in the bar this evening?’
‘I’m sure she would. This evening, alas, she has an engagement already.’
‘A pity, sir. Perhaps some other time? We’re all rather eager to make her acquaintance, sir.’
I’ll bet you are, thought Seymour.
‘She is rather striking, sir.’
‘Yes, I think so, too.’
Perhaps it was time for a shot across the bows.
Perhaps it was time for a shot ‘She is, of course, married.’
‘She is?’ said McPhail, downcast.
‘Or very nearly,’ a slightly optimistic definition of the truth compelled him to add.
‘Knot not yet tied?’ said McPhail, cheering up.
‘Practically,’ said Seymour.
‘Oh, well,’ said the midshipman, ‘it would be nice to see her at the bar anyway.’
He seemed, however, to be weighing something in his mind.
‘She’s – she’s not an accountant, is she?’ he said hesitantly.
‘Good Lord, no! Nothing like that! She’s quite normal.’
The next day was the King’s birthday: a fact which had somehow escaped Seymour’s notice. But the Royal Birthday, Hattersley assured him, played big in Gibraltar. The Navy would dress ships, fire salutes, supply a band, march in procession, and hold a tea party for His Majesty’s loyal subjects. Everyone, but everyone, said Hattersley firmly, would be there, and he clearly took it for granted that Seymour would be, too.
Seymour was not so sure. True it could give him an opportunity to talk to members of Gibraltar’s trading community – Leila Lockhart would be there, for instance – which he quite wanted to do. They would all have known Lockhart and might be able to give him some useful information. On the other hand, however, he had arranged to spend a further, last, day in the stores and thought that by the time he had finished that, the last thing he would want to do would be to attend what was clearly going to be a heavily Imperial Occasion. No, if the day was to be cut short, he could put it to far better use. He and Chantale could –
But then he received an official invitation from the Admiral at the bottom of which was a pencilled request that Seymour should join him for a drink afterwards, together with a further request, underlined, that he should bring his Assistant (Intelligence) with him.
A roped-off enclosure on an immaculate green lawn overlooking the sea; a gigantic, seven-foot-high hat striding around, which, on inspection, had the Governor under it; ladies in feathers and ensembles which had been the glory of the London Season several seasons ago; Naval uniforms heavy with golden braid; besuited gentlemen, some of them ruddy-faced from England, others darker and browner and from a variety of places around the Mediterranean; a few unquestionably Spanish but keeping quiet about it – this was what struck Seymour when he arrived at the tea party.
There were quite a few children: cleaned up for the occasion but already sticky from the sugared cakes unwisely left unguarded on a table. And rather fewer presentable women in their early twenties, thought Seymour, with the usual male eye; although quite a lot of less presentable women in the over-twenties. Among them was Chantale, not, in her view, satisfactorily dressed, but surrounded by a gaggle – or should it be goggle? – of Naval admirers.
Seymour moved among the suits.
‘Sam Lockhart? Knew him well. Bad business, that. But that’s what you get, mixing with the Spaniards.’
‘And the Arabs,’ put in his neighbour.
‘And the Arabs, of course,’ conceded the first businessman.
‘Of course, that’s where his business was,’ said the second.
‘And look where it got him!’
Not a lot there, thought Seymour, and moved on.
‘Problems with the Spanish Customs? Who hasn’t had problems with them? But Sam had it more worked out than most of us. A little bit of this, I fancy!’ – rubbing imaginary banknotes between the fingers.
A uniform to outshine even the Navy, which could only belong to a Spanish Customs
‘I’m sure she would. This evening, alas, she has an engagement already.’
‘A pity, sir. Perhaps some other time? We’re all rather eager to make her acquaintance, sir.’
I’ll bet you are, thought Seymour.
‘She is rather striking, sir.’
‘Yes, I think so, too.’
Perhaps it was time for a shot across the bows.
Perhaps it was time for a shot ‘She is, of course, married.’
‘She is?’ said McPhail, downcast.
‘Or very nearly,’ a slightly optimistic definition of the truth compelled him to add.
‘Knot not yet tied?’ said McPhail, cheering up.
‘Practically,’ said Seymour.
‘Oh, well,’ said the midshipman, ‘it would be nice to see her at the bar anyway.’
He seemed, however, to be weighing something in his mind.
‘She’s – she’s not an accountant, is she?’ he said hesitantly.
‘Good Lord, no! Nothing like that! She’s quite normal.’
The next day was the King’s birthday: a fact which had somehow escaped Seymour’s notice. But the Royal Birthday, Hattersley assured him, played big in Gibraltar. The Navy would dress ships, fire salutes, supply a band, march in procession, and hold a tea party for His Majesty’s loyal subjects. Everyone, but everyone, said Hattersley firmly, would be there, and he clearly took it for granted that Seymour would be, too.
Seymour was not so sure. True it could give him an opportunity to talk to members of Gibraltar’s trading community – Leila Lockhart would be there, for instance – which he quite wanted to do. They would all have known Lockhart and might be able to give him some useful information. On the other hand, however, he had arranged to spend a further, last, day in the stores and thought that by the time he had finished that, the last thing he would want to do would be to attend what was clearly going to be a heavily Imperial Occasion. No, if the day was to be cut short, he could put it to far better use. He and Chantale could –
But then he received an official invitation from the Admiral at the bottom of which was a pencilled request that Seymour should join him for a drink afterwards, together with a further request, underlined, that he should bring his Assistant (Intelligence) with him.
A roped-off enclosure on an immaculate green lawn overlooking the sea; a gigantic, seven-foot-high hat striding around, which, on inspection, had the Governor under it; ladies in feathers and ensembles which had been the glory of the London Season several seasons ago; Naval uniforms heavy with golden braid; besuited gentlemen, some of them ruddy-faced from England, others darker and browner and from a variety of places around the Mediterranean; a few unquestionably Spanish but keeping quiet about it – this was what struck Seymour when he arrived at the tea party.
There were quite a few children: cleaned up for the occasion but already sticky from the sugared cakes unwisely left unguarded on a table. And rather fewer presentable women in their early twenties, thought Seymour, with the usual male eye; although quite a lot of less presentable women in the over-twenties. Among them was Chantale, not, in her view, satisfactorily dressed, but surrounded by a gaggle – or should it be goggle? – of Naval admirers.
Seymour moved among the suits.
‘Sam Lockhart? Knew him well. Bad business, that. But that’s what you get, mixing with the Spaniards.’
‘And the Arabs,’ put in his neighbour.
‘And the Arabs, of course,’ conceded the first businessman.
‘Of course, that’s where his business was,’ said the second.
‘And look where it got him!’
Not a lot there, thought Seymour, and moved on.
‘Problems with the Spanish Customs? Who hasn’t had problems with them? But Sam had it more worked out than most of us. A little bit of this, I fancy!’ – rubbing imaginary banknotes between the fingers.
A uniform to outshine even the Navy, which could only belong to a Spanish Customs
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