beginning to unsettle
him. 'If you must put it like that, yes,' he said with an awful patience. 'And stop calling me
"sir". We're not at school now and one slip of the tongue could give the game away. From now on
I'll call you Bill and you can address me as...er...Patton.'
'Yes, si...Patton,' said Peregrine.
Even so, it was a worried Glodstone who went to bed that night and who, after an acrimonious
discussion with the hotel manager on the matter of towels, took the Dover road next morning with
Peregrine beside him. With understandable haste, he booked him as William Barnes on the ferry and
by train to Armentières and then hurried away before the ship sailed. For the rest of the day, he
lay on the cliff above the terminal scanning returning passengers through his binoculars in the
hope that Peregrine wouldn't be among them. In between whiles, he checked his stores of tinned
food, the camping gas stove and saucepan, the picnic hamper and the two sleeping-bags and tent.
Finally, he taped the revolvers to the springs below the seats and, unscrewing the ends of the
tent-poles, hid the ammunition inside them. And as the weather was good, and there was no sign of
Peregrine being dragged ashore by Immigration Officers, his spirits rose.
'After all, nothing ventured, nothing gained,' he replied tritely to a gull that shrieked
above him. In the clear summer air he could see faint on the horizon the coastline of France.
Tomorrow he'd be there. That evening, while Peregrine struggled to explain to the desk clerk that
he wanted a room at the hotel in Armentières and Slymne drove desperately towards
Ivry-La-Bataille, Glodstone dined at a country pub and then went down to the ferry terminal to
confirm his booking to Ostend next morning.
'Did you say your name was Glodstone, sir?' enquired the clerk.
'I did,' said Glodstone, and was alarmed when the man excused himself and went to another
office with an odd look on his face. A more senior official with an even odder look came out.
'If you'll just come this way, Mr Glodstone,' he said mournfully and opened the door of a
small room.
'What for?' said Glodstone, now thoroughly worried.
'I'm afraid I have some rather shocking news for you, sir. Perhaps if you took a seat...'
'What shocking news?' said Glodstone, who had a shrewd idea what he was in for.
'It concerns your wife, sir.'
'My wife?'
'Yes, Mr Glodstone. I'm sorry to have to tell you '
'But I haven't got a wife,' said Glodstone, fixing the man with his monocle.
'Ah, then you know already,' said the man. 'You have my most profound sympathy. I lost my own
three years ago. I know just how you must feel.'
'I very much doubt if you do,' said Glodstone, whose feelings were veering all over the place.
'In fact, I'd go as far as to say you can't.'
But the man was not to be denied his compassion. The years behind the booking counter had
given him the gift of consoling people. 'Perhaps not,' he murmured, 'As the Bard says, marriages
are made in heaven and we must all cross that bourne from which no traveller returns.'
He cast a watery eye at the Channel but Glodstone was in no mood for multiple misquotations.
'Listen,' he said, 'I don't know where you got this idea that I'm married because I'm not, and
since I'm not, I'd be glad to hear how I can have lost my wife.'
'But you are Mr G. P. Glodstone booked for the Ostend boat tomorrow morning?'
'Yes. And what's more, there isn't any Mrs Glodstone and never has been.'
'That's odd,' said the man. 'We had a message from Calais just now for a Mr Glodstone saying
his wife had died and you're the only Mr Glodstone on any of the booking lists. I'm exceedingly
sorry to have distressed you.'
'Yes, well since you have,' said Glodstone, who was beginning to find the message even more
sinister than the actual death of any near relative, 'I'd like to hear who sent it.'
The man went back into the office and phoned through to Calais.
him. 'If you must put it like that, yes,' he said with an awful patience. 'And stop calling me
"sir". We're not at school now and one slip of the tongue could give the game away. From now on
I'll call you Bill and you can address me as...er...Patton.'
'Yes, si...Patton,' said Peregrine.
Even so, it was a worried Glodstone who went to bed that night and who, after an acrimonious
discussion with the hotel manager on the matter of towels, took the Dover road next morning with
Peregrine beside him. With understandable haste, he booked him as William Barnes on the ferry and
by train to Armentières and then hurried away before the ship sailed. For the rest of the day, he
lay on the cliff above the terminal scanning returning passengers through his binoculars in the
hope that Peregrine wouldn't be among them. In between whiles, he checked his stores of tinned
food, the camping gas stove and saucepan, the picnic hamper and the two sleeping-bags and tent.
Finally, he taped the revolvers to the springs below the seats and, unscrewing the ends of the
tent-poles, hid the ammunition inside them. And as the weather was good, and there was no sign of
Peregrine being dragged ashore by Immigration Officers, his spirits rose.
'After all, nothing ventured, nothing gained,' he replied tritely to a gull that shrieked
above him. In the clear summer air he could see faint on the horizon the coastline of France.
Tomorrow he'd be there. That evening, while Peregrine struggled to explain to the desk clerk that
he wanted a room at the hotel in Armentières and Slymne drove desperately towards
Ivry-La-Bataille, Glodstone dined at a country pub and then went down to the ferry terminal to
confirm his booking to Ostend next morning.
'Did you say your name was Glodstone, sir?' enquired the clerk.
'I did,' said Glodstone, and was alarmed when the man excused himself and went to another
office with an odd look on his face. A more senior official with an even odder look came out.
'If you'll just come this way, Mr Glodstone,' he said mournfully and opened the door of a
small room.
'What for?' said Glodstone, now thoroughly worried.
'I'm afraid I have some rather shocking news for you, sir. Perhaps if you took a seat...'
'What shocking news?' said Glodstone, who had a shrewd idea what he was in for.
'It concerns your wife, sir.'
'My wife?'
'Yes, Mr Glodstone. I'm sorry to have to tell you '
'But I haven't got a wife,' said Glodstone, fixing the man with his monocle.
'Ah, then you know already,' said the man. 'You have my most profound sympathy. I lost my own
three years ago. I know just how you must feel.'
'I very much doubt if you do,' said Glodstone, whose feelings were veering all over the place.
'In fact, I'd go as far as to say you can't.'
But the man was not to be denied his compassion. The years behind the booking counter had
given him the gift of consoling people. 'Perhaps not,' he murmured, 'As the Bard says, marriages
are made in heaven and we must all cross that bourne from which no traveller returns.'
He cast a watery eye at the Channel but Glodstone was in no mood for multiple misquotations.
'Listen,' he said, 'I don't know where you got this idea that I'm married because I'm not, and
since I'm not, I'd be glad to hear how I can have lost my wife.'
'But you are Mr G. P. Glodstone booked for the Ostend boat tomorrow morning?'
'Yes. And what's more, there isn't any Mrs Glodstone and never has been.'
'That's odd,' said the man. 'We had a message from Calais just now for a Mr Glodstone saying
his wife had died and you're the only Mr Glodstone on any of the booking lists. I'm exceedingly
sorry to have distressed you.'
'Yes, well since you have,' said Glodstone, who was beginning to find the message even more
sinister than the actual death of any near relative, 'I'd like to hear who sent it.'
The man went back into the office and phoned through to Calais.
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