well-deserved spell of leave, shall we say?’
‘Yes.’ Swan returned the smile, hoping it appeared as genuine as did Meridor’s. ‘Let’s say that.’
And so Eldritch Swan found himself back on dry land much sooner than he had expected – high and dry, as it seemed to him. He was received in Dover by grim-faced customs officials and assorted posters declaiming wartime regulations that he had no wish to become familiar with but suspected he would have to. By the time various forms had been completed in triplicate relating to his trunkload of fine art, the SS
Uitlander
had left the harbour. His last sight of it was as a parallaxed speck on the south-western horizon, viewed through the salt-grimed windows of the customs shed.
Half an hour later, he was standing on the platform of Dover Marine station, waiting with a miserably dressed and generally downcast crowd of other travellers for the next train to London. The trunk and his suitcase stood beside him on a barrow, a porter having been promised half-a-crown to load the trunk in the guard’s van when the train arrived. Swan was leaning against the barrow, smoking a cigarette and trying very hard to stave off depression. He would not have refused a nip from Verhoest’s brandy flask now. He had begun to realize just how much he had been looking forward to revisiting New York. Glamour, bright lights and the best of everything were not, he felt certain, to be found in wartime London.
‘Mr Swan?’
The voice had carried from some distance. As Swan turned in itsdirection, he saw a man in a well-cut suit, trilby and brightly striped tie striding towards him along the platform, capped brogues ringing on the asphalt. He was grey-haired, with a moustache and the rugged, ruddy looks of a hard-drinking man of the world. Swan would have put his age at sixty or so and reckoned his profession as something on the dodgier fringes of finance – but for an instant suspicion that he was actually an art dealer with a gallery in St James’s.
‘Cardale’s the name. Geoffrey Cardale.’ He extended a hand as he approached. ‘You
are
Eldritch Swan, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. I …’ They shook. ‘I wasn’t expecting to be met.’
‘I thought I’d drive down and spare you the anguish of transporting Meridor’s pictures on whatever wreck of a train Southern Railways deign to lay on for you. Travel’s generally become a nightmare since they brought in petrol rationing.’ This begged the question of how Cardale had been able to drive to Dover, but it was not a question Swan had any intention of asking. ‘What say we track down a porter to stow this trunk in my car and see if there’s anything to overtake on the way back to London?’
Naturally, Swan raised no objection. Soon they were speeding north through the Kent countryside on an eerily empty road in Cardale’s Lagonda V12, sunlight flashing on its burnished bonnet. It was a perfect spring evening. Swan’s depression was beginning to lift. And it was about to vanish altogether.
‘I imagine you’ll be kicking your heels until you hear from Meridor,’ said Cardale as he began to give the car its head. ‘Unless you’re planning to enlist right away.’
‘Well, I …’
‘They’ll keep you waiting even if you do. There’s quite a queue, so they tell me. Especially for chaps your age.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes. So you might consider helping me out at the gallery pro tem, in return for the use of the flat above, currently lying idle. My young assistant’s gone off to train as a pilot in the RAF, luckydog, leaving job and flat both vacant. Meridor evidently rates you highly, which is good enough for me. Interested?’
Swan’s reply was a masterpiece of understatement. ‘I think I might be, yes.’
EIGHT
Swan persuaded himself that Meridor would have wanted him to accept Cardale’s offer on the grounds that it meant he could keep a close eye on his Picassos. Not literally, of course, since Cardale
‘Yes.’ Swan returned the smile, hoping it appeared as genuine as did Meridor’s. ‘Let’s say that.’
And so Eldritch Swan found himself back on dry land much sooner than he had expected – high and dry, as it seemed to him. He was received in Dover by grim-faced customs officials and assorted posters declaiming wartime regulations that he had no wish to become familiar with but suspected he would have to. By the time various forms had been completed in triplicate relating to his trunkload of fine art, the SS
Uitlander
had left the harbour. His last sight of it was as a parallaxed speck on the south-western horizon, viewed through the salt-grimed windows of the customs shed.
Half an hour later, he was standing on the platform of Dover Marine station, waiting with a miserably dressed and generally downcast crowd of other travellers for the next train to London. The trunk and his suitcase stood beside him on a barrow, a porter having been promised half-a-crown to load the trunk in the guard’s van when the train arrived. Swan was leaning against the barrow, smoking a cigarette and trying very hard to stave off depression. He would not have refused a nip from Verhoest’s brandy flask now. He had begun to realize just how much he had been looking forward to revisiting New York. Glamour, bright lights and the best of everything were not, he felt certain, to be found in wartime London.
‘Mr Swan?’
The voice had carried from some distance. As Swan turned in itsdirection, he saw a man in a well-cut suit, trilby and brightly striped tie striding towards him along the platform, capped brogues ringing on the asphalt. He was grey-haired, with a moustache and the rugged, ruddy looks of a hard-drinking man of the world. Swan would have put his age at sixty or so and reckoned his profession as something on the dodgier fringes of finance – but for an instant suspicion that he was actually an art dealer with a gallery in St James’s.
‘Cardale’s the name. Geoffrey Cardale.’ He extended a hand as he approached. ‘You
are
Eldritch Swan, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. I …’ They shook. ‘I wasn’t expecting to be met.’
‘I thought I’d drive down and spare you the anguish of transporting Meridor’s pictures on whatever wreck of a train Southern Railways deign to lay on for you. Travel’s generally become a nightmare since they brought in petrol rationing.’ This begged the question of how Cardale had been able to drive to Dover, but it was not a question Swan had any intention of asking. ‘What say we track down a porter to stow this trunk in my car and see if there’s anything to overtake on the way back to London?’
Naturally, Swan raised no objection. Soon they were speeding north through the Kent countryside on an eerily empty road in Cardale’s Lagonda V12, sunlight flashing on its burnished bonnet. It was a perfect spring evening. Swan’s depression was beginning to lift. And it was about to vanish altogether.
‘I imagine you’ll be kicking your heels until you hear from Meridor,’ said Cardale as he began to give the car its head. ‘Unless you’re planning to enlist right away.’
‘Well, I …’
‘They’ll keep you waiting even if you do. There’s quite a queue, so they tell me. Especially for chaps your age.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes. So you might consider helping me out at the gallery pro tem, in return for the use of the flat above, currently lying idle. My young assistant’s gone off to train as a pilot in the RAF, luckydog, leaving job and flat both vacant. Meridor evidently rates you highly, which is good enough for me. Interested?’
Swan’s reply was a masterpiece of understatement. ‘I think I might be, yes.’
EIGHT
Swan persuaded himself that Meridor would have wanted him to accept Cardale’s offer on the grounds that it meant he could keep a close eye on his Picassos. Not literally, of course, since Cardale
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