“Time you turned in, Sal. One of us ought to be awake all the time, just in case. I’ll give you four hours’ sleep, and then you can come and be Captain while I have a snooze.”
When the time came to wake her he couldn’t, she was so deep under. And he was tired all through, so that unconsidered nooks of his body screamed at him for sleep. He cut the engine, turned off the petrol and rolled into his bunk, wondering whether .a night’s dreaming would bring back his memory of \the lost six years.
Ill THE GENERAL
A NOISE like the end of the world woke him. The room was bucketing about. His first thought was Earthquake! Then the noise came again as the two tins from last night's supper rattled across the floor, and he remembered he was on Quern. She was rocking wildly. He ran out on deck and saw a big steamer belting eastward, trailing the ridged wake that was tossing them about. Sally came out too, still almost asleep, staggering and bumping into things. She blinked at the liner and put her thumb in her mouth. It was just after eight, supposing he’d set the clock right the night before. He started the engine and went to look for some breakfast. Supper out of tins can be fine, but not breakfast. They ate ham and spaghetti.
They saw a few more ships on the way over, and
about mid-morning the first of the big jets whined above them. Sally put her thumb in her mouth again and said nothing. Geoffrey realized that the previous afternoon they hadn’t seen a single proper ship or airplane in all their twenty-mile circle of visibility.
It was about four, and raining, when they chugged up the listless waters of Morlaix estuary and made fast to the quay, with a cupful of petrol left in the tank. An absurd train, a diesel, hooted as it crossed the prodigious viaduct that spans the valley where old Morlaix lies. Sally cried out when she saw it.
“Oh, that’s another of my pictures!”
There were proper cars slamming along the roads on either side of the mooring basin. She stared at them, and her thumb crept to her mouth yet again.
“Don’t they go fast?” she said. “Why don’t they hit each other. They look awfully dangerous. And they smell.”
Yes, they did smell. Geoffrey hadn’t remembered that. Or perhaps five years in a land without exhaust fumes had sharpened his senses. There was a very French-looking boy fishing wetly in the corner of the basin. Geoffrey dredged in his mind for scraps of language.
“Nous sommes Anglais,” he said, shy with the certainty that he wouldn’t be able to manage much more.
“Oh, are you?” said the boy. “So’m I. You mean you’ve only just come over? I say, you are late.” He gave a short laugh, as if at a joke he didn’t expect anyone else to see. “I’ll take you along to the office, though it’s probably shut — practically no one comes over any more. Monsieur Pallieu will be tickled pink to have a bit of work to do.”
The “Office” was upstairs in a harsh but handsome building close to the quay. It said departement des immigres on the door. There were voices inside.
“You’re in luck,” said the boy. “He’s probably brought some crony back from lunch to help him swill Pernod.”
He tapped on the door and lounged in without waiting for an answer, as though it were his own house. From behind they saw a ludicrous change come over his demeanor, as he clutched off his dripping beret and jerked his insolent slouch into respectful attention. He spoke politely.
“I’ve brought two new immigres to see you, Monsieur Pallieu. They’re kids.”
“Diable!” said one voice.
“Thank you, Ralph,” said another. “Let them come in.”
The room was extremely hot, and smelled of dust, paper, gasfire, wet umbrellas and people. There were two men in it, a small gray gentleman who didn’t look like anyone in particular and introduced himself as M. Pallieu; and a larger man in an untidy tweed jacket who looked distinctly like somebody — he had a square, tanned face, close-cut black hair above it, and a bristling little moustache in the middle of it. M. Pallieu said he was General Turville, Inspecteur du Departement. The two were sitting behind a desk which was covered with neat piles of paper, all containing rows of figures.
The General muttered in French to M. Pallieu, and went over to stare out of the window at the rain. M. Pallieu fetched two chairs for the children.
“Please sit down,” he said. “The General has kindly consented to wait while I take your particulars. We were, in fact, discussing the possibility of closing this office down, so you have arrived in the nick. Now,” he reached for a form, “names, please.” “Geoffrey and Sally Tinker.”
“Your ages?”
Geoffrey looked at Sally.
“I’m eleven and he’s sixteen,” she said.
“Do you not know your own age, young man?” said M. Pallieu.
“They hit me on the head yesterday,” said Geoffrey, “and something seems to have gone wrong with my memory.”
“Ah.” M. Pallieu didn’t seem at all surprised, but went on asking questions in his beautiful Eng-
lish and filling in the form. He had nearly finished when he said “Do you possess any money?”
“I’ve got thirty gold sovereigns, and I suppose we could sell the boat if we had to.”
“You came in your own boat? It is not stolen?”
“No. It belonged to my Uncle Jacob, but he’s dead, and Sally is sure he left it to me.”
“Ce bateau la?” the General barked from the window, so odd and abrupt a sound that at first Geoffrey thought he was only clearing his throat.
“Yes, that’s her. She’s called Quern ”
The General jerked his head at M. Pallieu, who* went across the room and looked out of the window. He sounded a little less kindly when he turned back and spoke again.
“Let us have this clear. You claim to have come from Weymouth in that white motorboat we can all see down there?”
“Yes,” said Geoffrey. “Why?”
“He doesn’t think we could have done it in a motor boat.” said Sally.
“Exactly,” said M. Pallieu. “Furthermore, it is well known that the Government of France is extremely interested to meet immigres upon whom the English scene does not appear to produce its customary symptoms, and there have been a number of impostors who have made this claim. They expected to be given money.”
“Did they come in motorboats?” asked Geoffrey. “Of course. That appeared to substantiate their claim.”
“Oh dear,” said Sally.
“On the other hand,” said M. Pallieu, “they were not children. Nor did many of them have as much as thirty gold sovereigns. With the General’s permission, we had better hear your story and then we can perhaps judge.”
“They were trying to drown us for being witches,” said Sally, “but Jeff made a fog and swam me round to the harbor and found some of the stuff you put in the engine to make it go and I pushed a man overboard and we got out of harbor and then the engine stopped and the fog went away and the men came after us in boats and Jeff made a wind and abolished them and mended the engine and I helped him and then I made supper on a sort of oven that went whish with blue fire which came out of a bottle and here we are.”
“Let us take it more slowly,” said M. Pallieu.
He asked questions for what seemed hours. Sally had to do most of the answering. The General leaned over the desk and barked occasionally. They kept coming back to the starting of the engine in the harbor and the mending of it out at sea. At one point the General himself tramped down to Quern and nosed around. He came back with some odd things, including a mildewy burgee and a packet of very moldy biscuits. At last they had a low-voiced talk in French. Then M. Pallieu turned to the children.