The Wheel Spins (7 page)

Iris recoiled in horror, which was increased when she realised that the pallid man with the spade beard was in charge of the invalid. Beside him was a nun, whose expression was so callous that it was difficult to connect her with any act of mercy.

While they chatted together, the patient feebly raised one hand. Although they saw the movement, they ignored it. They might have been porters, responsible for the transport of a bit of lumber, instead of a suffering human being.

The fluttering fingers affected Iris with a rush of acute sympathy. She shrank from the thought that—had the cards fallen otherwise—she, too, might be lying, neglected by some indifferent stranger.

“That nun looks a criminal,” she whispered.

“She’s not a nun,” the tweed lady informed her, “she’s a nursing-sister.”

“Then I pity her patient. Ghastly to be ill on a journey. And she’s not a spectacle. Why can’t they pull down the blind?”

“It would be dull for them.”

“Poor devil. I suppose it’s a man?”

Iris was so foolishly anxious to break the parallel between the motionless figure and herself, that she was disappointed when her companion shook her head.

“No, a woman. They got in at our station, higher up. The doctor was telling the baroness about it. She’s just been terribly injured in a motor smash, and there’s risk of serious brain injury. So the doctor’s rushing her to Trieste, for a tricky operation. It’s a desperate chance to save her reason and her life.”

“Is that man with the black beard a doctor?” asked Iris.

“Yes. Very clever, too.”

“Is he? I’d rather have a vet.”

The tweed lady, who was leading, did not hear her muttered protest. They had to force their way through the blocked corridors, and had covered about half the distance, when the spinster collided with a tall dark lady in grey, who was standing at the door of a crowded carriage.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she apologised. “I was just looking out to see if our tea was coming. I gave the order to an attendant.”

Iris recognised Mrs. Barnes’ voice, and shrank back, for she was not anxious to meet the vicar and his wife.

But her companion gave a cry of delight.

“Oh, you’re English, too,” she said. “This is my lucky day.”

As Mrs. Barnes’ soft brown eyes seemed to invite confidence, she added, “I’ve been in exile for a year.”

“Are you on your way home?” asked Mrs. Barnes, with ready sympathy.

“Yes, but I can’t believe it. It’s far too good to be true. Shall I send a waiter with your tea?”

“That would be really kind. My husband is such a wretched traveller. Like so many big strong men.”

Iris listened impatiently, for her temples were beginning to throb savagely. Now that Mrs. Barnes had managed to introduce her husband’s name into the conversation, she knew that her own tea might be held up indefinitely.

“Aren’t we blocking the way?” she asked.

Mrs. Barnes recognised her with rather a forced smile, for the Gabriel episode still rankled.

“Surprised to see us?” she asked. “We decided, after all, not to wait for the last through train. And our friends—the Miss Flood-Porters, came with us. In fact, we’re a full muster, for the honeymooners are here, too.”

Iris had struggled a little farther down the surging corridor, when the tweed lady spoke to her over her shoulder.

“What a sweet face your friend has. Like a suffering madonna.”

“Oh, no, she’s very bright,” Iris assured her. “And she’s definitely not a friend.”

They crossed the last dangerously clanking connecting-way, and entered the restaurant-car, which seemed full already. The Misses Flood-Porter—both wearing well-cut white linen travelling-coats—had secured a table and were drinking tea. Their formal bow, when Iris squeezed by them, was conditional recognition before the final fade-out.

“We’ll speak to you during the journey,” it seemed to say, “but at Victoria we become strangers.”

As Iris showed no inclination to join them, Miss Rose could not resist the temptation to manage a situation.

“Your friend is trying to attract your attention,” she called out.

Iris turned and saw that her companion had discovered the last spare corner—a table wedged against the wall—and was reserving a place for herself. When she joined her, the little lady was looking round her with shining eyes.

“I ordered the tea for your nice friends,” she said. “Oh, isn’t all this
fun
?”

Her pleasure was so spontaneous and genuine that Iris could not condemn it as gush. She stared doubtfully at the faded old-gold plush window-curtains, the smutty tablecloth, the glass dish of cherry jam—and then she glanced at her companion.

She received a vague impression of a little puckered face; but there was a sparkle in the faded blue eyes, and an eager note in the voice, which suggested a girl.

Afterwards, when she was trying to collect evidence of what she believed must be an extraordinary conspiracy, it was this discrepancy between a youthful voice and a middle-aged spinster, which made her doubt her own senses. In any case, her recollection was far from clear, for she did not remember looking consciously at her companion again.

The sun was blazing in through the window, so that she shaded her eyes with one hand most of the time she was having tea. But as she listened to the flow of excited chatter, she had the feeling that she was being entertained by some one much younger than herself.

“Why do you like it?” she asked.

“Because it’s travel. We’re moving. Everything’s moving.”

Iris also had the impression that the whole scene was flickering like an early motion-picture. The waiters swung down the rocking carriage, balancing trays. Scraps of country flew past the window. Smuts rained down on the flakes of butter and the sticky cakes. Dusty motes quivered in the rays of the sun, and the china shook with every jerk of the engine.

As she tried to drink some tea before it was all shaken over the rim of her cup, she learned that her companion was an English governess—Miss Winifred Froy—and was on her way home for a holiday. It came as a shock of surprise to know that this adult lady actually possessed living parents.

“Pater and Mater say they can talk of nothing else but my return,” declared Miss Froy. “They’re as excited as children. And so is Sock.”

“Sock?” repeated Iris.

“Yes, short for Socrates. The Pater’s name for him. He is our dog. He’s an Old English sheep-dog—not pure—but
so
appealing. And he’s really devoted to me. Mater says he understands that I’m coming home, but not
when
. So the old duffer meets every train. And then the darling comes back, with his tail down, the picture of depression. Pater and Mater are looking forward to seeing his frantic joy the night I
do
come.”

“I’d love to see him,” murmured Iris.

The old parents’ happiness left her unmoved, but she was specially fond of dogs. She got a clear picture of Sock—a shaggy mongrel—absurdly clownish and overgrown, with amber eyes beaming under his wisps, and gambolling like a puppy in the joy of reunion.

Suddenly, Miss Froy broke off, at a recollection.

“Before I forget I want to explain why I did not back you up about the window. No wonder you thought I could not be English. It was
stuffy
—but I didn’t like to interfere, because of the baroness.”

“D’you mean the appalling black person?”

“Yes, the baroness. I’m under an obligation to her. There was a muddle about my place in the train. I’d booked second-class, but there wasn’t a seat left. So the baroness most kindly paid the difference, so that I could travel first-class, in her carriage.”

“Yet she doesn’t look kind,” murmured Iris.

“Perhaps she is rather overwhelming. But she’s a member of the family to which I had the honour of being governess. It’s not wise to mention names in public, but I was governess to the very highest in the place. These remote districts are still feudal, and centuries behind us. You can have no idea of the
power
of the—of my late employer. What he says
goes
. And he hasn’t got to speak. A nod is enough.”

“Degrading,” muttered Iris, who resented authority.

“It is,” agreed Miss Froy. “But it’s in the atmosphere, and after a time one absorbs it and one grows spineless. And that’s not English. I feel so reinforced, now I’ve met you. We must stick together.”

Iris made no promise. Her fright had not changed her fundamentally, only weakened her nerve. She had the modern prejudice in favour of youth, and had no intention of being tied to a middle-aged spinster for the rest of the journey.

“Are you going back again?” she asked distantly.

“Yes, but not to the castle. It’s rather awkward, but I wanted another twelve months to perfect my accent, so I engaged to teach the children of the—Well, we’ll call him the leader of the opposition.”

She lowered her voice to a whisper.

“The truth is, there is a small but growing Communist element, which is very opposed to my late employer. In fact, they’ve accused him of corruption and all sorts of horrors. I don’t ask myself if it’s true, for it’s not my business. I only know he’s a marvellous man, with wonderful charm and personality. Blood tells. Shall I tell you something rather indiscreet?”

Iris nodded wearily. She was beginning to feel dazed by the heat and incessant clatter. Her tea had not refreshed her, for most of it had splashed into her saucer. The engine plunged and jolted over the metals with drunken jerks, belching out wreaths of acrid smoke which streamed past the windows.

Miss Froy continued her serial, while Iris listened in bored resignation.

“I was terribly anxious to say ‘Good-bye’ to the—to my employer, so that I could assure him that my going over to the enemy—so to speak—was not treachery. His valet and secretary both told me that he was away at his hunting-lodge. But somehow I felt that they were putting me off. Anyway, I lay awake until early morning, before it was light, when I heard water splashing in the bathroom. Only one, my dear, for the castle arrangements were primitive, although my bedroom was like a stage royal apartment, all gilding and peacock-blue velvet, with a huge circular mirror let into the ceiling. Well, I crept out, like a mouse, and met him in the corridor. There we were, plain man and woman—I in my dressing-gown, and he in his bath-robe, and with his hair all wet and rough. But he was charming. He actually shook my hand and thanked me for my services.”

Miss Froy stopped to butter the last scrap of roll. As she was wiping her sticky fingers, she heaved a sigh of happiness.

“I cannot tell you,” she said, “what a relief it was to leave under such pleasant circumstances. I always try to be on good terms with every one. Of course, I’m insignificant, but I can say truthfully that I have not got an enemy in the world.”

“And now,” said Miss Froy, “I supposed we had better go back to our carriage, and make room for others.”

The waiter, who was both a judge of character and an opportunist, presented the bill to Iris. Unable to decipher the sprawling numerals, she laid down a note and rose from her seat.

“Aren’t you waiting for your change?” asked Miss Froy.

When Iris explained that she was leaving it for a tip, she gasped.

“But it’s absurd. Besides, they’ve already charged their percentage on the bill. As I’m more familiar with the currency, hadn’t I better settle up for everything? I’ll keep an account, and we can get straight at our journey’s end.”

The incident was fresh evidence of the smooth working of the protective-square system. Although Iris was travelling alone, a competent courier had presented herself, to rid her of all responsibilities and worries.

“She’s decent, although she’s a crashing bore,” she decided, as she followed Miss Froy down the swaying restaurant-car.

She noticed that the Misses Flood-Porter, who had not finished their leisurely tea, took no notice of herself, but looked exclusively at her companion.

Miss Froy returned Miss Rose’s stare with frank interest.

“Those people are English,” she whispered to Iris, not knowing that they had met before. “They’re part of an England that is passing away. Well-bred privileged people, who live in big houses, and don’t spend their income. I’m rather sorry they’re dying out.”

“Why?” asked Iris.

“Because, although I’m a worker myself, I feel that nice leisured people stand for much that is good. Tradition, charity, national prestige. They may not think you’re their equal, but their sense of justice sees that you get equal rights.”

Iris said nothing, although she admitted to herself that, while they were at the hotel, the Misses Flood-Porter were more considerate of person and property than her own friends.

When they made their long and shaky pilgrimage through the train, she was amazed by Miss Froy’s youthful spirits. Her laugh rang out whenever she was bumped against other passengers, or was forced, by a lurch of the engine, to clutch a rail.

After they had pushed their way to a clearer passage, she lingered to peep through the windows of the reserved compartments. One of these specially arrested her attention and she invited Iris to share her view.

“Do have a peek,” she urged. “There’s a glorious couple, just like film stars come to life.”

Iris was feeling too jaded to be interested in anything but a railway collision; but as she squeezed her way past Miss Froy, she glanced mechanically through the glass and recognised the bridal pair from the hotel.

Even within the limits of the narrow coupé, the Todhunters had managed to suggest their special atmosphere of opulence and exclusion. The bride wore the kind of elaborate travelling-costume which is worn only on journeys inside a film studio, and had assembled a drift of luxurious possessions.

“Fancy,” thrilled Miss Froy, “they’ve got hot-house fruit with their tea. Grapes and nectarines. He’s looking at her with his soul in his eyes, but I can only see her profile. It’s just like a beautiful statue. Oh, lady, please turn your head.”

Her wish was granted, for, at that comment, Mrs. Todhunter chanced to glance towards the window. She frowned when she saw Miss Froy and spoke to her husband, who rose instantly and pulled down the blind.