Part 44 (2/2)

The heroes of Mr. Sefton's imagination always lit cigarettes when facing death. They were of the type that seizes a revolver when the s.h.i.+p is sinking and, with one foot placed negligently upon the capstan (Mr. Sefton had not the most remote idea of what a capstan was like) shouted, ”Women and children first.”

He walked about the kitchen with what he meant to be a smile upon his pale lips. The cigarette he found a nuisance. If he held it between his lips the smoke got in his eyes and made them stream with water; if, on the other hand, he held it between his fingers, it emphasized the shaking of his hand. He compromised by letting it go out between his lips, arguing that the effect was the same.

Mr. Bolton had donned his fez and velvet smoking-jacket above creased white pyjama trousers that refused to meet the tops of his felt slippers. Mr. Bolton continued to make ”jokes,” for the same reason that Mr. Sefton smoked a cigarette.

Mr. Cordal was negative in a big ulster with a hem of nights.h.i.+rt beneath, leaving about eight inches of fleshless s.h.i.+n before his carpet slippers with the fur-tops were reached. He sat gazing with unseeing eyes at the cook huddled up opposite, moaning as she held her heart with a fat, dirty hand.

Mrs. Barnes, the victim of indecision, had leapt straight out of bed, gathered her clothes in her arms and had flown to safety. She walked about the kitchen aimlessly, dropping and retrieving various garments, which she stuffed back again into the bundle she carried under her arm.

Mrs. Craske-Morton was practical and courageous. Her one thought was to prepare the promised refreshments. Her staff, with the exception of Gustave, was useless, and she was grateful to Patricia for her a.s.sistance.

Outside pandemonium was raging, the noise of the barrage was diabolical, the ”bouncing” of the heavy guns, the screams of the ”whiz-bangs,” the cackle of machine-guns from aeroplanes overhead; all seemed to tell of death and chaos.

Suddenly the puny sound of guns was drowned in one gigantic uproar.

For a moment the place was plunged in darkness, then the electric light shuddered into being again. The gla.s.s flew from the windows, the house rocked as if uncertain whether or no it should collapse. Miss w.a.n.gle slipped on to her knees, her wig slipped on to her left ear.

”Oh, my G.o.d!” screamed the cook, as if to ensure exclusive rights to the Deity's attention.

Jenny, the housemaid, entirely unconscious that her nightdress was her sole garment, threw herself flat on her face. Mrs. Craske-Morton, who was pouring out tea, let the teapot slip from her hand, smas.h.i.+ng the cup and pouring the contents on to the table. Gustave's knees refused their office and he sank down, grasping with both hands the edge of the table. Mrs. Barnes dropped her clothes without troubling to retrieve them.

Suddenly there was a terrifying scream outside, then a motor-car drew up and the sound of men's voices was heard.

Still the guns thundered. Patricia felt herself trembling. For a moment a rush of blood seemed to suffocate her, then she found herself gazing at Miss w.a.n.gle, wondering whether she were praying to G.o.d or to the bishop. She laughed in a voice unrecognisable to herself. She looked about the kitchen. Mr. Sefton had sunk down upon a chair, the cigarette still attached to his bloodless lower lip, his arms hanging limply down beside him. Mr. Cordal was looking about him as if dazed, whilst Mr. Bolton was gazing at the gla.s.sless window-frames, as if expecting some apparition to appear.

”It's a bomb next door,” gasped Mrs. Craske-Morton, then remembering her responsibilities, she caught Patricia's eye. There was appeal in her glance.

”Come along, Gustave,” cried Patricia in a voice that she still found it difficult to recognise as her own.

Gustave, still on his knees, looked round and up at her with the eyes of a dumb animal that knows it is about to be tortured.

”Gustave, get up and help with the tea,” said Patricia.

A look of wonder crept into Gustave's eyes at the unaccustomed tone of Patricia's voice. Slowly he dragged himself up, as if testing the capacity of each knee to support the weight of his body.

”There's brandy there,” said Mrs. Craske-Morton, pointing to a spirit-case she had brought down with her. ”Here's the key.”

Patricia took the key from her trembling hand, noting that her own was shaking violently.

”Mrs. Morton,” she whispered, ”you are splendid.”

Mrs. Morton smiled wanly, and Patricia felt that in that moment she had got to know the woman beneath the boarding-house keeper.

”Shall we put it in their tea?” enquired Patricia, holding the decanter of brandy.

Mrs. Craske-Morton nodded.

”Now, Gustave!” cried Patricia, ”make everybody drink tea.”

<script>