N or M?

Mrs Perenna groaned and said:

‘This terrible war—’

Tommy agreed and said that in his opinion that fellow Hitler ought to be hanged. A madman, that’s what he was, a madman.

Mrs Perenna agreed and said that what with rations and the difficulty the butchers had in getting the meat they wanted—and sometimes too much and sweet-breads and liver practically disappeared, it all made housekeeping very difficult, but as Mr Meadowes was a relation of Miss Meadowes, she would make it half a guinea less.

Tommy then beat a retreat with the promise to think it over and Mrs Perenna pursued him to the gate, talking more volubly than ever and displaying an archness that Tommy found most alarming. She was, he admitted, quite a handsome woman in her way. He found himself wondering what her nationality was. Surely not quite English? The name was Spanish or Portuguese, but that would be her husband’s nationality, not hers. She might, he thought, be Irish, though she had no brogue. But it would account for the vitality and the exuberance.

It was finally settled that Mr Meadowes should move in the following day.

Tommy timed his arrival for six o’clock. Mrs Perenna came out into the hall to greet him, threw a series of instructions about his luggage to an almost imbecile-looking maid, who goggled at Tommy with her mouth open, and then led him into what she called the lounge.

‘I always introduce my guests,’ said Mrs Perenna, beaming determinedly at the suspicious glares of five people. ‘This is our new arrival, Mr Meadowes—Mrs O’Rourke.’ A terrifying mountain of a woman with beady eyes and a moustache gave him a beaming smile.

‘Major Bletchley.’ Major Bletchley eyed Tommy appraisingly and made a stiff inclination of the head.

‘Mr von Deinim.’ A young man, very stiff, fair-haired and blue-eyed, got up and bowed.

‘Miss Minton.’ An elderly woman with a lot of beads, knitting with khaki wool, smiled and tittered.

‘And Mrs Blenkensop.’ More knitting—an untidy dark head which lifted from an absorbed contemplation of a Balaclava helmet.

Tommy held his breath, the room spun round.

Mrs Blenkensop! Tuppence! By all that was impossible and unbelievable—Tuppence, calmly knitting in the lounge of Sans Souci.

Her eyes met his—polite, uninterested stranger’s eyes.

His admiration rose.

Tuppence!

CHAPTER 2 (#u64b8c3c2-b931-5e24-b5c8-20b4c48fbe1b)

How Tommy got through that evening he never quite knew. He dared not let his eyes stray too often in the direction of Mrs Blenkensop. At dinner three more habitués of Sans Souci appeared—a middle-aged couple, Mr and Mrs Cayley, and a young mother, Mrs Sprot, who had come down with her baby girl from London and was clearly much bored by her enforced stay at Leahampton. She was placed next to Tommy and at intervals fixed him with a pair of pale gooseberry eyes and in a slightly adenoidal voice asked: ‘Don’t you think it’s really quite safe now? Everyone’s going back, aren’t they?’

Before Tommy could reply to these artless queries, his neighbour on the other side, the beaded lady, struck in:

‘What I say is one mustn’t risk anything with children. Your sweet little Betty. You’d never forgive yourself and you know that Hitler has said the Blitzkrieg on England is coming quite soon now—and quite a new kind of gas, I believe.’

Major Bletchley cut in sharply:

‘Lot of nonsense talked about gas. The fellows won’t waste time fiddling round with gas. High explosive and incendiary bombs. That’s what was done in Spain.’

The whole table plunged into the argument with gusto. Tuppence’s voice, high-pitched and slightly fatuous, piped out: ‘My son Douglas says—’

‘Douglas, indeed,’ thought Tommy. ‘Why Douglas, I should like to know.’

After dinner, a pretentious meal of several meagre courses, all of which were equally tasteless, everyone drifted into the lounge. Knitting was resumed and Tommy was compelled to hear a long and extremely boring account of Major Bletchley’s experiences on the North-West Frontier.

The fair young man with the bright blue eyes went out, executing a little bow on the threshold of the room.

Major Bletchley broke off his narrative and administered a kind of dig in the ribs to Tommy.

‘That fellow who’s just gone out. He’s a refugee. Got out of Germany about a month before the war.’

‘He’s a German?’

‘Yes. Not a Jew either. His father got into trouble for criticising the Nazi régime. Two of his brothers are in concentration camps over there. This fellow got out just in time.’

At this moment Tommy was taken possession of by Mr Cayley, who told him at interminable length all about his health. So absorbing was the subject to the narrator that it was close upon bedtime before Tommy could escape.

On the following morning Tommy rose early and strolled down to the front. He walked briskly to the pier returning along the esplanade when he spied a familiar figure coming in the other direction. Tommy raised his hat.

‘Good morning,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Er—Mrs Blenkensop, isn’t it?’

There was no one within earshot. Tuppence replied:

‘Dr Livingstone to you.’

‘How on earth did you get here, Tuppence?’ murmured Tommy. ‘It’s a miracle—an absolute miracle.’

‘It’s not a miracle at all—just brains.’

‘Your brains, I suppose?’

‘You suppose rightly. You and your uppish Mr Grant. I hope this will teach him a lesson.’

‘It certainly ought to,’ said Tommy. ‘Come on, Tuppence, tell me how you managed it. I’m simply devoured with curiosity.’

‘It was quite simple. The moment Grant talked of our Mr Carter I guessed what was up. I knew it wouldn’t be just some miserable office job. But his manner showed me that I wasn’t going to be allowed in on this. So I resolved to go one better. I went to fetch some sherry and, when I did, I nipped down to the Browns’ flat and rang up Maureen. Told her to ring me up and what to say. She played up loyally—nice high squeaky voice—you could hear what she was saying all over the room. I did my stuff, registered annoyance, compulsion, distressed friend, and rushed off with every sign of vexation. Banged the hall door, carefully remaining inside it, and slipped into the bedroom and eased open the communicating door that’s hidden by the tallboy.’

‘And you heard everything?’

‘Everything,’ said Tuppence complacently.

Tommy said reproachfully:

‘And you never let on?’

‘Certainly not. I wished to teach you a lesson. You and your Mr Grant.’

‘He’s not exactly my Mr Grant and I should say you have taught him a lesson.’

‘Mr Carter wouldn’t have treated me so shabbily,’ said Tuppence. ‘I don’t think the Intelligence is anything like what it was in our day.’

Tommy said gravely: ‘It will attain its former brilliance now we’re back in it. But why Blenkensop?’