The Lighthearted Quest (2 page)

“Oh, yes, I get a ‘grup' all right,” said Edina cheerfully,
“but it's not really the sort of thing I care to do, nor what I was educated for, at vast expense. And I'm not sure that we can afford it, really.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, there's not much more than a living for two to be got off this place, and in London I'm making fifteen hundred a year. I give Mother
her
dress-allowance these days,” said Edina, with a grin.

“Good Heavens! Fifteen hundred a year!” Mrs. Hathaway was startled. She knew that Edina had taken a good degree in Modern Greats at Oxford, and that she was working at some job in London, but she had never imagined that her young friend was making a living on that scale. “What do you do?” she asked, with interest.

“Oh, I'm in advertising—the new high-powered sort. In its rather phoney way it's really very interesting, and now that we're beginning to get into T.V. it's going to be more interesting still, and better paid.”

“Better
paid? Gracious.”

“Oh, yes, I'm due for a rise to two thousand pounds in June, unless my coming off up here bitches it,” said Edina. “They gave me three months' leave, when I said I had to have it, without a murmur, so I dare say it will be all right. But I want to get back as soon as I can, rise or no rise; there are some rather tricky things coming up soon that I specialise in, and I don't want anyone else to handle them and probably rot them up—and nor do my bosses,” she added.

Mrs. Hathaway observed, with slight surprise, that there was nothing objectionable about Edina's complete self-confidence; it was entirely objective.

“Yes,” she said after a pause. “I see that you really oughtn't to be held up here. But have you any ideas as to how to get hold of Colin?”

“No—that's what so tiresome. Maddening boy! Have you, Mrs. H.?”

“Well, I've been thinking about it, since your Mother told me what she knows—which is little enough,” said Mrs. Hathaway. “And I have got the impression that there is something rather funny about the whole thing.”

“Funny or phoney?”

“Well, both, really. Anyhow, writing is no good, since his last address is nine months old; and advertising is no good, because either he doesn't see the papers, or if he does he doesn't choose to answer. I think someone will have to go and find him.”

This time it was Edina who was startled. She opened her grey eyes very wide.

“That's a thought! But I don't see quite how anyone would set about it. You mean go and enquire at all these film-scenario ports?”

“Yes. And the boat must be registered—what's her name, by the way?”

“Oh, that damnable child has never even told us that!” Edina exploded. “He really is
too
tedious.”

“Well, all the more reason for on-the-spot enquiries,” said Mrs. Hathaway. “Three or four young Englishmen, cruising about and selling oranges or bananas or whatever they
do
sell—I don't really much believe in the orange part, myself—ought to be tolerably identifiable.”

“You know, I believe you really have got something there,” said Edina. “But who's to do it? Would
you
go?”

“Oh, no, I should be useless at badgering consulates and accosting harbour-masters, or whatever one does to find missing yachts—it would have to be someone young and enterprising.'

“Anyone in mind?” Edina enquired, eyeing Mrs. Hathaway rather suspiciously.

“Yes. Julia, I thought,” that lady replied.

“Julia? Do you think she'd be any good? Well, yes, I suppose she might—she's not really half as stupid as she looks,” said
Edina. “But would she go? She has oodles of money of course—but one's only allowed a hundred pounds, and I should think all this foraging around in Tangier and places would cost a lot.”

“That's why I think Julia would be so suitable. She's a journalist, and they can get extra foreign allowances for trips.”

“She's a pretty half-baked journalist; only this free-lancing for weeklies, and the
Yorkshire Post
now and then,” Edina objected.

“Oh, my dear child, I'm sure that doesn't matter a bit. I know a woman who writes for most terrible magazines, things you've never even heard the names of, and she is always rushing off to Cannes and St. Moritz and so on to write up the film-stars and their clothes and all that—she gets colossal foreign currency allowances, I know.”

“I see. Yes, well then Julia is quite a thought. She could get away all right, I expect. I don't suppose her papers would mind,” said Edina, rather cattily.

Mrs. Hathaway laughed.

“All right—let's ring her up tonight,” Edina went on. “The sooner we find him the better, for me as well as for Mother. Only I still wonder if Julia is up to it.”

“Oh, don't underestimate Julia. You don't really know her much, do you?”

“Well, no. One has one's own friends, somehow. Do you know her well?”

“Yes—her mother was a friend of mine,” said Mrs. Hathaway, rather slowly. It flicked into Edina's mind, belatedly, that she had heard that after Mrs. Probyn's death and Major Probyn's re-marriage, Mrs. Hathaway had befriended Julia, their only child. Colin and Edina were not very closely related to her. Julia's mother had been their father's first cousin, and had often brought her to Glentoran when they were all children; but after Mrs. Probyn's death all that had ceased—the Monros had never greatly cared for Major Probyn, and liked his second wife even less. Julia had been left a considerable fortune by her grandmother, so that she was able to lead
a quite independent life, not shackled to her father and step-mother; she worked as a journalist because it amused her, not because she was in any need of earning her living, and she had been abroad a good deal, as Edina, feeling rather exculpatory, now pointed out to Mrs. Hathaway—one didn't see so much of people if one never knew whether they were there or not, she explained.

“Yes, of course,” said Mrs. Hathaway pleasantly. “I don't blame you for not knowing Julia, Edina—I'm only pinpointing the fact that you don't!
C'est une constatation,
as the French say.”

Edina laughed, relieved. How sensible and
nice
Mrs. Hathaway was.

“I wonder if she would go,” she went on. “Shall we put it all up to her on the telephone, or try to get her to come up? It's rather a long business to explain.”

“We'll see how she reacts,” said Mrs. Hathaway. “It would be better if she came, I think, if she can get away at once. Another reason why she would be a good person to go,” she pursued, “is that she's a very fair linguist; her French is excellent, and she speaks quite tolerable Spanish too.”

“Oh, well then, do let's get her to come up,” said Edina, “to brace up Olimpia. She cooks quite differently after Ronan's been talking to her, though I believe he only knows about twenty-eight words.”

“He must have been talking to her this morning,” said Mrs. Hathaway. “That
lovely
lunch.”

Julia, when telephoned to, made no difficulties at all about coming up. Mrs. Hathaway, who by common consent did the talking, merely said that they were all in trouble about Colin, who couldn't be got hold of just now; they thought Julia might be able to help, perhaps, and was there any chance of her coming up to talk it over? “To be much good,” said Mrs. Hathaway, with her customary clarity, “it ought to be
soon.”

“Oh, yes, I'll come at once. If I take a sleeper tomorrow
night—no, that means two days. I'll fly to Renfrew tomorrow, the first flight I can get, and wire for a car to bring me on; that will save a day. Unless I ring up, if I
can't
get a seat, I'll see you about tea-time tomorrow. It will be lovely to be at Glentoran again. How's Aunt Ellen?”

“As easy at that,” said Mrs. Hathaway, having retailed these plans to the other two.

“Well, it must be nice to be able to splash money about like that,” said Edina.

“Yes—and sensible, too. Julia is rather good about knowing what to spend on,” said Mrs. Hathaway. She turned to Edina with a small smile. “Bottle up your prejudice till she comes—you are far too sensible yourself to let my approval of Julia put you against her,” she said—and Edina, who had been doing exactly that, did cause her vague hostility to subside.

“I still don't see how Julia is to find him, Mary,” said Mrs. Monro.

“One finds very little without looking for it, Ellen,” replied Mrs. Hathaway. “Do you mind if I go to bed? I feel rather like it, after the journey.”

Julia Probyn arrived next day, not at tea-time, but as they were sitting down to lunch—a scrunch of car wheels on the gravel outside the dining-room windows announced the advent of a huge Chrysler, driven by a smart chauffeur.

“I'll go, Forbes,” said Edina to the old butler, who was bumbling round with dishes with his usual maddening slowness; “lay another place”—and she went out. A moment later she returned, ushering in her young relation.

“Dear Aunt Ellen, I do apologise for being so early,” said Julia, kissing her aunt affectionately. “I rang up the air-line last night and got a cancellation for the first flight, such luck—so I told them to tell Renfrew to have a car ready, and here I am.” She turned to kiss Mrs. Hathaway with even more warmth. “How blessed to see you. And Aunt Ellen, can my driver-man have some lunch?”

“Of course.” said Edina, answering for her parent. “Just come and mutter some of your Spanish to our cook, and she'll be your slave.”

“Really, Edina—” Mrs. Munro began in protest; but her daughter ruthlessly led the guest out across the hall and through the red baize door to the back regions. Julia, smothering mirth, spoke solemnly in elegant Castilian to Olimpia, whose haughty features relaxed at the familiar accents in which she was asked to provide food for the chauffeur—bowing, smiling, she expressed her desire to do everything she could.

“Le agradeço mucho su amabildad”
said Julia, eyeing her sternly, and returned to the dining-room, telling her driver on the way to wait in the hall till Forbes should summon him to his meal. “Don't smoke,” she added casually, earning Edina's silent approbation.

Julia was tall, and built on full if graceful lines; her large smooth oval face usually held very little expression; this mattered less because of her perfect, faintly tawny complexion, as lightly flushed with colour as a nearly-ripe apricot, the exquisite level line of her mouth, and above all her immense grey-blue eyes, which somehow seemed to promise all sorts of delightful expressions, though entirely without her volition. (Her friends called them doves' eyes, her enemies likened them to the eyes of cows.) Her hair was a sort of tawny blonde, a most peculiar shade; she wore it drawn back plainly from her shapely forehead, to hang, a deplorable length, half-way down her shoulders, where it ended in flowing curls, like liquid treacle. To complete this exotic appearance she was beautifully dressed, and had long perfect legs. During lunch Edina studied her, fascinated. She usually spoke very slowly, without actually drawling, and her deep voice was as devoid of expression as her face. Except that her fairness had this curious tawny quality she was, Edina thought, the arch-type of the dumb blonde.

The other exception to the type was the fact that she was nothing like as dumb as she looked; this emerged during the discussion of her mission, which took place after lunch, when Mrs. Monro had again been despatched to rest by her daughter. Mrs. Hathaway and Edina had no need to stress the urgency of Colin's return, since Mrs. Monro had dealt with that aspect with wearisome thoroughness during lunch, and indeed until she retired; they concentrated on telling the little they knew—about the boat or yacht, the friends, the orange or banana-selling, and the ports at which he was known to have touched during the past three years. Julia listened, largely in silence—at last she said—

“In fact you really haven't a clue as to where he may be now?”

“No, not the faintest.”

“Detection!” said Julia, delighted, a gleam of interest at last showing in her face. “Pure detection! What a frolic! Yes, of course I'll go; I'd love to escape this hellish winter. And Colin used to be such a darling—I'd adore to find him. I expect I shall.”

“How shall you begin?” enquired Mrs. Hathaway.

“Could we look at a map?” said Julia. “I'm rather vague about where all these places are, and how to get to them.”

Edina brought an atlas, in which Julia underlined various ports with a rose-tipped finger—“Casablanca, Tangier with Gib. almost opposite,” she murmured; “Ceuta, yes, and Malaga up round the corner—and then Oran and Algiers and all those places,
I
see.”

“We never heard of his going to Oran or Algiers,” said Edina; “it was more Malaga and Gib. and Cadiz, and Tangier and Casablanca—down that end.”

Julia lit a cigarette, slowly as she did everything, and blew out smoke.

“I shall begin with Africa, I think,” she pronounced.

“Why?”

“Well, Morocco and Algiers are news just now, with all these assassinations and bomb-throwings and skirmishes and things, and I shall have to get the papers lined up in order to get an extra currency allocation.” Edina nodded approvingly—they had not yet raised this point with Julia; obviously there had been no need to.

“Ebb and Flow
and
The Onlooker
can't run to special correspondents out there, but they would be sure to love articles and call them ‘from our correspondent in Morocco' without paying a farthing extra,” she pursued, a slow smile making her beautiful mouth even more beguiling. “So they would give me the right chits to push across the counter to those elderly virgins in the Bank of England.”

Edina laughed.