The Lighthearted Quest (3 page)

“I can do Spain later,” Julia pursued, “if I draw a blank on the coasts of High Barbary.”

“How shall you go?—fly?” Mrs. Hathaway enquired. She was delighted, secretly, that Julia was showing up so well.

“Oh, no, I think not. Some boat—if I'm going to look for a boat, I'd rather start on a boat, to get the feel of the thing, if you follow me. I'll ring up some of the lines later—if you'll let me?” she said to Edina, who registered suddenly how agreeable these pretty manners were; she knew that Julia would pay for her calls, but the question was graceful. “Of course,” she said.

Julia got up and went over again to the atlas, and gazed at it.

“The Lynches are in Casablanca,” she said. “They might know something. He's in some bank, and banks know a lot.”

“I shouldn't have thought Colin used a bank much, except to wheedle the manager into letting him overdraw,” said Edina.

“Where's his account now? Still in Cambridge, or up here, or where?” Julia asked. “Is it still open?”

“Goodness, we never thought of that. I've no idea. It used to be in Duntroon, with a pay-in and pay-out account in some bank at Cambridge, like I had at Oxford.”

“Well, let's ring up Duntroon now, and see if it's still there.”

This was done, by Edina. Mr. Maclntyre, the agent, protesting that it was against the regulations, nevertheless vouchsafed the information—“just for you privately, Miss Monro, since I know ye all so well”—that Mr. Colin had closed his account some nine months ago; the balance had been transferred to the Banque Regié Turque in Casablanca.

“There you are!” said Julia triumphantly. “Where a man's bank-account is, there shall his body be also, at least occasionally. We're getting warmer.”

“Can there really be a branch of the Banque Regié Turque in Casablanca?” Mrs. Hathaway asked. “It seems most extraordinary. I thought that was purely a Turkish thing.”

“Well, Mr. Maclntyre would never pay sixpence into a non-existent bank,” said Edina—“There must be. Look!” she exclaimed suddenly—“Nine months ago. But that's just when he stopped writing!”

“Who, Colin?” Julia asked.

“Yes—at least we've never heard since then. He didn't write all that often before, but there's never been such a long gap as this.”

“Well, this may be where Paddy Lynch will come in,” said Julia—“one banker will sometimes talk to another banker. I'd certainly better look in at Casablanca. But Edina, why don't you write to him there, care of the Banque Regié Turque? It seems the firmest address you've had.”

“Well, we could,” said Edina dubiously—“but he never answers. If you're going out I should hardly have thought it worth while.”

“Oh, very well. In that case, Edina, I think I'll start getting onto the shipping lines: some of them must have offices in Glasgow.”

“It's frightfully expensive before the cheap time begins,” said Edina.

“Ah, and they're shut when it does. No, on we go; I'll try
to remember to put the charges to expense account,” said Julia, with another of those slow pleasing grins. “I'll have them all A. D. & C.”

The shipping lines were not very fruitful. Most of the big liners no longer call at Gibraltar when outward bound for Australia or the Far East, and the few that do were booked out till mid-March with sun-seeking Britons. Julie established this fact in a way that amused Edina and Mrs. Hathaway. The bookings were mostly made in London, the shipping clerks told her; they couldn't really say in Glasgow—with languid firmness Julia told them to ring up London, and call her back “collect”. “Oh, reverse the charge, if you don't know what ‘collect' means,” she intoned slowly. “This is urgent—I'm the Press. Do please get on with it.” They got on with it, and reported these negative results. Julia, scribbling pounds shillings and pence on the telephone pad, said—“Well, that's useless.”

“Why not try a cargo-boat?” said Mrs. Hathaway. “I believe they go to all sorts of small places, and if you want to get the ‘feel', as you say, of a banana-boat, or whatever Colin's is, that should be just the thing.”

“A good idea,” Julia agreed.

“Do you get sea-sick?” Edina put in. “Cargo-boats can be pretty small—I had some chums who went to Greece on one, and it was tiny.”

“No—never sea-sick. Yes, a cargo-boat is undoubtedly the thing, but I expect I could fix that more easily in London. In fact, Edina, I think I'd better flash off again tomorrow and get onto it; poor Aunt Ellen, she's in a dismal frenzy herself, and I'm sure driving you frantic—quite apart from your firm howling for you. Do you mind if I ring up Renfrew for a passage? Oh, what a pity—it is so nice up here. I do love Glentoran.”

“Well, this is the London Docks, lady,” said the taxi-man to Julia a week later, pulling up at a huge gateway beyond which black-looking buildings loomed through a grey downpour of rain. “Know which shed you want?”

“Number Nine,” said Julia, consulting a paper which the shipping company had given her.

“Ought to be a policeman,” said the taxi-driver.

“Hoot,” said Julia.

When the driver hooted a policeman appeared from a sort of sentry-box by the gates, and asked what Julia wanted.

“The
Vidago.”

“May I see your ticket, please?” He inspected it, and looked curiously at Julia through the cab window; then directed the driver.

“Go along as far as you can, straight, and then turn right. You'll see her lying.” The taxi passed through the big gates, and proceeded slowly over cobbles gleaming in the rain; the buildings formed a sort of canyon, its floor nearly as wet as a river-bed; short broad spaces led off it on one side, piled with crates and wine-barrels; more wine-barrels cluttered the canyon-floor itself—Julia had never seen so many wine-barrels in her life. At length they reached a transverse road; the taxi turned right, and in a few seconds came to the water, where nearly a hundred yards away a ship lay moored alongside the berth.

“That'll be her,” said the driver.

Julia stared at the boat with the curiosity which everyone feels about a ship they are to travel on. She was prepared for it to be small, for she knew the
Vidago
to be only thirteen hundred tons, but she was startled by its extreme dirtiness. All the paintwork that should have been white was smeared
with black grime, or stained and mottled with rust; it looked very unappetising.

The driver got out, turning up his collar, and began to unstrap her suitcases.

“Oh, leave those,” said Julia. “I don't want them put down in this mess.” The quayside was quite as filthy as the ship, and wetter. “I'll go and find a steward or someone—wait, please.” And she walked off towards the boat along the strip of cement between the water and the open-fronted shed from which goods were embarked, a big resonant place as dirty as everything else, full of crates of goods and, she noted, tractors—innumerable tractors. Her progress was presently blocked by a crane, from whose control cabin, forty feet above her head, a monkey-faced man in blue jeans peered out at her curiously; to circumvent this obstacle she took to the shed, where four or five men were languidly mounting crates on outsize luggage-barrows; re-emerging onto the quay she found herself at the
Vidago's
gangway. This was almost surrealist, she thought; it consisted of a sort of ladder of black slimy wooden steps, with dirty ropes for hand-rails, mounting to the deck of the
Vidago
at an angle of some thirty-five degrees. Julia surveyed it with distaste, and instead of attempting the disagreeable ascent, stood still and shouted.

A porthole close above her was pushed open, and a huge red face poked through it. “Who d'ye want?” it enquired.

“Someone to bring my luggage aboard,” said Julia.

“Och, I don't know that there's anyone here—they're mostly ashore,” said the red face.

“But we're sailing at four. I'm the passenger,” said Julia.

“We're only sailing tomorrow, no the nicht,” the face pronounced; it then withdrew, closing the porthole.

“Oh,
God!”
said Julia, crossly and loudly. She stood for a moment, undecided what to do next. To spend the next twenty-four hours in these surroundings was a dismal prospect; on the other hand her taxi was going to cost a fortune, with
all that luggage—it seemed absurd to pay it twice over. (Mrs. Hathaway was quite right about Julia's sensible views as to what it was worth spending money on.) She determined to get most of her stuff on board at once, somehow, and walked back towards the taxi; passing as before through the cargo-shed she looked round for a barrow, found one, and wheeled it out along the quay—as she passed below the crane she was once more hailed from above, this time by the monkey-faced man in the cabin atop of it.

“Want help with your baggage, Miss?”

“Yes, please,” Julia called up; on reaching the taxi she and the driver began to pile her suitcases onto the barrow. They had just finished this task and she was paying off the cab when two individuals came up simultaneously—one the crane-driver, the other a tall man with a curly brown beard, in a very shabby nautical uniform and a peaked cap.

“Can I help?” the newcomer asked.

“Oh, I think this kind person is going to take my stuff aboard the
Vidago
for me—there seems to be no one else to do it,” said Julia coldly. She was feeling extremely cross.

“I'm the mate of the
Vidago,”
said the bearded man. “I'll send the boy along—this chap can't go aboard. But we're not sailing till tomorrow, you know.”

“I know nothing of the sort,” said Julia, more coldly still. “Your passenger manager or whatever he calls himself told me yesterday at six o'clock to be here at three sharp, to sail at four, and I have no contrary instructions.”

“Ah yes, but there's been a hold-up,” said the bearded man. “Very sorry.” He spoke with a very cultivated accent, which contrasted sharply with his shabby appearance.

“I'm sorry too, but I can't help that,” said Julia—“I and my luggage are coming aboard
now,
according to schedule. Carry on—take it to the gangway,” she said to the crane-driver.

A grin appeared in the depths of the mate's beard.

“Oh, very well,” he said.

“If your ‘boy' can drag this up your ladder and put it in my cabin, he had better,” said Julia, walking off after the crane-driver and the barrow; the mate, his grin expanding in his beard, followed.

Her cabin, when she reached it, after negotiating the precipitous gangway and following the mate along decks as black and filthy as the rest of the ship, proved a rather agreeable surprise. It was quite a sizable little room, containing besides a substantial bunk with drawers below it, a hanging-cupboard, a desk-cum-chest of drawers, a fitted basin, and a big padded sofa built against the bulkhead.

“Fine,” said Julia, looking around her. “But my luggage won't all go in here. Stop,” she said firmly to the boy, who was beginning to pile her cases onto the sofa—“only bring in what I tell you. Yes, the typewriter, and those two small ones; that's all for here.” She turned to the officer, who loomed, still grinning slightly, in the passageway outside, and asked—“Where does the rest go? You would hardly have a baggage-room, with only one passenger?”

“No, afraid not.”

“Well, will you have it put somewhere—
dry”
said Julia calmly.

“Is the pilot's cabin unlocked?” the first officer asked the boy.

“Yessir.”

“All right—put it in there.”

The pilot's cabin was next door to Julia's, similarly furnished and equally large; she supervised the stowing of the rest of her luggage in it, remarking, “Very handy,” to the mate.

“You all right now?” he asked, still looking amused.

“No. I must have the keys to lock both these cabins. You can't leave cabins unlocked in port,” said Julia. “And then I want to telephone, as there's this delay. Is the ship connected up by telephone?”

“No—not a liner, you know,” said the mate. “But you Could ring up from the agents' office on the quay.”

“Where is that?”

“I'll show you,”—and the keys having been produced by the boy, he led her down the gang-ladder again and along the shed to a small door with a roughly-painted label outside which read “Forres Line. No Admittance”.

“Thanks,” said Julia briefly; the bearded man, still grinning slightly, raised his hand to his cap and walked off.

The office was a grubby little hole in which a red-haired individual sat at a desk, telephoning; another, wearing a felt hat and a stained raincoat, stood by the window, which was smothered in cobwebs, holding up long yellowish sheets of paper to catch the last light of the winter's afternoon, and occasionally calling out figures to the one at the telephone, who repeated them down it; a third was tinkering with a very small electric fire, on which he succeeded in balancing a kettle just as Julia walked in. They all looked up, and the man at the telephone, saying, “Hold on,” asked if she wanted anything?

“To telephone, when the line is free; to the head office,” Julia replied.

The man with the kettle, who was very old, removed a pile of ledgers and a couple of beer-bottles from a chair, of which he dusted the seat with his sleeve before offering it to her; she sat down and waited. Presently the list came to an end, and the man at the desk asked her who she wanted at head office.

“The passenger manager.”

The passenger manager was ‘not available'.

“Find out when he will be, please, and tell him to ring back. Miss Probyn to speak to him.—Can I wait here?” she asked.

“Oh, surely. Have one of mine,” said the man at the window, as she pulled out her cigarette case. He looked at her subdued elegance curiously. “You're not for the
Vidago?”