An Old Captivity (7 page)

The girl said: “I know, Daddy. But the whole thing is being so rushed. Don’t go any further with it to-night. Is Uncle David coming down to-morrow?”

“Yes. He’ll be here in the evening.”

“Daddy, how much is Mr. Ross going to make out of this expedition? How much are you paying him?”

Her father said: “I really don’t know. David said that they’d fixed up terms with him, but he didn’t say what they were.”

She stuck her chin out. “Well, I’d like to know.”

“My dear, he’s got to earn his living, like everybody else.”

“I know, Daddy. But he’s in such a hurry to rush us into this, and there’s really no hurry at all. It’s over ten weeks before you want to be there, on the first of August. I know you’ve got to get there, but Isobel flew further than that in one day when she went to Rome. It all makes one smell a rat.”

Lockwood faced his daughter. “Do you think he’s a rogue?” he asked directly.

She hesitated. “No … I don’t quite think that. But I think he wants this job very badly, and he’s trying to rush you into it.”

There was a long silence after she said that. Lockwood, for all his years, was still the victim of an in feriority complex. He knew himself to be a good lecturer, a useful member of his college, a fine classical scholar, and a brilliant archæologist. With these accomplishments, he was a child in business and in money matters, and he knew it. He knew it much too well. Various sad experiences as a younger man had shown him that he could be imposed upon, and he had accepted the position with docility.

He said doubtfully: “I’m not sure that you’re right, Alix. I like him very well.”

“I know, Daddy. But that doesn’t alter the fact that he’s hoping to get a job out of you.”

He said: “All right, my dear. We’ll wait and talk it over with David when he comes.”

She said, a little hesitantly: “It’s going to be a terribly difficult expedition, anyway. You couldn’t go back to Crete, I suppose?”

“Crete?” He stared at her. “Don’t talk so foolishly. Nobody’s going to Crete. The work is in Greenland.”

She said no more.

Ross got up in the morning worried and upset. It seemed to him that the Lockwoods had got to realise that flying aeroplanes to Greenland cost a lot of money. Unless they were prepared to face that fact he would do better to wash his hands of it, go back to his aunt at Guildford, and scratch about for something else to do. A flight like that could only be done at all if money were no object, particularly in the time.

He went down moodily to breakfast. After the meal he went with Lockwood to the study. The don said: “David is coming here this evening, Mr. Ross. What are your movements?”

The pilot smiled. “I see that you’re not quite decided on this thing,” he said. “I think I’d better get back to London. I can start to look up points about the route and the formalities, although it’s Saturday. I’ve arranged to go to Coventry on Monday morning unless I hear from them to the contrary. We’d better stick to that arrangement. By that time you’ll know more about it.”

Lockwood nodded. He was a little ashamed of his vacillation; in the cold light of morning he could not quite see why he had agreed to hesitate. Moreover, he liked the young man, and he realised that the uncertainty was making a bad start for the adventure, if it was to come off. Still, Alix was probably right; it would be better not to rush things.

He said: “I think that’s wise. My brother will be here this evening, and I’ll have a talk with him. We shall be
able to make a definite decision one way or the other then. Are you on the telephone, Mr. Ross?”

The pilot hesitated. “I’m afraid I’m not. I’ll give you my address at Guildford; a telegram will get to me.”

“That will do perfectly. I will wire you if there’s any change in the arrangements.”

Ross went back to London, half convinced that the girl had killed his job stone dead. He went first to the Guild of Air Pilots; from there he went to the aeronautical department of the Automobile Association. He spent all afternoon there, plotting his route and examining the records of previous flights to Greenland. Later in the afternoon he tried to get in touch with a fuel company upon the telephone, but it was Saturday afternoon and he had no luck.

In the evening he went down to Guildford. He leaned against the kitchen wall, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, and told Aunt Janet all about it. She heard him to the end in pawky silence.

“It’s a terribly costly piece of research,” she said at last. “The lassie’s got the right idea of it, to my way of thinking.”

The pilot shrugged his shoulders. “If they want survey made of that part of the world, that’s what it will cost them,” he said. “I can’t tell you if they really want it done or not. I think they’re drawing back a bit now.”

“And well they may,” said his aunt drily. “It’s a mighty lot of money to be spending at one go.”

She turned to him. “If they dinna want you, Donald, what else would you do?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ll have to find a job of some sort, soon.”

“Aye,” she said prosaically, “that’s a fact.” She got up and began moving about the kitchen. “Come on and help me lay the supper. Ye’ll do nae good with worrying.”

In Oxford the Bentley, driven by the well-disciplined, efficient young chauffeur in blue uniform, turned into Norham Gardens at about six o’clock and drew up at Lockwood’s house. The chauffeur sprang from his seat and came round to the door; Sir David heaved his heavy
body up and got out. “You’d better wait a bit,” he grunted. “Give my bag to the maid.” He went forward into the house.

Ten minutes later he was lighting a cigar, seated alone with his brother Cyril in the study. “Well, how about the Arctic?” he said, heavily jocular. “Got your fur coat yet? Made all your plans?”

Not for the first time, Cyril Lockwood felt a fool over this thing. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t yet,” he said. “I thought we’d have another talk about it.”

“What’s the matter? I thought you’d made up your mind to go. Been talking to Alix?”

The don stared at the manufacturer. “How did you know about Alix?”

Sir David blew a long, aromatic cloud of smoke. “That pilot told me she was dead against you going on the trip at all.”

“He told you that? I wonder how he knew.”

“She had one of her little talks with him.”

“Did she, though? Well, it was straight of him to tell you about it. I thought he was a good lad, David.”

“Oh, aye—he’s all right. But there’s plenty more where that one came from. You want a good pilot if you’re going on a trip like that.”

“I suppose you do. Is he a good pilot?”

“I don’t know. Hanson will know by Monday.” He turned to the don. “Well, Cyril, are you going or not?”

The don hesitated. “I don’t know. It’s going to cost far more than I ever thought, David. I was quite staggered when Ross came back last night and told me the figures.”

The manufacturer said: “What’s that got to do with you?”

“It’s your money that you’ve put at my disposal, David—very generously. I’ve got to advise you how to spend it. I’ve got to be very sure that you spend it to the best advantage. And—well, I’m not sure. It seems to me that this Brattalid expedition may cost more than it’s worth.”

“Suppose you stick to archæology and let me spend my money my own way.”

The don stared at him. “My dear chap—I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“And you haven’t. But look here, Cyril—you’ll hurt me very much if you don’t start and use that money that I put in your research account six years ago. In six years you’ve spent nine hundred and thirty-four pounds out of twenty-five thousand. If you tell me that in six years you couldn’t have done more if you’d spent more money—I’ll call you a bloody fool.”

The don nodded. “You’re perfectly right. But it seems such a lot to spend.”

“The tubes will make as much again when you’ve spent that.”

“I suppose so. How are the works going?”

“Can’t grumble, things being as they are. I got Hanson to figure out last week’s output if it was stretched out end to end. Forty-seven miles of drawn steel tubes we turned out—in one week. That’s over and above the wire.”

“It’s very wonderful, David.”

The other blew out a long cloud of smoke. “Aye,” he said quietly, “it’s very wonderful. In twenty years’ time I shall be dead, and all that tube will be just little smears of rust upon the ground. In thirty years Coventry folks won’t know the name of Lockwood, unless they go and read the plate up at the Hospital. But in thirty years people will still be talking of your work. In a hundred and thirty years. That’s what strikes me as wonderful.”

There was a short silence.

“That’s what it is,” the manufacturer said at last. “I make the money, and you make the name. I wish we could row together a bit more.”

The don shifted uneasily in his chair. “I didn’t know you felt like that,” he said. “It’s quite true. There is a lot that could be done …”

“Then, for God’s sake, go ahead and do it,” said the other testily. “This Brattalid thing, Cyril. Is it a good one? Will you find out something—something that’s worth knowing?”

The don leaned his arms upon the desk. “It’s a good one, David,” he said seriously. “I
know
the Irish went to Greenland. I
know
they did, but I can’t prove it yet. There’s just the one link missing, still. That’s the first thing that we’ve got to do—to establish definitely that they went there. After that there’s the ethnological problem. What happened to the Irish that were there? What happened to the Norse settlers?”

He stared across the room. “I never felt so certain in my life as I do about this thing,” he said quietly. “There’s something big there, David—waiting to be uncovered. I don’t say that I shall get it. But someone will, one day.”

The other said: “Go on and get it for yourself, and don’t be a bloody fool.”

The don laughed, and relaxed. “All right. I really had decided on it before I sent that young man up to see you. But then when he told me what it was all going to cost, it seemed too much to spend.”

“And Alix put her oar in, I suppose?”

“Alix thinks it’s too dangerous,”

“If Alix were ten years younger I’d stretch her out across the couch and tan the pants off her.” The manufacturer threw the stub of cigar into the grate. “When we get to thinking things are too dangerous—things that we want to do—we’ll be no more good,” he said. “That’s right, Cyril. That makes a static business, when you get to thinking things are dangerous that you want to do. And a static business is a ruined business in a year or two.”

The don said mildly: “Alix is a good girl.”

His brother said: “She looks it. She dresses like hell, Cyril. Put her in among our Coventry girls and she’d look like a dead fish.”

Lockwood sighed. “I suppose the truth of it is that she doesn’t get about enough.”

“Too true. She’ll be an old woman in a year or two unless she can snap out of it.”

He got up from his chair. “It’s settled that you’re going, then?”

“I think so. I’d like to have that young man Ross for the pilot, David, if he’s good enough. We get to know something about young men, here in Oxford. I’d have confidence in him, I think.”

“Aye. I daresay he could do the job as well as anyone. He’s coming up to Coventry on Monday. He’s in a great hurry to place the order for his aeroplane, because of the delivery.”

“I suppose that is very important,” said Lockwood vaguely.

“Well, you won’t be able to fly to Greenland without it.” They walked in the garden till dinner-time, talking of other matters. After dinner Lockwood had business in his study with a couple of young men; Sir David went out into the garden with Alix in the still, warm, summer evening. The old parlourmaid brought them their coffee at the table under the beech-tree.

When she had gone the manufacturer said to the girl: “I hear you think your father’s too old to go to Greenland.”

She looked up, startled. “I never said that to him.”

“I should hope not. Pretty mean if you had. But you think it, just the same.”

She met his eyes. “Who told you that, Uncle David?”

“That pilot chap who came to see me.”

“Oh … Well, I did say that to him. And I do think it.” She dropped her eyes. “I don’t want to be nasty. But Daddy’s nearly sixty, and Greenland is a job for a young man. I wouldn’t say that to him, because I wouldn’t want to hurt him. But it’s true, all the same.”

“Greenland’s the job your father wants to do.”

“I know it is. But he could find something else that wouldn’t be so strenuous.”

“You talk as if he were an invalid. Look at me. I’m three years older and three stone heavier. I wouldn’t mind going to Greenland.”

She said doubtfully: “You’re different. I mean, you’ve done things—all your life, Uncle David. But Daddy’s not like you. I’d be afraid of him getting wet and not changing
or eating bad food and getting ill. And if he got ill upon a trip like that, with only the pilot and mechanics, it would be awful.”

She paused. “It’d be almost as good if he left the field work to a younger man, and studied it back here.”

“Not quite as good. He knows more about this thing than anybody else. At least, that’s how I understand it.”

She hesitated. “I know. But one really must be practical.”

“Sometimes it’s better to be kind, Alix.”

There was a long silence.

“I hate the idea of him going in an aeroplane. He’s never done any flying.”

“Have you?”

“No.”

“I suppose that’s why you’re so afraid of it for him.”

“I suppose so.”

Sir David said: “You’d better make the best of it and let him go. If you stick your toes in you can probably stop him, and you might be sorry all your life. Cyril’s more set on this thing than anything I can remember in the last ten years. You’d better make the best of it, and be a sport.”

She said irritably: “It’s all that wretched pilot, I believe. He wasn’t half so definite about it all before the pilot came. He just talked Daddy into it.”

Her uncle was doubtful. “Your father was very set on it when last I talked to him. I don’t think it’s anything new.”