Black August Read online

  At Charing Cross she hopped into a taxi, since she had no intention of arriving at the Savoy on foot. As she walked through the lounge of the hotel she found that she had timed her arrival admirably, the clock showed two minutes past nine, and there at one of the small tables below the stairs Kenyon was waiting to greet her.

  In one swift glance she saw that no woman could cavil at his appearance. White tie, and a double breasted waistcoat making a sharp line across his trousers-top, his rebellious hair brushed smoothly back, and a flower in his buttonhole. ‘Really,’ thought Ann as she walked towards him, ‘he looks terribly distinguished, almost as though he wore dress-clothes every evening.’

  He rose as she came up. ‘My dear, you’re looking ravishing; have a cocktail?’

  ‘Thanks, I’d love one,’ she smiled serenely as she settled herself in the chair he held for her.

  So he thought her ravishing—what fun—and really, she had never felt better than she did tonight. How fortunate that she’d decided to blow the extra twenty-five bob and have the prettier frock—it had seemed a horrible extravagance at the time but now she had no regrets. Ann’s face was flushed to a delicate pink, her eyes bright with excitement as she raised her glass in response to him across the little table.

  ‘Your friends the Communists are making a fine to-do about the shooting in Glasgow,’ he remarked with a grin, ‘threatening all sorts of reprisals against the Government.’

  Ann reddened; somehow her Socialistic theories seemed rather futile and childish in the atmosphere of this luxury hotel. It ought, she knew, to have strengthened her conviction in the Tightness of her cause. But being honest with herself, she knew that she was enjoying every minute of it; so she shrugged her rather plump little shoulders under the flimsy frock, and smiled. ‘Shall we give politics a miss this evening—just pretend we’re living in normal times—I wish you would?’

  ‘Why rather—I’d love to. What about another cocktail?’

  ‘Yes, er—that is …’ She hesitated a second, used as she was to practising consideration for young men’s pockets. ‘Don’t think me rude—but can you really afford this sort of thing?’

  ‘You funny thing, of course I can,’ he laughed, ‘still—it’s sweet of you to think of it. Waiter—two more Forlorn Hopes.’

  Ten minutes later as he followed her down the broad, shallow stairs towards the restaurant, his thoughts were chaotic. ‘What a skin she’s got—and those little dark curls on the nape of her neck … I’d love to kiss them…. By jove I will, too. There’s not a girl to touch her in this place … I’m thundering glad I wrote to her after all … but that was a little odd, thinking I might not have the price of a second cocktail. Damned decent though … and how refreshing!’

  ‘How goes the job?’ Ann inquired, after he had ordered what she considered to be an almost criminally expensive meal.

  ‘I think it will be all right, but I shan’t know for about a fortnight.’

  ‘I do hope you get it; would they give you a decent screw to start with?’

  ‘Oh, not too bad, about eight quid a week. Here’s to it!’ he added, lifting his glass; ‘and long life and happiness to Mistress Ann Croome.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she smiled quickly as the bubbles of the champagne tickled her tongue. ‘Well, eight pounds a week is nice, but not a fortune,’ she was thinking, and if they were going to be friends she meant to teach him to be economical. It was terribly nice of him to give her such a marvellous evening, and perhaps it was excusable just this first time, but there must be no more dinners at places like the Savoy.

  ‘Of course I get an allowance from my father,’ he cut in, almost as if he had read her thoughts.

  ‘I see,’ she coloured slightly, ‘and is he a civil servant too?’

  ‘Well, hardly,’ Kenyon’s blue eyes shone with sudden humour, ‘he’s a farmer really—although fortunately he has a few investments as well.’

  ‘Investments are so uncertain these days, aren’t they?’

  ‘They are, indeed—did you hear that Vibro-Magnetic crashed this afternoon?’

  ‘No! That means another slump in the city, I suppose?’

  He nodded. ‘Bound to, they’re such a tremendous concern, and they’ll bring down dozens of smaller people with them, so goodness knows how many more poor devils will be hammered on the Stock Exchange next settling day.’

  ‘If things go on like this there won’t be any Stock Exchange left.’

  ‘Not unless the Government decide on a moratorium, they’ve been talking about it for the last week.’

  ‘What effect will it have if they do?’

  ‘No one will have to pay anyone else except for a new transaction.’

  ‘I hope they do then—it would give all the firms that are in difficulties a chance to carry on.’

  ‘Perhaps—but it almost means an end of credit. People wouldn’t be able to get any more goods unless they were in a position to pay for them.’

  ‘Well, it would keep my firm from going under—I’m terrified every day that they’ll close down and that I shall lose my job.’

  ‘Ann,’ he said gravely; ‘why did you come back to London?—delighted as I am to see you, I did write and warn you not to. There’s going to be real trouble here very soon.’

  ‘I thought it terribly sweet of you to write as we’d only met just that once—would you really like to know why I came back?’

  ‘I would.’

  She leaned a little forward across the table, a mischievous smile lurking in the depths of her golden-flecked eyes. ‘Then I’ll tell you! … It was because I wanted to see you again!’

  ‘Really! Do you mean that?’ he bent eagerly towards her, stretching out one of his large, freckled hands to take hers, but she laughed and shook her curls.

  ‘No, not really,’ she mocked, then seeing the sudden look of disappointment that clouded his face, she added quickly: ‘At least … I did want to see you again, but the principal reason was my job.’

  He nodded to a waiter who held a roast Aylesbury duckling for his inspection, then he turned back to her: ‘You hadn’t quite forgotten all about me when you got my first letter?’

  ‘No—I’d thought about you quite a lot.’

  ‘Had you?’

  ‘Of course if I’d been anywhere but Orford I should never have given you a second thought—but in a place like that there is so little to think about at all!’ The dark fans of her lashes fell demurely on her cheeks.

  ‘Ann! you’re a perfect little beast!’

  She glanced up swiftly. ‘Have you only just discovered that? Most of my young men find me out at once … and they all find me disappointing when they get to know me better!’

  ‘I don’t believe a word you say!’

  ‘Oh, I mean it—’ she stuck her chin out challengingly. ‘I’m selfish—conceited of my looks, and I’m sullen when I don’t get what I want—so now you know!’

  ‘Then it’s quite time someone took you in hand,’ he said firmly, ‘and I’m applying for the job.’

  Her eyes dropped beneath his steady gaze, but he was forced to look up as a tall, thin man paused by their table on his way out.

  ‘Hullo, Akers?’ he said with evident annoyance. But he did not introduce his friend to Ann.

  ‘’Lo, Kenyon,’ said the tall man lazily. ‘Government’s taken special powers for a three months’ moratorium—just had it from the House and thought you’d like to know.’

  ‘Have they? Well, perhaps it’s a good thing on the whole. At least we shall know where we are in a day or two now.’

  ‘Optimist!’ grinned Akers.

  ‘Pessimist!’ countered Kenyon. ‘Have they had any news from the States yet?’

  Akers’s pale blue eyes went suddenly blank. ‘My dear boy—how should I know?’

  ‘Well you ought to, you’re in the F.O.’

  ‘Not my department,’ Akers smiled blandly as he fingered his long moustache.

  ‘Well, have they mana
ged to check the fire-raising in Berlin then?’

  ‘Heaven knows?—but I shouldn’t worry your young head—make hay my dear boy, hay—while the sun shines!’ Ann could not see his face and without turning his head he swivelled his eyes in her direction.

  ‘Good night,’ said Kenyon pointedly.

  ‘God bless you—we shall all meet on the steps of the guillotine, I don’t doubt.’ With a dry chuckle Akers sauntered slowly away.

  Kenyon looked after him thoughtfully. ‘How like a Foreign Office man,’ he said. ‘Always ready to tell you everybody else’s news, but never any of their own!’

  ‘Is he really in the Foreign Office?’

  ‘Yes, he’s a first-class civil servant.’

  ‘Like you will be one day?’

  ‘Well, not exactly. He’s quite an important person—I only hope to be a minor cog in the Government wheel.’

  ‘I couldn’t help overhearing what he said. Do you think his story about the moratorium is right?’

  ‘Certain to be, the information of men like Akers is always reliable. Have some more raspberries—sorry there is no cream but it is this wretched rationing of dairy produce and butcher’s meat.’

  ‘No thanks—Kenyon?’

  ‘Yes,’ he looked up quickly, it was the first time she had called him by his Christian name.

  ‘He was only joking when he talked about the guillotine—or its equivalent, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Why, of course—there’s nothing to worry about really.’

  ‘But I am worried—now. There was something about that man’s horrible cynicism that brought things home to me as nothing else has done … and you see I live on my own, so if things get really bad …’ She paused with the sudden realisation that she was doing exactly as Gregory Sallust had suggested—appealing for the protection of a man she hardly knew. ‘Oh, I suppose I’m being silly,’ she finished awkwardly.

  ‘No, I understand,’ Kenyon hesitated, not wishing to go back on his own urgent warning of a few days before but longing to reassure her. He ended by adopting the latter course. ‘Just look at all these people, Ann—you can see that there is no immediate cause for alarm anyway.’

  She glanced round the crowded restaurant. Not a single table seemed unoccupied, and yet the floor was already packed with dancers. Everybody was drinking champagne. Waiters hurried to and fro clutching two, three, four bottles or magnums in their strong fingers, whisking away the empties and plunging the new supply into the silver buckets which held the crackling ice. Above the soft music of the band came the unceasing murmur of the thousand guests. The shaded lights drew out the rainbow colours of the women’s dresses, but hid their faces, kindly for the most part, in a softer light as they smiled and laughed, fingering the pearls that took life from the bare flesh of their bosoms and playing the eternal game of make-believe with their respective men.

  The whole scene breathed such an atmosphere of tranquil, prosperous solidity among the ruling caste that Ann was momentarily reassured. It seemed impossible that in one awful cataclysm they might be swept away. The band lilted slowly into an old-fashioned Viennese waltz set to the new rhythm. She smiled across at Kenyon.

  His thoughts had been very different. He knew that this seeming prosperity was an empty, tragic sham. Two-thirds of these well-dressed people were already on the verge of ruin, or bankrupts; striving to forget their crushing anxieties for a few hours by reckless expenditure and forced gaiety. If the crash really came they would be swept away like thistledown, the great hotel left empty—deserted—a prey to prowling thieves; those ragged outcasts who now slept fitfully on the hard seats of the Embankment would take possession of the soft beds in the rooms upstairs. What would happen if the rioters proved too much for the troops he wondered; supposing a gang of roughs burst in at this moment—armed Communists—what then? This crowd would stampede like any other. A few gallant fellows who put up a fight would be shot down—the rest scramble wildly for the entrances—and the women!—he could almost hear them scream as they fled down the corridors, and the rip of the silk and the satin as the invaders clutched at their dresses in a brutal endeavour to grab their jewels.

  Kenyon sipped his brandy and looked at Ann. She was smiling at him. Mechanically he smiled in return; then with an almost superhuman effort lest she should sense his forebodings, he cried: Come on—let’s dance!’

  The floor was crowded, but somehow they managed to edge their way into the slowly-revolving mass. Kenyon’s height was an advantage, Ann’s head barely came up to his chin, so to steer her was easy, and her weight was so slight that he could hardly feel it unless he pressed her to him. As he glanced down he caught a glimpse of the little mole on the curve of her left cheek, and the sight of it thrilled him curiously.

  ‘Happy?’ he asked almost curtly.

  ‘Oh, need you ask!’ came the swift reply, and she seemed to cling more closely to him.

  ‘Ann?’ he whispered a few moments later. She heard him even above the throb of the band, and turned her face up to his in quick response:

  ‘Yes, Kenyon—yes?’ Her eyes seemed enormous, limpid yet sparkling in the reflected light.

  For once Kenyon found himself tongue-tied. ‘Just … just Ann!’ he breathed; ‘just Ann!’

  How long they danced Ann could never afterwards remember. She had a vague recollection of Kenyon ordering an ice for her and a brandy-and-soda for himself. They did not say anything particular, and in that swaying throng waltzes or one-way-walks made little difference—only a slower or a faster time.

  Quite suddenly it came to her that the great room was two-thirds empty, and she was saying that she simply must go home. He settled his bill while she got her coat and then led her out into the street.

  ‘I shall be all right,’ she said as he helped her into a taxi, ‘please don’t bother to see me home.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he laughed. ‘Taxi—272 Gloucester Road,’ and in a moment they were seated side by side speeding along the almost deserted Strand.

  As he reached out and took her hand she made no pretence of trying to avoid the gesture, but let it rest for the remainder of the journey, warm between his own. Almost impossibly soon, it seemed to her, the cab had stopped—she was getting out, and Kenyon paying off the man. ‘But don’t you want to take him on?’ she heard herself saying.

  ‘No, pick up another later.’ He stood tall, purposeful—looming above her in the semi-darkness as she inserted her key in the lock.

  ‘You can’t come in, you know!’ she said.

  ‘Can’t I?’ he squeezed her arm. ‘Don’t be silly, Ann—I want to carry away memories of the place where you live so that I can call up pictures of you in my mind. I know there’s a sitting-room—you told me so. You trust me, don’t you?’

  Somehow his quiet, almost mocking assurance made a refusal seem stupid and childish. She turned the key and felt him behind her in the close darkness of the tiny hall.

  ‘This way,’ she whispered, stretching back one hand to guide him as they reached the landing and, with the other, softly opening the sitting-room door.

  In the faint light that penetrated through the half-drawn curtains the arm-chairs and settee were just visible as outlines of a deeper blackness. She put out her hand to press the electric switch, then hesitated, remembering suddenly the worn shoddiness of the room—but Kenyon’s fingers closed over hers and bore them swiftly downwards as he drew her to him.

  Her arms stretched up and closed round his neck, drawing his face down to hers. Something outside her consciousness seemed to impel her movements. She closed her eyes, her heart hammering in her breast as her soft mouth melted into his; standing on tiptoe, straining to him, she returned his breathless kisses with almost savage passion.

  As in a dream she found herself lifted—held in the air—and then laid gently on the long settee. He was kneeling beside her, fondling her hands, and repeating over and over again, ‘Ann—Ann—Ann.’ Then his arms were tight about her once more.

>   How long they remained fast in each other’s arms, while the silent night wended its way towards the dawn, Ann did not know or care. Her mouth was sore with the strain of repeated kissing yet his fevered lips seemed insatiable of her caresses.

  With a sudden devastating unexpectedness the light was on—Gregory Sallust stood, framed in the doorway, returned from his night’s work. His paper was even now thundering from the presses, going North, South, East and West, to carry the news of the moratorium to the breakfast tables of the millions.

  ‘Hullo!’ he said. ‘So sorry—had no idea you were still up—only came in for my nightcap—won’t be a second.’ Then he walked over to the cupboard where he kept his whisky.

  Ann noticed through a sort of haze that Kenyon was standing up with his back to the mantelpiece. His hair was rather ruffled, but he looked remarkably self-possessed.

  ‘It is I who should apologise,’ he said. ‘I’ve been rottenly ill—ate something at supper that didn’t agree with me I think. Anyhow, Miss Croome insisted that I should come in and lie down in the dark for a bit, and I’m feeling ever so much better now.’

  ‘Oh?’ Gregory nodded. To Ann’s relief he showed no shadow of disbelief in this preposterous story; ‘how rotten for you—may I suggest that a whisky-and-soda wouldn’t do you any harm—buck you up a bit before you go home!’

  ‘Thanks, that’s nice of you.’ Kenyon drew his tongue quickly across his burning lips, ‘I could do with a drink!’

  ‘Good, here we are—say when.’ Gregory squirted a siphon into an extra glass which he had already filled a quarter full with whisky, and Kenyon picked it up. Ann stood there marvelling at their quiet, easy behaviour, as they talked casually of the moratorium for a moment. By some mysterious freemasonry they already seemed to be on the best of terms, although she had forgotten even to introduce them.