An Old Captivity Page 4

  “Brattalid.”

  “Brattalid. We should have to make a camp and live in tents. I’d hope to be able to get natives—Eskimos to come and do the work for us, but it may be that we should have to depend upon ourselves. Are you prepared for that?”

  “Oh, I think so. I did a good deal of field work when I was younger, in Arabia, and in Crete.”

  They went upstairs to bed. Ross lay in bed between the lavender-scented sheets for a long time before putting out his reading light, staring over to the far side of the room. There would be a most terrific lot of work in this thing, if it ever came off. The few words that they had exchanged about the camp had opened up a whole new vista. Apart from all the work of flying and maintaining the seaplane he would have to see to all the camping gear, the clothing of his passenger, the food supplies. Most of this stuff would have to come with them in the machine, unless he could arrange to get it shipped to Julianehaab or Ivigtut in time for their arrival. Then there were the petrol and the oil supplies—arrangements must be made for shipping those. And then a mooring for the seaplane must be laid at every place they were to go to.

  What was really needed was a small supporting expedition to go on ahead of them by ship, to meet the machine at Julianehaab, to make the camp for them and help him with the seaplane. If he could get a really good photographer, one who was used to seaplanes, he would be a godsend to them.

  He wondered what sort of place Julianehaab would prove to be.

  He supposed they all spoke Danish there.

  He slept.

  He woke early, slept again for a few minutes, and woke finally at about a quarter past seven. Breakfast was not till nine, but he could not remain in bed till then. He got up, had a bath, shaved and dressed, and was downstairs by about twenty minutes past eight. The aged parlourmaid was doing out the study; she gave him a black look. To escape her he went out into the garden.

  For a time he walked up and down the lawn in the sun, looking at the flowers, and enjoying the cool freshness of the morning. He reflected that these Oxford people knew how to make themselves comfortable. But then, of course, with Lockwood Tubes in the background a man could make himself comfortable anywhere.

  He wondered what sort of a reception he would get at Coventry.

  From her bedroom window Alix saw him walking up and down the lawn, and her lips tightened a little. There was a difficult little matter that she had to deal with; she might as well take this opportunity and get it over. Indeed it looked a good one. She finished dressing quickly, gave a final pat to the heavy coils over her ears, and went down to the garden.

  He saw her coming, dressed in a black serge skirt and a black-and-white-striped blouse that made her look middle-aged. He wondered absently if anyone had ever told her what a frump she looked. Those stockings, and those shoes. He supposed that that was what they did at Oxford. He wondered how old she was—somewhere between twenty and twenty-five probably, but she looked older. He did not care much about her, but he went to meet her with a smile.

  “Good morning,” he said. “It certainly is a lovely day. I’ve been admiring your garden.”

  Her attention was diverted from her object; she was very fond of flowers. “The polyanthus are nice, aren’t they?” she said. “Did you sleep all right, Mr. Ross?”

  “Very well indeed, thank you.”

  She stooped and picked up a golf-ball that was lying on the lawn. Then she turned, and walked beside him up the garden. “I’ve been wanting to have a talk, Mr. Ross,” she said.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Surely, Miss Lockwood.”

  She said: “I know what my father asked you to come down about. It’s about this idea he has of going in an aeroplane to Greenland, isn’t it?”

  Ross nodded. “We were discussing it yesterday afternoon.”

  She said: “It’s a tremendous undertaking, isn’t it?”

  The pilot considered for a minute. “I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” he said at last. “It’s an unusual sort of flight, but with proper organisation, and in summer weather, I don’t think it’s so bad. It means a lot of hard work of course.”

  She said eagerly: “I know it does—it means a frightful lot of hard work. It’s a job for a young man to do.” She hesitated, and then said: “My father gets so wrapped up in his archaeological work that he overlooks the practical considerations, Mr. Ross. But he could never make a journey of that sort at his age. He’ll be fifty-nine next October, nearly sixty. It’s difficult to speak about his age in front of him, because he’s so sensitive about it. So I thought if I could have a talk with you, I could tell you how the matter stands.”

  The pilot rubbed his chin. “I didn’t mean there’d be much work in it for him,” he said. “I was thinking of myself, I’m afraid.”

  “But in a trip like that there’d be great hardships for my father. His health would never stand it, Mr. Ross.”

  The pilot’s heart sank. He might have known that it was too good a job to be true. He said quietly: “I see. His health’s pretty bad, is it?”

  The girl was silent for a minute. Then she said: “I can’t say that he’s in bad health. But when you’re nearly sixty it’s time to start to take care of yourself.”

  Ross became aware that he disliked this girl very much indeed. He asked directly: “Has he got a weak heart?”

  She hesitated. “No—I don’t think he’s actually got that. But at his age he can’t expect to do the things he used to do as a young man. There comes a time when one has to sit back, and leave the more strenuous work to younger men. You do understand, don’t you, Mr. Ross?”

  The pilot said nothing.

  The girl said: “I thought if I explained to you how matters stand, perhaps you could avoid encouraging him in this thing. I’d hate him to go to a lot of trouble and then be disappointed later on. With your experience of flying you can put it to him in the proper light, and he’ll be quite content to give it up.”

  The pilot still said nothing.

  The girl looked up at him doubtfully. “You see what I mean, don’t you, Mr. Ross? It’s just that you should avoid encouraging him in this thing.”

  There was a long silence. The girl could feel the antagonism of the pilot, and it puzzled and annoyed her. She did not understand why he should not have met her willingly in what seemed to her to be a very reasonable request. A word from him would have put the matter right.

  They walked the length of the garden in silence. At last the pilot smiled at her and said: “You put me in a very difficult position, Miss Alice.”

  The girl said: “Alix is the name, Mr. Ross. But perhaps Miss Lockwood would be better.”

  The pilot flushed hotly; whatever compromise he may have had in mind went with the winds. But outwardly he smiled again, and said:

  “Your father asked me last night if I could do the flight, if he decided to go. I told him I thought it could be done, and if he wanted me, I’d like to work for him.”

  She turned to him impulsively. “But, Mr. Ross, a man of my father’s age can’t possibly go flying off to Greenland in an aeroplane! Surely you see that?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I took a man of seventy-eight from the Mackenzie to Quebec, two years ago. And that was in winter, too.”

  The names meant nothing to her; the distance might have been from Holland Park to Kensington. She was irritated at his denseness, and she said:

  “I’m trying to get you to help me, Mr. Ross. My father’s much too old to go on such an expedition.”

  The pilot said shortly: “That seems to be your father’s business, not mine. I can’t go diving into that.”

  Her lips tightened, and she said: “I had hoped to get more help from you than this.”

  They walked on for a minute or two in silence. Presently he stopped, and turned to face her. “You must understand the way I’m fixed, Miss Lockwood,” he said. “I fly aeroplanes and seaplanes for a living. That’s what I do. At present I’m out of a job. Your father seems to
want to offer me a job to do what I’m specially fitted for—that flying in the north. If I get the offer of that job, I’ll have to take it—if I don’t, that’s just too bad. But you can’t expect me to evade a good job when it’s offered to me.”

  She had never had to earn her living. In her outlook she was very far from the pilot. She stood looking up at him, the quick anger mounting in her. “I see what you mean, Mr. Ross,” she said evenly. “You’re going to do all you can to encourage my father to go on this trip, in order that you can make money out of him. It doesn’t mean a thing to you that he’s an old man, that his health won’t stand the sort of life that you and your sort can put up with. So long as you get your wages, that’s the only thing you care about.”

  He was as angry as she was. He thrust his hands deep in his pockets, and stared down at her. “You can put it that way if it pleases you,” he said. “It’s not true but if it pleases you to think like that, it’s O.K. by me. And, anyway, you’ve made my mind up for me.”

  The quick colour mounted in her cheeks; she had very seldom argued with an angry man. “What do you mean by that?”

  He eyed her steadily. “I mean just this, Miss Lockwood. I think your father is as fit as I am. If he wants me to fly him to Greenland, I’ll fly him to Greenland if it snows ink, and neither you nor anybody else is going to stop me.”

  There was a silence after that. They stood for some moments staring hotly at each other on the lawn. Presently Ross relaxed, smiled and said:

  “I’m sorry that we can’t agree, Miss Lockwood. Let’s forget about it. He may decide not to go.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “For his sake I very much hope he does.”

  They turned and walked towards the house without another word spoken. Lockwood was in the study looking through The Times; they went together to the dining-room for breakfast. During the meal the girl hardly spoke at all.

  At the end of it, Lockwood said: “We might go through into the study if you’ve finished, Mr. Ross.”

  In the study, with the door closed, he stood before the window filling his pipe.

  “Well, Mr. Ross,” he said, “I’ve thought about this matter a good deal. I don’t think the difficulties are insuperable, although there seems to be more in it than I had supposed. I’ve decided to go on with it.”

  Ross said: “All right. If you want to give me the job I should be very glad to do it for you.”

  The don smiled. “You must go to Coventry and see my brother. I’ll give you a note to him. If he approves of you, come back here and we’ll start making plans. I realise there’s not much time to lose.”

  AN OLD CAPTIVITY

  II

  ROSS went down to the station, and took the next train up to Coventry. He got there early in the afternoon, left his bag at the cloak-room, and walked up through the town to the offices if Lockwood Tube and Wire Company. He told his business to the uniformed commissionaire; then he waited for some time in an oak-panelled waiting-room, reading the trade papers on the table. Finally, he was led down a long panelled corridor and shown into an office.

  A thin, middle-aged man, slightly bald, got up to meet him. “My name is Hanson,” he said. “I am Sir David’s secretary. I understand you have a note to Sir David from his brother?”

  Ross showed the note. The secretary took it from him, opened it, and read it through. Then he laid it carefully upon his desk. “Ah, yes … I see. You are Mr. Ross?”

  “Sir David is busy at the moment. I think he may wish to see you in a few minutes. In the meantime, would you give me a few details of your experience in aviation, Mr. Ross?”

  The few details proved to be a comprehensive survey of his life to that date, with cross-references to people who could vouch for him, with their telephone numbers where he knew them. The secretary took this down in shorthand very rapidly. It took about twenty minutes; at the end of that time Mr. Hanson scanned his notes through quickly, and then said:

  “Have you prepared any estimate of the cost of the journey that Mr. Cyril Lockwood proposes?”

  Ross shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I only heard about it for the first time yesterday afternoon. I could give you a few very rough figures now, if you like.”

  Hanson turned to a fresh page of his notebook.

  “Perhaps that would be a good thing. Then I can give the whole picture to Sir David in a very few minutes.”

  Ross sat in silence for a minute. Then he said: “Well, the most expensive single item is the aeroplane, of course. Seaplane, I should say—it’s a job for a float machine. And I don’t think we shall find it possible to get insurance for it.”

  The secretary made a note. “Is that because of the great risk?”

  “Not entirely. Flights of that sort are done so seldom that there’s no experience for underwriters to base a rate on.”

  “I understand.” He made another note.

  The pilot said: “We should have to have a six- or seven-seater cabin seaplane for the job. You won’t want to spend more money than you need, of course. I could pick up one that had done five or six hundred hours in Canada for about six thousand dollars. Probably less.”

  The secretary laid down his pencil, and stared at Ross. “Do you mean a second-hand aeroplane, Mr. Ross?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a long pause. Then Hanson picked up his pencil again, and made another note. “I doubt if Sir David would consider a second-hand machine for Mr. Cyril’s expedition,” he said patiently. “Still, I’ve made a note of the figure. What would a new one cost?”

  “About twenty-five thousand dollars, for a Cosmos with a Wasp engine, on floats. A good second-hand one would be quite all right, and you can pick them up very cheaply now.”

  The secretary shook his head. “I think Sir David would be very much against it.”

  “All right. I’d rather have a new machine, of course; the work of maintenance will be much less. But I wouldn’t let that kill the expedition at the start.”

  Hanson looked down his nose. “I do not think that that will be the case, Mr. Ross.”

  The pilot was silent for a minute, revising his ideas. “If you decide to have a new machine, we’ll have to cable an order to the Cosmos people right away, because our time is getting very short indeed. They’re in Detroit. Or, better still, let me have five minutes on the telephone with Johnnie Finck, their sales manager.”

  The secretary made another note. “Sir David would very much prefer to use a British aeroplane,” he said. “Isn’t that possible?”

  The pilot shook his head. “If you want the best machine for flying in the North, you must go to the States for it,” he said. “The British manufacturer hasn’t gone for that market.”

  “Sir David will be disappointed.”

  Ross shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve got to tell him what machine is best for the job. I only wish he’d start in building aeroplanes himself to suit Canadian conditions.”

  The secretary gave him a long look. “He may want to talk that over with you,” he said discreetly. “In the meantime, we must take it that it’s an American machine?”

  “That’s right.”

  They proceeded with the budget, and came presently to the pilot’s remuneration.

  “I should like some form of payment by results,” said Ross. “There’s about five months’ work in this thing, as I see it. You can pay me monthly at the rate of eight hundred a year, starting now, with a bonus of five hundred pounds if the job is done all right. We can define what that means with Mr. Cyril Lockwood later on. But I can tell you this—the job’s worth that amount of money.”

  Hanson made his note. “I have no doubt of it,” he said drily. “I am quite prepared to put that to Sir David. In principle, it seems a very fair proposal.”

  In half an hour they had covered all the ground; the secretary totted up the figures on his pad. “Including your estimate for photography, nine thousand seven hundred and eighty pounds,” he said. “Call it ten thousan
d.” He eyed Ross keenly. “Sir David very much dislikes increasing estimates. Once a figure has been given, it has to be adhered to. If we said twelve thousand pounds to cover every contingency—should we be safe at that?”

  Ross said: “Absolutely, I should think.”

  The secretary made his note.

  He looked over the pages of his notes. “I think that covers everything,” he said at last. He got up from his desk. “Now I’m going to ask you to excuse me for a minute or two.”

  He went out through a side door into the next office, and closed it softly behind him. Ross was left waiting for a time; in the next room there was a low murmur of voices. Ten minutes later the secretary reappeared.

  “Would you come in?” he said. “Sir David would like to see you.”

  Ross went through into the next room, a large office furnished with rather shabby chairs, and a large desk. A thick-set, heavy man in a black coat was sitting at the desk. He was going bald; he had a firm, determined face with much the same features as the don. The relationship was evident. The face was vaguely familiar to Ross from the illustrated papers; Sir David Lockwood was not a Lord Nuffield, but he was a very wealthy man.

  He raised his head, gave Ross a long, appraising look, and motioned to a chair with the end of the fountain pen in his hand. “Sit down.”

  Ross obeyed in silence.

  “You’ve been in Canada?”

  “I was there for about four years.”

  “What sort of a car did you drive out there?”

  “A Packard.”

  “Like it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  This, Ross felt, was not what he had come to talk about at all, but he began to talk diffidently about motor cars to the man who had forgotten more than Ross had ever known. Sir David kept him talking upon varied subjects for ten minutes by the clock. At the end of that time he had satisfied himself that the pilot talked good sense, that he was modest, probably competent to maintain things mechanical, probably honest and hardworking.

  He turned to the letter that Hanson had laid before him. “You spent last night with my brother, I see. He tells me that he’s decided to go on this Greenland trip. He wants you to take him.”