Chapter 17 #2
Since he didn’t mention that he was going to have to explain to the Worcestershire C.C.
why he had been operating on his patch without permission, the dowager was pleased.
At least her daughter’s friend moved in the proper circles.
The rest of the visit took place in an atmosphere of astonishing cordiality.
Daisy didn’t go so far as to announce that she was engaged to Alec. It was better if Mother believed her approval had been sought in advance. They would break the news before returning to town on Sunday.
If they returned on Sunday! Daisy’s mind, otherwise occupied, had lost sight of the kidnapping and Gloria Arbuckle’s plight.
Remembering, she was anxious to get back to Fairacres, though Binkie would have telephoned if anything urgent had come up.
She extricated Alec from her mother’s laments over the parlous state of the world and left her grumbling about the shortness of their visit.
“We could have stayed a little longer,” Alec protested mildly as they drove off. “It seems a pity to have upset her when we were getting along swimmingly.”
“You did charm her, darling! But in just another few minutes she’d have found cause for complaint in our staying too long. I’d rather she had too little of us than too much. Besides, I’m simply dying to find out whether Phillip and Lucy have picked up Crawford’s trail.”
Phillip peered through the rain-smeared windscreen at the dingy building: ERT’S CAFE said the sign painted on the steamed-up windows.
“Surely this can’t be the place?” he said uncertainly.
Lucy sighed. “I’m afraid it must be, old thing. It’s right opposite the factory entrance, it only needs a ‘B’ to make it ‘Bert’s,’ and it looks as if it serves poisonous coffee. And there’s Tommy’s car, down that alley. Bite the bullet, hold your nose, let’s go.”
Jamming his hat down further on his forehead, Phillip stepped out into the drizzle. In the forecourt of the Morris factory, behind the wire fence, he saw a maroon A.C. Six.
He ducked his head back into the Alvis. “Crawford’s still here,” he hissed.
Lucy stopped powdering her nose for long enough to say, “I should jolly well hope so, or Madge and Tommy really botched it.”
Opening his umbrella, Phillip went round the pointed, “duck’s back” rear of the polished aluminium two-seater and opened the door for her. In her smart, high-heeled strap shoes Lucy perched on the running board, gazing down with dismay at the muddy puddles between her and the café.
“Perhaps I’ll just wait here.”
“He may stay for hours yet. Do come along.”
She sighed again, cautiously stepped down, and picked her way to the door. As Phillip opened it, a hot, moist blast of air saturated with stale grease and cigarette smoke hit them.
“Faugh! Hours, you said? I shan’t survive five minutes.”
Phillip ignored her moaning. “There are Tommy and Madge,” he said as every head in the room turned towards them.
There were few customers at this time, shortly before the lunch hour.
He led the way, squeezing between the close-packed, oil-clothed tables, each with its bottle of HP Sauce, to where the Pearsons sat by the window.
“Thank heaven you’ve come,” said Tommy, standing up. “Madge is feeling sick.”
“Poor darling, I’m not in the least surprised,” Lucy commiserated. “You could cut the atmosphere in here with a knife.”
“How can you make such a fuss,” Phillip burst out angrily, “when Gloria’s in danger?”
“Here, I say, old boy,” Tommy protested. “Steady! We’re all doing everything we can to help.”
“Sorry.” Staring down miserably at the grubby tablecloth, Phillip wished he had never fallen in love.
His calm, ordered world, its extremes of emotion the boredom of the office and the pleasure of working on the Swift, had vanished.
The joy of knowing Gloria and the hope of winning her had turned into this awful emptiness of dread.
He didn’t think he could cope with it much longer.
Madge took his hand in both hers. “It’s all right, Phillip,” she said gently. “You must feel as I did when Tommy first went to France; you haven’t had time to grow numb. Just remember we’re with you through thick and thin. You mustn’t mind what Lucy says. It’s just her way.”
“That’s right, darling,” Lucy drawled. “Tommy, you’d better get Madge out into the fresh air quickly. She’s turning green. You might move the Alvis round the corner for us, if you don’t mind. It’s rather conspicuous and I’d prefer not to be left alone in this frightful place.”
The Pearsons hurried out. Lucy sat down beside the window and, with her handkerchief, retouched the clear circle Madge had wiped in the condensation. Taking the opposite seat, Phillip did likewise.
“The A.C.’s still there,” he said with relief.
“That red car inside the fence? Lucky it’s that colour. I’ll be able to spot it quite easily when we get going.”
“Yes. Look here, Lucy, I’m sorry I blew up.”
“Not another word on the subject. Are you going to buy me tea? Blast, I forgot to ask Madge if it was any more drinkable than the coffee.”
To a request for a pot of China tea, the slatternly waitress responded that all they had was TyPhoo in the urn, milk and sugar already added. Lucy shuddered. They finally settled on a bottle of ginger-beer apiece.
Before long, mechanics from the works opposite streamed in for their midday meal. Phillip and Lucy garnered many a curious glance, but no one disturbed them. After the first rush, though, the waitress was not too busy to demand that they order something to eat if they insisted on taking up a table.
Lucy decided tinned tomato soup was the safest item on the menu. Phillip ventured upon sausage and mash, which he ate without tasting, his eyes glued to the clear spot on the glass.
The maroon motor-car continued to sit unmoving across the road. The workmen left, streaming back through the gate in the wire fence, past the A.C. Six, into the buildings. Lucy opened the copy of The Queen magazine she had brought with her and flipped idly through it. Time passed.
“Suppose he’s gone out a back way,” Phillip said, beginning to despair. “Suppose he’s taken a Morris for a spin and he stops off to see his men.”
“Someone from the factory would go with him,” Lucy told him firmly, “to make sure everything runs smoothly. Anyway, there’s nothing we can do about it.”
The waitress reappeared. “Was you wanting anythin’ else? ’Cause I got to sweep the floor afore the next lot comes in,” she said in a disgruntled voice. Phillip saw she had already up-ended the chairs on most of the other tables. “You been here going on four hours.”
“No wonder I’m stiff.” Lucy stretched. “I’ll have another ginger-beer and some plain biscuits, please, Rich Tea or Marie.”
“Same for me,” said Phillip, massaging the crick in his neck as he turned back to his peephole.
“Let’s switch seats so you can bend your head the other way,” Lucy suggested.
“Good idea.” As Phillip sat down on her chair, he wiped the window. Applying his eye, he saw two men standing beside the A.C. Six.
He jumped up. “Come on! He’s leaving at last.”
“At last!” Lucy closed the magazine and stood up.
“Hoy!” exclaimed the waitress. “You going? What about this stuff you ordered?”
“Never mind that,” Phillip cried.
“We’ll take it,” Lucy contradicted him. “Who knows when we’ll get another chance to eat?” She stuffed the biscuits into her handbag.
Phillip tossed a florin on the table, grabbed the bottles and his umbrella, and ran through the forest of chair-legs to the door.
He opened it and held it for Lucy, gentlemanly instinct prevailing, but he beat her to the Alvis although she quickly abandoned her attempt to preserve her shoes from puddles.
By the time she wrenched open the door and jumped in, he had the engine started, the hand-brake off, and first gear engaged.
She slammed the door. “Creep forward till we can see around the corner,” she advised.
Instinct now shrieking at him to move fast, he had to acknowledge the common sense of her suggestion. Slowly letting out the clutch, he inched forward.
“Stop!” said Lucy. “Damn, if you go any farther the bonnet will stick out and I still can’t see the gate. Can you?”
He craned his neck. “Not quite.”
She groaned. “All right, I’ll get out and stand on the corner. Where’s the umbrella?”
“Here. Leave the door open.”
Lucy had barely peeked around the building when she ducked back. “He’s coming this way,” she said breathlessly, closing the umbrella and hopping in.
“Back into Oxford. Dash it, I hope he’s not going to stop in the town.”
“Gosh, yes. We could easily lose him there.”
But Crawford drove steadily through the town centre, turning north at Carfax, then branching left on the Woodstock Road.
“At least he’s not heading for the Midlands,” Phillip observed with relief. “This is the way home via Chipping Norton and Evesham. Oh Lord, do you think he’s just going to drive straight back to Malvern?”
“I haven’t the foggiest. We’ll see, if you don’t get too close so you have to overtake or look suspicious.”
Phillip eased up on the accelerator.
Through the village of Woodstock, past the gates of Blenheim Palace; up the long slope into the Cotswolds: then Chipping Norton, Moreton-in-Marsh, Bourton-on-the-Hill—Phillip’s spirits sank lower with every mile they followed the maroon motor-car.
“He’s not going to stop.”
“We’re only half-way. Phillip!” Lucy clutched his arm. “He’s turning off! No, don’t slow down, drive on past. He might glance back.”
Reluctantly, Phillip obeyed. Crawford had turned into a narrow, unpaved lane, its entrance half obscured by hedges and overhanging trees on either side.
The A.C. Six was already out of sight. Phillip stepped on the brake and put the Alvis into reverse.
Lucy closed her eyes, crossing her fingers as he backed along the main road.
A Napier swerved around the Alvis; its chauffeur shook his fist.
Just past the lane, Phillip stopped again and engaged forward gear. They plunged into the green tunnel beneath the trees.