d made a special journey to the school to admonish the boys.
‘Och, ye shouldna’ have done that, sir.’ But he smiled. ‘Ye may depend on me to look after the gairden weel while ye’re away.’
Then it was time to think of leaving if Nan were to drive back before dark. I brought the Morris Oxford to the front door and sought my wife, who was resting on the couch in her room. I knelt beside her.
‘I’m sorry to be leaving so soon, darling. I’ll be home again in about three weeks, then we’ll have a lovely long time together. You are looking so much better, keep on taking care of yourself.’
‘Nan takes care of me. She’s such a dear.’
‘You are a darling, darling. And I love you with all my heart.’
I kissed her gently. Her lips were soft, passive, tender as a child’s. Before I reached the door she had closed her eyes.
In five minutes we were off, Desmonde at ease in the back seat, Nan and I sitting up in front. I drove fast, very fast, not taking risks but cutting everything fine. I knew the road so well and it was practically free of traffic at this hour. None of us said anything, not a word. At four o’clock precisely we drew up outside my Kensington house.
‘I hope I didn’t scare you,’ I said to Desmonde, as we stretched, then went into the house.
‘Nothing scares me now, Alec,’ he answered, with that same note of sadness. ‘Anyway, you’re a magnificent driver. You do that well, as you do everything else.’
‘Come, come, now, Desmonde, that won’t do. You’re needing your tea.’
As we went slowly upstairs I told Nan to ask Mrs Palmer to bring tea for three in the study.
‘I’ll just have a quick cup with Mrs Palmer in the kitchen. I want to be off and home before the traffic. Shall I take your mail for filing?’
‘Yes, dear Nan, and answer as you think best.’
We looked at one another. I knew then that I loved her and that she loved me. I had the overwhelming desire to take her in my arms.
‘Good-bye, dear Maister, come back soon.’ She smiled faintly, she had seen love in my eyes.
‘Good-bye, dear darling Nan.’ I touched her cheek lightly with my lips. Then I went upstairs to my room.
Only when I heard the sound of the departing car did I go upstairs to the study. Desmonde was already there, as was the tea tray. I poured his cup and gave it to him, then poured my own.
‘Desmonde, I’ve a horrible feeling that my idea of giving you a breath of fresh air in the country has been a fiasco, a rush around in cars, simply a wasted day.’
‘Not at all, Alec. I’ve seen your beautiful estate and duly admired it.’
‘Good God, man, I did not take you for that beastly purpose.’
‘I’ve also seen your two fine boys and duly admired them.’
‘Oh, shut up, man. What’s come over you?’
‘I have also met your sweet wife who loves you, and the good Miss Radleigh who also loves and respects you. And I have come to the sad conclusion that in the society of good pure women I am nothing more than a cheap, posturing, broken down, unspeakable, lecherous, God-damned bastard.’
I was about to remark that he would meet few pure, good women in Hollywood when I saw, with a start of pained surprise, that he had his hand across his eyes to hide the tears dropping into his cup. I immediately moved towards him and put my arm round his shoulders.
‘Please, Desmonde, please don’t, my dear old friend. You know all that’s finished and done with. You’re on the very threshold of a new and brilliant career. Just cut out all the bowing, genuflecting, hand kissing – stop and be yourself again. Damn it all, man, think how I’ve set you up for a big success, all that I’ve done for you, all the trouble I’ve taken. Are you going to quit when we’re in sight of the promised land? Are you that kind of a lousy quitter?’
He slowly uncovered his eyes, and handed me his cup.
‘More tea, quickly, you Scotch Irish American best-selling Roman Catholic, daily Communicant, and unutterable decent fellow. My hurts will heal, vanish, when I have Hollywood at my feet.’
‘That’s the spirit, Des, keep it up.’
‘Then I will thank you for all the wonderful things you have done for your old friend who loves you.’
‘That’s enough, Des. You’ve just got yourself back in the groove. Here’s your tea, and I’ll have mine. When do you want to go to Switzerland to see your wee lassie? We haven’t much time before we board the Cristoforo Colombo.’
‘Let’s go now.’
‘Don’t be an ass, my newly restored and fortified friend. If you get up very early when I call you tomorrow morning I’ll have you in Geneva by tomorrow night.’
‘It’s a deal, pal,’ he said, handing his cup for more tea.
Chapter Four
Next morning we were up with the dawn and left immediately for Victoria Station. I had paid Mrs Palmer the night before and given her the keys of the house. She would forward all mail to Mellington.
The daily boat train left on time, as did the cross-Channel steamer when we pulled into Dover pier station to make the transfer with five minutes to spare. The crossing was not unduly rough, and at ten-thirty we were on Calais pier taking the long walk to the Paris train. Some delay here owing to the loading of baggage, but when we took off, to the accompaniment of shrill whistles, the train was non-stop all the way. At the Gare du Nord it was of course necessary to change stations, but a slow taxi took us to the Gare de Lyon where the continental express, steaming at its platform, was ready and waiting. At noon exactly we slid away in slow grandeur, merging gradually into the speed, remarkable for that age, of sixty-five miles an hour.
We had lunch in the restaurant car, a meal as different from the British equivalent as the Ritz is from the Trocadero. Desmonde apparently had little appetite, he kept looking out of the window, occupied with his thoughts which were, undoubtedly, directed towards his little daughter. He had thanked me so often for my kindness in coming with him that I no longer answered, merely shook my head and smiled. After lunch we both nodded off into a nap that took us on to four o’clock and a pot of rather indifferent tea. At five thirty-four we drew up, in clouds of steam, at Lausanne station. Nowadays, of course, air transport makes fun of our journey – when the planes fly, are not delayed by strikes, crashed or hijacked in transit. But, for the day and age, it was a good performance.
So Desmonde seemed to think when we stood on Lausanne platform. He smiled.
‘Can’t believe we’re here. What next, Alec?’
‘A taxi to Burier, just beyond Vevey. I believe there’s a hotel near Burier, not large, but good.’
‘If it’s small and good it’ll be full up.’
‘Well, we’ll see.’ I did not mention that my wire for reservations had been confirmed.
We found a man who would take us to Burier for the modest sum of thirty francs. It is a beautiful drive, the lake on one side, on the other hillsides draped with vines, great extents of famous vineyards, where the grapes were already large as currants. The sun, not yet setting, was low, drenching the still water with a glittering radiance. We passed through lovely little Vevey, always so peaceful, spread out along the lake, then on to La Tour de Peilz, where Courbet lived and died, still a village, dominated by its château, a gem in an antique setting. Here we turned off the main thoroughfare, moving uphill on a country road that took us past wide pastures to the little village of Burier, a handful of houses on a strip of high land, almost a cliff, overlooking the lake. On the other side was the little village station, embowered in rambler roses, vast stretches of pasture land beyond.
‘What a lovely spot,’ Desmonde murmured, as we drew up at the hotel.
This, though named Reine du Lac, was no
t, a large or pretentious establishment, but as we entered it gave manifest evidence of class. Our rooms, separated by a bathroom, overlooked the lake, with a superb view of the Dents du Midi, still snow-capped and now bathed in a rose-red, empurpled sunset.
‘And all that lovely open country behind,’ Desmonde continued. ‘Trust Madame Donovan to find it.’
We were both hungry and decided on an early dinner. We had an admirable table by one of the windows. Most of the other early diners were rich old ladies for whom this hotel was obviously a choice resort. One had a tiny toy Pekinese, supremely well behaved, on her lap, which she fed with minute snippets from her own plate.
The dinner was excellent, the fish unbelievably good, a grilled ferra, which the head waiter described as ‘swimming in the lake only this afternoon’. Then, inevitably, chicken, but tender and nicely cooked. The sweet, a well-made crème caramel. Finally, as we drank our coffee, the moon came up in slow grandeur, over the distant Les Roches. Although slightly on the wane, visually the great white disc was as good as new.
‘Let’s spend the rest of our lives here,’ Desmonde said.
‘That’s what Madame Donovan seems to be doing. I gather she’s in Ireland for no more than three months each year.’
‘Let’s go out and see if we can spot her place.’
Outside, in that lucent light, it was almost clear as day. We walked across the road to the little red tiled station which, on that single line, served perhaps three or four trains in the day. In the little garden the station master, so distinguished by his official cap, was taking the air. We approached him and Desmonde greeted him in French. I wish I might record the conversation in the idiom of that tongue, it was extremely amusing; but the translation must serve.
‘Master of the Station, may I trouble you to answer a question?’
‘You are not troubling me, sir. As you see, I am not occupied with my official duties, which have been fully and effectively completed for the day. I am regarding my artichokes, which, alas, do badly.’
‘I regret that your artichokes do badly, sir.’
‘I, too, sir. What is your question?’
‘We are seeking a lady named Donovan.’
‘Ah, ha, the Irelander.’
‘Exactly! So you know her?’
‘Who does not know Madame Donovan?’
‘She is well known here?’
‘Have I not said so, sir?’
‘For what is she well known, Station Master?’
‘For everything, sir.’
‘Everything?’
‘Everything that is good, sir.’
Desmonde looked at me and said aside: ‘Shall I go on?’
I nodded.
‘Station Master, what good exactly does Madame Donovan do?’
‘Have I not said, sir, that she gives to all, to the village, the school, the home of old men there, at the end of the road, you observe it from here. Even in the smallest givings. There is a great oak tree where the old men used to gather to talk. Only this month she puts a good strong seat all round the tree where now they sit with comfort.’
We could have gone on pleasantly in the delicious cool air, but now Desmonde put the final question.
‘Where does the good Irish lady live?’
The station master removed his pipe and waved it widely, as he answered:
‘Look over the other side of my little station, sir. Look to the right, very far and to the left, as far as the village. Look then to the distance, the tall wood on the left, the home farm with cows still in the fields, on the right. Look then to the large house in the centre upon the little walled eminence. You will then have seen the domain of Madame Donovan.’
Desmonde looked at me in silence.
‘Thank you profoundly, Station Master.’
‘A pleasure, sir. Do you visit Madame?’
‘Tomorrow, Station Master. Good evening.’
‘Good evening to you, sir.’
‘Some domain,’ I remarked, as we turned away.
‘We must breach it, Alec.’
Back in the hotel we took turn-about in the bathroom. The beds were excellent, the hand-washed linen sheets softly caressing. I fell asleep instantly.
Chapter Five
At seven o’clock next morning I was awakened by a knock at my door. A maid entered silently with coffee in a thermos and fresh rolls and put the tray on the table with a murmured, ‘Service, monsieur.’ She seemed surprised, almost sad, when I said I would have my breakfast later. I felt sad too, for I knew the coffee was good and burning hot, while the rolls, not the usual horrible ballons, were genuine croissants, sure sign of a first class hotel.
When she had gone, I rolled out of bed, took a cold shower, and quickly dressed. I then went downstairs and, following directions received from the head waiter on the previous evening, set off at a hard pace for La Tour de Peilz.
On the outskirts of that lovely village, I found the small convent towards which I had been directed. Those of my readers who still remain with me are, I fear, heartily sick of my early morning devotions. However, this occasion of my piety must not be omitted since, on entering the little chapel in which the convent nuns, some twenty in all, were grouped at the back, I observed that another member of the laity, in addition to myself, had come for the eight o’clock Mass, which now began.
She was a woman of perhaps forty years, possibly more, quietly but most expensively dressed in black, a mink cape about her shoulders, an English prayer book in her hands. She was undoubtedly beautiful, yet her expression was so withdrawn, intent and severe, one was impressed more by her piety than by her beauty. As I had passed an antique but magnificently maintained Rolls-Royce in the courtyard with a uniformed chauffeur in the front seat, I guessed this to be hers, and also that she was probably English.
We ignored each other during the service, although once or twice I felt her glance upon me. But when all the nuns had communicated and we rose simultaneously to receive the Eucharist, she smiled faintly as I allowed her to precede me.
When Mass was over I left the chapel and set out at a good pace for Burier. The lady had remained behind to talk with the nuns. However, I had not gone far before the antique Rolls purred alongside me.
‘May I give you a lift, young man? Where are you going?’
‘To the hotel at Burier.’
She opened the door. ‘Oh, do step in, then.’
I would much rather have walked, but the opportunity was too good to miss. I stepped in.
‘Are you English?’ she asked.
‘No, Madame. An Irish Scot.’
‘And what are you doing in this beautiful and still, mercifully, remote part of Switzerland?’
‘I am on my way to Hollywood.’
‘Good heavens! Are you an actor?’
‘No, Madame, merely an author. And I am sponsoring a friend who, in an admirable life, made one horrible mistake for which he has suffered atrociously. He now has a chance, quite literally, to pick himself out of the gutter.’
‘In Hollywood!’
‘He is a singer, his one possession, his buried talent, a superb voice.’
Now, I saw comprehension dawning in her eyes. I continued.
‘He wants to see his child before he goes. I beg you to permit it. It is only for one day.’
She drew back, with a sudden darkening of her face.
‘He sent you specially to the chapel, in pretended piety, to get hold of me.’
I looked at her steadily.
‘If you think that, Madame, that I would so defile the Eucharist, I can only pity you.’
Now she had turned pale. The car drew up at the hotel. I opened the door. As I stepped out she said, in a low voice:
‘He may come.’
My adventures, which I had certainly not anticipated, were not yet over. As the ancient Rolls drew away a voice hailed me from the far side of the hotel yard, where a man was cleaning the windscreen of his car. Now, as he beckoned, I went over.
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He was a big fellow, in a flashy expensive brown suit, and his car was rather different from the vehicle I had just quitted. It was an Alfa Romeo, low, rakish, and incredibly fast, the finest product of Italy.
‘Good morning!’ He spoke excellent English. ‘I see you know Madame Donovan.’
‘Oh, slightly, she gave me a lift from La Tour.’
‘I know her niece, more than slightly.’ He flashed his big teeth at me. ‘My name is Munzio. I hope to marry her when she gets her divorce.’
‘Congratulations,’ I said, then quickly: ‘I am admiring your car. Very fast, I suppose.’
‘That is the finest car in the world. And fast? Let me tell you. After breakfast, which I often take at the hotel, since I garage my car here, I leave for my office in Milano, pass round the lake, a narrow twisting dangerous road, over the Gotthard, not by the tunnel, then across the frontier, again many bad roads, then to Milano, do my business, have lunch and am back here in time for tea.’
It sounded impossible, yet I believed him.
‘You must be a first-class driver.’
‘I am the best.’ Again he flashed the teeth. ‘I drive this car as I ride and master a good horse, a thoroughbred, between my knees.’
‘You go now?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then I’ll look out for you at tea.’
Again he flashed the smile.
‘I see you, then. I show you.’
I went into the hotel, rather full of my recent experiences, which, after I’d had my coffee, I immediately related to Desmonde, who, breakfasted and dressed was sitting on the balcony of his bedroom.
‘I believe I saw that fellow,’ he said calmly. ‘He must be from northern Italy, he’s so big and powerful.’ Then: ‘It takes someone like that to keep Claire in order.’ Then again: ‘How fortunate you met Madame Donovan. Now we won’t be turned away at the gate. Although I’m sure she won’t receive me.’
And so it was when, at ten o’clock, we strolled down the village street, past the old men, seated round the oak tree, and presented ourselves at the heavy iron gates of the estate. These were immediately opened, but the lodge keeper said to Desmonde, in Italian: