The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [189]
“Don’t worry about a thing, darling,” she said. “Just relax and enjoy the crossing; it will be such fun being out on deck together.”
The ship moved sedately out of the calm of the harbor into the Dover Straits. Later that night Captain Jenkins told his wife that the twenty-five-mile journey had been among the most unpleasant crossings he had ever experienced. He added that he had nearly turned back when his second officer, a veteran of two wars, was violently seasick. Henry and Victoria spent most of the trip hanging over the rails getting rid of everything they had consumed at their reception. Two people had never been more happy to see land in their life than they were at the first sight of the Normandy coastline. They staggered off the ship, taking the suitcases one at a time.
“Perhaps France will be different,” Henry said lamely, and after a perfunctory search for Pierre, he went straight to the booking office and obtained two third-class seats on the Flèche d’Or. They were at least able to sit next to each other this time, but in a carriage already occupied by six other passengers, as well as a dog and a hen. The six of them left Henry in no doubt that they enjoyed the modern habit of smoking in public and the ancient custom of taking garlic in their food. He would have been sick again at any other time, but there was nothing left in his stomach. He considered walking up and down the train searching for Raymond, but feared it would only result in him losing his seat next to Victoria. He gave up trying to hold any conversation with her above the noise of the dog, the hen, and the Gallic babble, and satisfied himself with looking out of the window, watching the French countryside and, for the first time in his life, noting the name of every station through which they passed.
Once they arrived at the Gare du Nord Henry made no attempt to look for Maurice but simply headed straight for the nearest taxi rank. By the time he had transferred all fourteen suitcases he was well down the line. He and Victoria stood there for just over an hour, moving the cases forward inch by inch until it was their turn.
“Monsieur?”
“Do you speak English?”
“Un peu, un peu.”
“Hotel George V”
“Oui, mais je ne peux pas mettre toutes les valises dans le coffre.”
So Henry and Victoria sat huddled in the back of the taxi, bruised, tired, soaked, and starving, surrounded by leather suitcases, only to be bumped up and down over the cobblestones all the way to the George V.
The hotel doorman rushed to help them as Henry offered the taxi driver a pound note.
“No take English money, monsieur.”
Henry couldn’t believe his ears. The doorman happily paid the taxi driver in francs and quickly pocketed the pound note. Henry was too tired even to comment. He helped Victoria up the marble steps and went over to the reception desk.
“The grand pasha of Cairo and his wife. The bridal suite, please.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
Henry smiled at Victoria.
“You ’ave your booking confirmation with you?”
“No,” said Henry. “I have never needed to confirm my booking with you in the past. Before the war I—”
“I am sorry, sir, but the ’otel is fully booked at the moment. A conference.”
“Even the bridal suite?” asked Victoria.
“Yes, madam. The chairman and his lady, you understand.” He nearly winked.
Henry certainly did not understand. There had always been a room for him at the George V whenever he had wanted one in the past. Desperate, he unfolded the second of his five-pound notes and slipped it across the counter.
“Ah,” said the reservations clerk, “I see we still have one room unoccupied, but I fear it is not very large.”
Henry waved a listless hand.
The clerk banged the bell on the counter in front of him with the palm of his hand, and a porter appeared immediately and escorted them to the promised room. The clerk had been telling the truth. Henry could only have described what they found themselves standing in as a box room. The reason that the curtains were perpetually drawn was that the view, over the chimneys