Night Over Water - Ken Follett [52]
“Liverpool? That’s not far from Ireland.”
“Spare me the travelogue—”
“But the Clipper touches down in Ireland.”
Nancy’s heart skipped a beat. “Are you sure?”
“I read it in the newspaper.”
This changed everything, she realized with a surge of hope. She might be able to make the plane after all! “Where does it come down—Dublin?”
“No, someplace on the west coast. I forget the name. But you might still make it.”
“I’ll check into it and call you later. ’Bye.”
“Hey, Nancy?”
“What?”
“Happy birthday.”
She smiled at the wall. “Mac ... you’re great.”
“Good luck.”
“Goodbye.” She hung up and went back to the desk. The head porter gave her a condescending smile. She resisted the temptation to put him in his place: that would make him even more unhelpful. “I believe the Clipper touches down in Ireland,” she said, forcing herself to sound friendly.
“That’s correct, madam. At Foynes, in the Shannon estuary.”
She wanted to say So why didn’t you tell me that before, you pompous little prick? Instead she smiled and said: “What time?”
He reached for his timetable. “It’s scheduled to land at three thirty and take off again at four thirty.”
“Can I get there by then?”
His tolerant smile vanished and he looked at her with more respect. “I never thought of that,” he said. “It’s a two-hour flight in a small airplane. If you can find a pilot you can do it.”
Her tension went up a notch. This was beginning to look seriously possible. “Get me a taxi to take me to that airfield right away, would you?”
He snapped his fingers at a bellhop. “Taxi for the lady!” He turned back to Nancy. “What about your trunks?” They were now stacked in the lobby. “You won’t get that lot in a small plane.”
“Send them to the ship, please.”
“Very good.”
“Bring my bill as quick as you can.”
“Right away.”
Nancy retrieved her small overnight case from the stack of luggage. In it she had her essential toiletries, makeup and a change of underwear. She opened a suitcase and found a clean blouse for tomorrow morning, in plain navy blue silk, and a nightdress and bathrobe. Over her arm she carried a light gray cashmere coat, which she had intended to wear on deck if the wind was cold. She decided to keep it with her now: she might need it to keep warm in the plane.
She closed up her bags.
“Your bill, Mrs. Lenehan.”
She scribbled a check and handed it over with a tip.
“Very kind of you, Mrs. Lenehan. The taxi is waiting.”
She hurried outside and climbed into a cramped little British car. The porter put her overnight case on the seat beside her and gave instructions to the driver. Nancy added: “And go as fast as you can!”
The car went infuriatingly slowly through the city center. She tapped the toe of her gray suede shoe impatiently. The delay was caused by men painting white lines down the middle of the road, on the curbs and around roadside trees. She wondered irritably what their purpose was; then she figured out the lines were to help motorists in the blackout.
The taxi picked up speed as it wound through the suburbs and headed into the country. Here she saw no preparations for war. The Germans would not bomb fields, unless by accident. She kept looking at her watch. It was already twelve thirty. If she found an airplane, and a pilot, and persuaded him to take her, and negotiated a fee, all without delay, she might take off by one o’clock. Two hours’ flight, the porter had said. She would land at three. Then, of course, she would have to find her way from the airfield to Foynes. But that should not be too great a distance. She might well arrive with time to spare. Would there be a car to take her to the dockside? She tried to calm herself. There was no point in worrying that far ahead.
It occurred to her that the Clipper might be full: all the ships were.
She put the thought out of her mind.
She was about to ask her driver how much farther they had to go when, to her grateful relief, he abruptly turned off the road and steered through an open gate into a