Olura (33 page)

Authors: Geoffrey Household

BOOK: Olura

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I did not tell him that Allarte would be in no danger whatever, that indeed I could arrange for them to be unofficially welcomed. The less that he knew of Bozec and Naval Intelligence, the
better. So I contented myself with saying that if he thought Allarte’s price beyond his personal means I would lend it to him and his children could repay me.

He laughed dutifully at what he thought to be the tasteless remark of an insensitive tycoon. I felt that I ought not to develop the actual proposal I had in mind until he was more used to the
conception of a future. So I opened the picnic basket and was glad to see in his eyes that guilty light of a mourner who, through the last of his tears, has just caught sight of the bottles and
cold collation on the dining-table of the deceased.

When he was sufficiently mellowed to appreciate that there were other loves in the world beyond Olura’s and his—mine, for example, for her and for her father—I explained to him
that Theodore knew her better than either of us. His blasted daughter, he called her. I remember his exact words, for on that same morning he had warned me that he had less than six months to
live.

‘That blasted daughter of mine,’ he said, ‘is likely as not to enter some kind of nunnery run by Californian Hindus, and we’ll tie up her money so that they don’t
get a penny of it if she does.’

I thought he exaggerated and told him so. Olura’s sixteen-year-old obsessions with Church of England vestments, compulsory education of unmarried mothers to university level and the rights
of every minority to overrule any majority would probably be superseded by the delights of debutantcy and marriage into whatever class was replacing the peerage as the most desirable.

Theodore would not agree. A fortune, he insisted, was a nuisance to a girl like Olura who would always resent it and misuse it. She would never marry into society, money or power but follow her
nature in deciding that truth could only be found through the embraces of a Chinese boiler maker or in trying to reform an alcoholic missionary. He could not bear to think of the unfortunate fellow
trailing after her round the world and being allowed to save his face by writing the cheques for the hotel managers.

So the trust which he required for his darling was eccentric. All his money was left to her children, if any. She had the full use of the income until marriage, when it could be reduced and the
income reinvested at the pleasure of the trustees.

I explained these provisions shortly to Philip and awaited his comment.

‘You are suggesting, if I understood you, that I fall into the class of alcoholic missionary,’ he said. ‘A little hard on a devoted scholar with a taste for good living. But I
see the analogy.’

That was more like him, and I was encouraged to proceed. I proposed that Olura should have enough to be able to taper off her enthusiasms gradually, but not so much that he found himself in the
position foreseen by her father, and I asked him to name a figure.

He replied that he had not the faintest idea, that I had better put it up to Olura. I told him that he still did not know her. She would be so impatient at being asked such a question that she
would insist on living on his salary.

‘Well, what does it cost to keep up that sort of thing?’ he asked, pointing to the eight unexamined suit-cases of ostrich skin.

‘At least ten thousand a year.’

‘Make it five, and I should have a hope of equalling it some day.’

That was one difficult negotiation settled. A second was more embarrassing: to extract Allarte from the inn and persuade him to accompany me to the villa. I could not manage it without
attracting the curiosity of all Maya—which, on his return, he allayed by pretending a discussion over the rent of his moorings. His evident joy at seeing Philip and their satisfactory
jabberings in Basque predisposed him to accept my offer. On the falling tide before dawn Philip left the house by the cliff below the terrace, as he had come.

I was glad to see in the morning, when I had received my registered letter and was waiting for the car which would take me down to Madrid, that the sea was shimmering in the heat as far as the
misty horizon. Philip would be saved from an uncomfortable day of seasickness and the new master of the
Phare de Kerdonis
would have no great difficulty in picking up the
Isaura
.
It was the first time that I could really appreciate what attraction my pair of romantics had found in the coast.

I have no first-hand knowledge of the further adventures of General Sauche and Major Vigny. Two gentlemen, bearing their passports, boarded at Madrid Airport a plane which they had chartered to
take them to South Africa. At what discreet point these two were exchanged for the real owners of the passports I do not know.

It will be remembered that the plane got off course and made a forced landing in mountainous country where Mr Mgwana had not yet been able—owing, he claimed, to the negligence of British
colonialism—to introduce all the benefits of civilisation. The pilot fortunately took a route which led him to the nearest Government Officer. His passengers were regrettably lost in the
thick bush, and little more of them was discovered than was essential for identification.

When I last saw Mgwana, I ventured to hope that Vigny’s end had been of a nature to satisfy his intelligent interest in the arts of the table. Some years ago he would have taken this as a
reflection upon his people. He now retorted, as any of the more confident members of my club might do, with an unrepeatable jest upon the manners and morals of the City of London. Africa will go
far with such a man for example.

This was at the christening of his goddaughter, little Theo Ardower. I was relieved that Prebendary Flanders had not been invited to perform the rite, though this may have been due to the fact
that it took place in the sane, gay and decorous atmosphere of the College Chapel. I noticed that the beautiful gravity of Olura was attuned to perpendicular architecture and that, happily, she was
well aware of it.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Drew Padrutt

978-1-4976-4561-5

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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New York, NY 10014

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