Black August (12 page)

‘What nonsense! I'm terribly sorry I didn't tell you my full name in the first place; but what difference does it make? I haven't, got three legs, or a tail, or anything!'

‘I see,' a glint of humour lurked in Ann's tawny eyes, ‘you're just like any other man, and you're in love with me. Is that it?”

‘I am.'

‘A lot?'

‘Yes, Ann, a lot.'

‘Do you realise the logical conclusion then?'

‘N … no,' he hesitated, fearing some kind of trap.

‘In such circumstances it is usual for the man to want to marry the girl: do you want to marry me?'

The question was so direct that Kenyon hesitated again, floundered, and was lost. ‘Marry? … well, you know … I hadn't meant to … yet!'

‘Please don't go on, my dear.' Ann was smiling now. ‘Of course you don't; I didn't expect for one moment that you would. I'm not suitable and I know it. If you were really going
to get a Civil Service job at £400 a year I might be—but you're not!'

‘But Ann—'

‘What?'

‘Well, I do care about you—terribly.'

‘Perhaps.' She stood up. ‘I like you too; you must know that.'

‘Then can't we—carry on?'

‘Listen,' she said slowly, fingering the lapel of his coat, ‘it's this way. I might live with a man who wanted to marry me and couldn't—if I liked him enough; but I would never live with a man who did not love me enough to
want
to marry me. I wonder if you understand. Anyhow, I'm going home now. Say good-bye to that nice sister of yours for me, and tell her I liked her an awful lot—and I
have
enjoyed this evening.'

‘I understand, Ann; but you're not going home; I am not going to let you!'

‘What do you mean?' Her eyes grew hard, and the heavy lids came down, half-concealing them.

‘Just this. I warned you to stay in Orford, but you wouldn't listen. It may be too late now for you to reach there safely on your own. I'm going down to the country tomorrow and I mean to take you with me.'

‘No, Kenyon. I can look after myself; I'm not going with you.'

‘You are.' His eyes were hard though he was smiling.

‘I've had a room prepared for you and you will sleep here tonight.'

‘No!' she snapped, filled with sudden fury by his dictatorial manner.

‘You will,' he repeated firmly.

‘No!'

‘I say
yes
! I've put you next to Veronica, so you will be quite comfortable—and quite safe.'

‘No! You've got no right to keep me here against my will!'

‘Nobody will have any rights in a few days' time. I'm anticipating the movement, that's all!'

‘No! You'll let me go now—
now
! D'you hear!'

His only reply was to take her firmly by the arms. For a second she tried to wrench herself away but realised immediately how powerless she was against his strength.

He let her go for a moment and pulled open the door. ‘Come on; do you walk or do I carry you?'

Beneath the lowered lids her eyes were blazing with anger as with sullen tight-shut mouth she walked slowly past him. He piloted her down the corridor and pushed her gently into a spacious bedroom.

A tiny fire burned in the grate although it was early August, and the sheets had been carefully turned back in the great four-poster. A nightdress—Ann supposed it to be one of Veronica's—lay across the bed. A dressing-gown, slippers, and everything else she could possibly require also seemed to have been provided, but there was no other exit than the door by which she stood with Kenyon.

‘I'll never forgive you for this,' she said slowly. ‘Never!'

He smiled slightly. ‘We're making rather an early start in the morning, I'm afraid, so you will be called at six o'clock. Good night, Ann—sleep well!' He shut the door softly behind him, and with renewed fury Ann heard the key turn in the lock.

Kenyon went along to report to his fellow conspirator.

‘Well?' asked Veronica curiously. ‘How did she take it?'

‘Damn badly. I had to lock her in!'

‘Phew!' Veronica let out a peculiarly vulgar whistle. ‘You'll find yourself in Bow Street, laddie, if these troubles blow over.'

‘I don't care. She comes with us if I have to carry her all the way now. I love that girl like hell!'

Nevertheless, when Kenyon decided to call Ann himself in the morning, he found the door still locked but the bed unslept in and the window open. Ann Croome had gone.

Kenyon walked over to the window. There was an eight-foot drop to the leads of the music-room, then a short fire-escape down to the empty garage, from which it was easy to get into the Mews. That was the way she had gone.

‘Damn!' he said briefly, and striding back into the passage he knocked on Veronica's door.

‘Yes, who is it?' came a petulant voice. Veronica was never at her best in the early morning.

‘Me—Kenyon.'

‘You can't come in, darling, I'm naked!'

‘All right, but look here—Ann's cleared out.'

‘More fool you for letting her. Where were you—in your bath?'

‘No; in my room, of course!'

‘Ye Gods—the man
is
crazy.'

Kenyon laughed angrily. ‘I'm perfectly sane, thanks; we'll talk it over at breakfast, then.' He strode off to his room.

Veronica did not prove helpful or particularly sympathetic when they met over the bacon and eggs and tea. ‘You had your chance last night, my boy, and if you mucked it you've only yourself to blame,' was her somewhat cynical comment.

‘What did you really think of her?' Kenyon asked.

‘Oh, she's quite a sweet and too devastatingly bedworthy for words!'

‘Veronica! Why must you always drag that in?'

Her eyes opened wide. ‘Snakes and ladders! Why not, my poor fool. You don't want to discuss higher thought with the wench, do you?'

‘Of course not … but …'

‘But what?'

‘Oh, nothing.'

Veronica put down her teacup with a deliberate bang.

‘S'welp me Gawd, but I believe 'e is thinkin' of makin' an honest woman of 'er after all!'

‘No,' said Kenyon. ‘I'm old-fashioned enough to feel that I do owe something to the family and it would pretty well break old Herbert up.'

Veronica shook her head sadly. ‘My dear, you
are
loopy, there's not a doubt about it. Yon don't want to marry the girl, you don't want to discuss the state of your soul with her, and you don't even want to play slap and tickle—at least you say you don't. What the devil
do
you want?'

‘I want to get her safe out of London; after that we'll see. Are you game to put off our departure till after I've been down to Gloucester Road?'

‘Yes, my quixotic numskull, if you like. Let's start after lunch. That will give me a chance to see Klinkie again; she may have brought another infant into this world of sin by now.'

‘All right. I'll go straight away.'

‘Oi!' she called after him, ‘chuck us the piper, lovey.'

He picked it up and glanced quickly through it. ‘My hat! It's down to four pages now; that's bad.'

‘Anything in it?'

‘No, nothing new that matters; martial law declared last night…. Train derailed at Peterborough…. Further trouble at the London docks, and lots about a new scheme for rationing all commodities, but it's all fill-up; bound to be now that the Press is muzzled by the Government censorship. Well, I'll be off; see you at lunch if not before.'

Although it was only just past eight a considerable number of people were about. Little groups of servants, from the big houses and blocks of flats which were still occupied, stood talking together. As Kenyon passed the Dorchester he noticed that some wag had chalked up the words: ‘To Let—Furnished' in large letters on the wall, but the big commissionaire still stood impassive and important at the front entrance. The Park displayed a bustle of activity. Troops, Special Police and long lines of lorries moved up and down between the food dumps, and sentries were posted on the gates. At Hyde Park Corner Kenyon saw half a dozen khaki figures, and some black blodges which he knew to be machine-guns, high up on the great arch that spans Constitution Hill; an admirable strategic position commanding three main thoroughfares—one side of Buckingham
Palace, and the two Parks. In Knightsbridge there was quite a crowd, yet the streets looked empty, and after a moment he realised that it was because there was not a single bus in sight. The crowd thinned again, and he sped down Cromwell Road.

Mr. Rudd received him on the doorstep. ‘Sorry, sir, Miss Croome ain't in—nor likely to be for that matter.'

‘Why?' demanded Kenyon, with a sudden sinking feeling. ‘Did she sleep here last night?'

‘Yes, sir, same as usual; but she asks to be called at six when she come in lars' night. In a rare state she was too, that dirty! an' a temper! Well, I ain't never seen 'er like it before. Then she ups an' packs this mornin'; give me me money, an' 'ops it, rahnd abart a quarter of an hour ago.'

‘Where to?'—do you know?'

‘Liverpool Street—I ‘eard 'er tell the taxi. Don't know fer sure but I think she's got relations down Suffolk way.'

‘Right. Thanks!'

‘You're welcome, sir.'

Kenyon was already back in his car. Liverpool Street was the other end of London so he ought to be able to beat her to it if she only had a quarter of an hour's start. He was determined to see her again before she left.

Knightsbridge was more crowded now. Still no buses on the streets, but many cars loaded with luggage and streaming westward out of London. He raced up Piccadilly, wondering at his swift progress, then he saw the explanation. The traffic signals were not working, but further on he paid the price; at the Circus there was a solid jam which took him twenty minutes to get through. In Trafalgar Square a crowd was collecting, but the police moved steadily through them, breaking up the groups. When he reached the Thames Embankment he was able to put on speed again, but had to pull up momentarily for a full battery of Field Artillery—horses, guns, and limbers—which was reversing preparatory to parking along the roadway under the windows of the Savoy. Blackfriars was almost deserted, and as he entered the City by Queen Victoria Street, he was reminded of a Sunday when he had attended a special service at St. Paul's. The place was dead, empty, desolate. Long rows of closed offices and shuttered shops without a pedestrian in a hundred yards, and this was Friday.

Within a quarter of a mile of Liverpool Street he was brought
to a halt. A long line of taxis and private cars, all heading for the station, barred his way; several thousand people, like Ann, were making for the Eastern Counties.

Kenyon fumed and fretted. He dared not leave the car in case it was stolen. Then he had an inspiration. If he took a side turning he could work his way round to the Bishopsgate entrance; it was a risk, for Bishopsgate borders on the East End, but there would be nothing like the traffic, and after a few moments of twisting in and out through narrow streets he reached the eastern entrance of the station.

There was no sign of any crowd hostile to car-owners such as he had feared, and a loafer in a battered hat stood nearby on the pavement. Kenyon beckoned him over.

‘Can you drive a car?' he asked.

‘Not me, Guv'nor—no such luck.'

‘All right,' said Kenyon. ‘Come and sit in this one. I may be half an hour or so but there's a quid for you when I get back.'

‘Strite?'

‘Yes, I mean it.'

‘Orlright, Guv'nor,' grinned the loafer.

Kenyon hurried into the station. From the top of the staircase he could see the wide platform spread beneath him. It was one black seething mass of humanity; it seemed utterly hopeless to try to find Ann in such a crush, but he went down and shouldered his way in amongst them.

After a few moments he reached the footbridge and crossed it, knowing that the departure platforms were on the other side. The space there was even more densely crowded, but he managed at least to edge his way through the crush to the gates, beyond which lay the trains. There were a number in the sidings but to his surprise all that he could see were empty, and not one showed any sign of imminent departure. A tired-looking porter who sucked at an unlit cigarette leaned over the barrier, and the nearest members of the crowd were bombarding him with questions. He only shook his head.

‘It's no use blamin' me,' he kept on saying. There won't be no more trains till further orders.'

Kenyon questioned the people who stood around him and learned that the provincial towns had become very alarmed at the influx of visitors in the last few days. Now, they were
employing their local police to prevent any but permanent residents in their municipalities from alighting. Thirty or forty trains had returned to Liverpool Street during the night, still loaded with their human freight, and the railway company, not unnaturally, refused to sanction the departure of any more.

Obviously Ann could not have left London then. Kenyon turned and looked at the closely-wedged mass of people who stood there, speechless for the most part and waiting in the hope that the Company might reverse its decision. She must be somewhere among them if only he could find her, so he buffeted his way back towards the booking office. That too was crammed with patient careworn humanity.

For ten frantic minutes Kenyon squeezed and pressed his way through the throng, standing on tiptoe at every second step to peer above the heads of the surrounding people. Then he gave it up as hopeless and made his way back to his car.

His new acquaintance uncurled himself from the seat, and Kenyon handed him the promised pound. The fellow grinned sheepishly.