Tremor (2 page)

Matthew had been quite out of his depth: he read Graham Greene, Evelyn Waugh, Kingsley Amis, Raymond Chandler, et al. If, on the other hand, the subject had turned to music, he could have held his own pretty well whether it was on Schoenberg, Stravinsky or Fats Waller.

Neither of the two eminent authors had read either of Matthew's novels, but towards the end of the meal, when writing habits came up (could this, he suspected later, have been Rona's doing?) they were both emphatic that Matthew's idea of an author's life was really the romantic public's idea of how an author operated. In their own cases, and in the case of nearly every other professional writer they knew, the very reverse was the case. To wait for inspiration was fatal. Inspiration, they insisted, was the product of work, of regular writing at regular times, and every day, irrespective of the ultimate value or amount of the work produced.

At this point Matthew had added visibly to Rona's irritation with him by explaining that he didn't really like writing at all. He had no fervent wish to make it his permanent career. He was really only writing novels, he said, in the hope that one or another would hit the jackpot and enable him to retire.

It had been rather a brutal thing to say – its brutality born out of his own irritation at being patronized. Afterwards, after they had gone, he was sorry because he knew of Rona's efforts to get these eminent people to their unpretentious flat in the first place. And all for him. As she said coldly, when he tried to apologize, it had all been done for him.

A two-hour wait at Casablanca. There were a few English books on the bookstall and, as if to cheer him out of his depression, he was surprised to find his first novel among them.
Chance Medley
, by Matthew Sorensen.

The jacket had a small tear in it, and the tops of the pages were yellow from exposure to light and heat. He suddenly felt proud of it, and then sorry for it, representing him as it did so far away from home. He almost bought it out of sympathy, but the price in francs was inflated, and after all if he bought it he would be withdrawing it from someone else who might eventually fancy it and buy it for themselves.

This third plane was a much smaller one, and quite full. Matthew and Jack Frazier, having shared a coffee together, boarded the plane together. Matthew took a window seat and Frazier sat next to him, the suitcase firmly between his knees. The stewardess had wanted to stow it in the luggage compartment above, but Frazier refused.

Next to Frazier was a blowzy woman of about fifty, over made-up and in a girlish outfit that didn't suit her at all. She had two younger women friends in the seat in front, and they had made a fuss because they could not have three seats together. The two friends were also floridly dressed and chattered away in loud voices in provincial French. Again almost everyone on the plane was French.

Frazier, who had a nasal Birmingham accent when he spoke English, and an accent Matthew couldn't place when he spoke French, was back at his most talkative and was soon chattering away to the three Frenchwomen, shouting to make himself heard above the roar of the engines.

Presently he turned and offered Matthew a Gauloise. Matthew smilingly refused.

‘I hate catching bleeding planes,' Frazier said. ‘That panic this morning! Phew! I doubt I could've felt more in a muck-sweat if I'd been the last Jew leavin' Hitler's Germany!'

Matthew smiled. ‘Lucky they waited. And lucky we got away when we did.'

‘What? How d'you mean?' Frazier's voice had sharpened.

‘I mean, once you lose your slot at Heathrow it often takes time to get another.' Matthew opened a newspaper he had bought in Casablanca.

‘I suppose you paid in francs for that,' Frazier said. ‘The Moroccan franc has just been devalued, you know, and they've a thing called a dirham that's worth a hundred old francs. We'll have to watch it, especially in the hotel. Someone always tries to overcharge you when these currency contortions happen.'

Matthew said: ‘You can't get the dirham outside Morocco. Or so I was told. They say the French franc will still be legal currency.' After a minute he added: ‘D'you come here often?'

‘Nah. It's years since I been over. Just came to do a bit of business, then I'm off again. And it was a good excuse to see the sun. Know what I mean?'

Matthew folded the paper open. There was a report on the Channel Tunnel project. It was recommended that it should be a rail tunnel system only, and cost estimates were it would be upwards of a hundred million pounds. A pipe dream? They had talked about it so long.

‘And you?' asked Frazier.

‘What?'

‘You. You just on holiday?'

‘More or less. I needed a break.'

‘But you read French.'

‘Yes, I spent two years in Paris.'

Two years not very profitably occupied, he thought now. Except to come to terms with his own shortcomings. Chiefly he had studied life. And he now spoke fluent and colloquial French. (He might be a bit out of date in the latest fashionable phrases: French argot altered and changed its meaning every few weeks.) And some Dutch he knew from a girlfriend who came from Leiden. Not exactly a portfolio of learning and achievement to bring home to England as the product of two years. But of course he had enjoyed it. And there had then been the novel.

His companion now turned back to the blowzy Frenchwoman, who it seemed was called Laura Legrand. Frazier introduced Matthew to her, and then to the two younger women. It seemed they were just ‘friends', meeting together in Bordeaux after a long absence and taking a three-week vacation together. Where were they staying? The Hotel Saada, of course; it was very
luxe
. Me too, Frazier said: a happy coincidence. And Matthew? Yes? So they were all to be at the same hotel.

Matthew's custom was always to stay at the best hotel his overdraft could afford, and the agent he had booked through said he thought he would profit from the devaluation; but he did not join in the mutual congratulations because his eye was caught by a girl in a green linen suit, two seats forward on the opposite side of the aisle.

Thick warm red-brown hair shoulder length. Clear, clean young profile. Nose a bit tip-tilted. Thick lashes that were not stuck on; what colour would her eyes be? Green, blue, brown? Fine skin. Her arms were bare to just above the elbow. A long slim hand raised a glass to her lips. She drank with the bottom lip slightly forward: a suggestion of appetite. Matthew knew that many French girls had poor skins, but those that were good were very, very good, poreless, like alabaster.

He had had no particular thought of finding that sort of comfort while he was away. Susceptible enough to good looks, and being himself attractive to women, he had nevertheless been faithful to Rona throughout their marriage. Rona was pretty and, until disillusion set in, ardent. But this girl was a stunner. He watched attentively but could not see her speak to the woman beside her. Could it be so lucky that she was on her own? And staying – who knew – at the Saada?

The plane droned on over the desert. Presently the girl he was watching got up and walked towards the loos at the back. Sometimes sideviews are deceptive; a full face brings disillusion. Not so here. The eyes in the half-lit plane looked grey-green, which meant her hair was probably not its natural colour. Perfect oval face, good cheek-bones; she didn't look more than twenty-five or -six. He thought their eyes met as she went past, but she glanced away. She must be used to glancing away; a lot of men would look at her as she passed.

‘What?' he said to Frazier.

‘I said, what d'you do? What's your line of country?'

‘I'm a writer.'

Frazier blinked. ‘Writer, eh? What sort of writer?'

‘Oh, novels chiefly.' He laughed.

‘Don't think I know the name. Matthew Morris? But then I wouldn't, would I, eh? Not much of a reader myself. Just a newspaper man myself. Or a
Playboy
mag.' The thin man coughed through the cigarette smoke.

‘I write under Matthew Sorensen. But I don't suppose that means anything to you either.'

Frazier brooded. Eventually he turned the issue to what he found more interesting. ‘ Why change the name?'

‘Habit of writers.'

‘Trying to dodge the brickbats, I suppose. Or does it help taxwise?'

‘I was born Sorensen,' Matthew said. ‘My parents were divorced when I was two, and my stepfather thought it more convenient that I should take his name.' (Had insisted, in fact.)

Frazier eased the suitcase between his knees and lit another cigarette from the butt of the old. ‘ The fuzz always reckon it's suspicious if you have two names, don't they. Up to no good, they reckon. Well, there you are, one name's always been good enough for me.'

‘Doing what?'

Frazier blinked. ‘Me? Oh, I'm a sort of writer too. An underwriter, as you might say.'

‘Insurance agent?'

‘You could say that … You on holiday, looking for material, I suppose?'

‘Not really. Not unless it comes my way.' As it might well – now, Matthew thought. Have an affair with this girl. Two passionate weeks. Wonder what colour her intimate hair is. Very dark probably. Two weeks of lubricious adventure, then go to Paris for a bit. Write a steamy novel. There hadn't been enough sex in his two previous novels – too much humour. You had to be shocking to sell.

‘Plenty of odd things in this country to give you inspiration. Odd bods and odd jobs. Last time I was over here, about four years ago, I was in Beni Mellal. Know where that is? Between Fez and Marrakech. In the desert. Real town to give you the heebie-jeebies. I got talking to a man in a bar. He'd a British passport but could hardly speak a word of English. Can you beat that?'

Matthew didn't try.

‘This feller was born in Malta of Italian parents, see. Lived in Morocco now. Commercial traveller. Drove around Morocco on business. Know what he travelled in?'

‘No.'

‘I'll give you three guesses.'

‘Couldn't.'

‘Brassières.' Frazier laughed and coughed. ‘D'ye know, I hardly bothered to wonder before what women here wear under their kaftans. But you only need to look in the souks: there they are, rail after rail of 'em, all sizes, shapes, colours, styles, lace, cotton, silk, fancy, you name it. French women don't wear 'em so much, do they.'

‘No,' said Matthew. ‘They think it's healthier without.'

‘Well, they certainly wear 'em here. Reckon this man in the bar was on to a good thing!'

The girl in the green linen suit was returning to her seat, but she had her back to him. Just the right sized hips.

The plane lurched a bit, and Matthew's ears crackled. They were coming down.

The two younger women were twisting their necks and leaning over talking to Laura Legrand. They both had big mouths. But if he were writing of them he wouldn't have used the word ‘generous' to describe them. ‘Mercenary' maybe. But, then, you could so easily be wrong. For all you knew, these three women might be charity workers travelling to succour the victims of infantile paralysis.

Other people were stirring, and the seat-belt light came on. The two women slumped back into their seats. A stewardess passed by and asked Jack Frazier to put his cigarette out. Papers were being folded. A couple of people pinching their noses and blowing.

Susie at the travel office had suggested Morocco to Matthew because it was probably the warmest place at this time of year if one didn't want the expense of going as far as Kenya or the Caribbean. Though it was not his nature to be depressed, he had asked himself as they boarded at Casablanca just what he intended to do with his days. With tomorrow, for instance. Sit on the beach all morning, or by the pool, and read and swim? Or walk around the town. He had only brought two books and a notepad. The thought of actual work was enough to bring on an allergy.

Through the porthole the lights of Agadir showed as the plane banked for its approach landing.

The heat struck you as you came out of the plane and trooped with the others towards the airport building. In Casablanca it had been warm air with a light breeze: hardly enough to make you shed a coat. Warm for February in a latitude still north of the Canary Isles. But Agadir was different.

Nadine Deschamps had been in Agadir in February three years ago making a film and was astonished. Last time there had been a cool wind every day from about noon, and chilly when the sun went down. She remembered after the shooting sitting in the Saada with the director and a few of the other actors, and the women had all worn capes or stoles or coats over their shoulders.

Not so tonight. The air clung hotly, soggily round you. It could have been the tropics.

An impulse decision to come now. Get away from Paris and a failure of a sort. Not a failure in a part but a failure to get a part. That and René Brandin. But the first was the main reason. René had become impractical in his demands, but that of itself had not driven her away.

She had had her sights on the lead in an English film. Through a friend, who was a publisher, she had met the author of the novel, a rather ingenuous but charming young man; and they had struck up what was literally a friendship. He had said he wanted her to play the lead in the film which was shortly to be made of his novel, and that he would do his best to get the part for her. She'd liked the novel, which was set in the days of occupied France, and thought not merely that her appearance as lead in a Rank production, with probable release in America to follow, would advance her stature enormously, but that she could do the author proud by acting the part of a girl whose husband had been shot by the Nazis and thereafter worked for the Resistance herself and helped to infiltrate the German occupying forces. It was a lovely part and she dearly wanted to play it – and had expected to.

There had been objections in some parts of the Rank Organization to making a film in France and about France, it being argued that with the British film industry staggering to survive in the first and worst post-war slump, it was more to be desired that the films made should mirror England and the English way of life – like the Ealing films – rather than try to put on a partly French subject with mainly French actors. (The leading man was to be an Englishman caught up in the tensions of the French Resistance.)