Blue Door Venture Page 14

  ‘Now remember,’ were Sandra’s last words to her group of children. ‘Sing as loudly as you can, except in the places where I’ve told you to sing very softly, and let them hear your words—and enjoy yourselves, that’s half the battle.’

  ‘If anything goes wrong,’ said Lyn to her over-excited drama group, ‘keep on whatever happens, and try to make out that it’s just what you meant to happen.’

  ‘Well,’ announced Vicky to the school children, ‘Miss Felton and I have done our best. Now it’s up to you.’

  Next day they had to say goodbye to Miss Felton as she was starting off for Edinburgh for the festival.

  ‘Stay at the cottage as long as you like,’ she told them generously. ‘Don’t rush away unless you want to.’

  ‘We must go,’ said Lyn sadly. ‘It’s been lovely here. But we must move on.’

  ‘Well, Lenny will look after you for a few more days if you want a rest.’

  ‘There isn’t time, thanks awfully,’ said Sandra. ‘And the very best of luck. We shall be thinking of you all the time.’ Miss Felton shook hands with them warmly and they felt very sad at leaving such a good friend.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sandra weakly, ‘for having us.’

  ‘Let me know directly Lucky is caught, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course we will. We’ll write soon whatever happens.’ Into her faithful little car climbed Miss Felton and waved as she drove off. They stood at the gate with Lenny and waved until she was out of sight.

  ‘Ar—she’s a good woman,’ said Lenny solemnly, as they made their way back to the house.

  ‘She certainly is,’ they agreed.

  Next day, as soon as they had consumed the enormous breakfast Lenny had prepared for them, they said goodbye to her, and to the little house, and started off. Before she went Miss Felton had advised them to go to a town called Penlannock, in the far west of Cornwall, where, she understood, a small theatre had been started.

  ‘It is run,’ she told them, ‘by a man named Colin Cowdray. If it is the Colin Cowdray I think it is, I was at university with him. Go and see him and mention me. If it’s the same man, he might just help you a bit.’ So, with this in mind, the girls decided to get into Cornwall as quickly as possible.

  ‘Penlannock…’ said Lyn. ‘What a lovely name. I wonder whether we shall work there.’

  It was very much warmer than when they had last been on the road, and they were able to take their heavy coats off and walk in their slacks and jumpers. Soon they got their first lift, in a farm lorry, which had a load of baaing sheep in the back. The three girls were crammed in the front, with Lyn on Sandra’s knee, and the farmer smoking a strong tobacco that made them cough and splutter so much that they were almost glad when he pulled up and announced that they had reached his destination.

  Slowly they made their way westwards, in cars, lorries, roundsmen’s vans. Honiton, Exeter, Plymouth, Bodmin, and soon they were in the wild beauty of Cornwall.

  Lyn looked across the rolling moors. ‘I wouldn’t like to get stranded here,’ she said. ‘Let’s get off the road early tonight.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sandra. ‘We’ll stop at the first hostel we can find in the next town.’ This proved to be a hostel for cyclists, and the owner seemed rather surprised to find the three of them turning up at this time of year, and without bicycles. The hostel was empty but for them, and they were allotted little camp beds in a long dormitory. Tired from their journey, they fell asleep instantly.

  The following day they reached Penlannock about lunchtime. It was a port on the estuary of a small river, normally a holiday town, but now under the pall of winter-time.

  ‘What a sweet little town,’ breathed Vicky, as they stood looking down on it. ‘Is that a church or what?’ She indicated a large old stone building.

  ‘It’s the cathedral—a dear little cathedral,’ said Lyn. Already they were in love with the town. It was easy to find the theatre, for there were bills up everywhere directing one to it. It was a small cream-coloured building with photographs hanging outside, unbearably like the Blue Door Theatre. They found the stage door and asked for Mr Cowdray. A bent handsome man appeared and looked questioningly at them.

  ‘Does the name Felton—Constance Felton—convey anything to you?’ asked Lynn.

  There was a pause as a slow flush mounted to his face.

  ‘Constance!’ he breathed. ‘Where—how is she?’

  ‘She is very well. She lives near Axminster, and is a Drama Organizer employed by the local Education Committee. She thought you were you, and she sent us to see you.’ For a while he seemed too startled at the mention of Constance Felton to pay any attention to the girls, then it seemed to dawn on him that they were asking for work.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘let me see. Next week—yes, I could do with someone to walk on—and also an extra A.S.M. We’re doing Rose without a Thorn, and I’m playing Henry the Eighth,’ he explained. ‘I’ll take two of you,’ he said, and pointed to Lyn and Vicky. ‘You to walk on,’ he said to Lyn, ‘and you to stage manage.’

  Sandra said rather pathetically, ‘Don’t you want someone to sell programmes?’

  He looked at her and laughed. ‘Oh, you can be a courtier too. But don’t expect much money. I warn you.’

  They bounded out of the theatre when he had left them.

  ‘We’ve got some jobs, we’ve got some jobs,’ chanted Vicky. ‘Oh, we are lucky girls.’

  ‘Not very good jobs,’ grumbled Lyn. ‘Now we must find some cheap digs, have a meal and get back to the theatre to lend a hand during the evening show.’ They tramped up and down the narrow streets, and eventually found a fisherman’s wife in a cottage by the harbour who would take them for thirty shillings a week each.

  ‘We don’t even know if we shall be earning that much,’ said Lyn, for Cowdray had been vague about money.

  It was lovely to be setting out at six-thirty for the theatre. Once more they seemed to have some purpose in life. They lingered outside the theatre, looking at the photographs and revelling in the feeling of belonging again, even though in such humble capacities.

  Then they walked into the foyer. Someone they knew was leaning up against the box-office, talking to the girl inside. The angle of the shoulders, the hat, the pointed shoes—they were all familiar. Lyn even opened her mouth to say ‘Hallo!’ Then he turned to look at them… currant-bun eyes in a rosy face…

  ‘Lucky!’ cried Vicky with a scream. In an instant he had shot past them and out into the street. They stood as if paralysed, then turned and followed. But by the time they were outside he had disappeared among the traffic of the busy little harbour.

  ‘He’s gone—he’s gone—we’ve lost him…’ cried Vicky wildly.

  ‘We must ring Maddy at once and tell her to get the boys down here,’ said Lyn.

  ‘Someone you know?’ inquired the girl in the box-office.

  15

  GATHERING IN PENLANNOCK

  As soon as the boys had found an empty carriage, slung their grips into the rack and collapsed on to the seats, they began to realize how foolish they had been. As they waited for breath to return, they looked at each other with doubtful eyes.

  ‘What now?’ was the unspoken thought in them.

  Nigel was the first to come out with it. ‘Where had we better ask for when the ticket collector comes round?’ he asked grimly.

  ‘Devonshire or Cornwall—that’s all we know,’ mused Jeremy. ‘I’d like to see his face if we said that when he asked us.’

  ‘Oh, we’re fools—fools—fools…’ cried Nigel suddenly in a rage. ‘How can we hope to find him? And now we’ve let ourselves in for expensive fares—just on a wild goose chase. Cornwall is enormous—it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

  ‘Or for Nick’s Caff in the West End!’ said Jeremy.

  ‘You must remember, Nigel, that Lucky is quite easy to identify. In the country his clothes would cause quite a stir.’

  ‘Not so much of
a stir that we shall be able to trace him through two counties.’ The train began to gather speed over the tracks, and the sound of the wheels seemed to mock them.

  ‘But what else could we do?’ Nigel sounded as though he were arguing with himself. ‘We couldn’t stay in London knowing for certain Lucky was not there.’

  Full of despair they gazed round the carriage, at the dim electric light and the photographs of Cornish beauty spots.

  ‘Sometimes I wonder,’ said Nigel, ‘if we’re a little mad.’

  ‘I’ve thought that for years,’ said Bulldog. ‘But what can we do about it?’

  ‘We ought to snap out of it,’ said Nigel roughly. ‘Stop wasting time looking for a second-rate little thief who has stolen a relatively small sum of money from us, and go about the real business of our lives—being actors, I mean. We seem to have forgotten all about that—lost sight of it altogether.’

  ‘Not lost sight,’ objected Jeremy. ‘We’ve just been sidetracked, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, we’ll lose our way altogether,’ said Nigel, ‘if we’re not careful.’ There was a silence but for the wheels, and the derisive hoot of the engine.

  ‘Well—you’re the boss—what do you suggest?’ said Bulldog, eyeing his big brother with discomfort. ‘Get off the train at the next stop? Go back to London and start trekking round the agents? Forget all about the Blue Door Theatre?’ Nigel opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again and buried his head in his hands. Bulldog and Jeremy exchanged worried glances. If Nigel were to crack up they would be finished.

  ‘I’m going out for a breath of fresh air,’ Nigel said in a muffled voice, and went out into the corridor. The others were too restless to read or to sleep. Out in the corridor Nigel leaned his cheek against the cold window pane, and watched the darkness as it rushed by, wrestling with the thoughts that sped through his over-tired brain. Then someone behind him said, ‘Excuse me, sir,’ and brushed past him. It was the guard. Immediately Nigel was in action once more. ‘I say,’ he said, ‘I suppose you weren’t travelling on this train yesterday?’

  ‘No, sir.’ He shook his head. ‘No, I wasn’t.’

  ‘Oh. Would anyone on this train have been on it last night?’

  The guard tilted his cap back and thought a bit. ‘Some of the dining-car stewards,’ he said finally. ‘Yes, they were on.’

  Nigel’s face brightened. ‘Thanks a lot, old man.’ It was a different Nigel who opened the door of the compartment and cried, ‘Anybody hungry?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Bulldog. ‘But what’s the use?’

  ‘Oh, dear…’ Nigel remembered the financial situation.

  ‘We can’t all eat—we’ll have to toss up.’

  ‘Here, I say,’ said Jeremy. ‘Do we need a meal? We had some at Nick’s before we left.’

  ‘This isn’t greed. It’s business. Anyone got a coin to toss?’ Their pockets were very empty, but Bulldog produced a Dutch coin that had been palmed off on him.

  ‘Odd man out has dinner,’ said Nigel. They tossed in turn. It was heads for him and tails for the other two.

  ‘You eat, you wretch,’ said Bulldog regretfully. ‘But why? That’s what I want to know.’

  ‘You’ll see later—I hope. Cheerio, wish me good appetite,’ and he was gone.

  Bulldog tapped his head significantly. ‘The strain,’ he said.

  In the dining-car Nigel seated himself at a table, and tried to catch the eye of the steward.

  ‘What can I get for you, sir?’ He was grey-haired and looked tired.

  ‘Were you on this train last night?’ Nigel demanded.

  The steward seemed surprised. ‘Er—yes, sir.’

  ‘Do you remember seeing a young man—about my age—not very tall, with red cheeks, small dark eyes, dark hair greased back, a gaudy tie, probably with something hand-painted on it, and a loudly cut suit?’ Nigel watched the steward in agony while he thought.

  ‘I see so many people…’ he murmured. ‘Wait a minute, sir. I’ll ask the head waiter.’ A rather more imposing personage was brought forward, and Nigel repeated the description.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said the head waiter. ‘No class…’ For the minute it did not sink into Nigel’s brain that the head waiter had admitted seeing him. Then he jumped on him.

  ‘You mean—you saw him?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I remember him plainly from your description. He was very high-handed with the waiters, but left a large tip.’

  Nigel winced, thinking, ‘That’s a few more shillings of our money…’

  ‘Do you happen to know—where he got off the train?’ Nigel’s voice trembled with excitement.

  ‘Oh, no, sir. No…’ Nigel’s face fell. ‘I’ll ask the other waiters, though. Excuse me.’ Nigel could hardly drink his soup for impatience. What with the swaying of the train and the trembling of his hand, most of it went on the table-cloth. Then the head waiter was back.

  ‘Penlannock, sir.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Penlannock, he was making for. One of the other waiters remembered him asking which was the best hotel.’

  ‘Penlannock,’ repeated Nigel breathlessly. ‘That’s Cornwall, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Just after Truro.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ said Nigel earnestly. ‘I wonder if you would mind leaving me your name and address so that I can send you a token of how thankful I am for your help?’

  ‘Oh, no, sir,’ replied the man, smiling. ‘If it’s as important as that, I’m glad to have been able to help.’ And he went off with a friendly smile. But for the fact that he would have to pay for the dinner anyhow, having taken the soup, Nigel would have dashed back to the compartment to give his news to the others. He struggled through the meat and sweet courses but could not wait for coffee. Then he strode back into the compartment where the other two were dozing fitfully. With a gesture he stretched himself out full length on the empty seat opposite them.

  ‘Wake me up at Penlannock,’ he said.

  The effect of the statement was rather spoiled by the loud hiccup which accompanied it—the result of bolting his dinner.

  ‘Where?’ cried the others, sitting upright.

  ‘Penlannock—Queen of the Cornish coast—our Mecca—our Utopia, the hiding-place of our lucky star,’ he burbled.

  ‘Talk sense, for goodness sake.’

  Nigel pulled himself together. He was really becoming a little light in the head. ‘Lucky left the train at Penlannock, a small town in Cornwall,’ he informed them; ‘and so will we. But it won’t be for hours yet, tomorrow morning, in fact. So we might as well get some sleep while we can.’

  ‘Gosh! Gosh!’ cried Bulldog. ‘It should be easy to trace him there. Do you think—do you think—we’re nearing the end?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Nigel shortly, to cover his real feelings. ‘We’ll see when we get there.’

  ‘Do you realize,’ said Jeremy, ‘that we shan’t even have enough money for a meal?’

  ‘We’ll think about that when we arrive,’ said Nigel.

  ‘The thing now is to sleep, if we’re to be in any state to catch Lucky before we’re stranded.’ But they were much too excited. Lurid dreams of detection, chasings and captures filled their slumbers. At every station where the train stopped they were jerked into consciousness, and groaned and stretched their cramped limbs. Soon the darkness outside became grey, and then was streaked with red as the sun came up, and by this time the hills of Devon were lit by it. The face of Lucky seemed to float in their dreams, tantalizingly near, yet apt to disappear just as he seemed within reach.

  About six o’clock in the morning they gave up all thought of sleep, and sat looking out of the windows.

  ‘Gosh, I’m thirsty,’ complained Bulldog. ‘What wouldn’t I give for a cup of tea—’

  ‘I seem to have the taste of the whole of the British Railways in my mouth,’ agreed Jeremy. ‘If only we’d known we were coming we could have got a thermos, or rather, a bottle of cold t
ea like navvies…’ They watched the little villages, with their stone houses and red roofs, flitting by, and the never-ending telegraph poles.

  ‘Truro,’ cried Nigel excitedly. ‘It’ll be soon after this. Come on, we must get ready.’ Ties were straightened, hair tidied with stubbly ends of combs, and they put on their coats and reached for their shabby grips from the rack. The train slowed up and stopped in the little station of Penlannock. It was small and neat, and had rather the look of a station on a toy railway. There was an early morning atmosphere about it as they stepped out on to the platform which was being swabbed down by a man with a bucket of water. They were the only people to alight, and the train quickly drew out of the station again and disappeared into the cloud of its own smoke.

  They looked around them in a lost manner.

  ‘We must start inquiring at once,’ said Nigel briskly, and led the way to the hatch of the booking-office where a sleepy clerk was just pushing back the shutter.

  ‘Can I see your tickets, please?’ he demanded, and they suddenly realized that they had none. By the time they had paid the three fares, they had one and sixpence halfpenny amongst them. Jeremy and Bulldog looked at the coins, fascinated, but Nigel was attacking the clerk.

  ‘Do you have many Londoners down here?’ he inquired.

  ‘Some.’

  ‘Any yesterday?’

  ‘Yes. Good few.’

  ‘Do you remember a young man…’ Nigel embarked upon the description of Lucky which seemed to be an exact one, for the clerk’s eyes lit up with recognition behind his thick-lensed spectacles.

  ‘Yes, I remember him. Wanted to know the way to the Lion Hotel—that’s the best one in the town, y’know.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Second on the right—you can’t miss it.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’ And off Nigel hurried.

  The other two caught him up. ‘But we can’t go there, Nigel—not on one and sixpence halfpenny—’

  ‘We must. If we don’t find Lucky there, we shall have to work in the kitchen to pay off our bill.’