The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [188]
“It will be different once we’re in Dover,” he said, without his usual self-confidence.
“I am sure it will be, Henry,” she replied, smiling kindly at him.
The two-hour journey seemed interminable. Passengers of all shapes and sizes squeezed past Henry in the corridor, treading on his Lobb’s handmade leather shoes with the words:
“Sorry, sir.”
“Sorry, guv.”
“Sorry, mate.”
Henry put the blame firmly on the shoulders of Clement Attlee and his ridiculous campaign for social equality, and waited for the train to reach Dover Priory Station. The moment the engine pulled in, Henry leaped out of the carriage first, not last, and called for Albert at the top of his voice. Nothing happened, except that a stampede of people rushed past him on their way to the ship. Eventually Henry spotted a porter and rushed over to him, only to find he was already loading up his trolley with someone else’s luggage. Henry sprinted to a second man, and then on to a third, and waved a pound note at a fourth, who came immediately and unloaded the fourteen bags.
“Where to, guv?” asked the porter amicably.
“The ship,” said Henry, and returned to claim his bride. He helped Victoria down from the train, and they both ran through the rain until, breathless, they reached the gangplank of the ship.
“Tickets, sir,” said a young officer in a dark blue uniform at the bottom of the gangplank.
“I always have Cabin Number Three,” said Henry between breaths.
“Of course, sir,” said the young man, and looked at his clipboard. Henry smiled confidently at Victoria.
“Mr. and Mrs. William West.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Henry.
“You must be Mr. William West.”
“I certainly am not. I am the grand pasha of Cairo.”
“Well, I’m sorry, sir, Cabin Number Three is booked in the name of a Mr. William West and family.”
“I have never been treated by Captain Rogers in this cavalier fashion before,” said Henry, his accent now even more pronounced. “Send for him immediately.”
“Captain Rogers was killed in the war, sir. Captain Jenkins is now in command of this ship, and he never leaves the bridge thirty minutes before sailing.”
Henry’s exasperation was turning to panic. “Do you have a free cabin?”
The young officer looked down his list. “No, sir, I’m afraid not. The last one was taken a few minutes ago.”
“May I have two tickets?” asked Henry.
“Yes, sir,” said the young officer. “But you’ll have to buy them from the booking office on the quayside.”
Henry decided that any further argument would be only time consuming, so he turned on his heel without another word, leaving his wife with the laden porter. He strode to the booking office.
“Two first-class tickets to Calais,” he said firmly.
The man behind the little glass pane gave Henry a tired look. “It’s all one class nowadays, sir, unless you have a cabin.” He proffered two tickets. “That will be one pound exactly.”
Henry handed over a pound note, took his tickets, and hurried back to the young officer.
The porter was offloading their suitcases on to the quayside.
“Can’t you take them on board,” cried Henry, “and put them in the hold?”
“No, sir, not now. Only the passengers are allowed on board after the ten-minute, signal.”
Victoria carried two of the smaller suitcases, and Henry dragged the twelve remaining ones in relays up the gangplank. He finally sat down on the deck exhausted. Every seat seemed already to be occupied. Henry couldn’t make up his mind if he was cold from the rain or hot from his exertions. Victoria’s smile was