The White Dove. Rosie Thomas
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with her mother, and even those took days longer to reach her here. She was quite sure that her mother would have no idea how to reach her in Biarritz if the family needed her. Bethan’s mind was blank. She couldn’t possibly turn to Lady Lovell for help, even less his lordship. Isabel was the only one who might know what to do. Fixing quickly on the thought that Isabel was fourteen now, and spoke perfect French, Bethan turned and ran towards the stairs, the newspaper clenched in her hand.
Amy was sitting on the window seat in the pretty sitting-room she shared with her sister. Their suite was at the side of the hotel instead of at the front overlooking the great terrace with its flags and flowers, but Amy thought that it was much superior because it looked south along the curve of coast. At odd times when the haze cleared she could see the blue line of Spain. It was so pretty here, from the height of the hotel, with the town spread out in front of her and the figures moving on the beach. When she was down in the midst of it all Amy felt gawky and ignorant amongst the glittery people, and curious and impatient in equal parts with all the dancing and parties and furious enjoyment that made up a summer in Biarritz. But from up here she could imagine that it belonged to her, and that she was the star in its firmament.
Amy wrapped her arms around her drawn-up knees and stared at the view. Lazily, she thought that she should be changing for dinner, and dismissed the thought at once. Isabel was already in their bedroom, brushing her hair before pinning it up. Isabel was suddenly much more interested in her hair, and her dresses. She could spend an hour rearranging her costume for nothing more interesting than a decorous walk with her sister, and she would sit eagerly over the seasonal fashion sketches sent for Lady Lovell’s approval by her favourite couturiers. But in Isabel’s case it was worth doing, Amy thought loyally, because Isabel was beautiful. Her dark red hair was smooth and shiny where Amy’s was curly and rough, and her skin stayed flawlessly white under the sun when Amy’s turned pink and itchy. Isabel looked ravishing in the plain linen day dresses and simple pastel silks for evening that Adeline insisted they wore. Amy was taller, and she felt that she bulged and sprouted from her clothes like an oversized vegetable.
Not that I care, she told herself firmly. At twelve years old Amy would rather watch the intriguing world around her, or even read a book, than spend time on her appearance. She was particularly proud that she could make herself ready for dinner in exactly six minutes, start to finish.
She was just congratulating herself on the fact, which meant that there was a full half-hour yet before she need move, when Bethan came in. Bethan’s territory was a little square room beside the front door of the suite. Amy couldn’t remember her ever coming into their sitting room without a discreet knock first, although all three of them recognized it as a pure formality.
As soon as she saw Bethan’s face, Amy swung herself off the window seat. ‘Something’s wrong. What is it? Are you going to be sick? Wait, I’ll get a bowl …’
‘No,’ Bethan said. ‘There’s been an accident.’
Amy whirled around again. Isabel was standing in the bedroom doorway, her hairbrush in her hand. ‘Not Richard? Mother?’
‘No. At home. In Wales. A pit explosion.’ She held out the paper to them. Isabel took it, and Amy wrapped her arms protectively around Bethan.
‘I don’t know what to do, see. My dad’s in that pit, and my brothers. I’ve got to telephone …’
The sisters looked at each other. Bethan was usually so calm, and full of dependable common sense; it was very strange to find her turning to them for help instead.
‘Of course you must telephone,’ Isabel soothed her, ‘I’ll go down to the desk. They’ll find us the number. Where … do you think we should ring?’
Bethan shook her head helplessly.
‘We must ask Tony,’ Amy said crisply. ‘He’ll know what to do.’
‘You shouldn’t call him Tony,’ Isabel protested automatically.
‘Why not? It’s his name, isn’t it?’
Richard and his tutor had rooms looking on to the terrace, but on the floor above. Out in the corridor Amy glanced at the lift and saw a knot of languid people waiting for the ornate doors to open. She ran for the stairs instead, taking them two at a time. Raised eyebrows and curious stares followed her. She rapped sharply on Tony Hardy’s door, calling at the same time, ‘It’s me. Something’s happened. We need your help. Please open up.’
Tony was making himself ready for the ordeal of dinner. He had had to go through it a few times before, in Biarritz and at the Lovells’ London house before they all left for France, and they were never comfortable gatherings. Part of the problem was his equivocal position. The tutor was only a family employee, of course, but he was also a gentleman and couldn’t be expected to eat with the servants. He could dine alone, which Tony infinitely preferred to do with a book for company, but there were times like this when his presence was expected.
Tony Hardy was in his first year down from Oxford. His fixed ambition was to work in the publishing business but his father, a regular soldier with a limited income, had no contacts in the book world and Tony had had no luck in pursuing his own. The only suitable employment that Colonel Hardy had been able to suggest apart from the army was a year tutoring the son of Lord Lovell, who was a nodding acquaintance from his club. The tutoring part was easy. Richard Lovell was a clever and interesting boy. It was the rest — being equal but not equal, and living in the tense family atmosphere under its thinly civilized veil that Tony found difficult. Sighing, he rubbed the soap off his face and went to the door with the towel slung around his neck.
Amy Lovell’s vivid face stared back at him.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know you’d be undressed.’
‘I’m not undressed,’ he grinned at her. ‘I just haven’t got my shirt on. What’s the matter?’
Amy told him.
‘Mmm. Is there a telephone in your rooms? I haven’t got one here, of course.’
Amy peered past him at the narrow bed heaped with books and clothes. ‘No, I see. Yes, there is a telephone in our sitting room. We’ve never used it. Who would we ring?’
‘Come on, then. It will be easier to do it from somewhere quiet.’
They ran back downstairs. Bethan was sitting stock-still on a sofa with Isabel beside her, holding her hand. Tony glanced at her and said quietly to Amy, ‘You’d better order up something. Some tea, or perhaps a brandy.’ He knelt down in front of Bethan and said, very gently, ‘What’s your father’s name? And your brothers’?’
‘William Jones. David Jones and John Jones.’
‘Right. Now, it may take me a little time to find out for you. It’s after six o’clock, you see, so the normal places one might try might not be open. Do you want to go away somewhere quiet with Isabel while I do it, or would you rather stay here?’
‘I want to stay.’
‘All right. I’m going to begin by talking to a friend of mine, a union organizer. Not in mining, but he’ll know just who will give us the quickest answer.’
Tony spoke rapidly to the operator. His French was faster and much more idiomatic than the girls’ careful schoolroom language. The three faces watched him from the sofa, Bethan’s white one flanked by the intent Lovells.
‘I want to speak to Jake Silverman, please.’
He was through to England. Amy’s hand reached for Bethan’s and held it.
‘Hello, Jake. It’s Tony Hardy.’ Tony explained succinctly what he wanted. The voice at the other end crackled faintly and then there was a long silence. They waited, not moving, until Tony was speaking again and then scribbling something in his notebook.
‘Thanks, Jake. Yes, I hope so too. Soon, I hope. Adios.’
He replaced the receiver and turned to the girls. ‘We