Ruined City (5 page)

He took them gratefully, and mumbled his thanks. 'See you half-past two tomorrow, anyway,' he said. 'Even if it makes me miss my breakfast.'

She smiled at him. 'You wouldn't rather we put it off?'

'Not much. I'll be back.'

He had already brought the car to the door; he went out to it now, and Evans went into the library.

'The car is quite ready, sir.'

Warren rose slowly from his chair, in ulster and scarf. He was feeling unwell, and the prospect of a long night drive seemed less attractive to him now, but he might as well go. He would probably sleep a'little, anyway.

'All right, Evans,' he said. 'I may be away for a few days.'

The butler hesitated in surprise. 'Shall I pack a bag, sh-?'

'No thanks. I shan't want that.'

He went out to the car; although the night outside was cold he was glad to be leaving that house. Donaghue, smart in chauffeur's cap and long blue coat with silver buttons, held the door open for him; Warren got in and Evans handed in a couple of rugs. They stood for a moment then, holding open the door of the limousine.

'Where to, sir?' asked Donaghue
.

'Get on the Great North Road,' said Warren absently.
'Go
on till I tell you to stop.'

Evans and Donaghue exchanged glances of incomprehension. Then the chauffeur said, 'Very good, sir,' and got in to his seat; in turn he wrapped .a rug around him and the car moved off. Warren leaned forward and switched off the interior lighty and settled down in the back seat.

The car moved forward through Mayfair up Orchard Street and Baker Street, past Lord's and the Swiss Cottage on to Finchley. A light rain was falling and the streets were wet and empty; Donaghue settled to his wheel and wondered what the night would bring for him. He liked Warren, and was sorry for him; he thought that he had suffered a raw deal. Apart from that, he trusted him implicitly. At the same time, there was no denying that his master was looking mighty queer; Cook had been worried that he ate so little dinner. Maybe he would like a cup of coffee later on.

He drove out on the by-pass, shifted and relaxed into the driving seat, and set himself to the night's work.

In the rear seat of the limousine Warren lay crossways in one corner, quiet and at rest. He was in darkness; for a time he watched the lights and street signs as drey passed the windows opposite him. Presently rain blurred the windows and the lights grew more infrequent; soon they were driving through the darkness on a broad, wet ribbon of road lit by the headlights for five hundred yards. The purring of the engine, the wet swish of the tyres, the gentle, easy motion lulled him to a doze, the doze merged into something deeper, and he slept.

Through the wet night the limousine swept on, running at quarter-power at a steady forty-five, untired and effordess. Donaghue had produced a bottle of boiled sweets and sucked them as he drove; occasionally he smoked a cigarette. The rain stopped and began again; it went on intermittendy all through the night.

At Welwyn they came out on the old road and drove on north, through Baldock and Biggleswade, past St Neots and Huntingdon, by Norman Cross, over the bridge at Wansford and to Stamford. There Donaghue slowed down and peered into the rear seat. Warren appeared to be asleep. He shrugged his shoulders, and drpve on.

Forty minutes later he ran down the hill into Grantham, slowed down, and finally stopped at a garage to fill up. The all-night hand came sleepily to the pump; Donaghue got down from his seat and busied himself about the car.

Through the rain-spotted window glass he looked at Warren, saw he was awake. He opened the door.

'Stopped here for some petrol, sir,' he said. 'Just about ready to go on.'

'Got enough money?' asked Warren without moving:

'Quite all right, sir.'

Warren turned his head. 'What place is this?'

'Grantham.' The chauffeur hesitated. 'Would you like a cup of coffee, or tea, sir? There's a place open up the road.'

'No thanks. Get one yourself, if you like.'

Tm all right for the present, thank you, sir. Still straight on north?'

'Straight on,' said Warren. 'Get up into the hills northwest of Newcastle. Between Newcastle and Carlisle.'

'Very good, sir,' said the chauffeur. He closed the door, and turned to pay for petrol.

'Going far?' enquired the garage hand.

'Two hundred bloody miles, or so,' said Donaghue. 'I wish I was a dog with a good home.'

He drove out on to the deserted roads in the dark night. From time to time he passed a lorry or an all-night coach roaring along at sixty in a blaze of headlights; there was nothing else on the road. At Newark he screwed round and peered through the screen behind his back; Warren appeared to be asleep again. He glanced at his watch; it was a quarter to two. Donaghue drove on.

He passed through Tuxford and Retford. Near Bawtry he got out the sandwiches that Elsie had put up for him, and ate them as he drove. It was rotten about the picture he was taking her to; looked as though he'd have to send a telegram. He thought she'd understand. He ate her seed cake. He passed through Doncaster.

'Another of these bloody towns,' he said. 'Wonder how many more mere are?'

He was a young man of a good physique; he was growing tired, but he was not sleepy. He left Ferrybridge behind him, and Wetherby; in Boroughbridge it was pitch dark but there were one or two people in the streets, to his surprise. 'They get up early in these parts,' he thought. It was about half-past four, and still raining a little.

The limousine went flying up the long stretch of Roman road to Catterick, twenty miles away, past Middleton and Leeming Bar. At Scotch Corner he kept north and did not bear away, through Piercebridge and skirting Darlington. He was driving slower now, by map, through Witton-le-Wear and Dan's Castle, where he began to see the shadow of the hedges in the dawn. It had stopped raining. He bore away towards the northwest, leaving Newcastle on the right by ten or fifteen miles; at Rowley it was light enough for him to drive without his lights. Presently he dropped down into Broomhaugh, and drove on a little up the valley of the Tyne.

He screwed round stiffly and looked over his shoulder; Warren was awake. 'This is the Newcastle to Carlisle road, sir,' he said.

'Stop here,' said Warren. 'Let me see your map.'

The chauffeur drew up by the roadside and handed his map through the glass partition. It was about seven o'clock, quite light enough to see the countryside; a raw, windy morning with a wrack of low, scudding cloud down on the hills.

Warren asked, 'Where are we now?'

'That's Corbridge, sir, just over there. The river is the Tyne.'

'I've got it,' said Warren. He stuthed the map for some minutes, then gave it back to Donaghue. 'Go on towards Carlisle,' he said. 'Stop when you get to that place Greenhead at the top of the pass.'

Donaghue stuthed the map for a minute, and said, 'Very good, sir.' He slipped round to his wheel again, and drove on.

In half an hour he drew up by the side of the road. 'Thif is the place you said, sir.'

Warren kid aside his rugs, stretched a little and got out of the car. The morning air was crisp and bracing to him; he had slept most of the night through, and he was feeling well. He looked around to see what sort of place this was. He saw black, heather-covered hills, a junction of two roads, a railway and a wayside station,
one
or two houses. The grey clouds went racing past only a few hundred feet above his head to wreathe about the hills; it was infinitely desolate.

This will do,' he said aloud. He turned back to the car.

'You can leave me here,' he said to Donaghue. 'Pm going to walk a bit. Go down into Carlisle and put up there. I shan't want you any longer. Get some sleep, and then get along back to London.'

'Very good, sir.' The chauffeur hesitated. 'Can I get you anything before I go? Some breakfast, sir?'

'That's all right, thanks. Wait — leave me your map.'

Donaghue offered a selection; Warren picked out a couple of the Ordnance Survey and stuffed them in the pocket of his ulster.

'That will do,' he said. 'Now, off you go. Tell Evans I'll be back in London in about a week.'

The chauffeur was uneasy. He would have liked to have stayed, to have seen his master left in better circumstances, but he had little option in the matter. He said, 'Goodbye, sir,' and let in his clutch, and went running down the hill towards Carlisle.

He was a young and vigorous man, not unduly tired by having driven a good car all night. He was three hundred miles from London, where a girl was waiting for him; as he ate his breakfast an idea was forming in his mind. He could make a quick run down the North road in the limousine, average forty-five, easy. Forty-five into three hundred miles, that made six and two-third hours. Allow a bit for going into London — call it seven hours. He looked at his watch; be on the road again by half-past eight. That meant home by half-past three, an hour late, but still with most of her half day to go. And it wasn't as if he was really tired.

A girl would like a chap to put himself about like that for her.

He paid his bill, and started on the London road.

In the middle of the morning, running at a high speed three miles short of Retford, a small car turned out suddenly across his path. At eighty miles an hour you cannot swerve and dodge; the limousine hit the near-front wheel to off-front wheel and threw the small car to the hedge. Itself it was deflected to the right side of the road to hit a five-ton lorry coming from the town. When finally they got the wreckage off him, Donaghue was dead.

Elsie sat waiting for him all that afternoon. I believe she is waiting for him still.

Warren was hungry. He watched the car depart, then he walked down to the station to enquire where he could get some food. A solitary porter cleaning lamps directed him to a cottage half a mile away that in the season sold meals to summer visitors. Warren set out up the road.

As he went, his hand strayed to his unshaven chin. He had no razor, and to get one in this district would be practically impossible, he must give up that. He would have to do something about his teeth, though; washing could wait an opportunity. Savages cleaned their teeth on bits of stick; he could not see himself performing with a bit of heather. It was altogether in a lighter mood that he arrived at the cottage.

A woman, not very old but bent with rheumatism, opened the door to him. Warren asked for breakfast. 'I could do a pair of eggs an' a cup o' tea,' she said doubtfully. 'I haven't any baker's bread this time o' year. Ye'll have to have just what we have ourselves.'

He sat at her kitchen table while she busied herself to get him breakfast. As he waited, he stuthed the map; he found that he was very near the Wall. Nordveast seemed to be the best direction if he wanted exercise; a track led up across the moor in the direction of Bellingham and the Cheviots. From the contours it appeared that that would give him all the exercise he wanted for a week. Or two.

She brought him two fried eggs, a flat home-made loaf of brownish bread, butter and jam and a pot of strong tea. He ate ravenously at first but with a quickly fading appetite; it was all that he could do to get through the second egg. He had several cups of tea, however, and felt satisfied and well, ahhough he had not eaten very much.

He lit a pipe, paid her the shilling that she asked him for the meal, and, as an afterthought, bought one of her flat and dirty-looking loaves for twopence. From the look of the map it seemed unlikely that he would find a restaurant for lunch; it would be better to take what food he could with him. He broke the loaf into two halves and put one in each pocket of his ulster. Then he set out along the track up on to the moor.

He walked all day, striding along over the black sodden moors, his ulster pulled about his ears. It rained most of the day; a thin, persistent misty drizzle that cleared in the evening as he dropped down into Bellingham. All day he kept to a rough track that wound among the heather-covered hills, always in seeming danger of obliteration, never entirely disappearing. He was not hungry, rather curiously. He ate a few mouthfuls of his bread in the middle of the day; me remainder crumbled in the pockets of his ulster.

He got to Bellingham at about five o'clock after walking for eight hours or so; he covered the last mile in semi-darkness. He was very weary physically, and that same weariness gave him an easy mind; he knew that if he got a decent bed he would sleep naturally that night. Moreover, he was far too tired to think, and that to him was relaxation and relief. He found an inn in the village, where they looked at him askance, wet and unshaven, dirty and with no luggage.

'Aye,' said the landlord, 'we've got beds. Maybe you'll find the house a bit expensive. We charge ten shillings deposit for them as comes without bag or baggage.'

'Seems reasonable enough,' said Warren. He produced his notecase and put down the money; the man's manner altered for the better.

'We has to be careful,' he explained apologetically, 'or you'd be getting some queer company. I never see so many on the roads as there are this year.'

'Out of a job?' asked Warren.

'Aye, walking the roads. They say there's more work in the south these days, but I dunno. This is your room. I'll bring up some hot water in a minute.'