wasn’t it pretty obvious who he was?
‘Sorry – remiss of me. Darling – this is Mr Ironside, the mechanic from Daimler. Ironside, this is my wife, Susan.’
She glided closer to shake his hand, and said, ‘Yes – Mrs Fairford.’ This sounded like a put-down to Sam, after her husband had used her Christian name. ‘How d’you do?’
She was wearing a sapphire-blue dress which swept the floor, a long string of pearls swinging sinuously as she moved. In the dim light, Sam saw her as very pretty. Of course, she was a beautiful woman, with that slender, curving figure and the pale hair, swept up and decorated with tiny jewels which caught the light as she moved. Her face had all the requirements of prettiness: wide blue eyes, even features, with a distinctive sharpness about them and a definite, smiling mouth. Her neck was long and slim, and the overall impression she made was striking. And yet, when she came up close, somehow the prettiness turned to something else, as if there was a wall around her built of defensive snobbery which drew the life from her features and, to his eyes, made her look pinched and calculating.
‘So pleasant to meet you,’ she purred, without it sounding so at all.
Her smile communicated no warmth and her eyes contained a subtle contempt which did not allow her gaze to meet Sam’s for more than a second, in case, it seemed, she might be soiled by even fleeting contact with someone of inferior standing. Trade, of course, was all he was to her. She allowed her hand to touch just the tips of his fingers, then withdrew.
‘How d’you do, Mrs Fairford?’ Sam said, already knowing that he loathed the stuck-up bitch for looking at him like that. Or, more precisely, for refusing to see him at all.
‘I hope you had a safe journey?’ she asked, though her attention was turned to the table, which was laid for three. She straightened one of the place settings.
‘On the whole,’ Sam said, though he directed the answer at the captain, who was handing him a glass of Scotch. ‘Though I must say, sea travel doesn’t suit me completely.’
‘Oh!’ To his surprise, Mrs Fairford agreed fervently. ‘Isn’t it simply awful! I remember feeling so desperately ill on the journey out here! It almost puts one off the idea of going home to dear old England again, if that were not such a terrible thought!’
The two of them gestured towards the table, and as if some signal had been given, though if there was Sam never saw it, a cohort of servants, each dressed in a similar maroon and white livery, began to bring in the food: a tureen of soup, some wide, white dishes and a tray of bread.
Captain Fairford sat at the head of the table and Mrs Fairford and Sam were opposite each other. Mrs Fair-ford fretted at the servants about details of the meal – could they not have cut the bread more elegantly, and had they remembered to strain the soup properly? Two of them stood silently in the shadows by the wall as they ate. Sam wondered what on earth they should talk about. Had it been just himself and the captain, they could have talked all evening about the car. There was no stopping him on that subject! And it was clearly what the captain would have liked to discuss as well. But of course, that wasn’t women’s talk. So Sam kept the conversation light, not technical, talking about things which he thought would amuse.
‘Tell me, Ironside,’ the captain said, as they began on the soup. ‘Surely there isn’t still the same fierce opposition to the motor car in England now? While I was at Eton I seem to remember there were all sorts of protests going on – outrage about freedom of the roads, terrorizing of neighbourhoods and so on.’
‘Well, yes – we haven’t lost that yet,’ Sam said, trying to get used to the strange, spicy flavour of the soup. ‘There’s the Highway Protection League, who’d like to ban the motor car altogether. With attitudes like that, no wonder the French and Germans
‘Sorry – remiss of me. Darling – this is Mr Ironside, the mechanic from Daimler. Ironside, this is my wife, Susan.’
She glided closer to shake his hand, and said, ‘Yes – Mrs Fairford.’ This sounded like a put-down to Sam, after her husband had used her Christian name. ‘How d’you do?’
She was wearing a sapphire-blue dress which swept the floor, a long string of pearls swinging sinuously as she moved. In the dim light, Sam saw her as very pretty. Of course, she was a beautiful woman, with that slender, curving figure and the pale hair, swept up and decorated with tiny jewels which caught the light as she moved. Her face had all the requirements of prettiness: wide blue eyes, even features, with a distinctive sharpness about them and a definite, smiling mouth. Her neck was long and slim, and the overall impression she made was striking. And yet, when she came up close, somehow the prettiness turned to something else, as if there was a wall around her built of defensive snobbery which drew the life from her features and, to his eyes, made her look pinched and calculating.
‘So pleasant to meet you,’ she purred, without it sounding so at all.
Her smile communicated no warmth and her eyes contained a subtle contempt which did not allow her gaze to meet Sam’s for more than a second, in case, it seemed, she might be soiled by even fleeting contact with someone of inferior standing. Trade, of course, was all he was to her. She allowed her hand to touch just the tips of his fingers, then withdrew.
‘How d’you do, Mrs Fairford?’ Sam said, already knowing that he loathed the stuck-up bitch for looking at him like that. Or, more precisely, for refusing to see him at all.
‘I hope you had a safe journey?’ she asked, though her attention was turned to the table, which was laid for three. She straightened one of the place settings.
‘On the whole,’ Sam said, though he directed the answer at the captain, who was handing him a glass of Scotch. ‘Though I must say, sea travel doesn’t suit me completely.’
‘Oh!’ To his surprise, Mrs Fairford agreed fervently. ‘Isn’t it simply awful! I remember feeling so desperately ill on the journey out here! It almost puts one off the idea of going home to dear old England again, if that were not such a terrible thought!’
The two of them gestured towards the table, and as if some signal had been given, though if there was Sam never saw it, a cohort of servants, each dressed in a similar maroon and white livery, began to bring in the food: a tureen of soup, some wide, white dishes and a tray of bread.
Captain Fairford sat at the head of the table and Mrs Fairford and Sam were opposite each other. Mrs Fair-ford fretted at the servants about details of the meal – could they not have cut the bread more elegantly, and had they remembered to strain the soup properly? Two of them stood silently in the shadows by the wall as they ate. Sam wondered what on earth they should talk about. Had it been just himself and the captain, they could have talked all evening about the car. There was no stopping him on that subject! And it was clearly what the captain would have liked to discuss as well. But of course, that wasn’t women’s talk. So Sam kept the conversation light, not technical, talking about things which he thought would amuse.
‘Tell me, Ironside,’ the captain said, as they began on the soup. ‘Surely there isn’t still the same fierce opposition to the motor car in England now? While I was at Eton I seem to remember there were all sorts of protests going on – outrage about freedom of the roads, terrorizing of neighbourhoods and so on.’
‘Well, yes – we haven’t lost that yet,’ Sam said, trying to get used to the strange, spicy flavour of the soup. ‘There’s the Highway Protection League, who’d like to ban the motor car altogether. With attitudes like that, no wonder the French and Germans
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