Then he crumpled it up and put it into his pocket. The original he stared at for some time whilst he considered and rejected various possibilities.
Finally, with a slight smile, he folded and refolded it until he had a small oblong. Taking a stick of plasticine (without which he never travelled) out of his bag, he first wrapped his packet in oilskin cut from his sponge-bag, then encased it in plasticine. This done he rolled and patted out the plasticine till he had a smooth surface. On this he rolled out an impression from a cylinder seal that he had with him.
He studied the result with grim appreciation.
It showed a beautifully carved design of the Sun God Shamash armed with the Sword of Justice.
‘Let’s hope that’s a good omen,’ he said to himself.
That evening, when he looked in the pocket of the coat he had worn in the morning, the screwed-up paper had gone.
Chapter 7
Life, thought Victoria, life at last! Sitting in her seat at Airways Terminal there had come the magic moment when the words ‘Passengers for Cairo, Baghdad and Tehran, take your places in the bus, please,’ had been uttered.
Magic names, magic words. Devoid of glamour to Mrs Hamilton Clipp who, as far as Victoria could make out, had spent a large portion of her life jumping from boats into aeroplanes and from aeroplanes into trains with brief intervals at expensive hotels in between. But to Victoria they were a marvellous change from the oft-repeated phrases, ‘Take down, please, Miss Jones.’ ‘This letter’s full of mistakes. You’ll have to type it again, Miss Jones.’ ‘The kettle’s boiling, ducks, just make the tea, will you.’ ‘I know where you can get the most marvellous perm.’ Trivial boring everyday happenings! And now: Cairo, Baghdad, Tehran – all the romance of the glorious East (and Edward at the end of it)…
Victoria returned to earth to hear her employer, whom she had already diagnosed as a non-stop talker, concluding a series of remarks by saying:
‘– and nothing really
Victoria listened dutifully to these depressing remarks, but her own sense of glamour remained undimmed. Dirt and germs meant nothing in her young life. They arrived at Heathrow and she assisted Mrs Clipp to alight from the bus. She was already in charge of passports, tickets, money, etc.
‘My,’ said that lady, ‘it certainly is a comfort to have you with me, Miss Jones. I just don’t know what I’d have done if I’d had to travel alone.’
Travelling by air, Victoria thought, was rather like being taken on a school treat. Brisk teachers, kind but firm, were at hand to shepherd you at every turn. Air hostesses, in trim uniform with the authority of nursery governesses dealing with feeble-minded children explained kindly just what you were to do. Victoria almost expected them to preface their remarks with ‘Now, children.’
Tired-looking young gentlemen behind desks extended weary hands to check passports, to inquire intimately of money and jewellery. They managed to induce a sense of guilt in those questioned. Victoria, suggestible by nature, knew a sudden longing to describe her one meagre brooch as a diamond tiara value ten thousand pounds, just to see the expression on the bored young man’s face. Thoughts of Edward restrained her.
The various barriers passed, they sat down to wait once more in a large room giving directly on the aerodrome. Outside the roar of a plane being revved up gave the proper background. Mrs Hamilton Clipp was now happily engaged in making a running commentary on their fellow travellers.
‘Aren’t those two little children just too cute for words? But what an ordeal to travel alone with a couple of children. British, I guess they are. That’s a well-cut suit the mother has on. She looks kind of tired, though. That’s a good-looking man – rather Latin looking, I’d say. What a loud check that man has on – I’d call it very bad taste. Business, I guess. That man over there’s a Dutchman, he was just ahead of us at the controls. That family over there is either Turkish or Persian, I should say. There don’t seem to be any Americans. I guess they go mostly Pan American. I’d say those three men talking together are Oil, wouldn’t you? I just love looking at people and wondering about them. Mr Clipp says to me I’ve got real yen for human nature. It seems to me just natural to take an interest in your fellow creatures. Wouldn’t you say that mink coat over there cost every bit of three thousand dollars?’
Mrs Clipp sighed. Having duly appraised her fellow travellers she became restless.
‘I’d like to know what we are waiting for like this. That plane’s revved up four times. We’re all here. Why can’t they get on with things? They’re certainly not keeping to schedule.’
‘Would you like a cup of coffee, Mrs Clipp? I see there is a buffet at the end of the room.’
‘Why, no, thank you, Miss Jones. I had coffee before I started, and my stomach feels too unsettled right now to take anything more. What are we waiting for, I’d like to know?’
Her question seemed to be answered almost before the words were out of her mouth.
The door leading from the corridor out of the Customs and Passport Department swung open with a rush and a tall man came through with the effect of a gust of wind. Air officials of the line hovered around him. Two large canvas sacks sealed were carried by an officer of BOAC.
Mrs Clipp sat up with alacrity.
‘He’s certainly some big noise,’ she remarked.
‘
There was something of calculated sensationalism about the late traveller. He wore a kind of dark-grey travelling cloak with a capacious hood at the back. On his head was what was in essence a wide sombrero, but in light grey. He had silver grey curling hair, worn rather long, and a beautiful silver grey moustache curling up at the ends. The effect was that of a handsome stage bandit. Victoria, who disliked theatrical men who posed, looked at him with disapproval.
The Air officials were, she noted with displeasure, all over him.
‘Yes, Sir Rupert.’ ‘Of course, Sir Rupert.’ ‘The plane is leaving immediately, Sir Rupert.’
With a swirl of his voluminous cloak, Sir Rupert passed out through the door leading to the aerodrome. The door swung to behind him with vehemence.
‘Sir Rupert,’ murmured Mrs Clipp. ‘Now who would he be, I wonder?’
Victoria shook her head, though she had a vague feeling that the face and general appearance were not unknown to her.
‘Somebody important in your Government,’ suggested Mrs Clipp.
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Victoria.
The few members of the Government she had ever seen had impressed her as men anxious to apologize for being alive. Only on platforms did they spring into pompous and didactic life.
‘Now then, please,’ said the smart nursery governess air hostess. ‘Take your seats in the plane. This way. As quickly as you can, please.’
Her attitude implied that a lot of dawdling children had been keeping the patient grown-ups waiting.
Everybody filed out on to the aerodrome.
The great plane was waiting, its engine ticking over like the satisfied purring of a gigantic lion.
Victoria and a steward helped Mrs Clipp on board and settled her in her seat. Victoria sat next to her on the aisle. Not until Mrs Clipp was comfortably ensconced, and Victoria had fastened her safety-belt, did the girl have leisure to observe that in front of them was sitting the great man.
The doors closed. A few seconds later the plane began to move slowly along the ground.
‘We’re really going,’ thought Victoria in ecstasy. ‘Oh, isn’t it frightening? Suppose it never gets up off the ground? Really, I don’t see how it
During what seemed an age the plane taxied along the aerodrome, then it turned slowly round and stopped. The engines rose to a ferocious roar. Chewing-gum, barley sugar and cotton wool were handed round.
Louder and louder, fiercer and fiercer. Then, once more, the aeroplane moved forward. Mincingly at first, then
