Jeffrey Archer - As the Crow Flies

The owner of the guest house, who introduced herself as Mrs. Snell, turned out to be a big woman, with a big smile and a big laugh, who installed him into what she described as her deluxe room. Daniel was somewhat relieved that he hadn't ended up in one of her ordinary rooms, because when he lay down the double bed sagged in the center, and when he turned over the springs followed him, dinging to the small of his back. Both taps in the washbasin produced cold water in different shades of brown, and the one naked light that hung from the middle of the room was impossible to read by, unless he stood on a chair directly beneath it. Mrs. Snell hadn't supplied a chair.

When Daniel was asked the next morning, after a breakfast of eggs, bacon, potatoes and fried bread, whether he would be eating in or out, he said firmly, "Out," to the landlady's evident disappointment.

The first and critical call was to be made at the Immigration Office. If they had no information to assist him, he knew he might as well climb back on board the SS Aorangi that same evening. Daniel was beginning to feel that if that happened he wouldn't be too disappointed.

The massive brown building on Market Street, which housed the official records of every person who had arrived in the colony since 1823, opened at ten o'clock. Although he arrived half an hour early Daniel still had to join one of the eight queues of people attempting to establish some fact about registered immigrants, which ensured that he didn't reach the counter for a further forty minutes.

When he eventually did get to the front of the queue he found himself looking at a ruddy-faced man in an open-necked blue shirt who was slumped behind the counter.

"I'm trying to trace an Englishman who came to Australia at some time between 1922 and 1925."

"Can't we do better than that, mate?"

"I fear not," said Daniel.

"You fear not, do you?" said the assistant. "Got a name, have you?"

"Oh, yes," said Daniel. "Guy Trentham."

"Trentham. How do you spell that?"

Daniel spelled the name out slowly for him.

"Right, mate. That'll be two pounds." Daniel extracted his wallet from inside his sports jacket and handed over the cash. "Sign here," the assistant said, swiveling a form round and placing his forefinger on the bottom line. "And come back Thursday."

"Thursday? But that's not for another three days."

"Glad they still teach you to count in England," said the assistant. "Next."

Daniel left the building with no information, merely a receipt for his two pounds. Once back out on the pavement, he picked up a copy of the Sydney Morning Herald and began to look for a cafe near the harbor at which to have lunch. He selected a small restaurant that was packed with young people. A waiter led him across a noisy, crowded room and seated him at a little table in the corner. He had nearly finished reading the paper by the time a waitress arrived with the salad he had ordered. He pushed the paper on one side, surprised that there hadn't been one piece of news about what was taking place back in England.

As he munched away at a lettuce leaf and wondered how he could best use the unscheduled hold-up constructively, a girl at the next table leaned across and asked if she could borrow the sugar.

"Of course, allow me," said Daniel, handing over the shaker. He wouldn't have given the girl a second glance had he not noticed that she was reading Principia Mathematica, by A. N. Whitehead and Bertrand Russell.

"Are you a mathematics student, by any chance?" he asked once he had passed the sugar across.

"Yes," she said, not looking back in his direction.

"I only asked," said Daniel, feeling the question might have been construed as impolite, "because I teach the subject."

"Of course you do," she said, not bothering to turn round. "Oxford, I'm sure."

"Cambridge, actually."

This piece of information did make the girl glance across and study Daniel more carefully. "Then can you explain Simpson's Rule to me?" she asked abruptly.

Daniel unfolded his paper napkin, took out a fountain pen and drew some diagrams to illustrate the rule, stage by stage, something he hadn't done since he'd left St. Paul's.

She checked what he had produced against the diagram in her book, smiled and said, "Fair dinkum, you really do teach maths," which took Daniel a little by surprise as he wasn't sure what "fair dinkum" meant, but as it was accompanied by a smile he assumed it was some form of approval. He was taken even more by surprise when the girl picked up her plate of egg and beans, moved across and sat down next to him.

"I'm Jackie," she said. "A bushwhacker from Perth."

"I'm Daniel," he replied. "And I'm . . ."

"A Pom from Cambridge. You've already told me, remember?"

It was Daniel's turn to look more carefully at the young woman who sat opposite him. Jackie appeared to be about twenty. She had short blond hair and a turned-up nose. Her clothes consisted of shorts and a yellow T-shirt that bore the legend "Perth!" right across her chest. She was quite unlike any undergraduate he had ever come across at Trinity.

"Are you up at university?" he inquired.

"Yeah. Second year, Perth. So what brings you to Sydney, Dan?"

Daniel couldn't think of an immediate response, but it hardly mattered that much because Jackie was already explaining why she was in the capital of New South Wales long before he had been given a chance to reply. In fact Jackie did most of the talking until their bills arrived. Daniel insisted on paying.

"Good on you," said Jackie. "So what are you doing tonight?"

"Haven't got anything particular planned."

"Great, because I was thinking of going to the Theatre Royal," she told him. "Why don't you join me?"

"Oh, what's playing?" asked Daniel, unable to hide his surprise at being picked up for the first time in his life.

"Noel Coward's Tonight at Eight-thirty with Cyril Ritchard and Madge Elliott."

"Sounds promising," said Daniel noncommittally.

"Great. Then I'll see you in the foyer at ten to eight, Dan. And don't be late." She picked up her rucksack, threw it on her back, strapped up the buckle and in seconds was gone.

Daniel watched her leaving the cafe before he could think of an excuse for not agreeing to her suggestion. He decided it would be churlish not to turn up at the theater, and in any case he had to admit he had rather enjoyed Jackie's company. He checked his watch and decided to spend the rest of the afternoon looking round the city.

When Daniel arrived at the Theatre Royal that evening, a few minutes before seven-forty, he purchased two six-shilling tickets for the stalls then hung around in the foyer waiting for his guest—or was she his host? When the five-minute bell sounded Jackie still hadn't arrived and Daniel began to realize that he had been looking forward to seeing her again rather more than he cared to admit. There was still no sign of his lunchtime companion when the two-minute bell rang, so Daniel assumed that he would be seeing the play on his own. With only a minute to spare before the curtain went up, he felt a hand link through his arm and heard a voice say, "Hello, Dan. I didn't think you'd turn up."

Another first, he had never taken a girl to the theater who was wearing shorts.

Daniel smiled. Although he enjoyed the play, he found he enjoyed Jackie's company during the interval, after the show and then later over a meal at Romano's—a little Italian restaurant she seemed acquainted with even more. He had never come across anyone who, after only knowing him for a few hours, could be so open and friendly. They discussed everything from mathematics to Clark Gable, and Jackie was never without a definite opinion, whatever the subject.

"May I walk you back to your hotel?" Daniel asked when they eventually left the restaurant.