Fortune's Lead (2 page)

I sat on in a black reverie, with nothing to distract me from it—I hadn’t even remembered to buy anything to read. Looking out of the window, everything seemed autumnally grey—and even when it finally occurred to me to take my dark glasses off, the passing landscape wasn’t much more cheerful. We drove into a belt of rain, misting against the windows, and the train-wheels started echoing the end-of-summer view by saying, September-September-September. The monotony of the sound made me feel as autumnal as the view.

A steward came by calling the first sitting for lunch. When he came by again calling the second, I roused myself. Eating would be something to do. Uninspiring, but something. Or perhaps I wasn’t hungry enough to bother. Finally I did decide to bother, and wandered along the train, getting to the dining car in time to be dodged round by a steward carrying plates of soup.

Late again—too late for everything, my mind echoed, and that thought fitted in so well with my state of mind that I sat down abruptly in the nearest seat without bothering to ask the woman opposite if she minded. She looked across the small table for two and gave a fiercely disapproving sniff, as if I was the last person she would have chosen to share a table with, and then returned to her soup leaving me feeling somehow lower than ever.

Lunch passed in silence: I kept my eyes on my plate, or looked out of the window, and ate whatever I was given without noticing what it was. By the time I accepted coffee, I had the table to myself, so I propped my elbows on it and began absently shaking sugar into my coffee-cup, thinking about the future and not getting anywhere. When someone spoke beside me I looked up cloudily, and suddenly realized I was being addressed by name.

‘It won’t taste very nice like that, Miss Armitage.’

‘What? I’m sorry—I didn’t...’

‘Or do you always drink coffee with salt in it?’ He was twinkling at me, and I suddenly realized who was standing beside my table. It was the tweedy man whose luggage I’d fallen over—the polite one. I stiffened, but he was smiling at me, his hand on the seat opposite, and before I could say anything he asked, ‘May I?’ and sat down facing me.

‘I’ve been sitting over there, but you didn’t notice me.’ He was still smiling at me, with a kind of mischievous reproach, and his curly grey hair made him look more like a leprechaun than ever. ‘May I introduce myself? Henry Thurlanger.’ He held out his hand across the table, adding confidentially, ‘You
don’t
take salt in coffee, do you?’

‘Oh—no.’ I put the salt pot down, feeling foolish, and put my hand into his outstretched one. ‘How—how stupid you must think me!’

‘Not at all. I wouldn’t dream of being so impertinent.’ He twinkled at me again. ‘You must have some more coffee. I meant to offer you lunch, but you ran away so quickly. What a pity we didn’t meet up sooner.

‘Steward!’ He snapped his fingers, and gave an order to the rapidly appearing steward, adding, ‘You don’t want us to move, do you? Good,’ and turning back to me,

‘How wise of you to come to the last lunch. I always do. The food isn’t very much worse that when it started, and you’re not hustled.’

I was feeling rather dazed, and a quick glance round the dining car showed me that it was almost empty: I must have, sat on for longer than I thought. Looking helplessly back at the man opposite me, I saw that he was watching me and smiling, so I smiled back. He said, ‘I disturbed your thoughts. I’m sorry. But you didn’t mind my joining you, did you?’

‘No, not at all—Mr. Thurlanger.’ I could only be as polite as he was: besides, he was rather nice. There was something very warming about being twinkled at. He said quickly, talking through the arrival of more coffee for both of us,

‘Call me Henry. Everyone does—even that odious nephew of mine. He only calls me Uncle when he’s angry with me—which is most of the time, come to think of it.’ The twinkle was even more pronounced. ‘A very boorish young man. I apologize for him. I hope you took no notice of him—I never do. You see—’ he leaned forward confidentially, ‘he was brought up to be
serious.
Terrible, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, terrible.’ Suddenly I couldn’t help grinning: Henry Thurlanger’s air of mischief was infectious.

‘Good. I thought you’d agree with me. We’ll forget about Kevin.’ A wave of the hand dismissed Kevin and everything about him. ‘Now, what shall I call
you
?’

‘Charlotte.’

‘Pretty,’ he said approvingly. ‘But too long. I expect they call you Shah for short, don’t they? It suits you better. Charlotte’s such a very formal name. One should never be formal on trains—they’re quite gloomy enough already. Wouldn’t you say so?’

‘Very gloomy. And please do call me Shah.’ Smiling back at him, I was suddenly feeling an enormous lift of the heart, and with it a growing conviction that I was being picked up—Picked Up, by this small, smiley, mischievous-looking man who must be old enough to be my father. Whatever would Robert have said? I bit back a laugh, and said, ‘I hope I didn’t damage anything of yours when I fell over your luggage. It really was my fault.’

‘Those wretched rods. Quite impossible to pack properly. No, I’m sure you didn’t damage them. Anyway, it’s Archie’s fault for asking me to bring them down with me. He should have had them sent. Do you happen to know some people called Laird?’

‘No, I—I’m sure I don’t.’

‘Good. Then I can say what I like about them.’ He gave me his curly grin again, his grey eyes twinkling irrepressibly. ‘Dreadfully boring people. Relatives of mine. My nephew and I were spending a few days with them—my relations seem to expect me to tour them every so often, though I find it a regrettable exercise! And where are you off to, Shah?’

‘Hertfordshire,’ I said shortly, suddenly remembering that the family would go on being sympathetic with me about Robert, and feeling gloomy again.

‘Really? What’s taking you there? No, don’t tell me—let me guess. Ah—I know. The wedding of a school friend. And you’re to be bridesmaid. Am I right?’

‘No.’ He was making me want to laugh again, simply because he looked so cheerful. I tried fluttering my eyelashes at him, just to see if I could, and said demurely,

‘Guess again.’

‘Mm.’ He tilted his head to one side, regarding me. ‘It can’t be anything amusing. You were looking too sad. Now, what would make you sad, I wonder?’

That was too noticing of him, even though his smile was still a teasing one. I said quickly, trying to sound light, ‘Why would a wedding be sad? Wouldn’t I have enjoyed being a bridesmaid?’

‘Ah, but you should have been the bride. Obviously. The young man changed his mind and chose your friend—plain but wealthy. You should never have introduced them. But then you weren’t to know he had no taste.’

Henry seemed to be enjoying himself inventing an elaborate and brokenhearted background for me.

‘Quite distracting of him, but I think you’re well rid of him. Don’t you?’

‘Definitely,’ I said grimly, thinking of Robert, and then remembered that we weren’t talking about Robert at all but about an imaginary man who was about to marry an imaginary plain-but-wealthy friend of mine. It was an extraordinary conversation to be having with a stranger. I caught sight of my reflection in the window, and said defiantly, ‘Actually I’m on my way home from seeing a film producer. I was after a role in a kitchen sink drama, but he said I didn’t look the part!’

‘You certainly don’t, and I don’t like kitchen sink dramas. Too dreary,’ Henry said, accepting my story so calmly that I had a pang of horrified guilt. ‘So you’re an actress, are you? Tell me some more about yourself.’

‘I’m not—I—I mean—I’m not very good at talking about myself.’ Somehow, since he had taken my statement seriously, I couldn’t go back on it and explain that I had been inventing a character as imaginary as the one he had invented. Flustered, I said hastily, ‘Tell me about you instead. That would be much more interesting.’

‘I’m sure it wouldn’t.’ He cocked his head on one side, regarding me. ‘Now, I should have put you down as a model rather than an actress. Perhaps it’s the way you carry your head. Do you do any modelling?’

‘No,’ I said truthfully, but feeling fiercely disinclined to tell him that if I carried my head any particular way it was from keeping an eye on thirty beds’ in a ward at once. ‘I—I might try it some time. But you—you haven’t said where
you’re
going.’

‘Epsom. Where I shall be put upon by my sister Catherine, who unfortunately suffers from the delusion that I need looking after.’ He made a quizzically sad face at me. ‘Now really, Shah, looking at me, would you say I looked as if I needed looking after?’

‘No, not a bit.’ I could feel my mouth turning up into a grin. He certainly didn’t look anything of the sort: he looked prosperous, alert, and very slightly wicked, sitting there with that leprechaun twinkle in his eyes. I began to feel that, since I wasn’t myself today, I could enjoy doing and saying whatever I liked, and I leaned back in my seat and smiled at him fully. ‘Why do they think you need looking after?’

‘Goodness knows,’ he said comfortably, ‘and I shan’t allow it. I think they’d like to see me in a bath-chair before I’m sixty as a penance for enjoying life. Never mind. I shall run away as soon as the meeting’s over. After that I needn’t visit my sister until next season, which will save a great deal of annoyance for both of us.’

‘What kind of meeting?’ I asked curiously, visualizing some kind of family firm, with Henry as Chairman of the Board.

‘Race meeting.’ He said it with a faint air of surprise, as if I might have known. ‘Don’t you bet?’

‘I—have occasionally.’ A hospital sweepstake on the Derby or the Grand National was as far as I’d ever gone in that direction. I added, ‘I’ve never won anything,’ and he looked surprised again.

‘Never? You must be very unlucky. I could give you some likely winners for tomorrow—but I won’t.’ He was twinkling at me again. ‘If you’re really unlucky you might cast a spell on them. I couldn’t have that.’

‘I don’t suppose I would. But don’t tell me, just in case. Do you usually win?’ I asked politely, since he seemed to be so interested in the subject.

‘Let’s say I usually end up with a profit. Enough to feed my daughter’s ponies.’ He paused long enough for me to register that he had a daughter, and then added,

‘Tell me, Shah, do you ride?’

‘No. I never have,’ I said apologetically. ‘I don’t actually know one end of a horse from another,’ and waited for him to lose interest in me, but instead he looked at me appreciatively and twinkled more than ever.

‘Good. I should have guessed. You don’t look at all like a horse.’ The wicked look in his eye deepened, and he leaned towards me confidentially. ‘Horsy women always do, you know. It’s quite frightening. Esther—my daughter—is going to look
exactly
like a horse by the time she’s twenty-five if she’s not careful. I should never have let her be brought up in Ireland—it was quite fatal.’ I couldn’t help giggling at his expression—and at the mischievous delight he seemed to take in being rude about all his relations. ‘What about horsy men?’ I asked, grinning at him. ‘Why doesn’t it affect them? I mean,
you
don’t look like one, and...’

‘Ah, racing’s different. I’m talking about hunting, and showing. As far as I’m concerned a horse is something to be admired only in the flat-racing season—though a good many people I know would shoot me for saying so.’ His eyes laughed at me. ‘You mustn’t tell on me.’

‘I won’t. I don’t suppose I know any of the people you know, anyway,’ I added as an afterthought. ‘So it can’t matter, can it?’

‘Oh, you may do. In fact you quite probably do. I know far too many people,’ Henry said, not looking as if he minded. ‘our home’s in Hertfordshire, you say?’

‘Yes. But—’

‘Now let me see ... Tom and Mary Wythenshawe? Or that daughter of theirs—what’s her name...’

‘No.’ I couldn’t imagine my leprechaun-man amongst any of the people at home: he was not at all the type for my father’s busy town parish. ‘Hertfordshire’s quite a large county,’ I said repressively, and then wondered if I’d sounded rude.

If I had, Henry didn’t look as if he minded. He just grinned at me, raising an eyebrow, and said, ‘I think you’re determined to be a mystery, Shah.’

‘No, not at all.’ A small warning bell rang suddenly in my mind: if he had a daughter he had a wife, and—although he wasn’t exactly flirting with me (was he?)—he
had
come over and started talking to me when he didn’t know me at all... except that there had been that business about my coat ... I began to feel confused again, and looked across at him to find he was watching me with a waiting expression, which changed to a smile as I looked.

‘You were thinking?’ he prompted amiably.

‘Nothing very much.’ No, of course he wasn’t flirting with me. (I was shocked to find that this caused me a small pang of disappointment). I sought for a subject, and asked very politely, ‘Why was your daughter brought up in Ireland? Is that where you live?’

‘No, I live in Suffolk. I sent her to my brother and sister-in-law after my wife died. Esther was—let me see, five or six. I might have known, I suppose. As far as I can see, they put the horses in the drawing-room and live in the stables themselves. And—unlike stage-Irish—they’re a very
serious
family. Particularly about their horses.’ Henry pulled a face—the word serious seemed to affect him that way. ‘For instance, I remember a time...’