cheerful.
Only as the train drew out of the station and Tommy saw the forlorn little figure walking away down the platform did he feel a lump in his own throat. War or no war he felt he was deserting Tuppence…
He pulled himself together with an effort. Orders were orders.
Having duly arrived in Scotland, he took a train the next day to Manchester. On the third day a train deposited him at Leahampton. Here he went to the principal hotel and on the following day made a tour of various private hotels and guesthouses, seeing rooms and inquiring terms for a long stay.
Sans Souci was a dark red Victorian villa, set on the side of a hill with a good view over the sea from its upper windows. There was a slight smell of dust and cooking in the hall and the carpet was worn, but it compared quite favourably with some of the other establishments Tommy had seen. He interviewed the proprietress, Mrs Perenna, in her office, a small untidy room with a large desk covered with loose papers.
Mrs Perenna herself was rather untidy looking, a woman of middle-age with a large mop of fiercely curling black hair, some vaguely applied make-up and a determined smile showing a lot of very white teeth.
Tommy murmured a mention of his elderly cousin, Miss Meadowes, who had stayed at Sans Souci two years ago. Mrs Perenna remembered Miss Meadowes quite well—such a dear old lady—at least perhaps not really old—very active and such a sense of humour.
Tommy agreed cautiously. There was, he knew, a real Miss Meadowes—the department was careful about these points.
And how was dear Miss Meadowes?
Tommy explained sadly that Miss Meadowes was no more and Mrs Perenna clicked her teeth sympathetically and made the proper noises and put on a correct mourning face.
She was soon talking volubly again. She had, she was sure, just the room that would suit Mr Meadowes. A lovely sea view. She thought Mr Meadowes was so right to want to get out of London. Very depressing nowadays, so she understood, and, of course, after such a bad go of influenza—
Still talking, Mrs Perenna led Tommy upstairs and showed him various bedrooms. She mentioned a weekly sum. Tommy displayed dismay. Mrs Perenna explained that prices had risen so appallingly. Tommy explained that his income had unfortunately decreased and what with taxation and one thing and another—
Mrs Perenna groaned and said:
‘This terrible war—’
Tommy agreed and said that in his opinion that fellow Hitler ought to be hanged. A madman, that’s what he was, a madman.
Mrs Perenna agreed and said that what with rations and the difficulty the butchers had in getting the meat they wanted—and sometimes too much and sweet-breads and liver practically disappeared, it all made housekeeping very difficult, but as Mr Meadowes was a relation of Miss Meadowes, she would make it half a guinea less.
Tommy then beat a retreat with the promise to think it over and Mrs Perenna pursued him to the gate, talking more volubly than ever and displaying an archness that Tommy found most alarming. She was, he admitted, quite a handsome woman in her way. He found himself wondering what her nationality was. Surely not quite English? The name was Spanish or Portuguese, but that would be her husband’s nationality, not hers. She might, he thought, be Irish, though she had no brogue. But it would account for the vitality and the exuberance.
It was finally settled that Mr Meadowes should move in the following day.
Tommy timed his arrival for six o’clock. Mrs Perenna came out into the hall to greet him, threw a series of instructions about his luggage to an almost imbecile-looking maid, who goggled at Tommy with her mouth open, and then led him into what she called the lounge.
‘I always introduce my guests,’ said Mrs Perenna, beaming determinedly at the suspicious glares of five people. ‘This is our new arrival, Mr Meadowes—Mrs O’Rourke.’ A terrifying mountain of a woman with beady eyes and a moustache gave him a beaming smile.
‘Major Bletchley.’ Major Bletchley eyed Tommy appraisingly and made a stiff inclination of the head.
‘Mr von Deinim.’ A young man, very stiff, fair-haired and blue-eyed, got up and bowed.
‘Miss Minton.’ An elderly woman with a lot of beads, knitting with khaki wool, smiled and tittered.
‘And Mrs Blenkensop.’ More knitting—an untidy dark head which lifted from an absorbed contemplation of a Balaclava helmet.
Tommy held his breath, the room spun round.
Mrs Blenkensop! Tuppence! By all that was impossible and unbelievable—Tuppence, calmly knitting in the lounge of Sans Souci.
Her eyes met his—polite, uninterested stranger’s eyes.
His admiration rose.
Tuppence!
How Tommy got through that evening he never quite knew. He dared not let his eyes stray too often in the direction of Mrs Blenkensop. At dinner three more habitués of Sans Souci appeared—a middle-aged couple, Mr and Mrs Cayley, and a young mother, Mrs Sprot, who had come down with her baby girl from London and was clearly much bored by her enforced stay at Leahampton. She was placed next to Tommy and at intervals fixed him with a pair of pale gooseberry eyes and in a slightly adenoidal voice asked: ‘Don’t you think it’s really quite safe now? Everyone’s going back, aren’t they?’
Before Tommy could reply to these artless queries, his neighbour on the other side, the beaded lady, struck in:
‘What I say is one mustn’t risk anything with children. Your sweet little Betty. You’d never forgive yourself and you know that Hitler has said the Blitzkrieg on England is coming quite soon now—and quite a new kind of gas, I believe.’
Major Bletchley cut in sharply:
‘Lot of nonsense talked about gas. The fellows won’t waste time fiddling round with gas. High explosive and incendiary bombs. That’s what was done in Spain.’
The whole table plunged into the argument with gusto. Tuppence’s voice, high-pitched and slightly fatuous, piped out: ‘My son Douglas says—’
‘Douglas, indeed,’ thought Tommy. ‘Why Douglas, I should like to know.’
After dinner, a pretentious meal of several meagre courses, all of which were equally tasteless, everyone drifted into the lounge. Knitting was resumed and Tommy was compelled to hear a long and extremely boring account of Major Bletchley’s experiences on the North-West Frontier.
The fair young man with the bright blue eyes went out, executing a little bow on the threshold of the room.
Major Bletchley broke off his narrative and administered a kind of dig in the ribs to Tommy.
‘That fellow who’s just gone out. He’s a refugee. Got out of Germany about a month before the war.’
‘He’s a German?’
‘Yes.
