Джеффри Арчер - A Quiver Full of Arrows

“Where to, guv?” asked the porter amicably.

“The ship,” said Henry, and returned to claim his bride. He helped Victoria down from the train and they both ran through the rain until, breathless, they reached the gangplank of the ship.

“Tickets, sir,” said a young officer in a dark blue uniform at the bottom of the gangplank.

“I always have cabin number three,” said Henry between breaths.

“Of course, sir,” said the young man and looked at his clipboard. Henry smiled confidently at Victoria.

“Mr. and Mrs. William West.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Henry.

“You must be Mr. William West.”

“I am certainly not. I am the Grand Pasha of Cairo.”

“Well, I’m sorry, sir, cabin number three is booked in the name of a Mr. William West and family.”

“I have never been treated by Captain Rogers in this cavalier fashion before,” said Henry, his accent now even more pronounced. “Send for him immediately.”

“Captain Rogers was killed in the war, sir. Captain Jenkins is now in command of this ship and he never leaves the bridge thirty minutes before sailing.”

Henry’s exasperation was turning to panic. “Do you have a free cabin?”

The young officer looked down his list. “No, sir, I’m afraid not. The last one was taken a few minutes ago.”

“May I have two tickets?” asked Henry.

“Yes, sir,” said the young officer. “But you’ll have to buy them from the booking office on the quayside.”

Henry decided that any further argument would be only time-consuming, so he turned on his heel without another word, leaving his wife with the laden porter. He strode to the booking office.

“Two first-class tickets to Calais,” he said firmly.

The man behind the little glass pane gave Henry a tired look. “It’s all one class nowadays, sir, unless you have a cabin.”

He proffered two tickets. “That will be one pound exactly.”

Henry handed over a pound note, took his tickets, and hurried back to the young officer.

The porter was unloading their suitcases on the quayside.

“Can’t you take them on board,” cried Henry, “and put them in the hold?”

“No, sir, not now. Only the passengers are allowed on board after the ten-minute signal.”

Victoria carried two of the smaller suitcases while Henry humped the twelve remaining ones in relays up the gangplank. He finally sat down on the deck, exhausted. Every seat seemed already to be occupied. Henry couldn’t make up his mind if he was cold from the rain or hot from his exertions. Victoria’s smile was fixed firmly in place as she took Henry’s hand.

“Don’t worry about a thing, darling,” she said. “Just relax and enjoy the crossing; it will be such fun being out on deck together.”

The ship moved sedately out of the calm of the bay into the Dover Straits. Later that night Captain Jenkins told his wife that the twenty-five-mile journey had been among the most unpleasant crossings he had ever experienced. He added that he had nearly turned back when his second officer, a veteran of two wars, was violently sick. Henry and Victoria spent most of the trip hanging over the rails getting rid of everything they had consumed at their reception. Two people had never been more happy to see land in their life than Henry and Victoria were at the first sight of the Normandy coastline. They staggered off the ship, taking the suitcases one at a time.

“Perhaps France will be different,” Henry said lamely, and after a perfunctory search for Pierre he went straight to the booking office and obtained two third-class seats on the Flèche d’Or. They were at least able to sit next to each other this time, but in a carriage already occupied by six other passengers as well as a dog and a hen. The six of them left Henry in no doubt that they enjoyed the modern habit of smoking in public and the ancient custom of taking garlic in their food. He would have been sick again at any other time, but there was nothing left in his stomach. Henry considered walking up and down the train searching for Raymond but feared it could only result in his losing his seat next to Victoria. He gave up trying to hold any conversation with her above the noise of the dog, the hen and the Gallic babble, and satisfied himself by looking out of the window, watching the French countryside and, for the first time in his life, noting the name of every station through which they passed.

Once they arrived at the Gare du Nord, Henry made no attempt to look for Maurice and simply headed straight for the nearest taxi rank. By the time he had transferred all fourteen cases he was well down the queue. He and Victoria stood there for just over an hour, moving the cases forward inch by inch until it was their turn.

“Monsieur?”

“Do you speak English?”

“Un peu, un peu.”

“Hotel George Cinq.”

“Oui, mais je ne peux pas mettre toutes les valises dans le coffre.”

So Henry and Victoria sat huddled in the back of the taxi, bruised, tired, soaked and starving, surrounded by leather suitcases, only to be bumped up and down over the cobble stones all the way to the George Cinq.

The hotel doorman rushed to help them as Henry offered the taxi driver a pound note.

“No take English money, monsieur .”

Henry couldn’t believe his ears. The doorman happily paid the taxi driver in francs and quickly pocketed the pound note. Henry was too tired even to comment. He helped Victoria up the marble steps and went over to the reception desk.

“The Grand Pasha of Cairo and his wife. The bridal suite, please.”

“Oui, monsieur.”

Henry smiled at Victoria.

“You ’ave your booking confirmation with you?”

“No,” said Henry, “I have never needed to confirm my booking with you in the past. Before the war I...”

“I am sorry, sir, but the ’otel is fully booked at the moment. A conference.”

“Even the bridal suite?” asked Victoria.

“Yes, Madam, the chairman and his lady, you understand.” He nearly winked.

Henry certainly did not understand. There had always been a room for him at the George Cinq whenever he had wanted one in the past. Desperate, he unfolded the second of his five-pound notes and slipped it across the counter.

“Ah,” said the booking clerk, “I see we still have one room unoccupied, but I fear it is not very large.”

Henry waved a listless hand.

The booking clerk banged the bell on the counter in front of him with the palm of his hand, and a porter appeared immediately and escorted them to the promised room. The booking clerk had been telling the truth. Henry could only have described the room they found themselves standing in as a box. The reason that the curtains were perpetually drawn was that the view over the chimneys of Paris was singularly unprepossessing, but that was not to be the final blow, as Henry realized, staring in disbelief at the sight of the two narrow single beds. Victoria started unpacking without a word while Henry sat despondently on the end of one of them. After Victoria had sat soaking in a bath that was the perfect size for a six-year-old, she lay down exhausted on the other bed. Neither spoke for nearly an hour.

“Come on, darling,” said Henry finally. “Let’s go and have dinner.”

Victoria rose loyally but reluctantly and dressed for dinner while Henry sat in the bath, knees on nose, trying to wash himself before changing into evening dress. This time he phoned the front desk and ordered a taxi as well as booking a table at Maxim’s.

The taxi driver did accept his pound note on this occasion, but as Henry and his bride entered the great restaurant he recognized no one and no one recognized him. A waiter led them to a small table hemmed in between two other couples just below the band. As he walked into the dining room the musicians struck up “Alexander’s Ragtime Band.”