Twenty-one

 

When he returned to the hotel after seeing Egg and Aunt Edith off at the station, Edward found a tall cold-eyed man waiting in the lounge for him.

‘Venturi,’ he said. ‘Vittorio Venturi. I am from Ticino, Italian Switzerland. I have heard of you, Signor Bordilloni.’

‘Good,’ said Edward. ‘How may I be of help?’

‘I am interested in your boats.’

Edward was puzzled. He had been selling chiefly to navies and Switzerland was land-locked.

‘Switzerland is not just a land of mountains,’ Venturi read his mind. ‘She has lakes. Four of them have common frontiers with other countries. We need to see they are well patrolled. We don’t expect our neighbours to attack us. However, we do need to patrol the border down the centre of the lakes. For smugglers. We are thinking of several boats. I assume for more than one the price would be reduced. And that if there were any hold-up, you would forfeit some of the price as a compensation for the delay.’

Edward was reminded why the Swiss were considered such good businessmen.

‘How do you see my idea, Signor Bordilloni?’

Edward smiled. ‘I see it very clearly, Signor Venturi. And the name, by the way, is Bourdillon.’

 

Leroux’s wife was a slim good-looking woman with thick blonde hair. The ‘family’ comprised one member, a daughter, Kristiana.

‘We call her Krissie,’ Leroux said. ‘My son Trompie’s not here. He’s holding the fort till we get home.’

Krissie Leroux was slender and blonde like her mother, and possessed a wide smile and violet eyes. She showed some interest in the plans that were spread between the coffee cups after dinner, but began to get fidgety as her father fussed over details.

‘When can you deliver?’ Leroux asked, eventually.

‘Directly. To your own slip at Saldanha Bay. We can also arrange for someone to be there with her if you wish.’

‘Ag, man, we don’t need experts. I’ve got a dozen of my own. Send us a manual and the plans and we can handle it.’

When they discussed prices, Leroux suddenly said, ‘You’re a bit young, man, aren’t you, to be handling goods at those figures. You can’t be much older than my daughter, here.’

‘My age is no barrier to experience,’ Edward replied, vaguely irritated.

It was at this point that Krissie joined in. ‘Hey, Pa,’ she said. ‘Sometimes you are slow. This is the Edward Bourdillon.’

‘Which Edward Bourdillon?’

‘The small boat expert. The Edward Bourdillon who sank that Turkish ammunition ship.’

‘With a Bourdillon 45,’ Edward added. ‘Same boat I’m offering you, Mr Leroux.’

It didn’t take much longer to shake hands on a deal.

As midnight approached, Leroux rose, scooping up the papers to study later. His wife had long since grown bored and vanished.

‘Krissie?’

‘I’ll stay here a bit, Pa.’

Leroux kissed her and headed for the stairs.

‘I’ve had more than enough of boats for today,’ Krissie said. ‘I went on an endless dreary steamer trip down the lake. I think I’d like a bit of terra firma for a change. Do you fancy some fresh air?’

They walked for a while in silence, then Krissie slipped her arm through his and steered him to a patch of deep shadow under the trees. When he kissed her, she kissed him back enthusiastically.

‘Hey, man,’ she said. ‘It’s too damn cold here. I’ve never understood why people go barmy over Switzerland. When it isn’t snowing it’s raining. I have some booze in the hotel. Let’s go back there.’

There was no nonsense about Krissie Leroux. Back in the room she offered him a drink he didn’t have time to swallow, and started taking her clothes off.

‘Why don’t you come to Cape Town?’ she asked as she nestled close to him afterwards. ‘Sell a boat or two down there. And spend some time with me.’

Edward kissed her forehead, and ran his hands through her luxuriant hair. ‘I’ve been to Cape Town,’ he said.

‘Where did you stay? The Mount Nelson?’

‘Not exactly. The Missions to Seamen.’

‘If you came back with us, Pa would find you a job, I know he would.’

‘Not if he knew about this, he wouldn’t.’

 

When the Leroux family left for England, Edward headed for Naples, reflecting that there was another side to selling boats that could be very exciting, and sometimes exhausting.

Sam was still lying low while Rosina and her sister made up their minds which of them was more interested in him. But the Bulgarian ambassador in Rome had some positive news.

‘His Majesty,’ he informed Edward, ‘has a seaside villa near Varna. He feels a boat could be very useful when he’s there.’

‘What would he use it for?’ Edward asked. ‘Fishing?’

The ambassador wrinkled his nose. ‘King Ferdinand does not fish.’

‘What does he do?’

‘He amuses himself. His Majesty finds it a most amusing idea to drive himself from his palace in Sofia to the station, then drive himself by train to the coast, and finally drive or steer, or whatever people do, to Varna. He regrets the delay in letting you know but matters are extremely delicate at the moment.’

Edward looked sideways at the ambassador. Something was definitely in the wind. The nations of Europe were on edge. France was worried about Germany. The Germans were envious of Britain and nervous of Russia. Russia was seething with discontent. Italy was itching to prove herself. And newspapers had been calling the Balkans the powder keg.

The ambassador smiled. ‘There will be no war I can assure you. The King would not be contemplating buying anything so expensive as a fleet of boats if there were a danger of war.’

‘A fleet of boats?’ Edward’s heart leapt.

‘Why not? He has a fleet of motor cars.’

Returning to England, Edward found the boats couldn’t be ready for Bulgaria before the end of the month, so he concentrated on seeing the boat Leroux had bought prepared for its journey from Southampton to Cape Town. Shipping boats had become almost second nature by this time.

There was plenty to do and he cabled Sam that he was staying in England until he could see the King of Bulgaria’s boats off, and would then take the train to Naples to be there when they arrived. The only ship he had been able to find which was going anywhere near the Black Sea was a small French freighter called the Maréchal MacMahon carrying mules and other assorted cargo. It was due in at Southampton in a month’s time from South America and would be loading its extra cargo before leaving for Naples, Taranto, Athens, Smyrna in Turkey, Istanbul and Batum before doubling back and touching Bulgaria at Varna.

‘Why can’t she go to Varna immediately after Istanbul and then go to Batum, which is at the other side of the Black Sea?’ Edward asked.

‘Because,’ the clerk pointed out, ‘what we’ve loaded for Varna is underneath what we’ve loaded for Batum so that the Batum cargo – the mules – must be unloaded first.’

‘Why the hell don’t you load the other way round?’

The clerk sniffed. ‘We take cargoes as they come. If a cargo arrives, we take it, before it goes to someone else. We then have to follow the routes they dictate. There’s no choice. Not if you want to stay in business. Your boats will have to go as deck cargo, which means that at Batum they’ll have to be unloaded. They will then be reloaded for the ship to proceed to Varna.’

‘Then so be it,’ said Edward, shaking his head.

The next day he borrowed Egg’s car to go and see Georgina. The ghastly curate was just leaving and he smiled thinly at Edward. Georgina looked rather flustered and Edward wondered what on earth they had been up to. The Vicar was attending a meeting at Porthelt and his wife was visiting sick relatives in Plymouth. There was only the maid in and she was in the kitchen with what Georgina called ‘her follower’.

‘Come upstairs,’ she said skittishly, and was unbuttoning her blouse as soon as the door shut behind them.

 

‘Georgina,’ Edward said as they combed their hair and smoothed themselves out. ‘All this sneaking about is ridiculous. I can’t relax. You’re terrified the maid will walk in. Come away with me.’

‘Come away? Where to?’

‘A hotel, for God’s sake. Other people do.’

‘Where could we go?’

‘Have you any friends who’d swear you’d spent the night with them?’

‘Mother’s coming back tomorrow morning. I can arrange to go to my ancient aunt’s the day afterwards. I can’t stay there because the house is too small so I can arrange to spend the night at the George in Exeter. You could meet me there.’

Two days later, announcing he was off to Exeter to see Sam’s sister, Edward took the train west. He spotted Georgina at the other end of the platform, half-hidden by steam. She was dressed in her favourite blue. He pretended not to notice her but changed compartments as the train stopped at Bournemouth.

For safety, they ate at a different hotel, having first surveyed the scene to make sure there was no one there who could possibly know them. Georgina drank more wine than Edward believed she could and was a little light-headed as they rode in a cab to the George. Dropping her at the door, Edward rode the cab a few hundred yards down the road, where he dismissed it and walked back to the hotel.

Georgina flew into his arms, when he walked into her room. ‘This isn’t something I make a habit of,’ she said, as they paused for breath. ‘I think we’re being very wicked.’

He kissed her hard on the lips. There was a new-found experience in the way her mouth and tongue moved against his, in the ease with which she divested herself of her clothing, the eagerness with which she wrenched at his shirt, even the way she moved against him.

‘Can’t we telegraph your parents that you have to stay another day?’ Edward nipped her gently on the ear.

‘It won’t be necessary,’ she said. ‘They already think I’m going to visit Stonehenge on the way back. It’s something Father’s always saying I should do. So now I’ll do it. We can stay at a little hotel in Salisbury I know of.’

He looked at her curiously.

‘A friend of mine stayed there,’ she said. ‘A friend from school.’

The Pheasant in Salisbury was smaller and more rudimentary than the George, but it seemed clean and the clerk’s expression didn’t flicker when Edward asked for a double room.

A group of farmers fresh from the market and full of drink suddenly spilled into Reception, and the two lovers beat a hasty retreat. Slamming the door behind them, they kissed hungrily, before falling heavily across the bed. The giggles lasted only for a minute before they became silent.

They ate quietly in the hotel dining-room, while the farmers guffawed, glugged and drank themselves even sillier. Afterwards, arm in arm, Edward and Georgina walked together through the centre of town as darkness fell. Edward felt proud and possessive because heads turned to look at her. He even wondered if he should suggest they get married. But her chatter was light and bubbling, and Edward opted for caution. Marriage was a big step – one that Sam, who was more experienced, was obviously hesitant to take. Edward felt too young to die.

They had a glass of Armagnac in the bar, sitting close together in a corner in the shadows before retiring to their room. A couple of farmers were left, glazed and sleepy. To his surprise, Georgina suggested another drink. Edward was surprised, and assumed that perhaps Georgina had acquired the taste for brandy from the occasional nip from the medicine cupboard, when the boredom at the Vicarage was too much to bear.

As he slid the bolt home in their room, Georgina fell into his arms. The drink seemed to have smoothed away any lingering inhibitions. Georgina made love with lascivious abandon. And later Edward found himself saying, ‘Georgy. Why don’t we get married?’

‘Good God, why?’ she murmured sleepily.

He didn’t persist.

 

Paying the bill next morning, Edward asked for a cab to be called.

‘Oh, by the way sir,’ said the clerk. ‘You forgot to sign the register. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to do it now.’

Edward momentarily was flummoxed. Mr and Mrs John Smith was the best he could come up with. He decided to be an accountant and to live in Yeovil. And while the clerk’s attention was distracted by an inquiry from a very pale and bloodshot farmer, Edward flipped idly through the register, wondering how many other Smiths had spent the night there.

There was at least one. His home was claimed to be Ely and his profession was given as publisher. Slamming the book shut, Edward picked up his bag and headed for the door. The cab had arrived and, tipping the boy, he climbed in after Georgina and they drove to the station together.

Edward hadn’t the slightest doubt who John Smith, publisher, of Ely, was. The signature and the writing were full of ostentatious curlicues. It was equally clear who Mrs Smith had been.