There Will Come A Stranger Read online

  In the travel agency no snags awaited them. Seats were booked for them to fly to Geneva, others on the train would convey them thence for the remainder of the journey. Then the agent asked, “And how about hotel accommodation? Would you like me to arrange that on your behalf as well?”

  To Valerie’s surprise Vivian said, “No, thank you—I have already seen to that myself. We shall be staying at the Casque d’Or.”

  “Ah, yes! It has an excellent reputation. You have stayed there before?”

  “No. It was recommended by—a friend.”

  “You were well advised not to delay in booking there.”

  Vivian was not surprised by what he said. John Ainslie would of course go to a good hotel. The letter answering hers had told her that the Casque d’Or had been fully booked up; only the cancellation of a double room owing to illness had left accommodation free. Again she blessed that conversation in the train. The recommendation of a man who obviously knew his way about the world and would be particular in his choice, gave one more confidence than the impersonal advice of even the best of agents. Briefly, in her mind she saw again his fair, square face, broad shoulders, steady grey eyes, strong, well cut features, wondered idly as she took her cheque book from her bag whether he would be there at the same time as herself. It would be pleasant to meet again. But if they did, she must take care to make it clear from the beginning that she was well able to stand on her own feet—and also that she expected nothing from him on the strength of a few hours spent together on a journey! Naturally independent, in marriage she had learned the joy of leaning upon someone stronger than herself, taking as well as giving. But that was over. In the last two years she had regained much of her self-reliance. If John Ainslie were at Varlet-sur-Montagne she must make that plain to him at once—a woman travelling on her own could be a nuisance if she were the dependent type, used to relying on male advice and help in every tiniest problem ... But as like as not their paths would never cross again.

  When she had written a cheque and arranged to call two days later for their tickets and the final details of the journey, they emerged again into the Haymarket. The drizzle had developed into heavy rain. Valerie was disappointed; it was her first visit to London, and she had been looking forward to sight-seeing and window-gazing. But Vivian was undaunted. They would take a taxi to a Knightsbridge store and look round there at leisure, independent of the weather.

  “First of all,” she said when they were on their way, “for clothes! I’ve made a list of what I think you’ll need. Let’s have a cup of coffee while we talk it over.”

  Valerie’s eyes widened as she read the list Vivian handed her across the table. “But this is far more than I really need! I can quite well manage with one evening dress—I’ve got that red one of Monica’s, you know. And my dressing-gown is perfectly all right—I only got it in the July sales, reduced from seven guineas to fifty shillings. And—”

  Vivian interrupted her. “That’s just the trouble! As far as I can make out, everything you’ve got is either a hand-down from Monica, chosen to go with her black hair and dark eyes, or from Janet, who has no taste anyway and is about twice your size, or else you bought it not because you liked it or it suited you, but because it was a bargain. Nothing you possess is you, expressive of yourself! And psychologically that’s bad for any woman. I want you to scrap everything you’ve got and make a fresh start. Let me give you everything on that list. You’ll find it’s just a minimum of what you’ll need!”

  “It’s—oh, it’s darling of you to suggest it! But it’s far too much—I can’t let you give me all that—”

  “Listen. You know that saying—‘The Lord loveth a cheerful giver’?”

  Valerie nodded.

  “Well, I’m quite sure that a cheerful taker is every bit as popular in heaven! Think of the pleasure you’ll be giving me by happily accepting a few frocks and things that I can well afford to give you!”

  “Oh ... I hadn’t thought of it like that!”

  “Well, just you think of it ‘like that’ from now on, and we’ll both have lots of fun!”

  So when they had finished their coffee they embarked on shopping. Vivian, judging by Valerie’s present wardrobe, had expected that her taste would need a good deal of unobtrusive guiding if her new clothes were to be becoming. She was surprised and pleased to find that Valerie knew very well what suited her, although she preferred the less becoming of two frocks if it were also the less expensive—a tendency that Vivian nipped firmly in the bud.

  Their first purchase was a suit. The jacket was of deep blue tweed, its collar checked in grey and blue. It had two skirts, one of plain blue, the other of the same material as the collar. With it went an overcoat. It was comfortably roomy, with a small roll collar, and was reversible, one side being of the checked material, the other blue. The colours emphasized the grey-blue of her appealing eyes, and by their contrast brightened the pale gold of her hair, stressing her personality, instead of dimming it, as her old grey clothes had done.

  Valerie was a small stock size and the outfit fitted her as though it had been made for her, so Vivian suggested she should wear it there and then and have her other, unbecoming clothes sent to the vicar of a poor parish who had been appealing in the personal column of The Times for unwanted clothing. The obliging sales assistant, interested in the transformation scene, fetched pullovers from another department, then went for blouses while they made their choice. A twin-set and a long-sleeved pullover were sent to their hotel; meanwhile Valerie wore a shirt of pearl-grey crepe.

  By the time that they had found a jaunty little cap of deep blue felt, and bought neat shoes, comfortably and snugly fitting, of dark blue reversed calf with a matching handbag, they were beginning to be tired, and more than ready for lunch.

  “What shall we have?” asked Vivian, studying the menu.

  “Something we wouldn’t have at home!” “D’you like smoked salmon?”

  “I don’t know—I’ve never had it!”

  “High time to find out, then!”

  So they ate smoked salmon, followed by chicken cooked with mushrooms and sweet com, and finished up with chestnut cream piled on meringue biscuits. Then, revived, they started off again.

  Gradually, in the week that followed, they worked their way through Vivian’s list of all that Valerie would need, from shoes and underwear to an enchanting multi-coloured evening bag to “go” with her two dance frocks and the short ones she would wear for quiet evenings. With the advice and help of experts in the winter sports department at Harridge’s they chose their ski-ing outfits. Between bouts of shopping they did some leisurely sightseeing, and of an evening went to a play, or saw a film. Sometimes they ate in Soho, experimenting with dishes cooked as in France or Italy, Greece or Spain or India, sometimes in the restaurant of a big store, sometimes at some quiet little place tucked in a cul-de-sac or side street in the West End.

  So the last evening came. Vivian did her packing first, then went to write a letter to Hawthorn Lodge, to tell the family of their doings since they came to London. Valerie had their bedroom to herself, littered with clothes, and tissue paper, and exciting cardboard boxes.

  Blissfully she opened her neat grey cases, banded with navy and maroon for easier identification, light in weight for flying. Contentedly she sniffed up the smell of newness that emerged. The muted murmur of traffic mingled with the rustle of tissue paper as she began to pack her new belongings. She scarcely knew which gave her the most delight: the dance frocks, or the cocktail suit of grey-blue faille; the quilted dressing gown of turquoise lined with peach, or the little frock of primrose silk; the nylon underwear, delicate as gossamer, or the cosier garments she would wear under her ski-ing outfit, warm and light and soft as feathers; the shoes of supple suede, or sturdier shoes of gleaming calf—she had always loved good shoes, but never yet been able to afford them!

  Thanks to Vivian, the last week had been one long delight. Strange to think it had been no more t
han a prelude—an overture to a still more exciting tune!

  Valerie wondered, as she packed, what lay ahead. What friends unknown were waiting in the curtained future? Whose arms would hold her, when those drifts of pearly chiffon with the silver sequins sparkling in the misty folds floated about her in the dance?

  The engines drummed. Slowly the plane taxied along the runway, gathering speed, then smoothly took the air. Valerie, who had been smothering faint qualms of anxiety as to her possible sensations when they left the ground—qualms that had by no means been abated by the appearance of the hostess, trim in her uniform, offering a tray of glucose sweets—was relieved to feel no more than a thrill of gay excitement as the airport sank away below.

  A chilly drizzle had been falling. Now they were climbing steadily through low cloud. Valerie would have been faintly disappointed, had such a thing been possible in her blissful state: she had been looking forward to a bird’s eye view of southern England, then the Channel, and at last “Abroad”! She thought that it would be a thousand pities if they were to arrive at journey’s end having seen no more than drifting wreaths of cloud!

  For a moment her attention was distracted by the smiling hostess, who, having brought them little individual trays with breakfast—ham, and crisp rolls, and little rolls of butter, and marmalade in tiny plastic pots—was asking how she liked her coffee? No sooner was the matter dealt with than Vivian, smiling, said, “Look there!”—and following the direction of her eyes, Valerie saw that they had emerged out of the clouds into a vast immensity of sunlit space. Above and all around was fathomless blue; below, a floor of dazzling cloud that looked as solid as a gigantic bed of cotton wool. The world and all its turmoil seemed incredibly remote, as time and space took on new values in her mind. She murmured, “Even eternity doesn’t seem quite so bewildering any longer!”

  To Vivian, as always, the sight of beauty that she could no longer share with Pete smote her with renewed awareness of her loss and longing for him. But she gave no sign of what she felt.

  “I know. I always feel like that, too,” she answered. “And to think it’s always here—this peace and space, while we’re all fussing down below because the fish hasn’t come, or the scullery tap needs a new washer, or someone’s made a silly speech in Parliament!” And then, as Valerie still sat gazing spellbound, she added, “All the same, though breakfast does seem something of an anticlimax, I would eat it up if I were you, before your coffee’s cold!”

  Secretly Valerie felt it would be more appropriate to sing the Te Deum, but picturing the probable effect upon her fellow travellers if she were to do anything of the kind, she did as Vivian suggested, and found her appetite was unimpaired by her emotions.

  On Geneva’s housetops lay no more than a scattering of snow, but the mountains were a brilliant, blinding white. They understood now why the nice girl in Harridge’s winter sports department had been so insistent that they must be sure to take glare glasses. Their train for Varlet-sur-Montagne would leave barely an hour after their arrival, so after a quick lunch they embarked on the next stage of their journey in a funny little friendly train that bore them upwards on a single track line, now twisting spiral fashion like a corkscrew, now panting up in steep zigzags, while with every mile the powdery snow grew deeper and the countryside more like a Christmas card. Shadows began to flow in azure tides up from the valleys, driving the sunlight from the mountains. On the peaks it lingered, deepening from gold to glowing rose. Then suddenly that faded too, and by the time the little engine chuffed importantly to a standstill at their destination, stars had begun to prick the darkening sky.

  Leaving the warm, well-heated train was like diving from a sunny beach into a chilly sea. Cold made them gasp, but it was a dry, exhilarating cold, as different from the raw air they had left behind as iced champagne from cold tea. Most of their fellow passengers drove off in sleighs with bells that jingled gaily in the frosty air, drawn by horses decked with plumes, but they had been warned that these would take too much of their precious currency, so they had arranged for a porter to come from their hotel bringing a sledge to fetch their luggage, and direct them there.

  The snow crunched crisp and dry beneath their feet as they walked up a hillside; bright with lighted windows gleaming through the dusk. Five minutes’ walking brought them to the long, two-storied building the hotel porter had pointed out, and a few minutes after that warm air rushed out to meet them through the second of the double doors by which one entered the hotel, and which were so essential to keep out the bitter cold at night.

  They found themselves in a large cheerful lounge hall, with comfortable chairs, and writing tables in the windows. Opposite the door a staircase led up to a kind of gallery encircling it on the first floor. A smiling, plump young matron, evidently the manageress, had apparently been looking out for their arrival and came at once to welcome them. She took them upstairs to a pleasant bedroom opening off the gallery, with gay rugs on the wooden floors, and roomy built-in cupboards and basins with running water. The hotel, she told them, had been burnt down in the year following the war, and rebuilt, as they saw, according to the most up-to-date ideas in comfort and convenience. There were double windows—would they please be careful not to open these during the night, as if they did there was a risk of bursting the radiators by the sudden contact of freezing air? The rooms were well aired during the day, when it was warm—but they had no idea how cold it could be here at night! After asking whether they had had a pleasant journey she went away, saying that she would send the luggage up as soon as it arrived.

  Barely had she disappeared when a knock came at the door; the porter who had met them had brought up their cases, helped by a rosy maid with fair, hair worn in plaits about her ears. The maid, smiling at them shyly, told them, “My name Elise. You want any things you tell me, yes? You like tea, before you do unpackings? Then I bring it to you by the fire below. Five minutes!”

  “That would be lovely. Thank you, Elise!” said Vivian, to which she answered, beaming, “Very much!”

  While they washed and tidied, Vivian and Valerie agreed that so far the Casque d’Or seemed all that they had hoped for. Neither mentioned to the other certain qualms, caused by the quietness, and the absence in the lounge of any other visitors. Surely it couldn’t be that for some unknown but soon-to-be-discovered cause the place was nearly empty? Now that it was dark one might have thought that everyone would have returned from the day’s ski-ing, or whatever they had been doing?

  However, when they went down they were relieved to find that at least one other guest was staying here. A girl was sitting by the log fire, writing a letter on a pad perched on the arm of her chair. She had light brown hair drawn into a loose roll on her neck, a fair, square face, and honest, friendly eyes. You couldn’t call her pretty, but there was about her something very likeable and attractive, they thought, as she looked up and smiled at them, and said, “Good evening! Elise asked me to tell you that tray of tea is yours—it’s only been here about half a minute.”

  The tea was quite delicious. There were buttery, flaky croissants, curls of yellow butter, cherry jam, and a plate of madeleines. As Vivian was pouring out their second cups the other girl folded her letter, tucked it in its envelope, addressed it, then looked across at them, apparently inclined for friendly overtures. It was Vivian who, after they had chatted for a little while about the journey and the ski-ing conditions, which apparently were particularly good this year, voiced the question uppermost in the minds of both the sisters. “Is the hotel full? It seems so quiet!”

  Reassurance came at once. “Oh, this is always zero hour! Yes, every room is full—they can take twenty-seven people but they’ve managed to squeeze in twenty-nine by putting up camp beds for a couple of schoolboys! But there’s never anyone much about at this hour. Some of them are having baths. Others have gone straight from ski-ing to have tea at a little cafe in the village where they make simply super cakes, or at the Scheveizerhof—that’s the b
ig hotel. One or two are still out on long expeditions. I don’t suppose I would be here myself, only I had a rather long day yesterday so to-day I took things easily. My husband and my brother have been out all day, and aren’t back yet—My name’s Susan Prescott, by the way.”

  Valerie and Vivian had agreed it would be more convenient if they were to unpack and change one at a time. They had already settled how they should share the drawers and cupboards, so when they had tea Vivian said, “Will you go up first? Yes, really—I’m enjoying idling here! Come down when you’ve unpacked and changed, and I’ll go up when there’s a clear field. No hurry!”

  When her possessions were put away, everything tidy and in order, Valerie had a bath. She had been feeling tired, but was revived by lying in the steaming water, scented deliciously with the Roman Hyacinth bath oil that had been one of Vivian’s presents. Back in the bedroom, revelling in the caress of, her peach nylon slip and panties, she considered what to wear. The hotel was so well heated that a thin frock, such as the short one Susan Prescott had been wearing, should be quite warm enough, so from its hanger she took down the little primrose silk. Her throat rose smooth and creamy from its neckline, cut with a wide scoop. The delicate colour echoed the pale gold of her hair and flattered her fair skin. Lightly she powdered, touched her lips with soft rose lipstick, smoothed her brows and lashes with vaseline on a tiny brush, as Vivian had shown her. Spreading her hands, she thought how luxurious it made one feel to have the time to paint one’s nails with pale rose varnish, matching one’s mouth—and how becoming was the result. Already the stain upon her right forefinger, made by peeling vegetables, had disappeared. Only a trace of roughness lingering still reminded her that when this magic month was over, like that other Cinderella she must return to the old life of drudgery.

  But I won’t think of that, she told herself. I won’t allow the future to intrude upon the present! I’ll live every moment as it comes. And after all, life does take unexpected turns—a month from now some other lovely miracle may have happened!