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bêche-de-mer
. I don’t know what
bêche-de-
mer
is, I have never known, I probably never shall know. I’ve guessed once or twice and
guessed wrong. In South Africa I know you at once begin to talk about a
stoep
—I do know
what a
stoep
is—it’s the thing round a house and you sit on it. In various other parts of the
world you call it a veranda, a piazza, and a ha-ha. Then again, there are pawpaws. I had
often read of pawpaws. I discovered at once what they were, because I had one plumped
down in front of me for breakfast. I thought at first that it was a melon gone bad. The Dutch
waitress enlightened me, and persuaded me to use lemon juice and sugar and try again. I
was very pleased to meet a pawpaw. I had always vaguely associated it with a
hula-hula,
which, I believe, though I may be wrong, is a kind of straw skirt that Hawaiian girls dance
in. No, I think I am wrong—that is a
lava-lava
.
At any rate, all these things are very cheering after England. I can’t help thinking that it
would brighten our cold Island life if one could have a breakfast of
bacon-bacon,
and then
go out clad in a
jumper-jumper
to pay the books.
Suzanne was a little tamer after breakfast. They had given me a room next to hers with a
lovely view right out over Table Bay. I looked at the view whilst Suzanne hunted for some
special facecream. When she had found it and started an immediate application, she became
capable of listening to me.
“Did you see Sir Eustace?” I asked. “He was marching out of the breakfast room as we
went in. He’d had some bad fish or something and was just telling the headwaiter what he
thought about it, and he bounced a peach on the floor to show how hard it was—only it
wasn’t quite as hard as he thought and it squashed.”
Suzanne smiled.
“Sir Eustace doesn’t like getting up early any more than I do. But, Anne, did you see Mr.
Pagett? I ran against him in the passage. He’s got a black eye. What can he have been
doing?”
“Only trying to push me overboard,” I replied nonchalantly.
It was a distinct score for me. Suzanne left her face half-anointed and pressed for details.
I gave them to her.
“It all gets more and more mysterious,” she cried. “I thought I was going to have the soft
job sticking to Sir Eustace, and that you would have all the fun with the Rev. Edward
Chichester, but now I’m not so sure. I hope Pagett won’t push me off the train some dark
night.”
“I think you’re still above suspicion, Suzanne. But, if the worst happens I’ll wire to
Clarence.”
“That reminds me—give me a cable form. Let me see now, what shall I say? ‘Implicated
in the most thrilling mystery please send me a thousand pounds at once Suzanne.’ ”
I took the form from her, and pointed out that she could eliminate a “the,” an “a,” and
possibly, if she didn’t care about being polite, a “please.” Suzanne, however, appears to be
perfectly reckless in money matters. Instead of attending to my economical suggestions, she
added three more words: “enjoying myself hugely.”
Suzanne was engaged to lunch with friends of hers, who came to the hotel about eleven
o’clock to fetch her. I was left to my own devices. I went down through the grounds of the
hotel, crossed the tramlines and followed a cool shady avenue right down till I came to the
main street. I strolled about, seeing the sights, enjoying the sunlight and the black-faced
sellers of flowers and fruits. I also discovered a place where they had the most delicious
ice cream sodas. Finally, I bought a sixpenny basket of peaches and retraced my steps to the
hotel.
To my surprise and pleasure I found a note awaiting me. It was from the curator of the
Museum. He had read of my arrival on the
Kilmorden,
in which I was described as the
daughter of the late Professor Beddingfeld. He had known my father slightly and had had
great admiration for him. He went on to say that his wife would be delighted if I would
come out and have tea with them that afternoon at their Villa at Muizenberg. He gave me
instructions for getting there.
It was pleasant to think that poor Papa was still remembered and highly thought of. I
foresaw that I would have to be personally escorted round the Museum before I left Cape
Town, but I risked that. To most people it would have been a treat—but one can have too
much of a good thing if one is brought up on it, morning, noon, and night.
I put on my best hat (one of Suzanne’s castoffs) and my least crumpled white linen and
started off after lunch. I caught a fast train to Muizenberg and got there in about half an hour.
It was a nice trip. We wound slowly round the base of Table Mountain, and some of the
flowers were lovely. My geography being weak, I had never fully realized that Cape Town
is on a peninsula, consequently I was rather surprised on getting out of the train to find
myself facing the sea once more. There was some perfectly entrancing bathing going on. The
people had short curved boards and came floating in on the waves. It was far too early to go
to tea. I made for the bathing pavilion, and when they said would I have a surfboard, I said
“Yes, please.” Surfing looks perfectly easy.
It isn’t
. I say no more. I got very angry and
fairly hurled my plank from me. Nevertheless, I determined to return on the first possible
opportunity and have another go. I would not be beaten. Quite by mistake I then got a good
run on my board, and came out delirious with happiness. Surfing is like that. You are either
vigorously cursing or else you are idiotically pleased with yourself.
I found the Villa Medgee after some difficulty. It was right up on the side of the mountain,
isolated from the other cottages and villas. I rang the bell, and a smiling Kafir boy answered
it.
“Mrs. Raffini?” I inquired.
He ushered me in, preceded me down the passage and flung open a door. Just as I was
about to pass in, I hesitated. I felt a sudden misgiving. I stepped over the threshold and the
door swung sharply behind me.
A man rose from his seat behind a table and came forward with outstretched hand.
“So glad we have persuaded you to visit us, Miss Beddingfeld,” he said.
He was a tall man, obviously a Dutchman, with a flaming orange beard. He did not look
in the least like the curator of a museum. In fact, I realized in a flash that I had made a fool
of myself.
I was in the hands of the enemy.
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