that was the better way, since they would otherwise talk with loose and suspicious tongues. But it seemed madness to bring one of them to see us off.
When I had mastered my anger I went forward and was introduced to the newcomer. His name was Alan Stuart. His fine name and obvious honesty did not palliate my anger, and it was clear to me from the way Alan blushed that I had an ugly scowl on my face. Yet, like his namesake in
Kidnapped
, he was to prove the bonniest fighter I have ever met, bar only Kay Mathieson herself.
‘I want to come with you,’ said Alan, pleading rather than offering.
I thought quickly. I liked him instinctively, for he was boyish, unpretentious and unspoiled. But he was only 20 and looked younger, and I did not know how he would stand up if things went wrong. Furthermore, the plot had been laid for three people and it seemed unnecessary to take four. On the other hand, he knew all about us and could not gossip if he were with us.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
He could not have been more hurt if I had kicked him. ‘It’s all right,’ he said through his disappointment. ‘And the best of luck anyway.’
I warmed to him more. There was a simplicity in everything he said that erased my ill temper, and chastised me for it.
‘He could bring a car,’ whispered Gavin.
‘I could indeed,’ said Alan eagerly as he caught the whisper.
My resistance fell, and I was naked against them.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘You’re on.’
His face lit up with boyish joy and he thanked me eagerly. He departed in a rush to arrange his affairs and get his car. He had gone 20 yards when he dashed back.
‘Do you want an Armstrong or a Ford Anglia?’ he asked.
‘Would an Anglia carry four hundredweight?’ I asked.
He thought before replying. ‘Och yes,’ he said. ‘It would carry Nelson’s Column, pigeons and all.’
In this fashion we recruited Alan Stuart and the Ford Anglia car. Which was the more reliable, Alan or the Anglia, I do not know. But I do know that I would go round the world with either of them, and there would be laughter and confidence all the way.
Chapter Seven
We were later in getting away than I had intended, since the arrival of Alan threw us off schedule. I was in a fever of impatience to be gone, which Kay’s remote calm and Gavin’s complacent confidence in no way soothed. At last, about seven in the evening, when we drove through Glasgow Cross and along London Road on the first mile of the road south, I was able to relax a little. Yet the relaxation was of a child going on a long-anticipated holiday. Now and again it would come to me in the middle of a sentence, or in a moment of calm driving, that we really were going after the Stone, and I would hug the knowledge to me, a glowing secret whose warm presence I could feel. At the same time the knowledge steadied my excitement, for the cerebral part of the operation was past, and all that remained was to fulfil in action what had been created a thousand times in dreams. As I drove I knew that even the driving was all part of the unity of our operation.
I took the first spell in the Anglia with Alan at my side. Four hours earlier he had been a stranger, but now I had warmed to him and circumstances had made us old friends. I was glad of the opportunity to talk to him, and as I followed the rear light of Gavin’s car down the long winding road to Carlisle, I told him how we intended to mate intention with success. He followed me carefully, and by the time we stopped at Gretna for a meal heknew exactly what his part would be when we came to the Abbey.
As we pushed through the blackness to Carlisle, the night became colder. It was plain to us that we were going to get hard frost with perhaps glazed ice on the higher stretches. Eight-horsepower cars are not the best vehicles for a 400-mile journey in midwinter, but they turned back the miles constantly and uncomplainingly. Inside it was cold, and our breath froze on the
When I had mastered my anger I went forward and was introduced to the newcomer. His name was Alan Stuart. His fine name and obvious honesty did not palliate my anger, and it was clear to me from the way Alan blushed that I had an ugly scowl on my face. Yet, like his namesake in
Kidnapped
, he was to prove the bonniest fighter I have ever met, bar only Kay Mathieson herself.
‘I want to come with you,’ said Alan, pleading rather than offering.
I thought quickly. I liked him instinctively, for he was boyish, unpretentious and unspoiled. But he was only 20 and looked younger, and I did not know how he would stand up if things went wrong. Furthermore, the plot had been laid for three people and it seemed unnecessary to take four. On the other hand, he knew all about us and could not gossip if he were with us.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
He could not have been more hurt if I had kicked him. ‘It’s all right,’ he said through his disappointment. ‘And the best of luck anyway.’
I warmed to him more. There was a simplicity in everything he said that erased my ill temper, and chastised me for it.
‘He could bring a car,’ whispered Gavin.
‘I could indeed,’ said Alan eagerly as he caught the whisper.
My resistance fell, and I was naked against them.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘You’re on.’
His face lit up with boyish joy and he thanked me eagerly. He departed in a rush to arrange his affairs and get his car. He had gone 20 yards when he dashed back.
‘Do you want an Armstrong or a Ford Anglia?’ he asked.
‘Would an Anglia carry four hundredweight?’ I asked.
He thought before replying. ‘Och yes,’ he said. ‘It would carry Nelson’s Column, pigeons and all.’
In this fashion we recruited Alan Stuart and the Ford Anglia car. Which was the more reliable, Alan or the Anglia, I do not know. But I do know that I would go round the world with either of them, and there would be laughter and confidence all the way.
Chapter Seven
We were later in getting away than I had intended, since the arrival of Alan threw us off schedule. I was in a fever of impatience to be gone, which Kay’s remote calm and Gavin’s complacent confidence in no way soothed. At last, about seven in the evening, when we drove through Glasgow Cross and along London Road on the first mile of the road south, I was able to relax a little. Yet the relaxation was of a child going on a long-anticipated holiday. Now and again it would come to me in the middle of a sentence, or in a moment of calm driving, that we really were going after the Stone, and I would hug the knowledge to me, a glowing secret whose warm presence I could feel. At the same time the knowledge steadied my excitement, for the cerebral part of the operation was past, and all that remained was to fulfil in action what had been created a thousand times in dreams. As I drove I knew that even the driving was all part of the unity of our operation.
I took the first spell in the Anglia with Alan at my side. Four hours earlier he had been a stranger, but now I had warmed to him and circumstances had made us old friends. I was glad of the opportunity to talk to him, and as I followed the rear light of Gavin’s car down the long winding road to Carlisle, I told him how we intended to mate intention with success. He followed me carefully, and by the time we stopped at Gretna for a meal heknew exactly what his part would be when we came to the Abbey.
As we pushed through the blackness to Carlisle, the night became colder. It was plain to us that we were going to get hard frost with perhaps glazed ice on the higher stretches. Eight-horsepower cars are not the best vehicles for a 400-mile journey in midwinter, but they turned back the miles constantly and uncomplainingly. Inside it was cold, and our breath froze on the
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