Jonah and Co. (2 page)

My brother-in-law shook his head.

“Shall I slide down backwards and begin again?” he inquired.

“No, thanks,” said I. “I have a foolish preference for facing death.”

“D’you think we could push it up?” said Daphne.

“Frankly,” said I, “I don’t. You see, she weighs over a ton without the luggage.”

Berry cleared his throat.

“I am not,” he said, “going through the farce of asking what I do wrong, because I know the answer. It’s not the right one, but you seem incapable of giving any other.”

“I am,” said I.

“Well, don’t say it,” said Berry, “because, if you do, I shall scream. No man born of woman could let in that clutch more slowly, and yet you say it’s too fast. The truth is, there’s something wrong with the car.”

“There soon will be,” I retorted. “The starter will fail. Then every time you stop the engine you’ll have to get out and crank. That’ll make you think.”

“‘Make me think’?” yelled Berry. “D’you think I haven’t been thinking? D’you think I’m not thinking now? Haven’t I almost burst my brains with thinking?” Daphne began to laugh helplessly. “That’s right,” added her husband savagely. “See the humorous side. I may go mad any minute, but don’t let that stop you.” And, with that, he set his foot upon the self-starter.

When he had stopped the engine another three times, he applied the handbrake with unnecessary violence, sank back in his seat, and folded his hands.

My sister and I clung to one another in an agony of stifled mirth.

Berry closed his eyes.

“My work,” he said quietly, “is over. I now see that it is ordained that we shall not leave this spot. There’s probably an angel in the way with a drawn sword, and the car sees it, although we can’t. Anyway, I’m not going to fight against Fate. And now don’t speak to me. I’m going to dwell on bullock-carts and goat-chaises and other horse-drawn vehicles. I shan’t last many minutes, and I should like to die in peace.”

With a swift rush, Ping drew up alongside. From its interior Adèle, Jill, Nobby and Jonah peered at us excitedly.

“Hullo!” said the latter. “What’s up?”

“Go away,” said Berry. “Drive on to your doom. An apparition has appeared to us, warning us not to proceed. It was quite definite about it. Goodbye.”

“Jonah, old chap,” said I, “I’m afraid you’re for it. Unless you take us up, we shall be here till nightfall.”

With a groan my cousin opened his door and descended into the road…

One minute later we were at the top of the hill.

“And now,” said Daphne, with the
Michelin Guide
open upon her knees, “now for Montreuil.”

When five minutes had passed and my brother-in-law was breathing through his nose less audibly, I lighted a cigarette and ventured to look about me.

It was certainly a fine highway that we were using. Broad, direct, smooth beyond all expectation, it lay like a clean-cut sash upon the countryside, rippling away into the distance as though it were indeed that long, long lane that hath no turning. Presently a curve would come to save the face of the proverb, but the bends were few in number, and, as a general rule, did little more than switch the road a point or two to east or west, as the mood took them. There was little traffic, and the surface was dry.

Something had been said about the two cars keeping together, but I was not surprised when Jonah passed us like a whirlwind before we were halfway to Samer. He explained afterwards that he had stuck it as long as he could, but that to hold a car down to twenty on a road like a private racing-track was worse than “pulling.”

Fired by Jonah’s example, Berry laid hold of the wheel, and we took the next hill at twenty-five.

It was a brilliant day, but the cold was intense, and I think we were all glad that Pong was a closeable car. That Winter’s reign had begun was most apparent. There was a bleak look upon the country’s face: birchrods that had been poplars made us gaunt avenues: here and there the cold jewellery of frost was sparkling. I fell to wondering how far south we must go to find it warmer.

Presently we came to Montreuil.

As we entered the little town —

“This,” said I, “was the headquarters of the British Expeditionary Force. From behind these walls—”

“Don’t talk,” said Daphne, “or I shall make a mistake. Round to the left here. Wait a minute. No, that’s right. And straight on. What a blessing this
Michelin Guide
is! Not too fast, Berry. Straight on. This ought to be
Grande Rue
.” She peered out of the window. “Yes, that’s right. Now, in a minute you turn to the left…”

After all, I reflected, we had to get to Rouen, and it was past midday.

We had sworn not to lunch before we had passed Abbeville, so, since we had breakfasted betimes, I furtively encouraged my brother-in-law to “put her along.”

His response was to overtake and pass a lorry upon the wrong side, drive an unsuspecting bicyclist into a ditch and swerve, like a drunken seagull, to avoid a dead fowl. As we were going over forty it was all over before we knew where we were, but the impression of impending death was vivid and lasting, and nearly a minute had elapsed before I could trust my voice.

“Are we still alive?” breathed Daphne. “I’m afraid to open my eyes.”

“I think we must be,” said I. “At least, I’m still thirsty, if that’s anything to go by.”

“I consider,” said Berry, “that the way in which I extricated us from that impasse was little short of masterly. That cyclist ought to remember me in his prayers.”

“I don’t want to discourage you,” I said grimly, “but I shouldn’t bank on it.”

The plan of Abbeville, printed in the Guide, was as simple to read as were my sister’s directions to follow. At a critical moment, however, Berry felt unable to turn to the right.

“The trouble is,” he explained, as we plunged into a maze of back streets, “I’ve only got two hands and feet. To have got round that corner, I should have had to take out the clutch, go into third, release the brake, put out a hand, accelerate, sound the clarion and put the wheel over simultaneously. Now, with seven limbs I could have done it. With eight, I could also have scratched myself – an operation, I may say, which can be no longer postponed.” He drew up before a
charcuterie
and mopped his face. “What a beautiful bunch of sausages!” he added. “Shall we get some? Or d’you think they’d be dead before we get to Rouen?”

In contemptuous silence Daphne lowered her window, accosted the first passer-by, and asked the way. An admission that it was possible to reach the Neufchatel road without actually retracing our steps was at length extracted, and, after a prolonged study of the plan, my sister gave the word to proceed. Save that we twice mounted the pavement, grazed a waggon, and literally brushed an urchin out of the way, our emergence from Abbeville was accomplished without further incident.

With the knowledge that, barring accidents, we ought to reach Rouen by half past five, we ventured to devour a wayside lunch some ten minutes later.

It was after Neufchatel that the surface of the great grey road argued neglect in no uncertain terms. For mile after mile, fat bulls of Basan, in the shape of gigantic potholes, gaped threateningly upon us. Berry, who was driving much better, did all that he could, but only a trick-cyclist could have picked his way between them. The car hiccoughed along piteously…

With the approach of darkness, driving became a burden, being driven a weariness of the flesh, and we were all thankful when we slid down a paved hill into the Cathedral City and, presently, past the great church and on to the very bank of the River Seine.

The others had been awaiting us for nearly two hours.

“With this sun,” said Adèle, “they ought to be glorious.”

Impiously I reflected that Berry was almost certainly enjoying his breakfast in bed.

“I expect they will,” I said abstractedly.

Adèle slid an arm through mine.

“It’s very sweet of you to come with me, Boy.”

I stood still and looked at her.

“You’re a wonderful child,” I said. “When you speak like that, I want to kick myself and burst into song simultaneously. I suppose that’s Love.”

“I expect so,” said Adèle mischievously.

Five minutes later we were standing beneath the shadow of Chartres Cathedral.

We had come, my wife and I, to see the windows. The day before had been dull, and what light there was had been failing when we had visited the shrine. Today, however, was all glorious.

If we had risen early, we had our reward.

The place had become a gallery with jewels for pictures. Out of the sombre depths the aged webs of magic glowed with the matchless flush of precious stones. From every side colours we had not dreamed of enriched our eyes. To make the great west rose, the world herself might have been spoiled of her gems. Looking upon this mystery, no man can wonder that the art is lost. Clearly it went the way of Babel. For of such is the Kingdom of Heaven. Windows the sun was lighting were at once more real and more magnificent. Crimsons and blues, purples and greens, yellows and violets, blazed with that ancient majesty which only lives today in the peal of a great organ, the call of a silver trumpet, or the proud roll of drums. Out of the gorgeous pageant mote-ridden rays issued like messengers, to badge the cold grey stone with tender images and set a smile upon the face of stateliness. “Such old, old panes,” says someone. “Six hundred years and more. How wonderful!” Pardon me, but I have seen them, and it is not wonderful at all. Beneath their spell, centuries shrink to afternoons. The windows of Chartres are above Time. They are the peepholes of Immortality.

We returned to the hotel in time to contribute to a heated argument upon the subject of tipping.

“It’s perfectly simple,” said Berry. “You think of what you would hate to have given before the War, double it, add forty per cent, for the increased cost of living, halve it because of the Exchange, ask them whether they’d like it in notes or gold, and pay them in postage-stamps.”

“I want to know,” said Daphne, “what to give the chambermaid.”

“Eight francs fifty. That’s the equivalent of half-a-crown before the War.”

“Nonsense,” said his wife. “Five francs is heaps, and you know it.”

“I think it’s too much,” said Berry. “Give her one instead, and tell her you’ve hidden the rest in the bathroom and that, when she touches the towel-rail, she’s warm.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Jill uneasily, “it’s all over. I’ve done it.”

There was a dreadful silence. Then —

“Tell us the worst,” said I, “and get it over.”

“I’m – I’m afraid I gave her rather a lot, but she had a nice face.”

“She had a nice step,” said Berry. “I noticed that about five this morning.”

“How much?” said I relentlessly.

Jill looked round guiltily.

“I gave her fifty,” she said.

There was a shriek of laughter.

“Did she faint?” said Berry. “Or try to eat grass, or anything?”

Gravely Jill shook her head.

“She talked a great deal – very fast. I couldn’t follow her. And then she turned away and began to cry. I was so glad I’d done it.”

“So are we all,” said Daphne.

She was supported heartily.

Jonah looked at his watch.

“I suggest,” he said, “that we start at eleven, then we shall fetch up in time to see the cathedral.”

“How far is Tours?” said Daphne.

“Eighty-six miles.”

“Let’s keep together today,” said Jill. “It’s much more fun.”

Her brother shook his head.

“I don’t want,” he said, “to be arrested for loitering.”

“Don’t you worry,” said Berry. “We wouldn’t be seen with you.”

Jonah sighed.

“Where there’s a will there’s a way,” he murmured.

“More,” said Berry. “We regard you rather less than the dust beneath our detachable wheels. You pollute the road with your hoghood. I suppose it’s no use asking you to keep behind us.”

“None whatever,” replied our cousin. “Why should we?”

“Well,” said Berry, “supposing a tyre discovers that I’m driving and bursts with pride, who’s going to change the wheel?”

Jonah stifled a yawn.

“You can’t have it both ways,” he said. “If we’re to warn people not to shoot at you, we must be in front.”

Berry regarded his fingernails.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “Think of me when you get your third puncture, won’t you? And remember that my heart goes out to you in your tyre trouble and that you have all my love. Then you won’t sweat so much.”

Half an hour later Pong stormed out of the garage and into the
Place des Epars
.

Adèle’s wish had been granted, and she was travelling with Berry and me instead of with Jonah.

For this new order of battle Nobby was solely responsible. Upon the first day’s journey the terrier had whined all the way to Rouen because he had wanted to be with me. As one of his audience, Jonah had been offensively outspoken regarding this predilection. Upon the following day the dog’s desire had been gratified, whereupon he had whined all the way to Chartres because he was apart from Adèle. Commenting upon this unsuspected devotion, Berry had been quite as outspoken as Jonah, and much more offensive. Naturally, to withstand such importunity was out of the question, and, since it was impossible for me to leave Berry, the line of least resistance was followed, and Daphne and Adèle changed places.

Our way out of Chartres was short and simple, and, with the exception of temporarily obstructing two trams by the artless expedient of remaining motionless upon the permanent way, Pong emerged from the city without a stain upon his character.

The Vendôme road looked promising and proved excellent. Very soon we were flying. For all that, Jonah overtook us as we were nearing Bonneval…

It was some thirty minutes later, as we were leaving Châteaudun, that a sour-faced
gendarme
with a blue nose motioned to us to stop. Standing upon the near pavement, the fellow was at once conversing with a postman and looking malevolently in our direction. I think we all scented mischief.