The First of July(25)

He would wake her, explain the situation, and then wire his London lawyers, both to bring forward their August appointment and to ask them to wire more funds. It might be necessary to pay for a berth on a different ship.

Marina seemed sober rather than alarmed. He went down to the desk and told the porter of their change of plans, asked for a maid to help her pack her bags, and had a wire sent to Lincoln’s Inn and to her father, announcing their change of plans.

“You are not alone in departing, m’sieur,” the porter said with a shrug. “But it may go well. Our troops have been pulled back from our borders; France does not want a war. Not the wise men.” He was shaking his head. “We had enough of that forty years ago. We have long memories. I did my military service ten years back. Now my wife she is about to have a child.”

And Harry, looking at him, realized that if France should become involved in a war, she would inevitably call on all her able-bodied men to fight.

It was at the station that the reality of the situation, the uncertainty and the tension, became inescapable and the boundaries of their comfortable private world were breached. A solid and noisy mass of would-be travelers, including, Harry noticed, a large contingent of French soldiers, forced their way toward the platforms or sweltered, resigned, in the heat. It took twenty minutes to find a porter, then they stood in line for forty minutes to get tickets on the late-afternoon train and reserve places on the boat train to London. Every seat was taken, even in first class. In third class, the conductor was having difficulty closing the door. They didn’t talk much, just exchanged small smiles from time to time. Eventually Marina fell asleep; despite her sea-blue hat, which she had told him was the height of fashion, her slightly open mouth made her look very young. For the first hour or so, they cut through rocky hillsides, pines, small hamlets, and woods of walnut and chestnut, strips of ripening sunflowers, and then, as the south was left behind them, cornfields and timbered farms, dark churches and wide rivers flowing between limestone cliffs.

Across from him, deep in quiet discussion, sat two formally dressed, hot-looking Frenchmen, civil servants possibly, one with a very distinguished air, the other, he guessed, a private secretary. He had to concentrate to follow their conversation while appearing to look out of the window, but the one sentence he caught clearly was the older man saying “The troops withdrew to make the statement that our war would be a defensive war. But a war there will be, and what difference does it make if we’re attacking or defending? Germany will be over the border and on us in no time at all, mark my words.” Then he had laughed, although without warmth. “Better go and sharpen your father’s saber. They won’t want me, but they’ll be knocking on your door.”

Would they? Harry wondered again. Would there be war? He remembered his father’s favorite poet, Housman. His father was a great man for recitation and had an infinite repertoire. Once he got over his youthful embarrassment, Harry had had to admit that his father was rather good at it.

On the idle hill of summer,

Sleepy with the flow of streams,

Far I hear the steady drummer

Drumming like a noise in dreams.

What war had that been, Harry had wondered, remembering his father’s gestures: the hand cupped to the ear, his voice rising on “far” and the sinister threat of the falling last line. As a small boy he’d been quite sickly, and in feverish nightmares had dreamed of the distant drummer, thudding. What far-off threat had overshadowed Housman? or was that war, like the half-seen country, just a poet’s romantic fantasy?

A chink of memory, against which he was usually so fortified, opened. His father. His strong, argumentative, loyal, fearless, and oh-so-charming father. Widowed young, he had been, Harry now realized, an admirable man, but frustrated, trapped on his estate, with an only son who was no great rider and no great sportsman and who looked very like the pretty wife with the fatally weak heart.

They came slowly into the outskirts of Paris. Harry noticed crowds outside the big banks they passed and felt a stab of anxiety.

The train had to wait for an hour outside the station, and they arrived at their hotel late. The female receptionist made it clear that they were lucky to still have a room, indicating a group of weary-looking travelers across the lobby. “They all want a bed, m’sieur. We could charge double the price.” As they were about to follow the bellboy pushing a trolley with their cases, she turned and took an envelope from a pigeonhole. “M’sieur. This came for you.”

It was a telegram. Harry thought it would be from his lawyers, so he didn’t bother to open it, but it reminded him of the need to draw out funds.