I started the engine again – for we had instinctively stopped – and Pong thrust on.
Up, up, up we toiled, through the hanging village of Valcarlos, past a long string of jingling mules, under stupendous porches of the living rock, round hairpin bends, by woods and coppices, over grey bridges – wet and shining and all stuck with ferns – now looking forward to the snow-bound ridge, now facing back to find the frontier village shrunk to a white huddle of dots, the torrent to a winking thread of silver, and our late road to a slender straggling ribbon, absurdly foreign, ridiculously remote.
On we stormed, higher and higher; past boulders and poor trees wrung with the wind, and presently up and into and over the snow, while slowly, foot by foot, depth dragged height down to nothing.
For the third time it occurred to me that the engine was unwarrantably hot, and, after a moment’s consideration, I took out the clutch and brought the car to a standstill.
“What is it?” said Daphne.
“She’s hot,” said I. “Hotter than she should be. At least, I think so. Of course it’s a deuce of a pull.” And, with that, I opened the door.
“You’re not going to get out in this snow?”
“Only a second, dear.”
Upon observing that the fan-belt was broken, it was natural that I should regret very much that I had not looked for the trouble when first I suspected its presence. Had I done so, I should have spared the engine, I should have been able to correct the disorder without burning myself to hell, and I should not have been standing, while I worked, in four inches of snow.
Gloomily I made my report.
“I’m sorry,” I concluded, “but I shall have to have Berry. I’ve got a new strap in the boot, but I can’t shift the luggage alone.”
Berry closed his eyes and sank his chin upon his breast. “Go on, old chap,” said Daphne. “I’m very sorry for you, but—”
“I – I don’t feel well,” said Berry. “Besides, I haven’t got my gum-boots.”
“Will you get out?” said his wife.
At last, between us, we got him as far as the running-board.
“Come on,” I said impatiently.
“Don’t rush me,” said Berry, staring at the snow as if it were molten lead. “Don’t rush me. How fresh and beautiful it looks, does not it?” He took a deep breath and let himself down upon his toes. “A-A-ah! If you can do sixty kilometres with a pound of snow in each shoe, how many miles is that to the gallon?”
The belt was at the very back of beyond, but I found it at last. As we replaced the luggage—
“And while,” I said, “I’m fixing the strap, you might fill up the radiator.”
“What with?” said Berry.
“Snow, of course. Just pick it up and shove it in.”
‘Just pick it up and sho–’ Oh, give me strength,” said Berry brokenly. Then he raised his voice. “Daphne!”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’ve got to pick up some snow now.”
“Well, rub your hands with it, dear – well. Then they won’t get frost-bitten.”
“You – er – you don’t mind my picking it up, then? I mean, my left foot is already gangrenous.”
“Well, rub that, too,” called Daphne.
“Thanks,” said Berry grimly. “I think I’d rather wait for the dogs. I expect there are some at Roncevaux. In the pictures they used to have a barrel of whisky round their necks. The great thing was to be found by about five dogs. Then you got five barrels. By the time the monks arrived, you were quite sorry to see them.”
“Will you go and fill up the radiator?” said I, unlocking the tool-box…
The fitting of the new belt was a blasphemous business. My fingers were cold and clumsy, and everything I touched was red-hot. However, at last it was done.
As I was looking over the engine —
“We’d better pull up a bit,” said Berry. “I’ve used all the snow round here. Just a few feet, you know. That drift over there’ll last me a long time.”
“What d’you mean?” said I. “Isn’t it full yet?”
“Well, I thought it was just now, but it seems to go down. I’ve put in about a hundredweight to date.”
An investigation of the phenomenon revealed the unpleasant truth that the radiator was leaking.
I explained this to Berry.
“I see,” he said gravely. “I understand. In other words, for the last twenty minutes I have been at some pains to be introducing water into an inconveniently shaped sieve?”
“That,” said I, “is the idea.”
“And, for all the good I’ve been doing, I might have been trying to eat a lamb cutlet through a couple of straws?”
“Oh, no. You’ve cooled her down. In fact… It took five minutes and all the cajolery at my command to induce my brother-in-law to continue his Danaidean task, until I had started the engine and we were ready to move.
Then he whipped its cap on to the radiator and clambered into the car.
I was extremely uneasy, and said as much.
It was now a quarter to five. Pampeluna was some thirty miles away, and Heaven only knew what sort of country lay before us. We were nearly at the top of the pass, and, presumably, once we were over we should strike a lot of “down hill.” But if the leak became worse, and there was much more collarwork…
Desperately I put Pong along.
The snow was deeper now and was affecting the steering. The wheels, too, were slipping constantly. I had to go very gingerly. Two deep furrows ahead told of Ping’s passage. I began to wonder how Adèle, Jill, and Jonah were getting on…
It was when the snow was perhaps a foot deep that we snarled past a ruined cabin and, stumbling over the very top of the world, began to descend.
Ten minutes later we came to Roncevaux. Where Abbey began or village ended, it was impossible to say, and there was no one to be seen. The place looked like a toy some baby giant had carried into the mountains, played with awhile, and then forgotten.
Here was the last of the snow, so I crammed some more into the radiator, tried very hard to think I could see the water, and hoped for the best. While I was doing this, Berry had closed the car – a wise measure, for, though we should lose a lot of scenery, the sun was sinking and Evening was laying her fingers upon the fine fresh air.
Navarre seemed very handsome. It was, indeed, all mountains – bleaker, less intimate than France, but very, very grand. And the road was splendidly laid: its long clean sweeps, its graceful curves, the way in which its line befitted the bold landscape, yet was presenting a style of its own, argued a certain poetry in the hearts of its engineers.
We swept through a village that might have been plucked out of Macedonia, so rude and stricken it looked. There was no glass in the windows: filth littered the naked street: pigs and poultry rushed for the crazy doorways at our approach.
Pampeluna being the nearest town, I realised with a shock what sort of a night we should spend if we failed to get there.
I began to hope very hard that there were no more hills. Presently the road forked and we switched to the right. Maps and
Guide
declared that this was the better way.
“What’s
carretera accidentada
mean?” said my sister, looking up from the
Michelin Guide
.
“I think
carretera
means ‘road,’” said I. “As for
accidentada
– well, it’s got an ugly sound.”
“Well, do look out,” said Daphne. “We shall be there any minute. This must be Espinal, and that’s where it begins.”
Berry cleared his throat.
“The art of life,” he announced, “is to be prepared. Should the car overturn and it become necessary to ply me with cordial, just part my lips and continue to pour until I say ‘When.’ Should – What are you stopping for?”
“Very slightly to our rear,” said I, “upon the right-hand side of the road stands a water-trough. You may have noticed it.”
“I did,” said Berry. “A particularly beautiful specimen of the palaeolithic epoch. Shall we go on now?”
“Supposing,” said I relentlessly, “you plied the radiator. Just take the cap off and continue to pour till I say ‘When.’”
“I should be charmed,” was the reply. “Unfortunately I have no vessel wherewith to—”
“Here you are,” said Daphne, thrusting a hotwater bottle into his hand. “What a mercy I forgot to pack it!”
As I lighted a cigarette —
“It is indeed,” said I, “a godsend.”
With an awful look, Berry received the godsend and emerged from the car.
After perhaps two minutes he reappeared.
“No good,” he said shortly. “The water’s too hard or something. The brute won’t look at it.”
“Nonsense,” said Daphne.
“All right,” said her husband. “You go and tempt it. I’m through, I am.”
“Squeeze the air out of it and hold it under the spout.”
“But I tell you—”
I took out my watch.
“In another half-hour,” I said, “it’ll be dark, and we’ve still forty kilometres—”
Heavily Berry disappeared.
When I next saw him he was filling the radiator from his hat…
After six journeys he screwed on the cap and made a rush for the car.
“But where’s my bottle?” screamed Daphne.
“I rejoice to say,” replied Berry, slamming the door, “that full fathom five the beggar lies.”
“You’ve never dropped—”
“If it’s any consolation,” said Berry, as I let in the clutch, “he perished in fair fight. The swine put about a bucket up each of my sleeves first, and then spat all over my head. Yes, it is funny, isn’t it? Never mind. Game to the last, he went down regurgitating like a couple of bathrooms. And now I really am flea-bitten. I can’t feel anything except my trunk.”
It was as well that we had taken in water, for very soon, to my dismay, we began to climb steadily .
Once again we watered – Heaven knows how high up – at a hovel, half barn, half cottage, where a sturdy mother came lugging a great cauldron before we had named our need. In all conscience, this was obvious enough. The smell of fiery metal was frightening me to death.
Mercifully, that terrible ascent was the last.
As the day was dying, we dropped down a long, long hill, round two or three death-trap bends, and so, by gentle stages, on to a windy plain…
It was half past six when we ran into Pampeluna.
After paying an entrance fee, we proceeded to the Grand Hotel. It was intensely cold, and a wind cut like a knife. The streets were crowded, and we moved slowly, with the result that the eight urchins who decided to mount the running-boards did so without difficulty. The four upon my side watched Berry evict their fellows with all the gratification of the immune.
“Little brutes,” said Daphne. “Round to the left, Boy. That’s right. Straight on. Look at that one. He’s holding on by the lamp. Boy, can’t you – Now to the right… Here we are.”
“Where?” said I, slowing up.
“Here. On the right. That must be it, with the big doors.”
As I climbed out of the car, seven more boys alighted from the dickey, the wings, the luggage, and the spare wheels.
A second later I found myself in a bank. The edifice appeared to be deserted, but after a moment or two an individual came shuffling out of the shadows. My inability to speak a word of Spanish and his inability to speak a word of anything else disfavoured an intelligent conversation, but at last I elicited first that the Grand Hotel was next door, and secondly that it would not be open until July.
I imparted this pleasing information to the others.
“Closed?” said Berry. “Well, that is nice. Yes. He’s quite right. Here it is in the
Guide
. ‘Open from July to October.’ I suppose a superman might have put it more plainly, but it’s a pretty broad hint. And now what shall we do? Three months is rather long to wait, especially as we haven’t had any tea. Shall we force an entry? Or go on to Madrid?”
“Fool,” said Daphne. “Get in, Boy. I’m getting hungry.”
I got in and started the engine.
Then I got out again with a stick.
This the seven boys, who had remounted, were not expecting.
I got in again, feeling better…
The second hotel we visited was admirably concealed.
As we were passing it for the second time, Jonah came stepping across the pavement.
“Lucky for you we got in early,” he said. “We’ve got the last two rooms. They’re on the fourth floor, they’re miles apart, they’re each about the size of a minute, and I don’t think the beds are aired. The lift’s out of order, there’s no steam heat, and there are no fireplaces. Both the bathrooms have been let as bedrooms, and the garage is conveniently situated about a mile and a half away. The porter’s cut his hand, so you’ll have to carry up your luggage and help me with ours. Nobody speaks anything but Spanish, but that doesn’t matter as much as it might, because the waiters have struck. And now look sharp, or we shan’t get any dinner.”
Bearer will bring you to where we are. Don’t talk. Don’t do anything. Just get into the car.
JONAH.
I stared at the words stupidly.
Then I looked at the chauffeur standing, hat in hand, and stepped into the depths of a luxurious limousine.
A moment later we were whipping over the cobbles. It was nearly half past seven, and I had just walked back from the garage where I had deposited Pong. Whether my instructions that the radiator was to be mended and the car to be washed had been understood and would be executed, I was almost too tired to care. I was also abominably cold. The prospect of an evening and night attended with every circumstance of discomfort was most depressing. For the fiftieth time I was wishing that we had never come.
And then at the door of the hotel I had been handed the message…
There was a foot-warmer in the limousine and a voluminous fur-rug. I settled myself contentedly. What it all meant, I had not the faintest idea. Enough that I was comfortable and was beginning to grow warm. My faith, moreover, in Jonah was profound.
The car drew up with a rush before a mansion.
As I stepped out, the chauffeur removed his hat, and the front door was opened.
I passed up the steps into the grateful shelter of a tremendous hall.
At once my coat and hat were taken from me and I was reverently invited to ascend the huge staircase. I did so in silence. At the top of the flight a waiting-woman received me and led the way.