Barbara Cleverly - Folly Du Jour

‘Captain, this is an impossible situation you’ve flown into. Idiotic, unplanned and damned dangerous! If only we could get you over to the hangar. . Look — why don’t you give me your flying helmet and take my hat instead?’

Lindbergh’s eyes brightened with instant understanding. ‘A decoy? That what you have it in mind to be, sir?’

‘Might work. I’m tall. I can keep my hair covered, shout cheerful platitudes in English. That’s all they want. In any case, I don’t suppose they’ve any idea what you look like. Anyone in a flying helmet and talking English is going to get the attention of this crowd. Let’s give them a run for their money, shall we?’

The American grinned and nodded. ‘Well, I’d call that a very sporting offer. . and good luck to you, sir. .’

They ducked down and, crouching under cover of the wing, swapped headgear.

‘They’ll never think of chasing after a couple,’ said a confident English voice and Heather Watkins pushed forward. She stood on tiptoe and adjusted the black fedora firmly over the aviator’s golden hair. Companionably, she tucked an arm through his. ‘Right, er, Charles, the hangar’s that way. And just by it there’s a police car with its engine running and a driver who knows where he’s going. How about it?’

They strolled off, unimpeded, and Joe heard with amusement her cheerful voice: ‘Now — tell me — how was your flight?’

And the laconic response: ‘Why, just fine — and yours?’

Joe had no time to hear more. He straightened and moved to arrange himself with a tentative wave in the searchlight now trained on the cockpit door, helmet strap dangling provocatively. ‘Well, hi there, folks! I guess this must be Paris. .’

He got no further. In a second he was swept up with a howl of triumph on to the shoulders of two men in the crowd and carried off in parade down the runway towards the terminal building. The throng on the viewing gallery cheered. Joe turned this way and that, nodding and waving to his admirers, shouting the occasional greeting or navigational direction in English. Worse than riding an elephant. His back was slapped repeatedly, his hands wrung, he was lowered and hoisted on to fresh shoulders several times. A painful experience and not one to be endured for long.

Eventually, after spending what he considered an overgenerous amount of his time on this performance, he bent and informed his bearers that after more than thirty hours in the air he needed to have a pee. Urgently. He reckoned they had ten seconds to set him down. It seemed to work. Once his feet were on the ground, he made off at speed towards the hangar, tearing off the helmet as he ran. The front door of Bonnefoye’s car opened at his approach and he flung himself inside. Bonnefoye and Miss Watkins were sitting together on the back seat.

‘What have you done with our hero?’ panted Joe.

‘Dropped him off at Reception in the hangar. He’ll be all right. The American Ambassador’s taken cover in there with him, offering medical aid, engineering assistance and a bed and breakfast at the Embassy when they can make a break for it. And now, Sandilands, if you’ve quite finished horsing around and showing off, perhaps we can extricate ourselves from this mêlée and get ahead of the crowd before they all block the road back into Paris.’ Bonnefoye looked anxiously at his watch. ‘If you’d taken many more curtain calls we’d have missed the best of the entertainment at Zelli’s, which is where I’m planning we’ll make a start.’

Act followed act and George settled to enjoy himself. Music Hall. This was something he could respond to. And the quality of the turns was high — the best the world had to offer, he would have thought, and lavishly staged. He admired especially a slender woman in a tight black sheath, and was moved to wiping a sentimental tear from his eye as she sang of the fickleness of men. He wasn’t quite sure about the androgynous creature who swung out over the audience on a Watteau-like, flower-bedecked swing and, at the end of the act, peeled off a blonde wig to reveal a man’s hairless scalp. Not entertaining. But he enjoyed the lines of chorus girls, performing complex manoeuvres to the split second. Some backstage drill sergeant deserved a commendation, George reckoned.

To huge enthusiasm, Josephine Baker made a second appearance just before the interval but this time she sang. Coming forward and involving the audience with a touching directness she warbled in a thin, little-girl’s voice, strange but, once heard, unforgettable, of her two loves: J’ai deux amours, Mon pays et Paris. .

Everyone including George was enchanted. Except, apparently, for Alice. She leaned over and whispered: ‘ Two loves? Is that all she’s declaring? Ha! And the other thousand!’ Miss Baker bowed and laughed and made her way offstage, the curtain was lowered and the lights began to come on again in the auditorium. Alice started to fidget. Under the pretence of stretching her legs, she moved her chair stealthily back a foot or so and lifted the hood of her cape to cover her head again. Odd behaviour. George wondered whether he should remark on it and decided to give no indication he’d noticed anything strange. If she wanted to tell him, she would tell him in her own good time of whom she was so afraid. But he rather thought it was not her intention to confide in him at all. Do you whisper your terrors to the trunk of a sheltering oak tree when the lightning is flashing all around? No, you stay under its branches looking out, with just the anxious eyes Alice was trying to hide from him, until the storm was over. But perhaps there was some revealing reaction he could provoke?

‘Ah, the interval already,’ he exclaimed jovially. ‘I say, Alice, I was rather expecting my cousin Jack would be with me tonight. I’ve ordered up a tray of whisky. . not at all suitable for a lady. I’ll just speed off and change that to champagne, shall I? Or is there something else you’d prefer? Now what was that pink drink you used to like?’ He started to get up. ‘Though — we could go and show our faces in the bar?’

Her reaction was instant. She seized him by the arm, trying to hold him in his place. ‘No! You’re quite wrong, George. I’ll drink whisky with great pleasure. Don’t go off into those crowds, you’ll never find your way back and we’ll lose minutes of precious time. It’s been five years — you must have such lots to tell me. Let’s just stay quietly here, shall we? And talk about old times.’ And then, with relief: ‘Ah — here are our drinks.’

So — he hadn’t imagined her nervousness, her undeclared need to stay close to him. She decidedly didn’t want to be left alone up here, ogled by the crowd.

Even the waiter came in for a searching look from Alice and she fell silent, watching his every move until he left with his tip. George poured out two glasses, offering her one of them.

‘Let’s drink to absent friends,’ he said, still probing.

She smiled. ‘So many of them! But I’m thinking of one in particular. Of Joe. Joe Sandilands. My handsome Nemesis. Do you remember? Do you know what became of him?’

‘Indeed. A dear friend. Joe’s doing well. I follow his career with interest. We’ve arranged to see each other in London when I move on there. I understand he’s gone on dodging bullets and breaking hearts — you know the sort of thing.’

Alice gurgled with laughter. ‘I rather think he broke my bullet and dodged my heart,’ she said. ‘But I’m glad to hear he’s being a success.’

George noticed that she sipped delicately at her whisky, controlling her features to hide her dislike. He decided to torment her. ‘Not too fond of the hooch, I see? I’d have expected you to down it in one with a resounding belch — seasoned gun-slinger that you are.’