The Lighthearted Quest (11 page)

She was sufficiently interested by what she had already seen to sit on, in hopes of more—she asked for another drink, and when Purcell brought it observed that it had been a beautiful day—he agreed, with almost royal politeness, and expressed a hope that she was enjoying Tangier. Julia said that she was. But just then the door opened again and five or six men came in: of various ages, they were all speaking English and wore English-tailored suits; two or three had the quality for which we use the blunt word ‘pansy' written as large on them as ‘spiv' had been written on the seedy little man. They were manifestly
habitués
—they perched on stools along the bar and asked for “the usual, please, Purcell”. One in particular struck Julia rather pleasantly—he was very tall, with flaming red hair and no look of a pansy at all about him; he wore a dark blue blazer above white flannel trousers, and removed a pair of sunglasses after he had settled on his stool. She listened for some time to the conversation of this bunch—all residents, she gathered, since they were discussing their gardens: the bashing of their tulips by a recent storm, and why daffodils would grow so superbly in Tetuan, only fifty miles away, and yet “absolutely
not,
my dear” in Tangier. She hoped for a mention of the Monteiths, for from the glances discreetly cast at her she realised that to form an acquaintance would be easy—but none came. Oh, well, these people might come in useful some time—you never knew. She was satisfied with her evening when she left, with a word of thanks to Purcell.

Next day she embarked at once on what the police call “routine enquiries”. She went first to the British Consulate-General, a medium-sized but stately yellow-washed house standing among palm-trees in a commanding position, with open spaces all round it. Most of the other seven Powers who operate the International Zone at Tangier call their missions Legations; the English, with a typical arrogant modesty,
describe theirs as a Consulate-General, though the Consul-General enjoys the local rank of Minister. This distinction is rather chic and slightly annoys the more flamboyant colleagues of the British representative; they would hate to be mere Consuls-General themselves, but realise that in Tangier it is really grander
not
to be a Minister—in self-defence they ostentatiously address him as “Your Excellency” or “M. le Ministre”.

A very tall Moor, splendid in a dark-blue robe down to his feet, met her at the gate-house which commands the entrance, and led her through a flowery garden to offices behind the house proper, where she had an interview with a very young and most courteous vice-consul.

“Colin Monro? No, I'm pretty certain that he hasn't made his number here, but I'll check in a moment, if you like. What was he doing?”

Julia, still under the influence of Mr. Panoukian's remarks about the value of frankness, said—

“Well, I think they were probably smuggling, though they called it selling oranges.”

“Oh, did they? Out here they usually pretend to be fishermen, if they bother with a disguise at all. If you will wait one moment, I'll check.” He vanished through a door.

“No,” the vice-consul said, when he returned—“He didn't get imprisoned and ask us to bail him out. I'm so sorry I can't help. How long are you staying?”

“Till I find him,” said Julia.

“Ah. Yes. Have you put your name in the book? Oh, but you should do that”—and he led her out through a spacious hall where a couple of Moors clad in tunics, fezzes and baggy breeches of brilliant scarlet, were polishing the marble floor. “Here,” the young man said—and Julia inscribed her name and “Villa Espagnola” in a large album.

Having drawn a blank at the Consulate-General, she tackled the harbour-master, who was supposed to be found in an office
down near the quay. This was a far less courtly proceeding and took much longer; however at last, using a great deal of Spanish and many blandishments Julia achieved access to an official of sorts. Here, though she felt more hamstrung than ever by her ignorance of the name of Colin's boat, she got a bit further. Yes, the harbour-master's chief clerk told her, there was an English yacht, with several Señores on board, hanging about Tangier; he too consulted files, after which he informed Julia that the boat was called “The Frivolity”. No, she was not in the harbour now; he thought they had gone to Gibraltar. The Ingleses bathed in the sea a great deal, he volunteered, diving off the boat itself; imagine such a thing! This encouraged Julia, for Colin was a strong and impassioned swimmer. Had the Señor seen them, she asked. Oh, yes, many times. Were any tall and dark? Indeed yes—one extremely tall, and very dark. And did the Señor know their names?

But here the clerk was less helpful: Julia could not be sure whether he was being evasive or really did not know. One, he said, with some confidence, was certainly a lord—but that was as far as he would go. He indicated politely that the office was now about to close for the luncheon-hour—this, Julia guessed from past experience in Spain, would certainly last till four p.m. at least, so with grateful thanks she took her leave and withdrew to Purcell's Bar, most conveniently close by, for a drink and meditation.

As before she was the only patron, except for the red-haired man who had impressed her favourably the evening before, who sat in the furthest corner of the inner room, drinking beer and reading a book. In this agreeable solitude Julia decided to seek some information from Purcell, and when he brought her drink she asked him how one got to Gibraltar?

“By the Ferry—it goes every day.”

“Can one go in the morning and come back the same night?”

No, that one could not do; the ferry went about midday, and only returned the next morning.

“How lunatic,” said Julia. “Why? Why not come back the same night? It can't take very long to steam across there.”

Purcell's strange face with the negro bones and the intelligent European eyes took on a most peculiar expression—combined, it seemed to Julia, in equal parts of vivid comprehension, some secret amusement, and reprobation.

“It just is so,” was all he said, however.

“Oh, well—how tiresome. And could you tell me where one can stay in Gibraltar?—a cheap hotel?”

Purcell's peculiar expression was if anything accentuated as he said—“There is really only one possible hotel in Gibraltar—the Rock; and it is not cheap.”

“How much a night, do you know? This is very kind of you,” said Julia, “but one has to be careful these days, on a travel allowance.”

“Wagons-Lits Cooks could tell you exactly, but I believe about fifty shillings a night.”

“Fifty shillings a
night!
Merciful God!” Julia exploded—“How appalling.” Purcell gave a tiny laugh. “The proprietor of the Rock Hotel is a first cousin of the ferry-owner, I presume,” she said—at which Purcell laughed out loud, causing the red-haired man in the inner room to look up in surprise. Laughter was rare with Purcell, Julia surmised.

However, these huge prices—the ferry cost about a pound each way too, she gathered—decided her against going to Gibraltar on what might prove to be a wild-goose chase: after all she had no certainty that the tall dark young man on the
Frivolity
was really Colin, though she knew that he numbered more than one youthful peer among his intimates. Instead she went in the afternoon to Cook's, checked on the exorbitant prices, and then forced a very ill-mannered and recalcitrant clerk to ring up the harbour-master at Gibraltar to find out if the
Frivolity
was there. At Gibraltar, on the other end of the line, all was ease. Julia spoke herself with someone who talked English, and learned that the yacht she wanted had sailed
that very morning for Malaga—however she was expected back in about ten days' time, and was then thought to be proceeding to Tangier.

Fair enough, Julia said to herself, as she walked out of the Wagons-Lits office and strolled up a sunny street towards the Place de France; best wait till they come back, staying inexpensively at the Espagnola, and meanwhile work up Geoffrey's local contacts, using his letters of introduction to Lady Tracy and Mme La Besse. And see the local sights, and continue to put salt on Purcell's tail by repeated visits to his very nice bar, till it became possible to consult him. In Tangier in hot sunshine in January, this seemed a very agreeable programme; and after taking a black coffee at a small table on the pavement outside the Gafé de France, on the Place, she went back to her small hotel in high good humour and typed out “Dockside Diversions”; she was just in time to airmail it from the English Post Office in a street: below the Consulate-General, where the stamps sold are ordinary English ones with the word TANGIER printed in heavy black across the face. It was then, as always, crowded with a mob of all nationalities, who wished to profit by the cheap postal rates—sixpence for an airmail letter to the British Isles, for example.

This feature, and the whole business of England having its own post-office in the absurd international set-up that Tangier is, delighted Julia. In common with most of her generation, the post-war, neo-New Young, she had a thoroughly considered respect and admiration for her country; Julia's contemporaries would never be found passing resolutions not to fight for King and Country. And even in the short time that she had been in Tangier, in conversation with the inmates of her little Spanish hotel Julia had learned something which amused and pleased her even more than the existence of the English Post Office—namely the astonishing impression created by the visit of the Royal children to Gibraltar. The Spanish press had been uttering all sorts of menaces about what would happen if the
Queen herself dared to set foot on what, in defiance of treaties, they deemed to be the soil of Spain; her Majesty however not only stepped ashore herself, but for good measure sent those royal midgets, Prince Charles and Princess Anne, up the Rock to see the monkeys. The foreign element in Tangier could not get over this example of
le flegme britannique;
they found it quite overpowering.

“These little children!—to take such a risk!”

This had never struck Julia while at home—monkeys are monkeys, and all children love them. But the effect on foreign opinion of this expedition she found very gratifying.

Next morning she set out to call on Lady Tracy, taking Geoffrey's letter of introduction—to which, in the rather old-fashioned elegance of manners which he affected, he had clipped his visiting card, with “To introduce Miss Julia Probyn” written across the top. The address was some unpronounceable Arabic street name; Julia caused the
patron
of her little pub to read it out to her taxi-driver, who could not, it seemed, read himself; on hearing it he said, in Spanish, that the Señorita must prepare herself to walk. Julia had prepared herself for almost anything, but the approach to Lady Tracy's house succeeded in startling her. The Kasbah at Tangier rises right up to the very lip of that line of cliffs of ochreous earth which overhangs the approach to the Straits; but beyond it, westwards, other houses have been planted on this vertiginous ridge, between the yellow cliff fall to the sea and the steep approach from the landward side—and in such a house Lady Tracy lived. After grinding up a yellowish muddy street between small whitewashed houses which turned blank walls to the roadway, the taxi paused practically in mid-air, reversed several times, and came to rest facing back towards Tangier proper—the taxi-man then indicated to Julia that she must now proceed on foot down a concreted path, punctuated here and there by flights of steps and that the pink
casa
at the end was the house which she sought. Julia picked her way down
this slope, which was inundated now and again by douches of dirty water thrown from the houses overhanging it, where washing flapped in the breeze off the ocean; an iron gate in a small garden gave access to Lady Tracy's front door.

This was opened by a Moor who bowed, took the letter which she held out, and ushered her into a hall or room built in the Moorish style, with narrow arches on slender pillars supporting a high ceiling, and rugs spread about on a floor brightly patterned in small tiles—through curtained archways she caught glimpses of other rooms. From the windows, also arched and with tiny pillars, the view was superb—out across the blue sea of the Straits to that ultra-couchant lion Gibraltar on one side; to the cliffy outline of Cape Trafalgar on the other. Turning back to the room Julia, seeking an impression of its owner, noted that the furniture was partly Moorish, with a few good English pieces; everywhere a clutter of photographs, some of famous people, stood about on small tables along with curios and brass trays; water-colours, some good, more less good, shared the wall space with the typically Moslem decoration of pieces of brilliant embroidery and some very fine old rugs. There were several modern French books lying about, and a good deal of dust was present; the whole room, Julia thought, spoke of a vigorous personality—too vigorous to fuss about coherence in its surroundings, let alone dust.

The Moorish manservant had borne off Mr. Consett's letter to his mistress; after rather a long pause he reappeared, holding back the curtains of one of the arched openings to admit a very old lady indeed, dressed with as much inconsequence as the furnishings of her room in a welter of cardigans, scarves and shawls—she held Geoffrey's letter in one hand, the other she extended to Julia.

“My dear Miss Probyn, how very kind of you to come and visit me! And how good of my young friend Geoffrey to send you.”

Julia lost her heart to Lady Tracy at once. By the time she
left, nearly two hours later, she was completely subjugated. Here for once, for a wonder, was a purely golden character: full of intelligence in spite of her great age, and yet almost bursting with benignity; at no point, in spite of her free and lively comments on all manner of events and people, did she display the smallest contempt for those stupider than herself—who must, Julia reckoned, comprise at least ninety-five per cent of her acquaintance. Simplicity, and a sort of divine modesty, characterised all her utterances, shrewd as they were. And Lady Tracy's character, Julia soon came to feel, explained the heterogeneous appearance of her room, and especially the bad water-colours; these had clearly been kept out of an affection strong enough to override the chilly fads of mere taste. One in particular, close above the chair in which the old lady evidently always sat—judging from the litter of sewing, newspapers, half-cut books and knitting on the table beside it—constantly caught Julia's eye; faded and spotted with damp, it was nevertheless executed with the utmost spirit, and represented an exotic-looking boat under full sail, off a coast of savage mountains dotted whitely here and there with temples, villas, and mosques. At last she asked who had painted it?