Barbara Cleverly - Folly Du Jour

Christ Almighty! George lowered them hurriedly. He dropped his programme deliberately and bent to retrieve it, head lowered, using the seconds floundering about on the carpet to decide what he should do next. This could prove to be, socially, a jolly awkward moment. What bad luck that the only other person he recognized for certain in the whole theatre should be seated exactly opposite him. In clear view. Lieutenant Colonel Somerton, now a knight of the realm if George had it right, and one-time soldier. Their last meeting had been decidedly unpleasant.

But surely the scoundrel would, even after all these years, be lying low, not flaunting himself in a box in full view of the cream of European society? George was assailed by sudden doubt. He risked an eye over the edge and looked again, taking his time. The black hair was as thick as ever, with not a trace of grey as far as George could make out, and the moustache, always the man’s affectation, still in place and looking, he thought, rather outdated. The hawk-like features which had struck such terror in the ranks were less sharp and he watched in surprise as the face he had always perceived as humourless softened into a smile when his lady-friend whispered in his ear. Well, well! Steamroller Somerton! George had thought never to encounter him again. And now what? Greet him at once or spend the rest of the evening avoiding his gaze?

He made up his mind. Straightening again and glancing around, he made a show of catching sight of his old acquaintance for the first time and tilted his head slightly in surprise. With a short, stiff nod, unaccompanied by a smile, he acknowledged him and held his eye until the man responded similarly. George made no attempt to extend his courtesy to the female companion. The absent Lady Somerton, he felt, wherever she was (and it most certainly wasn’t Paris), would not have considered it appropriate.

This was one of the dangers you ran in a European capital. Away from the hothouse world of India where you couldn’t smile at a girl without running the risk of rumour, you suddenly felt free to turn your long-held fantasies into reality. How appalling for the chap opposite to see that he’d been recognized — caught out — and by a man he had no reason to call his friend. Deeply embarrassing. But it occurred to George that any sympathy he was prepared to expend on the situation would be wasted on a rogue like Somerton. No, it was the girl on his arm who deserved his concern.

He glanced at her again, suddenly shrewd and objective. All appearances were that she was a professional lady-friend, hired by the night. French, he would have guessed, judging by the liveliness of her hand gestures and her confident chatter. Well able to take care of herself — or summon up some protective chap from her murky organization to do it for her. George was not familiar with the arrangements in Paris. In Simla or Delhi, had such a situation arisen, an aide would have been dispatched and the problem would have dissolved before his eyes.

But he was troubled. He found he could not dismiss the little miss opposite as a world-weary and experienced. . what did they call a tart of this quality in France? Poule de luxe , that was it! Below all her surface glamour he sensed that she was young — barely twenty, he would have guessed. And, whether dubiously employed or a free agent, she was someone’s daughter, for God’s sake! Had the silly little thing any idea of what she was getting herself into? It would take more than a tap on the cheek with a fan to control Somerton if he turned nasty. George shuddered. The man, he recalled with a rush of foreboding, was rotten to the centre of his being. He couldn’t say ‘soul’ — there was no evidence that he had one. George chewed his lip in irritation.

He should have had the man shot when he’d had the chance.

He stirred in his seat, checked his watch and considered his options. Did he have time to negotiate the lengths of corridor chock-a-block with latecomers on a dash over to the box opposite? And what would he say when he arrived there with the performance about to start? He pictured himself crashing into the box, breathless, perspiring, and in the grip of a Quixotic urge. A ridiculous figure. He had no authority, civilian or military, over Somerton. . he would have to appeal to the girl directly. But how would he find the words to warn her? There’d be accusations followed by argument, protests, denials. Your remarks are slanderous! I’ll see you in court, Jardine! And — heaven forbid! — suppose the girl turned out to be something entirely innocent such as. . his niece? George watched surreptitiously as Somerton leaned close and whispered something in her ear, lifting his head slowly and trailing his pomaded moustache lingeringly over her cheek. Almost retching with disgust, George concluded this was no niece.

He pressed down on his arm rests and the chair wobbled under him as he prepared to take action. A moment later he sank back in frustration. He never embarked on any course unless his strategy was clear, his tactics well worked out, the outcome predictable and in his favour; the reason he’d survived for so many years when others had not. And he was not about to abandon the careful habits of a professional lifetime on account of a stab of juvenile sympathy. George could foresee the result of any irruption of his into the box opposite. At the best, he’d be ejected by a hurriedly summoned bouncer; at the worst, he’d be trapped over there with the pair of them until the interval.

His conflict was cut short by an arresting fanfare of notes on a trumpet followed at once by a blaring blue jazz riff from the orchestra pit. He was aware of a simultaneous dimming of the electric house lights. The blonde girl across the way opened her mouth in anticipation and wriggled forward in her seat with the eagerness of a six-year-old at a pantomime. George sighed and came to a decision. In the seconds before the light faded, he did what he could. Oblivious of the hush descending on the crowd, he rose to his feet and slipped on his white gloves. He sought out and held the eye of his opposite number.

Imperious, imperial and impressive, over the width of the auditorium, Sir George Jardine delivered a command.

Abandon target! Withdraw at once!

The soldier’s silent hand language flashed, eerily blue in the dimming house lights, across to the opposite box. Unmistakable to a man who had been a fellow officer. On the Frontier, grappling often in hand-to-hand combat with lethally savage tribesmen, officers had learned from their enemy that in close proximity you communicated in silence as they did or you got your head shot off. Would Somerton remember and respond? Or would the man summon up what vestiges of self-respect he still had, to affect ignorance or rejection of the old code? George calculated that he could not depend on touching any finer feeling, on awakening any sense of regimental pride across the void. No — ugly threat was the only weapon left in his armoury. To emphasize his point, he added a universally recognized gesture. He drew the forefinger of his left hand slowly across his throat. Do as I say or else. .

At that, Somerton threw back his head and laughed. Shaking with amusement and hardly able to keep his hands steady, in the moment before the last light went out, he returned the signal: Message received and understood.

Bloody French audiences! George remembered they always took their time settling. But the musicians seemed to be well aware of this and mastering the situation. The trumpet solo had silenced most and there now followed, as the last mutterings faded, the last shuffling subsided, a clarinet performance which stunned George with its fluency. Not his style of music at all. Jazz. But he could see the point of it and had been made to listen to the quantities of recordings that had filtered through to Simla and Delhi along with the ubiquitous gramophone. It was one of his party tricks to discuss in an avuncular way the latest crazes with his young entourage. And this was an experience he would want to share with them on his return. What he was hearing, all his musical senses were telling him, was exceptional. He rummaged in his pocket and took out his cigar-lighter. A discreet flick of the flame over his programme gave him the name: Sidney Bechet. English? French? Could be either. Even American perhaps? He’d file the name away. The chap was an artist. Could take his place in the wind section of the Royal Philharmonic any day. Given the right material to play.