“Lord Blaskin,” she said, “I’m Sophie, and this is my brother Lionel. He doesn’t like me being here on my own, so came from London to make sure I’d be all right. Didn’t you, Lionel, darling?”
Brother my arse. I couldn’t bear to look as if I cared.
“Would you like to join us for a cup of tea?” she said. “I’ve this minute made it.”
Halfway behind the man she made a hand movement for me to say no. “Thank you so much. Awfully kind, but I must get on. It’s rather late, and we ought to be in Ravenna by sundown.” I disliked the look of the house, and them. Even if I wangled a way into staying I didn’t fancy playing Box and Cox in and out of her bedroom all night. And it was plain from Lionel’s sour clock that he didn’t want me to have that cup of tea, either, being the real bloody Englishman abroad who thought I might run away with the sugar spoon. I turned to go. “Thank you for your kindness.”
“I must have a closer look at your marvellous car. We haven’t had one of those in the grounds before, have we, Lionel?” The surly bastard didn’t even grunt. “I’ll be back in a moment,” she called to him over her shoulder, and followed me outside.
“What’s going on?”
“I didn’t know how to get in touch with you and say not to call. Oh, Michael, I was so looking forward to us being in bed. I can’t tell you. Then damned Lionel had to come and look after me. Can you imagine, at my age? My family’s always treated me like a child. I suspect my mother had a hand in it. They probably had an emergency general meeting. Lionel didn’t even want to come. That’s why he was so short with you. But he had to do as he was told. If I put a foot wrong while he’s here he’ll tell my husband, just to upset him, because they hate each other.”
“What a family,” was the only thing to say.
“You don’t know one half. But please, Michael, phone me in England. I’m only staying here a week. Come and see me in Highgate. I gave you my address on the train, remember?” She made cooing noises over the car so that bloody Lionel could hear. “Must go now,” she said. “Have a good trip back. Love you!”
After I had watched her into the house Bill moved over to let me in. “I saw what was going on. My heart bleeds for you, but you can’t win ’em all.”
I was too dispirited to shut him up.
“Now let’s get back to the coast,” he said, “and find a nice cushy billet in one of them lovely seaside resorts we’ve been passing since leaving Brindisi. I’m looking forward to dinner and a few quarts of wine.”
Hope had never been more completely dashed, and all I needed was silence in which to brood on my loss. I went up the motorway as fast as the Roller would roll. I was not unfamiliar with disappointment, knowing that whenever I went too far out of my way for love or gain the results were negative more often than not. I should have known better than to make the detour, though hope could never be denied or resisted. My blood had run on hope from as far back as I could remember, hardly a minute going when hope for something or other wasn’t making hundred-watt fantasies lighting every dark place of my mind to such an extent that I wouldn’t stop and question the purpose of life, which we are all supposed to do so as to get to know oneself.
But why should I want to know myself? Whatever I found out about my nature wouldn’t alter the way I wanted to go on living. I found the world interesting enough without knowing myself. In any case hadn’t I known myself from birth? And if you didn’t you might as well kill yourself as know yourself. Imagine somebody sitting on the sofa with fingers in the armholes of his waistcoat and saying with stupid pride: “Ah, that’s that, then. At last! I know myself. That’s one thing out of the way. Now I can start to live. Can’t I, mother?” How fucking ridiculous, or hopeless, could anyone get?
Such reflections brought me back to as much contented mental health as I was capable of putting up with. Mountains dimmed beyond Ancona, the sea turning to a lake of wax. Hope thwarted could only lead back to happiness while waiting for the next hopeful situation to turn up, was all I cared to know.
Bill slept like a grown up baby, only waking now and again to wonder when we were going to get where we were going and ask were we there yet?
In the middle of Ravenna I went in ever decreasing circles trying to get out, till a smart young policeman waved me down. God knows what I’ve done, I was so knackered it could have been anything. He must have seen me coming ten times along the same street, so I got the window down and told him we were looking for a hotel.
He pointed his baton to a sign indicating the Marina di Ravenna. We’d find one on the coast a couple of miles away. “Good car, sir,” he said in English, his smile reinforced by such a salute that even Bill was impressed.
“Aren’t policemen nice in Italy?” I said to him, on getting out of town with no trouble at all.
“Michael, the police are pleasant everywhere, except when they think you’ve done something wrong. In some countries they’re very stonefaced and unhelpful.”
The land to either side of the straight road was flat, with what looked rice fields to either side. I soon pulled up under a palm tree in the courtyard of the best hotel, and a lovely dark-haired girl at the desk showed us into an opulent old-fashioned room with two solid beds.
Bill fell on the one nearest the bathroom. “I’ll have half an hour’s shut-eye before dinner.”
I craved the same, but a sense of duty forced me to find a phone and get in touch with Moggerhanger. I didn’t particularly feel like talking to him, and hoped he wasn’t at home, but it was dead easy to get through.
“Michael, is that really you? I had put you down as missing presumed killed in action, and was wondering what sort of headstone I’d ask the undertakers to make when your body was brought back in a refrigerated train. Then again I thought I might have to fit up an expedition to find out what exactly had happened to you. The kindest thing I can say is that you haven’t reported back for nearly a week. I was about to pull all the pins out of the map and cut my losses.”
The sound of them tinkling into his metal waste bin chilled my bones. “There aren’t any losses,” I said. “Everything’s safe in the back of the Roller. It’s just that I had a bit of bother in Greece.”
“Of what kind? You know I like to be kept in the picture.”
I began to sound like Bill, on saying: “Do you mind if I tell it all at the debriefing?”
“Since I can’t get at your throat I suppose I shall have to. But would you mind telling me the locations of your recent nightstops?”
I did. “And now I’m in Ravenna.”
“I’m working overtime with the pins, but at least your route is beginning to come clear. Damn! I’ve pricked myself. You’ve made me bleed. That’s a serious misdemeanour. But weren’t you supposed to come back through Jugoslavia, the way you went? Correct me if I’m wrong.”
I wanted to correct the old bastard in a way he wouldn’t like, and promised myself to do it as soon as the chance turned up. “I know you’re never wrong, Lord Moggerhanger, but my intelligence suggested that the route through the Balkans would be dangerous, in which case you might never see the Roller and its contents again, or the driver. In the meantime I’m absolutely done for, and need some sleep. You can stop worrying, though, because I’ll be back in a couple of days.”
The long pause tempted me to hang up, but before I could do so more cloth-footed words came into my ear from the shit pit of his mind. “Michael, you’re close to my heart. From what you tell me it sounds as if you’ve done a remarkably efficient job. I always knew I could rely on you to bring things off. I’ll be sure to coordinate your reentry through the English customs.” It wasn’t nearly as bad as I had expected. “Phone me again tomorrow, that’s all I ask.”