Strange Conflict (24 page)

They were called at half past four so knew that their journey was to be resumed, and soon after dawn they were on their way once more. Hours later they came down at Bermuda, where they were glad of the opportunity of stretching their legs for half an hour while they went ashore to have their passports examined and the usual formalities seen to. That evening without any untoward incident they arrived safely in New York harbour.

Rex had cabled his father from Lisbon to expect them, and when they were still two hundred yards from the dock they could easily make out the huge, white-haired figure of old Channock Van Ryn towering head and shoulders above the rest of the little group who were waiting to meet passengers from the
Clipper.
He and the Duke were friends
of many years' standing and they greeted each other with the enthusiasm of long-lost brothers. Rex introduced the rest of the party to his father, then the banker drove them all off to his great mansion on Riverside Drive.

When Rex broke the news that they were only passing through New York on a mission connected with the war and would have to leave on the next day's plane for Miami, the old man's face fell. He told them that he had arranged a big party for the following night to celebrate Rex's having been awarded the D.F.C. for his gallantry in the Royal Air Force; but de Richleau explained that, sorry as he was, their visit could only be a flying one; it was of the utmost importance that they got down to the West Indies without an hour's unavoidable delay.

With that immediate resilience to circumstances for which the Americans are justly famous, the old man said at once: ‘All right, then; seems we'll have to hold the party tonight,' and directly they arrived at his house he got his two secretaries and his butler busy on the telephones ringing up all his friends to gather in as many of them as possible for an informal occasion after dinner.

Rex tried to stop him. He pleaded that he would only feel an embarrassed fool if he were lionised, and that it was the very last thing he wanted. But the huge old man, who was even taller than his giant son, turned round and said in a voice which had made Secretaries of State quail:

‘Listen, son; no nonsense. I know that no decent man wants to talk about what he's done; but in this case you've darned-well got to. It's no matter of showing off, but aid for Britain. By half past ten we'll have half a hundred really influential folk here, most of 'em as pro-British as we are, but some who're waverers. You can do more tonight than shooting down half a dozen Messerschmitts if you'll just tell these people in your own simple way, without any frills, what's happening on the other side: how you've seen it all, been right in the thick of it, and know how those splendid English folk are carrying on—and
mean
to carry on whatever hellish tricks those darned Nazis bring against them. Maybe you noticed the Statue of Liberty standing up there out of the water, south of Manhattan, as you flew over Ellis Island an hour ago. Forget it, son. That statue doesn't stand there any longer; it stands today in the Straits of Dover;
and it's up to you to bring that home to our friends in a way that only a man who's been fighting for Liberty on the other side can do.'

Rex squeezed his father's arm. ‘Sure, Dad; I get the idea and I'll do just as you say.'

Since she had been stricken dumb Philippa had naturally avoided even such parties as were going in wartime London, and after they had dined she asked to be excused. But Simon pleaded with her to reconsider her decision.

‘Look here,' he said earnestly, having got her to himself in a corner; ‘I think you're being wonderfully brave about what's happened to you. You must feel it like hell, but you never complain; and if there's really no way in which you can get your speech back you'll have to try to be even braver. I mean—you thoroughly enjoyed yourself with us the other night at the Metropole in Lisbon—didn't you? So what's it matter if there are a few more people? Surely you don't mean to cut all parties for the rest of your life? You'll have to face a crowd some time—why not start now?'

She wrote on her tablet: ‘With friends who know about me I'm all right, but I couldn't bear to be stared at and pitied by a crowd; I might break down.'

‘Ner,' he shook his head violently. ‘You'll be all right. And this is work for Britain. You said you hated running away from England while there was a war on. Now you can prove it, if you want to. The old man asked Rex to do some propaganda for us by telling the people who're coming what the Nazis have done to London, but you can do much more by staying with us and not saying a word. I hate to be seeming to use the awful thing that's happened to you, but if only you can stand up to their stares, think what an effect it will have on these Americans! The word will go round: “That beautiful girl over there is English. She was a nurse in a hospital which the Nazis bombed, and when they dug her out of the ruins it was found that she had been struck dumb. That's what these swine do to women, and they'd be doing it here in New York if they had the chance.” See what I mean?'

Philippa went a shade paler, then she smiled and wrote on her tablet: ‘Thanks for the “beautiful”. I shall hate it but I'm game if you promise not to leave me.'

‘Grand.' Simon suddenly took her hand and squeezed it.
‘And of course I won't leave you. Never meant to—not for a second.'

The party proved a huge success. With the Duke's encouragement Rex soon got over his embarrassment at having to talk about his exploits, and the fact that he was an American made every one of his father's guests feel something of reflected glory in the thought that one of their own people had shared in that epic defence of Britain and had been decorated for gallantry by England's King. But Philippa's presence, as Simon had so shrewdly foreseen, carried even greater weight. He had tipped off Marie Lou, Richard and the Duke so that all three of them told Philippa's story to the people they met when they were out of her hearing; and what Channock Van Ryn's guests said they would like to do to Goering's murder-pilots in consequence was just nobody's business!

On the following morning their host motored them out to the New York airport, and having taken an affectionate leave of the old man they set out on their journey South in a big American air-liner. The trip was much more interesting than those of the previous days; the plane was not blacked out and for the major portion of the time they were flying over the coastline and could watch the changing scenery through Maryland, Virginia and North and South Carolina, until they crossed the great bay east of Florida and came down at Miami.

Rex had suggested that since they had no idea how long they would have to stay in Haiti it would be better to charter a plane, without a pilot, as he would fly them over and they could then retain the plane there so that they could return in it at any time they wished, and Channock Van Ryn had that morning promised that he would make arrangements for an aircraft at Miami to be placed at their disposal for that purpose.

His father's agent was waiting to meet them on the airfield and took them at once to inspect a six-seater aircraft that he had hired, on instructions, for the trip to Haiti. Rex spent twenty minutes looking over the engine to make certain that it was in good order and, having satisfied himself on that point, told the mechanic to have it fuelled to capacity and ready for them at nine-thirty the following morning.

After thanking the agent they secured a taxi, and Rex, who knew the American pleasure-coast from end to end, took them all off to the Pancoast Hotel, which lies some way from the town, right out beyond the swamps, among its own palm groves and gardens, on the edge of the beach where the Atlantic rollers are for ever creaming.

It was here, for the first time, that they felt that they had at last passed beyond the limits of the vast territories affected by the war. As usual, in winter, the luxury hotel was crowded with wealthy holiday-making Americans. There was no dearth of food or drink and everyone was concerned only with the pleasure of the moment. Strong-limbed young men and lovely girls in summer raiment or smart beach attire were driving about in high-powered cars unhampered by any petrol ration, canoeing on the lake near the hotel or sun-bathing on the beach under brightly-coloured umbrellas.

For them the war was only a thing of pictures in the illustrated papers that they flicked over with idle fingers. To the Duke and his friends, having come fresh from the stark realities of the Battle for Britain, this pleasure-beach scene of pre-war colour, idleness and gaiety seemed as unreal as a stage set in a musical comedy. But when they had registered, and seen their rooms, they sat for a little in the sunbaked garden, relaxing and trying to realise that this was in fact the same world as that in which during the past eighteen months literally millions of previously free men and women on the Continent of Europe had been enslaved, beaten, imprisoned, tortured, starved, frozen, shot, and burnt or blasted by bombs, through the hideous ferocity and ungovernable lust for conquest of the fanatical Nazi hordes.

After refreshing themselves with iced drinks they decided that it would be a good idea to have a bathe, so they unpacked their swim-suits and spent a jolly hour or more racing one another and romping in the invigorating surf, then they lounged about in the lovely sunshine until cocktail-time.

Simon had found out for Philippa that the weekly packet-boat by which she was to sail for Kingston, Jamaica, left Miami two days hence; but the rest of them would be departing for Haiti first thing the following morning so her
time with them was drawing to a close, which made them a little subdued at dinner that night. Although they had known her for only four days they had spent the whole of each of those days with her and had therefore got to know her quite well, in spite of the handicap which she suffered in having to write everything that she wished to say to them. They all admired her cheerful, uncomplaining courage under her wretched affliction, and Simon was so unusually silent that evening that when Marie Lou was dancing with him she teased him with having fallen in love with their beautiful speechless companion.

He wriggled his neck, came as near to blushing as she had ever seen him and hotly denied it, but admitted that he found Philippa very attractive. However, when they had all said ‘good night' and he had reached his room he was conscious of a definite thrill on finding a letter from her propped up on his dressing-table. Opening it, he saw that it was quite a long screed and he ran his eyes swiftly over the neat lines of round, firm writing. It ran:

Dear Simon,

‘Firstly I want to thank you for all your sweetness to me during our journey. The others have all been charming, but for natural, unforced sympathy and thoughtfulness in a thousand little ways you have excelled anything I could ever have thought possible in a man.

I'm used to men being attentive to me, and before the bomb I suppose I rather took it for granted that they should be; but since I've lost my tongue I have noticed that sort of thing much more. Not to be able to talk— when one used to be quite an amusing person—is a pretty ghastly handicap. Most people are awfully anxious to be kind, but since I left the nursing-home I've found that nearly all my men-friends seem to get tongue-tied themselves when they're with me and, it has seemed to me— but perhaps I'm being unjust to them—a little bored with a wretched girl who has to write out every remark she makes. So you'll understand how very grateful I am to you for these last few days.

Now for the second and really more important point of this letter. You've all been terribly close about the
reason for your trip to Haiti, but I'm not altogether a fool, and within a few hours of having got to know you all I became convinced that five people who feel as you do would never be running away from our dear England while there's a war on, unless they had some definite object in doing so; and even if they were,
why
in God's name choose a benighted spot like Haiti?

Quite definitely you're going there on some secret mission or other—even a child could guess that. And the fact that none of you understand Creole is going to prove a most frightful hindrance to your plans.

I lived in Jamaica for five years before the war, and during that time I travelled a lot in the West Indies with my uncle, visiting nearly all the islands. His hobby was the study of the natives and I used to help him with his notes, so before the bomb I could speak Creole fluently, and I learnt quite a lot about these unusual, unhappy “high yallers” who are a mixture of the aboriginal Caribs, Negro and European.

As the Duke suggested, you can hire an interpreter, of course, but it's quite certain that he'll cheat you and let you down in a score of different ways. So why not take me?

Although I can't speak, I can listen to what the natives say, write it down for you and write the reply that you are to make. Honestly, I shall be able to look after you and get you what you want better than a dozen paid interpreters. Besides, I should be utterly miserable living on my aunt's plantation in Jamaica. I can easily cable her that I am staying with friends and shall not be joining her, at all events for the present. Do be a dear and talk this suggestion over with the others.

Yours very gratefully,
Philippa Ricardi.

Having finished the letter Simon hurried along with it to the Duke's room.

‘What d'you think about her offer?' he asked when de Richleau had finished reading it.

‘It's certainly not one to turn down lightly. She's right, of course, about the fact that she could be much more useful to us than some hireling who speaks French. All the same, I don't like the idea of involving her in the risks we shall have to run.'

Simon nodded. He was torn between a strong desire to press for acceptance, purely on the selfish grounds of keeping Philippa in their party so that he should see more of her, and reluctance to bring her into danger.