Fellow Passenger (6 page)

That is by the way. A mere remembering of my disappointment. There was no whisky. The cellar made no concessions whatever to hot and thirsty vulgarians beyond a tap for rinsing glasses. Three-quarters of the bins were empty. The rest contained only port and Madeira, and I never had any great opinion of either. On principle I disapprove of the dry, fortified wines beloved of the English, and the prejudiced Spanish half of me refuses to admit that the Portuguese know anything of wine. But I now apologize, sincerely and from the depths where lives the palate, to our oldest alliance.

One bin of Madeira bore the date of 1851. There were only four bottles left. In a calmer mood I should not have dreamed of depriving the Dean and chapter of the last of their treasure. I must have been feeling more of an outcast from society than I realized. Or was it the power complex of a man on the run? At any rate, I opened a bottle, decanted it - a last clinging to the decencies of civilization - and restored myself.

Oh, but my dear Dean, my reverend chapter, what a noble wine have you there! If ever, in your weekly mourning for the missing bottle or in the regret that steals upon your souls while listening to Bach upon the organ after evensong in summer, grief is more poignant for the thought that it vanished down the unthinking gullet of some housebreaker, let me assure you that, after the first careless swallow, I sipped it fasting, as it should, I think, be sipped, with no disturbance but the excellent dry biscuits from the tin upon the shelf. And never was it more gratefully appreciated, never did it make so generous a return. By itself, it called me back to a proper mood of urbanity in which a charge of High Treason resumed its place as a mere triviality in the normal and genial nihilism of mankind.

No more agitated movement was demanded, no skulking under furniture. I had only to drink Madeira and eat biscuits. But one drastic action I had to take. I picked up a brewer’s mallet which was on the shelf and slammed back the lock with a sharp blow. Nobody paid any attention. Probably the noise was not so loud as it seemed to my agonized ears. Thereafter I was free to go in and out by using the latch only.

I replaced the mortice and shut myself up in the cellar, keeping close to the large keyhole in order to listen to the evening routine, whatever it should turn out to be. I had little fear of discovery. It stood to reason that the person who tampered with the cellar lock had done so before the war. In these days of high prices and church poverty no Dean and chapter could possibly be robbed of their liquor without noticing it.

After an hour or so, someone entered the hall, drew the curtains and went out. Then all was silent and I emerged into the darkened hall. The double doors had been locked for the night. That suited me very well. The police could busy themselves heavily in the streets while I was tucked up under the wing of the Dean. I had some more biscuits and finished the bottle. With an optimism entirely due to Madeira I slept under the great table until the first light woke me up in a panic.

The dawn mood was not so cheerful. My wholly unjustifiable confidence was overwhelmed by the practical difficulties. I had no money and only the conspicuously well-cut suit in which I was dressed. It had been brought to me from my flat, at my own request, that I might appear at my best before the justices. If I had ever considered that I might be on the run - and, Lord help me, I hadn’t even thought that I should be sent for trial! - I should have appeared in the windbreaker and shorts which I was wearing when handed over by Peter to the police.

And where to go if ever I got clear? Ecuador was a sure refuge, for all my friends, including the Chief of Police, would have hailed it as the jest of the year that I should be accused of communism. But was the rest of my life to be spent there in exile? Divided loyalties are hard to explain. In every way Latin America suits my taste and my character. Yet England is more deeply my country. Even its police and justices are in my blood, indispensable - to say nothing of the great Alexander Romillys and the little doctors of metallurgy. Put it this way. I take it that any man or woman would rather be at a generous party of congenial spirits than elsewhere. But you can’t make a home of a party.

However disastrous the future, the game now was to see as much as possible without being seen. The gallery appeared fairly safe. Whoever locked up the night before had not bothered to climb the steps, and there was evidence that he seldom did. The balustrade was dusty; so was the pile of ancient stools and benches against the wall. I concealed myself among them. Through the gap between two of the close-set, heavily carved posts I had a perfect view of the hall below.

At half-past eight precisely the porter or caretaker unlocked the door of the hall and set down his brooms and polishes. He was a tall, thin man, with fifty years of respectability and indigestion stamped upon his face, in shirt-sleeves and trousers - blue trousers with a line of black braid down the sides which suggested that, when he had finished his morning chores, he would put on a uniform coat or gown. He drew the curtains and dusted the window-sills perfunctorily with a feather brush. He then settled down to a serious and quite unnecessary polishing of the table, which was obviously his real love, and finally placed upon it a cardboard notice:
Please Do Not Touch.

I had visualized the Dean and chapter gathered daily round the table, with sheets of blotting-paper in front of them, to settle the affairs of the cathedral. But that was clearly wrong. The beadle went out and returned with a folding-table and a formidable oak collecting-box, which he set up near the door.
Chapter Hall Fund. Visitors are Urged to Contribute to the Repair of the Ancient Timbers
- which harboured not only me but death-watch beetles. A third notice, closed, went up at the foot of the stairs to the gallery. Quite rightly. They would not have stood half a ton of visitors.

This changed the direction of such vague plans, or hopes rather, as I had. It was clear that I had taken refuge in a historic monument, used on occasion for its original purpose - witness, the cellar - but normally a mere show-place for the public. Thus it was a fair gamble that I could live for a few days between cellar and gallery until all search for me in the town had ceased. There were water and biscuits and a cheap port - reserved, perhaps, for the more evangelical clergy - which I might reasonably use for sustenance. It would, I felt, be an outrage upon the Dean’s hospitality to continue the consumption of Madeira. What had been excusable at my agitated arrival on his premises would be mere insolence now.

When the beadle had gone, I considered returning to the cellar. I found myself reluctant to do so. Sitting there in the dark was safe, but led nowhere. If ever I were to get a space of daylight between myself and the horde of angry officials who were spending their morning in explanations why a dangerous spy had got away and why they hadn’t caught him, I had to be sensitive to my environment.

And pretty sensitive I was a moment later when the police arrived. I ought to have expected them. The bicycle left in the road outside the chapter house passage showed - when at last the greengrocer reported it - that I had probably gone through the archway. A constable and a sergeant accompanied the beadle. He was now wearing a long blue livery coat with brass buttons, and held a silver-topped staff of office. That all helped. It was somehow unthinkable that a criminal should approach the ward of such a personage.

They came up to the gallery, treading with care. The sergeant asked about the door, and was told that it gave access to the service cellar of the chapter and the Dean held the key. ‘Service Cellar’ sounded magnificent; it implied another vaster cellar, a veritable cathedral crypt, from which every year or so the service cellar was restocked. If I had believed the beadle I might have permitted myself another bottle of the 1851 Madeira. But I didn’t. He was only keeping up the prestige of the Established Church.

They neither saw me nor looked for me - though they had only to move a couple of forms. The hall gave such an impression of clean and lovely emptiness that the one spot where it wasn’t empty was taken for granted. They discussed me at length. The constable was of opinion that I was hiding in the cathedral. The sergeant, pretending to knowledge of mysterious worlds within worlds, snubbed him and said that Politicals went Underground. This amused the beadle, who pointed out that Cecil Reyvers was the only Communist in Saxminster and that
he
wouldn’t be much help to any underground. The sergeant was not so sure. With the full responsibility of his rank he suggested that Cecil Reyvers’ bookshop might be a blind and that Chris Emmassin – God rot the newspapers which publicized him! - had his organization all over England and could spirit a man away to Russia as easy as kiss your hand.

As soon as the police had gone, I found an overwhelming reason for movement. The needs of nature were imperative. I leapt back to the cellar and its empty bottles; and, once there, there I had to stay for the morning. Sightseers were arriving at irregular intervals, and I never could be sure of a free half minute in which to leave the cellar and settle myself comfortably under the pile of forms.

It was a safe bet that the hall would be closed during the beadle’s lunch hour, so at half-past one, when he was reasonably certain to have his feet under a table, I resumed my position in the gallery. The afternoon was busy and at first enjoyable. The beadle had dignity. His tone as he explained the dates and named the master craftsmen was sepulchral, fruity, and quite unlike that of the ordinary pattering guide. Conducted parties of visitors went on and on, and by the end of the day I knew his little lecture by heart. In moments of boredom the thing still runs round my head. I wish I could drive it out by listening to one of the Tower wardens at the same game; but state prisoners are not exhibited to the public. A pity. I wouldn’t mind coming to an arrangement with my gaolers whereby I could be examined for half an hour a day at a pound a head, and we would split the proceeds.

When the day was over and the hall locked up, I ate a few biscuits, drank curate’s port with water and tightened my belt. The only shadow of an idea which had come to me was that of borrowing the beadle’s livery coat and making my way through the town in disguise. It seemed worth a trial. The double door of the hall was easy enough to open from the inside; I had merely to pull up the bolts which secured the second half of it.

The chapter offices were empty. On my floor was nothing of interest except a little pantry for making tea, with a large slice of stale cake in it. I ate that - all but a bit which I left, pitted and crumbled, to put the blame on the mice. There was also a box of matches which was invaluable, for I dared not turn on the lights.

Downstairs in the passage was a notice board. The hall was open to visitors from ten to twelve-thirty and two to five, except on Tuesday afternoons when the chapter meetings took place. That meant that my cellar was safe till then, and probably longer — for it was unlikely that bottles and glasses would be produced for routine weekly meetings. In the room bearing outside
Ring for Attention
was the beadle’s coat and tricorne hat. I put them on and walked out, leaving the front door on the latch in case I wanted to return in a hurry.

It was a little after ten, fairly dark and not too late for a respectable official to be on the streets. My plan was to work round the cathedral in the shadows and thence, by any lanes which looked deserted, to the outskirts of the town. Crossing the close, I was hailed from a distance as ‘Erbert, and asked if I were spy-hunting. I vanished with dignity into a porch and from there slipped round the east end of the cathedral. Out into the reach of dim street lamps again, I was greeted by some cheery soul who waddled out of a pub twenty yards away and asked ‘Erbert for the loan of ‘is ‘at. The only way of escape from him was among the noble eighteenth-century tombstones. In my enthusiasm for any sort of trick which might get me unrecognized out of Saxminster, I had forgotten that everyone in a small town knew everyone else’s business. I fled from cover to cover back to the chapter offices without any further attempts to imitate the walk and bearing of ‘Erbert. Almightily thankful that no one had been near enough to be sure that I was not the beadle, I replaced his garments on the hooks and returned to the hall.

That second night I could not sleep. The floor of the gallery was hard and I was very hungry. I was also ashamed of myself. I had proved myself only half an Englishman when my safety depended on being awake to every nuance and custom. I should have known perfectly well that the beadle’s coat and tricorne came off punctually on the stroke of five. A Latin American functionary would wear his uniform all night in any cafe or public place as a matter of course, but nothing would persuade an Englishman to do so - once he had passed the age of ten.

On the Friday morning, after I had eaten the last crumbs of biscuit with more curate’s port, I took my place under the benches. Business was brisk and the beadle less fruity than usual. He did his best, but he could not help catching the boredom of his customers. Three-quarters of them were doing the cathedral and chapter house because it was part of their coach tour and they had paid for it - the remaining quarter, younger and more earnest, because it was their self-imposed duty. The collecting-box did well, especially from a party of North Americans who were far more fascinated by the beadle than the architecture. And quite right, too. I sympathized with their transatlantic humanity. I once spent six months in Madrid without ever entering the Prado. Shameful, of course, but I was so occupied by enjoyment of the living that I never had time.

One man remained sketching while parties came and went. He was of a type strangely common in these days, with a fleshy, full face of coarse complexion, and black, untidy hair that looked as if it had never been combed by anything else but greasy finger-tips. Yet the breed is pure British without a trace of Mediterranean blood. I have a theory that many of them are dark Scots who have taken to the arts, eaten too much starchy food and gone to seed.