But relief was at hand. Betty Bellefoy, who was in the estimation of the school the prettiest of the three parlour maids, took advantage of Matron’s inattention and swept down upon him to whisk his plate away, replacing it with a dish of stewed plums and custard.
“Thanks, Betty,” Jackie said, grateful.
“Ah, go on with you,” said Betty comfortably.
Jackie spent a long time over his stewed plums. The longer he took, the longer he could postpone his encounter with Rapson. Anything might happen. The school might catch fire. Perhaps his parents would appear in the doorway, or perhaps Uncle Dougal or perhaps the Brighton aunts. (Not impossible. They had once made an unscheduled visit.) But relief did not come. There was no way out. He was Sydney Carton on the scaffold; he was Henry V at Harfleur; he was Brigadier Gerard. What had he said? — “Courage, mon vieux! Piré took Leipzig with fifty hussars!” He passionately wished that fifty sabre-waving hussars would come clattering into the dining room and raze the school to the ground.
One by one the last remaining staff left. Matron went out closely followed by Mr. Langhorne, which was often the case. And Jackie was left alone in the darkening room with Betty. Three plums eaten and the stones carefully arranged on the rim of his dish. Tinker, tailor, soldier.… He counted them again. That was a good place to stop. He’d settle for soldier today. Jackie had been rather taken with the one in the verse Mr. Langhorne had made them learn last week. The swashbuckling chap who was “full of strange oaths … bearded like the pard … sudden and quick in quarrel, seeking the bubble reputation even in the cannon’s mouth.” He wanted desperately to be old enough to swear and have a beard. He’d shown already that he was quick in quarrel. The whole school would be talking about his punch to the Rapson midriff. But, now, in the outfall, he felt much more like the frightened child his father had once hugged and called his “chocolate cream soldier.”
He screwed his eyes shut in an attempt to fight back tears. In his imagination his father’s big hand tightened around his, rough and reassuring.
Two plums remaining … sailor … rich man.… Settle for “rich man”? Money was a good way of getting out of trouble. He would make a lot of it, buy up the whole school and close it down. That wouldn’t be bad. Perhaps he should force down the last two plums? Betty looked anxiously at the big school clock and back at Jackie, her eyes wide with appeal. She sighed.
Good manners overcame even the paralysis of terror, and Jackie roused himself. Never keep a lady waiting. He handed his plate up for the maid, and she dashed off into the kitchens in a gust of relief, muttering a word of thanks.
Time to move on and take his medicine.
He got up and put his chair away. What had Lloyd 2 said? “Don’t worry too much. It’s only a tickle. It’ll be over in five minutes. Brace up, Drummond! You’re a toff! Everyone’s saying so!”
A toff. At least “the bubble reputation” seemed to be coming his way. All he could do was shape up and try to deserve it.
On wobbly legs Jackie crossed the darkened hall, turned into the deserted corridor and began to climb the stairs to Rappo’s room. Into the cannon’s mouth.
CHAPTER 2
CHELSEA, LONDON. 1933.
Joe Sandilands stood looking down on the restless, steel-grey surface of the river reflected in the lights of a tugboat and listened while the bell of Chelsea Old Church struck the hour. His sister Lydia joined him, handing him a glass of whisky.
“The snow’s really coming down now,” she said. “Glad I rang Marcus to say I’d better stay over. Let’s hope it’s no more than a flurry and I can get a train in the morning. I don’t want to be snowed up in Chelsea staring at the Thames for a week.”
“No fun being marooned in London when you’ve already emptied Selfridges of its goodies,” Joe agreed. “I can see that. It’s the only time you’ll deign to visit me-when you need to go shopping.”
“There are compensations.” Lydia grinned. “It’s quiet here. No girls shrieking about the place. No husband asking how much I’ve spent. Grown-up conversation. And I thought, since we seem to be staying in tonight, we could listen to that play on the wireless. We’ll make a start on the box of chocolates we didn’t open at the theatre.”
Joe swished the curtains together, turned on another lamp, and emptied half a scuttle of coal onto the fire. “I loathe February. Nothing much happening.”
“The calm between the New Year madness and the spring urges,” Lydia said, nodding. She looked at the clock. “Come and settle down. Curtain up in two minutes. I say-you won’t be interrupted, will you?”
“That’s the big advantage of my new job. Any bodies found floating in the Thames get the attention of one of my superintendents.” Joe sank into an armchair. “And no one knows I’m here. Well, go on, then. Switch it on.” He eyed the radio console with misgiving. “Warm up its valves, tickle its tubes or whatever you do.”
Lydia approached the gleaming black bakelite altar and knelt before it. She began her ministrations, twiddling knobs and whispering encouragement until, after a series of nerve-rending shrieks and bleeps, a station tuned in. Dance music gushed into the room. A reedy tenor was warbling, “A room with a view and you … ou … ou.…”
Joe laughed. “There! Noel Coward agrees with me. Some girls would appreciate a river view in Chelsea! No-hold that one-the play’s on straight after the Greenwich time signal.”
Jack Hylton’s band signed off in a smooth crescendo, and they’d counted the first five of nine pips when the telephone rang.
“Ah! Somebody knows where you are,” said Lydia.
Warily, Joe went to pick up the receiver. “Flaxman 8891, Joe Sandilands here.”
There was a pause and then a hurried and breathless small voice spoke. A boy’s voice. “Hullo? Hullo? Is that my Uncle Joe?”
Joe paused, unsure how to reply. He flashed a puzzled glance at Lydia. His sister had two offspring, both at home with their father in Surrey. And both girls.
“Yes, this is Joe,” he said carefully, “but who are you?”
“It’s Jackie, sir. Jack Drummond. I think I’m in a terrible crisis. This is an emergency.”
“Drummond?” Joe tried to make sense of what he was hearing. And, suddenly connecting, whispered, “Drummond.”
A recurrent nightmare gripped him, tightening its fingers around his throat. Struggling to find his voice and keep his tone level and reassuring, to sound like the staid old uncle the boy obviously took him for, “Jackie?” he said. “Well, well! Jackie! We’ve never met! You must be … let me think … ten years old by now?”
“Nine actually, sir. I’m going to be ten next month.”
“And where are your parents?”
“They’re in India. They brought me over to school in the summer, stayed for a while, and went back home. I spent Christmas with my aunts in Brighton.”
“I see. And this emergency-you’re going to tell me you’ve run out of pocket money, is that it?”
“No sir. This is real trouble I’m in. I was given your telephone number, but they said I wasn’t to use it unless I was in a crisis.”
“Where are you, Jackie?”
“I’m at Victoria Station. I’m in the stationmaster’s office. The lady policeman brought me here. I hadn’t got a ticket, you see. She’s waiting outside. They’re going to arrest me for traveling without a ticket. I’m scared.…” The voice, which had been resolute, now had a break in it. “What shall I do, Uncle?”
“Well, what you do,” said Joe as calmly as he could, “is three things. First, stop worrying. Second, see if you can get yourself a cup of tea. Third, don’t hang up but put the phone down. Go and get the policewoman to come and speak to me. Oh, and fourth, Jackie, I’ll be there with you in twenty minutes. Look, it’s not the end of the world to be caught traveling without a ticket. I’ll bring some cash and bail you out.”