Jonah and Co. (7 page)

“And now,” said Berry, “what about tying them up?”

“What for?” said Jill.

“Well, you can’t send them through the post as they are.”

“You don’t imagine,” said Daphne, in the horrified tone of one who repeats a blasphemy, “you don’t imagine that we’re going to give these things away?”

Berry looked round wildly.

“D’you mean to say you’re going to keep them?” he cried.

“Of course we are,” said his wife.

“What, all of them?”

My sister nodded.

“Every single one,” she said.

With an unearthly shriek, Berry lay back in his chair and drummed with his heels upon the floor.

“I can’t bear it!” he roared. “I can’t bear it! I won’t. It’s insufferable. I’ve parted with the savings of a lifetime for a whole roomful of luxuries, not one of which, in the ordinary way, we should have dreamed of purchasing, not one of which we require, to not one of which, had you seen it in a shop, you would have given a second thought, all of which are probably spurious—”

“Shame!” cried Jill.

“–only to be told that I’ve still got to prosecute the mutually revolting acquaintance with infuriated shopkeepers forced upon me this morning. It’s cruelty to animals, and I shall write to the YMCA. Besides, it’s more blessed—”

“I can’t help it,” said Daphne. “The man had absolutely nothing that would have done for anybody. If—”

“One second,” said her husband. “I haven’t parsed that sentence yet. And what d’you mean by ‘done for’? Because—”

“If,” Daphne continued doggedly, “we sent one of those rugs to someone for Christmas, they’d think we’d gone mad.”

Berry sighed.

“I’m not sure we haven’t,” he said. “Anyway–” he nodded at Jonah and myself – “I’ll trouble each of you gents for a cheque for sixty pounds. As it is, I shall have to give up paying my tailor again, and what with Lent coming on…” Wearily he rose to his feet. “And now I’m going to have a good healthy cry. Globules the size of pigeons’ eggs will well from my orbs.”

“I know,” said Jill. “These things can be our Christmas presents to one another.”

Berry laughed hysterically.

“What a charming idea!” he said brokenly. “And how generous! I shall always treasure it. Every time I look at my pass-book…”

Overcome with emotion he stepped out of the room. A muffled bark reminded me that Nobby was still imprisoned, and I rose to follow my brother-in-law.

As I was closing the door, I heard my wife’s voice.

“You know, I’m simply pining to see that shawl.”

At ten o’clock the next morning the most beautiful piece of embroidery I have ever seen passed into our possession in return for the ridiculously inadequate sum of two thousand francs.

Obviously very old, the pale yellow silk of which the shawl was made was literally strewn with blossoms, each tender one of them a work of art. All the matchless cunning, all the unspeakable patience, all the inscrutable spirit of China blinked and smiled at you out of those wonderful flowers. There never was such a show. Daring walked delicately, Daintiness was become bold. Those that wrought the marvel – for so magnificent an artifice was never the work of one man – were painters born – painters whose paints were threads of silk, whose brushes, needles. Year after year they had toiled upon these twenty-five square feet of faded silk, and always perfectly. The thing was a miracle – the blazing achievement of a reachless ideal.

Upon both lovely sides the work was identical: the knotted fringe – itself bewildering evidence of faultless labour – was three feet deep, and while the whole shawl could have been passed through a bracelet, it scaled the remarkable weight of nearly six pounds.

Daphne, Adèle, and Jill with one voice declared that it was finer than Sally’s. As for Berry, Jonah, and myself, we humbly withdrew such adverse criticism as we had levelled at the latter, and derived an almost childish glee from the possession of its fellow.

It was, indeed, our joy over this latest acquisition that stiffened into resolution an uneasy feeling that we ought to give Sally a slice of our luck.

After considerable discussion we decided to make her a present of the three Chinese mats. She had bought three of Planchet upon his last visit, and those we had just purchased would bring her set up to six. Lest we should repent our impulse, we did them up there and then and sent them off by Fitch the same afternoon.

Christmas was over and gone.

In the three days immediately preceding the festival, such popularity with the tradesmen of the town as we had forfeited was more than redeemed at the expense, so far as I was concerned, of an overdraft at the bank. Absurdly handsome presents were purchased right and left. Adèle’s acquaintance was extremely wide. Observing that it was also in every instance domiciled in the United States, with the density of a male I ventured to point out that upon the day which my wife’s presents were intended to enrich, all of them would indubitably be lying in the custody of the French postal authorities. Thereupon it was gently explained to me that, so long as a parcel had been obviously posted before Christmas, its contents were always considered to have arrived “in time” –a conceit which I had hitherto imagined to be the property of bookmakers alone. In short, from first to last, my wife was inexorable. But for the spectacle of Berry and Jonah being relentlessly driven along the same track, life would have lost its savour. Indeed, as far as we three were concerned, most of the working hours of Christmas Eve were spent at the post office.

The registration of a postal packet in France is no laughing matter. When a coloured form has to be obtained, completed, and deliberately scrutinised before a parcel can be accepted, when there is only one pen, where there are twenty-seven people in front of you – each with two or more packages to be registered – when there is only one registration clerk, when mental arithmetic is not that clerk’s forte, when it is the local custom invariably to question the accuracy first of the postage demanded and then of the change received, when the atmosphere of the post office is germane to poison-gas, and when you are bearing twelve parcels and leading a Sealyham, the act of registration and its preliminaries are conducive to heart-failure.

The miniature of herself, however, with which my wife presented me on Christmas Day atoned for everything…

And now – Christmas was over and gone.

The New Year, too, had come in with a truly French explosion of merriment and goodwill.

It was, in fact, the fourth day of January, and, with the exception of my cousins, who were upon the links, we were proceeding gingerly down the Rue du Lycée, en route for Lourdes, when my sister gave a cry and called upon me to stop.

As I did so, I saw Mrs Featherstone stepping towards us across the open space which fronts the market.

Berry climbed out of the dickey, and Adèle and Daphne got out of the car.

As I followed them —

“Sally, my dear,” said Daphne, “I never knew you were back.”

“I wasn’t, till this morning,” panted Sally. “I only arrived at eight. For the last three hours I’ve been—”

“Before you tell us anything,” said Daphne, “we want to thank you. Since you’ve been away, Planchet’s been. He’s sold us the most lovely things I’ve ever seen. We’re so grateful to you, we don’t know what to do.”

“Well, for goodness’ sake,” rejoined Sally, “insure them today. I’ve just been cleaned out of everything I’ve got.”

“Cleaned out?” cried Daphne. “D’you mean to say you’ve been robbed?”

“That’s right,” said Sally. “Peter and I got back this morning to find the Marats gone and the place stripped. Of course, the furniture belonging to the flat’s there, but the only decent things were what I’d added, and those have vanished.”

“Not all the things you got from Planchet?”

“Rather,” said Sally. “Shawl and everything. Jolly, isn’t it?”

“What an awful shame!” cried Adèle. “But who’s taken them? Not the Marats?”

“Must be,” said Mrs Featherstone. She nodded over her shoulder. “I’ve just been to the police about it, but you know how hopeless they are.”

“If I can do anything,” said Berry, “you know I’d only be too happy…”

“Thanks awfully,” was the reply, “but to tell you the truth, I don’t see what there is to be done. As far as I can make out, they left before Christmas, so they’ve got a pretty good start.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” said I. “Of course I never saw the goods, but, if they were anything like the things we bought, it’s a cruel shame.”

Mrs Featherstone laughed.

“I do feel sore,” she admitted. “The maddening part of it is, I meant to take the shawl home to show George, and then, in the rush at the last, I left it out.” She turned to my sister. “And you know I trusted that couple implicitly.”

“I know you did.”

“The queer thing is, they seem to have suffered one solitary pang of remorse. Did I show you those Chinese mats I was so crazy about? Well, after they’d gone, I suppose, their hearts smote them, because they did the three up and sent them back.”

For a moment we looked at one another.

Then —

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Sally,” said Daphne gently, “but you mustn’t give the brutes that credit. We sent you the mats as a Christmas present.” Sally knitted her brows. “They’re not yours. We bought them from Planchet. Directly I saw them, I thought how beautifully they’d match yours, and we wanted you to have a set.”

Sally stared at her.

“But I could have sworn—”

“I know,” said Daphne. “It was because they were such a wonderful match that we—”

“What else did he sell you?”

A sudden thought came to me, and I turned to catch Berry by the arm… As men in a film, he and I looked at one another with open mouths…

Sublimely unconscious, Daphne and Adèle were reciting the list of our treasures.

Mrs Featherstone heard them out solemnly. Then —

“And what,” she said, “does Planchet look like?”

It became Daphne’s turn to stare.

I moistened my lips.

“Slight, dark, clean-shaven, large brown eyes, nervous manner, scar on the left temple –
or am I describing Marat?
”

Sally spread out her hands.

“To the life,” she said simply.

There was a dreadful silence.

At length —

“‘Sold,’” I said slowly. “‘By order of the trustees. Owner going abroad.’ Marat was with you when you bought them, of course? But what a smart bit of work!”

Sally covered her face and began to shake with laughter. Daphne and Adèle stared at her as if bewitched.

At his third attempt to speak —

“Well, that’s topping,” said Berry. “And now will you come back and get your things now, or shall we bring them over tomorrow? We’ve taken every care of them.” He sighed. “When I think,” he added, “that, but for my good offices, Nobby would have sent that treacherous drawlatch away, not only empty, but with the modern equivalent of a flea in his ear, I could writhe. When I reflect that it was I who supported the swine’s predilection for hard cash, I could scream. But when I remember that ever since our purchase of the shawl, my wife has never once stopped enumerating and/or indicating the many superiorities which distinguish it from yours, I want to break something.” He looked round savagely. “Where’s a grocer’s?” he demanded. “I want some marmalade.”

How Berry Made an Engagement, Jill a Picture

and Adèle a Slip of Some Importance

A natural result of our traffic with Planchet was that we became temporarily suspicious and careful to a fault. The horse had been stolen. For the next three weeks we locked not only the stable door, but every single door to which a key could be fitted – and suffered accordingly. In a word, our convenience writhed. To complete our discomfort, if ever one of us jibbed, the others were sure to lay the lash about his shoulders. The beginning of the end arrived one fine February day.

An early breakfast had made us ready for lunch. As we were taking our seats —

“Are the cars locked?” said Daphne.

Adèle held up a key.

“Pong is,” she said.

My sister turned to Jonah.

“And Ping?”

My cousin shook his head.

“No,” he said shortly. “I omitted the precaution. If this was Paris, instead of Pau, if the cars were standing in an undesirable thoroughfare, instead of in the courtyard of the English Club, if—”

“It’s all very well,” said Daphne, “but you know what happened to the Rolls.”

Berry frowned.

“Any reference,” he said, “to that distressing incident is bad for my heart.” He turned to Jonah. “As for you, you’ve lodged your protest, which will receive the deepest consideration. I shall dwell upon it during the soup. And now push off and lock the vehicle. I know Love laughs at locksmiths, but the average motor-thief’s sense of humour is less susceptible.”

When his sister threw her entreaties into the scale, my cousin took the line of least resistance and rose to his feet.

“For converting a qualified blessing into an unqualified curse,” he said bitterly, “you three alarmists take the complete cracknel. Since the locks were fitted, I’ve done nothing but turn the key from morning till night. Before the beastly things were thought of, the idea of larceny never entered your heads.”

The indignation with which his words were received would have been more pronounced if we had had the room to ourselves. As it was, Jonah made his way to the door amid an enraged murmur of expostulation, whose temper was aggravated by suppression almost to bursting-point.

There was much to be said for both points of view.

It was a fact that since the theft of the Rolls we had never felt easy about leaving a car unattended. Yet, though we had often discussed the matter, nothing had been done. Now, however, that we were in a strange country, where the tracing of a stolen car would, for a variety of reasons, be an extremely difficult undertaking, and staying withal only a handful of miles from the Spanish frontier, we all felt that action of some sort must be taken without delay.

An attempt to enlist the services of the Sealyham as a custodian had failed ignominiously. In the first place, unless fastened, he had flatly declined to stay with either of the cars. The expedient of closing one of these altogether and leaving Nobby within had proved quite as unsatisfactory and more humiliating. Had we been able to eradicate from the dog’s mind the conviction that he was being wrongfully imprisoned, the result might have been different. As it was, after barking furiously for five minutes, he had recourse to reprisal and, hardly waiting to remove the paper in which it was wrapped, devoured half a kilogram of ripe Brie with a revengeful voracity to which the condition of the interior of the car bore hideous witness. Finally, when the urchin who was in our confidence, and had engaged for the sum of five francs to endeavour to enter the car, opened its door, the captive leaped out joyously and, after capering with delight at his delivery, wiped his mouth enthusiastically upon a tyre and started on a reconnaissance of the neighbourhood in the hope of encountering his jailers. As for the car, our employee might have driven it into the blue…

In the end, it was decided that a lock attached to the steering-column would offer the best security. Accordingly, a device was sent for, fitted to each of the cars, and proved. So far as we could see, there was no fault in it. Once the key was withdrawn, the car concerned was useless. It could be driven, certainly, but it could not be steered. Indeed, short of getting it upon a trolley or taking ‘the steering’ down, its asportation could not be compassed.

New brooms sweep clean.

Delighted with the realisation that theft could now be erased from the list of terrors of motoring, the girls insisted upon the observance of the new rite upon every possible occasion. As drivers of long standing, Jonah and I found this eagerness hard to indulge. Use holds, and, try as we would, it was absurdly difficult to remember to do as we had never done before, whenever we evacuated a car. Often enough, as now, it was a work of supererogation.

Berry turned to me.

“I observe,” he said, “that for once you have not advanced your opinion. Is this because you realise that it’s valueless? Or won’t your mouth work?”

“Jonah was right,” said I. “Insurance has its advantages, but you don’t register every letter you post. The truth is, what little sense of proportion you have is failing. Of course you’re not as young as you were, and then, again, you eat too much.”

“In other words,” said my brother-in-law, “you attribute caution to the advance of old age and gluttony. I see. To which of your physical infirmities do you ascribe a superabundance of treachery and bile?”

“That,” said I, “is due to external influence. The sewer-gas of your temperament—”

“I refuse,” said Berry, “to sit still and hear my soul compared to a drain at the very outset of what promises to be a toothsome repast. It might affect my appetite.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Needless anxiety again,” I sighed. “I don’t know what’s the matter with you today.”

“By the way,” said Daphne, “I quite forgot. Did you cash your cheque?”

“I did,” said her husband.

“What did they give you?” said Jill.

“Fifty-three francs to the pound.”

“Fifty-
three
?” cried Daphne and Adèle in horror-stricken tones.

“Fifty-three francs dead. If I’d cashed it yesterday, as, but for your entreaties, I should have done, I should have got fifty-six.”

“But when you found it was down, why didn’t you wait?”

“In the first place,” retorted my brother-in-law, “it isn’t down; it’s up. In the second place, I was down to four francs twenty-five. In the third place, tomorrow it may be up to fifty.”

“It’s much more likely to go back to fifty-five.”

“My dear girl,” said Berry, “with the question of likelihood the movements of the comic Exchange have nothing to do. It’s a law unto itself. Compared with the Money Market of today, Monte Carlo’s a Sunday school. I admit we’d have more of a show if we didn’t get the paper a day late… Still, that makes it more sporting.”

“I don’t see any sport in losing six hundred francs,” said his wife. “It’s throwing away money.” Here my cousin reappeared. “Jonah, why did you let him do it?”

“Do what?” said Jonah.

“Cash such a cheque when the franc’s dropped.”

“It hasn’t,” said Jonah. “It’s risen.”

“How,” piped Jill, “can it have risen when it’s gone down?”

“It hasn’t gone down,” said I.

“But fifty-three’s less than fifty-six.”

“Let me explain,” said Berry, taking an olive from a dish. “You see that salt-cellar?”

“Yes,” said Jill, staring.

“Well, that represents a dollar. The olive is a franc, and this here roll is a pound.” He cleared his throat. “When the imports exceed the exports, the roll rises” – up went his hand – “as good bread should. But when the exports exceed the imports, or the President backs a winner, or something, then the olive begins to soar. In a word, the higher the fewer.”

Jill passed a hand across her sweet pretty brow. “But what’s the salt-cellar got to do with it?”

“Nothing whatever,” said Berry. “That was to distract your attention.”

Jill choked with indignation.

“I’ll never ask you anything again,” she said severely. “After all, if you can’t help yourself, it isn’t likely you can help me. And, anyway, I wouldn’t have been so silly as to go and cash a cheque when the franc had gone down.”

“Up,” said I relentlessly.

“But how can it—”

“Look here,” said I. “Imagine that all the francs in the world have turned into herrings.”

“What a joy shopping would be!” said Berry.

“Yes,” said Jill faithfully.

“Well, on Monday you go and buy a pound’s worth of herrings. Fish is plentiful, so you get fifty-six.”

“Yes.”

“During the night herrings rise.”

“Get quite high,” said Berry. “You have to get out of bed and put your purse on the landing.”

Adèle began to shake with laughter.

“Yes,” said Jill earnestly.

“So that the next morning,” I continued desperately, “when you come to buy another pound’s worth of herrings, you only get fifty-three.”

“That’s right,” said Berry. “And while you’re trying to decide whether to have one or two pounds, they turn into bananas. Then you
are
done.”

Jonah took up the cudgels.

“It’s perfectly simple,” he said. “Think of a thermometer.”

Jill took a deep breath.

Then —

“Yes,” she said.

“Well, on Monday you find it’s fifty-six. On Tuesday you look at it again, and find it’s fifty-three. That means it’s gone down, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” said his sister hopefully.

“Well, with the franc it’s just the opposite. It means it’s gone up.”

“Yes.”

“That’s all,” said Jonah brutally.

Jill looked from him to Daphne and from Daphne to Adèle – dazedly. The former put a hand to her head.

“My dear,” she said, “I can’t help you. Before they started explaining, I had a rough idea of how the thing worked. Now I’m confused forever. If they are to be believed, in future we’ve got to say ‘up’ when we feel inclined to say ‘down.’ But don’t ask me why.”

She stopped to speak with a member who was leaving the room and had come to pay his respects. After a word or two —

“Visitors’ weather,” he said. “Perfect, isn’t it? But, I say, what a fall in the franc! Three points in a day… Never mind. It’ll go up again.”

He made his adieus and passed on.

It was no good saying anything.

A prophet is not without honour, save in his own country.

It was three days later that we were bowling along the road to Biarritz.

The morning was full and good to look upon. Sun, sky, and air offered the best they had. To match their gifts, a green and silver earth strained at the leash of Winter with an eager heart. The valleys smiled, high places lifted up their heads, the hasty Gave de Pau swirled on its shining way, a laughing sash of snow-broth, and all the countryside glowed with the cheerful aspect of a well-treated slave.

Wide, straight, and level, the well-built road thrust through the beaming landscape with a directness that took Distance by the throat. The surface improving as we left Pau behind, I drew on the seven-league boots – surreptitiously. Very soon we were flying… With a steady purr of contentment, Pong, tuned to a hair, swallowed the flashing miles so easily that pace was robbed of its sting.

A dot on the soft bullock-walk that edged the road grew with fantastic swiftness into an ox-waggon, loomed for an instant life-size, and was gone. A speck ahead leapt into the shape of a high-wheeled gig, jogged for a moment to meet us, and vanished into space. A dolls’ house by the wayside swelled into a villa…a chateau…a memory of tall thin windows ranged in a white wall. The future swooped into the present, only to be flicked into the past. The seven-league boots were getting into their stride.

Then came a level-crossing with the barriers drawn…

For a minute the lady responsible for the obstructions seemed uncertain whether to withdraw them or no. After a long look up the line, however, she decided against us and shook her head with a benevolent smile.

“
Le train arrive
,” she explained.

With a sigh, I stopped the engine and lighted a cigarette…

“What exactly,” said Daphne, “did Evelyn say?”

“That,” said Berry, “as I have already endeavoured to point out, will always remain a matter for conjecture. We addressed one another for more than twenty minutes, but our possession of the line was disputed effectively during the whole of that period.”

“Well, what did you hear her say?”

“I heard her say ‘Yes’ twice, and ‘Delighted,’ and ‘One o’clock.’ I’m almost certain that towards the end of our communion she said, ‘Oh, hell!’ Having regard to the prevailing conditions, she may be forgiven.”

Daphne sighed.

“Well, I suppose she expects us,” she said. “After all, that’s the main thing. You made her understand it was today, didn’t you?”

“That,” was the reply, “remains to be seen. If I didn’t, it’s not my fault. It’s no good pretending that ‘Wednesday’s’ a good word to shout, but I made the most of it. I also said ‘Woden’s Day’ with great clarity, and ‘
Mardi
.’”

“
Mardi?
” shrieked his wife.

“Oh, much louder than that.”

“B-but that’s
Tuesday
!”

Berry started guiltily.

“I – I mean ‘
Mercredi
,’” he said hurriedly.

I began to shake with merriment.

Suspiciously my sister regarded her husband.

“Which did you say?” she demanded.

“‘
Mercredi
.’”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” cried Daphne. “You said ‘
Mardi
.’ You know you did.”

Here a seemingly interminable freight train started to lumber across our path…

As the rumble began to die —

“I think,” said I, “he must have got ‘Wednesday’ through. Otherwise Evelyn would have rung up last night.”

Berry drew a case from his pocket and offered me a cigar. Then he turned to my sister and protruded his tongue…

We had known Evelyn Fairie for years. It was natural that we should wish to know Evelyn Swetecote. That wedlock could have diminished her charm was not to be thought of. But we were forgivably curious to see her in the married state and to make the acquaintance of the man whom she had chosen out of so many suitors. Little knowing that we were at Pau, Evelyn had written to us from Biarritz. In due season her letter had arrived, coming by way of Hampshire. An answer in the shape of a general invitation to lunch had brought not so much a refusal as a definite counter-proposal that we should suggest a day and come to Biarritz. In reply, the services of the telephone had been requisitioned, and, if my brother-in-law was to be believed, Mrs Swetecote had been advised to expect us on Wednesday.