The Dancing Horse Page 13

  As time went on about a dozen men of assorted ages — Campbeltonians all, to judge by their accents — came noisily into the room, greeting Jimmy and Nellie as old friends. They were members of the Gaelic Choir. Some of them approached Donald and Bulldog, began to converse with warmth and animation, then suddenly, on learning their names, assumed blank expressions and moved off as soon as politely possible to the other side of the room.

  Finally five young scientists, including Jim Kenyon, appeared from the bar, They were all slightly drunk but in their attitude to the hotel guests without noticeable inhibitions. Their average age would be about thirty. Almost at once they showed their mettle by sending Jimmy and Nellie for further supplies of liquor.

  Though it was still clear day outside the lights were switched on and the curtains drawn. A haze of tobacco smoke began to drift up to the ceiling.

  An oldish man with a bald head, whose pince-nez were balanced awkwardly on his pointed nose, took up position on the piano-stood and began to play. He was the conductor of the choir, it appeared, and was known popularly as Tiny. He could certainly ‘tickle the ivories’, as one of the commercials pointed out with questionable originality. Choruses were sung — Highland, braid Scots and English. The effect was extremely pleasant, especially when hearts began to warm and throats became relaxed under the influence of beer, whisky and gin.

  A fear-an-tighe, or chairman, emerged from the ruck, as such a leader always does on these occasions. He was a young master from the Grammar School, tall and gangling, with a never-failing gift of speech, answering to the name of Kerry-boy. With a stream of anecdotes, some in Gaelic, some in English, he kept the party going, calling at intervals on solo singers and story-tellers to take the floor.

  Tiny chain-smoked, and the piano was seldom idle. To bridge the gap between a Gaelic chorus and a comradely song by Burns, Kerry-boy sang ‘The Roving Kind’, throwing in a nimbly executed hornpipe for good measure. The applause was loud and long.

  Soon every man was on his feet, moving about between the turns and talking to his neighbour. Suspicion of Donald and Bulldog seemed to die away. Donald sang ‘Scots wha Hae’ in a rusty bass, while the News Editor told a complicated tale of Fleet Street with a shaggy dog pay-off line; and though neither performance reached a high standard of artistry, compliments flew like confetti. They mingled freely with the whole company, and if the thought of their job hadn’t been a constant anxiety they would have enjoyed themselves.

  Smoke thickened, palliating the odour of spirits. The piano jingled, while men moved in a restless whirl. The commercials formed themselves into a musical trio and gave a rendering of ‘Tom Bowling’. Despite the fact that they broke down in the middle — partly from sheer exhaustion — they were rewarded with deafening cheers. Those who clapped and yelled had only the vaguest notion of what they were clapping and yelling about.

  Sometimes newcomers from the bar downstairs would invade the room, talk with enthusiasm for a time, then disappear again, accompanied by back-slapping friends from among the ceilidh party.

  It was nearly eleven o’clock when Donald noticed that one of these strangers had become what might be called a permanent member in the lounge. He was tall and soldierly and wore a well-cut suit of checked tweed. But his distinguishing feature was a large brown moustache which only partly concealed a scar on his upper lip. The scar might have been caused by a war wound, for he was old enough to have been called up in 1939. Several times he spoke to Kenyon, and once they left the room together; but at other times he kept to himself, leaning against the back of the piano and droning out the choruses with untuneful monotony.

  Eventually the party became even more incoherent. Kerry-boy was flagging, and though Tiny continued to bring music from the piano, little groups began to form and sing independently. Tongues clacked like castanets.

  Donald and Bulldog had exercised care in the amount they drank and for the past hour and a half had been spinning out a pint of beer between them. Shortly before midnight, however, they felt the need of a proper stimulant and sat down together at a small table in a corner. ‘Nellie!’ called the News Editor.

  She came from behind a drooping aspidistra, wiping sweaty hands on her apron. ‘Yes, Mr. MacPhail? A drink?’

  ‘Large gin and tonic for me. What about you, Donald?’

  ‘Same, please.’

  ‘Two, Nellie. And don’t forget some slices of lemon.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  When she had gone, Bulldog lowered his voice and said: ‘What d’you make of them, boy?’

  ‘The scientists, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Quite a decent lot, as scientists go. They seem perfectly frank and ordinary, though of course we know that Kenyon has a large-size skeleton in his cupboard.’

  ‘No clandestine whisperings with the locals?’

  ‘Nothing, as far as I can make out.’

  ‘M’m. I’ve had the same experience. But this party may go on for a while yet. Look out, here’s someone coming to speak to us.’

  It was the straight-backed man with the tweed suit and the handlebar moustache. At close quarters his brown face was more wrinkled and weather-beaten than had been apparent at a distance, and his green eyes were cold.

  He spoke with a careful accent. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen. I see you have two ashtrays. May I borrow one?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Bulldog.

  ‘Thanks.’ He paused, balancing the ashtray in one strong hand. ‘I notice,’ he said, as if prepared to be friendly, ‘I notice that like myself you have been rather caught up in this party.’

  Bulldog nodded. ‘Enjoying it?’

  ‘Oh, rather! Those English youngsters make me laugh like a drain. Apt to spout such damned silly nonsense.’ He laughed, without conviction. ‘But must return to my post of duty,’ he went on. ‘Turning the pages for old Tiny, you know. Thanks for the ashtray.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ replied Bulldog.

  The stranger smiled and went off, threading his way among the noisy groups.

  Donald said, quietly: ‘That moustache might belong to an Air Vice-Marshal. Who is he, do you know?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue. But he’s the only strictly sober man in the room, I reckon.’

  ‘I believe you’re right. He doesn’t sound like a local to me.’

  Nellie came with the gins. She put them down on the table with a small, one-sided smile, and Donald realized that she, too, had been tippling. But he didn’t blame her. Events were crowding in on her family, and sometimes it was pleasant to forget the cruelty of truth.

  Bulldog tipped her. He said: ‘Tell me, who’s the big tweedy-looking man with the moustache? Behind the piano?’

  The voice of one of the young scientists came from among the smoke: ‘Hurry up, Nellie! We’re thirsty, I tell you!’

  ‘Coming, sir!’ She pocketed the money and whispered confidentially in Bulldog’s ear: ‘He’s here on holiday, shooting and fishing. Wing Commander McCall, I think his name is. He’s been coming into the Red Lion quite often lately, but between you and me he’s an awful snob! Not like you and Mr. Grant.’

  ‘Where does he hang out? I mean — ’

  ‘Step on it. Nellie!’ shouted the impatient reveller. ‘Three lagers for us, and one for the pianist.’

  ‘Right you are, sir!’ She sighed and patted her straggling hair. Again she lowered her voice. ‘I’ll have to run, Mr. McPhail. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Can’t be helped. See you later.’

  She tapped his arm with a pathetic attempt at coquetry and ran off, giggling: ‘Aye. See you later, alligator!’

  Bulldog shook his head. ‘Poor wee lassie! I wonder if she’s feeling like we do? Hemmed in by troubles she doesn’t quite understand.’

  ‘You sound unusually morbid, boss.’

  ‘Do I? Oh, well! Anyway, here’s luck.’ He raised his glass.

  A number of men round Tiny were singing ‘
My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean’. The din was fairly loud. Suddenly, however, it eased off and individuals in the impromptu choir began to argue about the words. Campbeltonians insisted on one version, English scientists on another. Appeals were addressed to neutral observers.

  Jim Kenyon had just come up from the bar downstairs. His hair was tousled, and the knot of his tie had disappeared below his untidy collar. He left the group by the piano and came across the room, arms outspread, looking for enlightenment.

  ‘Who knows the right words?’ he shouted. ‘Who knows the right words?’

  His face was flushed and drawn. There was no happiness in his eyes — not even artificial happiness caused by drink. His weak mouth was twitching.

  He caught sight of Donald and Bulldog sitting quietly by themselves. For a moment he stood straight and steady. Then he lurched across, put his hands on the cold glass table-top and leaned over them. His breath smelt of whisky.

  ‘I say, you two!’ He hiccupped slightly. ‘I say, either of you know the prop — proper words of “My Bonnie”?’

  The News Editor shrugged. ‘Can’t say I do, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Ah! Pity! What about — what about your friend? Very important. Must have the proper words of “My Bonnie”.’

  ‘I know them in a general way,’ said Donald, praying that he wouldn’t suddenly recognize them as the pair who had interrupted his sad lovemaking the night before. “My bonnie lies over the ocean, my bonnie lies over the sea.” I go on repeating these.’

  ‘That’s right! That’s what I say!’ Kenyon was staring at them now with the fixed intensity of a drunkard. Interest in the song appeared to leave him. ‘That’s what I say,’ he reiterated, thickly. ‘But who cares? Who the hell cares? Let them argue. Mind if I sit down?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Bulldog. ‘You from the station?’

  The other slumped into a wicker chair, which squeaked loudly under his weight. He hiccupped again, then sat forward against the table with a mirthless grin. ‘Yes. Good old station! Some say good old station!’ He broke off. ‘But — but haven’t been introduced,’ he said, with a trace of peevishness. ‘Must be introduced, eh? Name’s Kenyon. Lancashire born, and proud of it!’

  He glowered away any possible contradiction, fumbling meanwhile in the inside pocket of his sports jacket. A babble of talk, punctuated by snatches of undisciplined song, beat against Donald’s ear. His eyes prickled with smoke. For the first time in the course of the party he felt highly nervous, not only on account of Kenyon’s interest but also for a reason which had nothing rational behind it. He was beginning to imagine that the ceilidh was a cloak for evil. What that evil might be he couldn’t tell; but the impression grew larger in his mind, like a black storm-cloud sweeping up over an innocent sky.

  The young scientist took a grimy visiting-card from his wallet. ‘Name and address,’ he said, waving it under Bulldog’s nose. ‘Prop — proper introduction, eh? Must do things like gentlemen.’

  The News Editor accepted the card and nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr. Kenyon. Lancashire, you said?’

  ‘Aye. Lancashire. And where, may I ask, do you come from?’

  ‘London, actually. MacPhail’s the name. This is Mr. Grant.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, sir. And you, too, Mr. Grant.’ He paused and looked cunning. ‘But — but how do I know you’re from London? How do I know you’re not pulling my leg? Everybody pulls my leg. Easy to take advantage of Jim Kenyon — so they think! Point is, have you a visiting-card, Mr. MacPhail? You’ve got mine. Be glad of yours. Proper introduction between gentlemen.’

  Bulldog frowned, irritated by this fatuous talk; but he rallied and took a card from his note-case. ‘Here you are. All above-board now?’

  The youngster held it close to his eyes. ‘James MacPhail, News Editor, Echo,’ he read. ‘Long Acre, London, W.C.2.’ An expression of some surprise settled on his face. ‘News Editor, eh? Big shot!’

  ‘A very big shot,’ smiled Donald.

  ‘And who — who are you, Mr. Grant? On the Echo, too?’

  ‘Yes. A sports reporter.’

  Carefully Kenyon pushed Bulldog’s card into his wallet and stowed it in his pocket. He made an obvious effort to pull himself together and talk seriously in such distinguished company. ‘I — didn’t know you were journalists,’ he said, beads of sweat glistening brightly on his smooth upper lip. ‘Very glad to meet you. Yes. Interesting to meet the — the gentlemen of the Press.’ He lowered his voice and added: ‘I could give you a good story. A damned good story. By gum, I could!’

  ‘That’s what we live for,’ said Bulldog quickly. ‘A good story.’

  ‘I bet you do! But you’re not going to get this one out of me. Can’t oblige, I’m sorry. I — I’m badly enough in the soup as it is.’ Without warning tears sprang into his eyes, and his truculent air deserted him. He bent his head. ‘God help me!’ he whimpered.

  Bulldog and Donald looked at each other. Noise still clattered around the room. Tiny was thumping out ‘Sweet Adeline’, while Wing Commander McCall conducted a maudlin quartet and kept an eye on Kenyon at the same time.

  Donald said: ‘You might feel better if you told us about it.’

  Kenyon took out a crumpled handkerchief and wiped his eyes and his mouth. He straightened stooped shoulders. ‘Yes, might feel better. But — but story’s not mine to tell. Nothing in it, really. Sorry I spoke.’ He began to stare at them again. ‘Journalists, eh?’

  ‘Aye.’ Bulldog took a sip of gin. ‘As a matter of fact we’re on holiday, but while we’re here we’d like to contact your Director. He’s Dr. Feuchtganger, I understand?’

  A lop-sided smile creased the other’s face. ‘Sure. Dr. Feuchtganger. Wish you luck, gentlemen. Dr. Blooming Feuchtganger — he cuts ’em open and fries ’em! Journalists, I mean.’

  ‘We might try to fix an appointment,’ said Donald. ‘Has your station a phone number?’

  For a moment Kenyon became moderately sober. He swallowed, blinked, sat up and said: ‘A — a phone number?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I — er — I’m afraid it hasn’t.’

  ‘Seems odd,’ put in Bulldog. ‘An important research establishment without a phone number.’

  ‘Aye, very odd.’ He gave them another long stare which seemed to combine suspicion and dislike. Then clumsily he got to his feet, pushing back the wicker chair. It scraped on the carpet and would have overbalanced, had not Donald put out a hand to steady it. ‘Very odd, Mr. MacPhail, dear sir — News Editor of the Echo.’ He stood above them, swaying a little, the expression of cunning again clear on his sweaty face. ‘Odd things you’re looking for, eh? Journalists, eh?’

  ‘As I told you, we live for a good story,’ said Bulldog, his patience running down. ‘The atomic station would surely provide us with one.’

  ‘Oh well, fair enough! But you’re not going to get it from me. No, sir! Mum’s the word with Jim Kenyon. Suffer in silence like a man, not a bloody mouse! Lancashire, that’s me. Lancashire and proud of it. Dour and dogged. Suffer like a man.’ Colour was draining from his cheeks. ‘Would you excuse me, gentlemen?’ he said, in a voice which was becoming steadily louder. ‘Thought we might have something in common. Even the words of “My Bonnie”. Find I was mistaken.’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said Donald, trying to humour him into a quieter and less embarrassing attitude. ‘Have we offended you?’

  He pulled himself together and tried to offer an appearance of manly unconcern. ‘No. No offence,’ he replied, graciously. ‘Have a happy time, gentlemen.’ All at once he became confidential, patting Bulldog’s shoulder. ‘But take my advice, Mr. MacPhail, dear sir. Snooping, you see. Not a healthy occupation hereabouts. Get it?’

  ‘I get it,’ said Bulldog, with a magnificent restraint which caused him to flush dark red.

  ‘Good! Must go, then. Be — be seeing you. Socially, if not prof — professionally.’

  His face was now
as white as paper, but he managed to bow. Then he turned away and went slowly back to the piano.

  ‘Well, what do you know?’ said Bulldog.

  Donald was relieved, and in consequence his spirits were rising. ‘If you ask me, he’s going to be sick!’

  ‘I shouldn’t wonder. Not a pleasant specimen, that boy!’

  ‘You did well. I thought you were going to lose your temper with him.’

  ‘Lose my temper? That’s something I seldom do. Doesn’t pay in our line!’

  Donald laughed.

  He was about to finish his drink when a disturbance took place at the piano. Kenyon did become sick, and after sundry advice and elementary first-aid had been offered and rejected, Wing Commander McCall elbowed him hurriedly from the room.

  But it was only a small disturbance. Soon ‘Sweet Adeline’ was being sung more loudly than ever.

  SIXTEEN

  The ceilidh broke up some time after midnight, when the survivors gathered in the hall downstairs to give a ragged performance of ‘Auld Lang Syne’. Neither Kenyon nor the man with the handlebar moustache were present.

  Donald and Bulldog joined in the farewells and protestations of friendship. They stood on the pavement outside while members of the choir went off in various directions and the scientists, clambering into jeeps, drove quickly away.

  Soon the soberly lit street was deserted. It became silent except for the whine of receding motor-engines and an occasional snatch of song from a man going home happily in the distance.

  Donald said: ‘The fish didn’t rise in that pool, as far as I could make out.’

  ‘I wonder?’ After the smoke and heat Bulldog was taking deep breaths of the cool night air. ‘I wonder?’ he repeated, taking one hand empty from his pocket as he resisted the temptation to light another cigarette.

  Behind them the front door rattled. Jock, the barman, came on to the pavement and said: ‘I’m lockin’ up, gentlemen. Are ye comin in?’