The Judas Tree by A. J. Cronin Read Free Book Online Page B

dried grass, and handed to her.
    â€˜Exactly the colour of your dress.’ He smiled.
    At last they reached the summit and Walter, sweating, breathing heavily, brought them on to the broad terrace of the hotel where a number of guests were seated in the sunshine An immediate silence fell as the little party appeared, some curious stares were turned towards it, and someone laughed. The main entrance was on the opposite side of the hotel and Walter had some difficulty in finding the terrace door. But finally, after some wandering, they were in the rich, marble-pillared foyer and Stoddart, having asked directions from an imposing figure in a gold-braided uniform, led the way to the restaurant, a huge, overpowering affair done in white and gold with enormous crystal chandeliers and a rich red pile carpet.
    It was absurdly early, only just gone twelve o’clock, and although the waiters were on duty, gathered in a group round the head waiter’s desk talking amongst themselves, no one else was in the room.
    â€˜Yes, sir?’
    The head waiter, a stout, red-faced man in striped trousers, white waistcoat and cutaway, detached himself and came dubiously forward.
    â€˜Lunch for three, and a boy,’ Stoddart said.
    â€˜This way, please.’
    His hooded eye had taken them in at a glance: he appeared to lead them off to a distant alcove in the rear, when Walter said pompously:
    â€˜I want a table by the window. I have a reservation in the name of the town clerk of Ardfillan.’
    The major domo hesitated: he smells a tip, thought Moray satirically, and how wrong he is!
    â€˜By the window did you say, sir?’
    â€˜That table over there.’
    â€˜Sorry, sir. That table is specially reserved for Major Lindsay of Lochshiel and his party of young English gentlemen.’
    â€˜The one next to it then.’
    â€˜That is Mr Menzies’ table, sir. A resident. Still, as he rarely comes in before one fifteen, and you’ll doubtless have finished by then.… If you care to have it…?’
    They were seated at Mr Menzies’ table. The menu was handed to Walter. It was in Anglicised French.
    â€˜Potage à la Reine Alexandra,’ he began, reading it through to them, slowly, remarking complacently, in conclusion:
    â€˜Nothing like French cooking. And five courses too.’
    While they sat in solitary state the meal was served, rapidly, and with veiled insolence. It was atrocious, a typical Grand Hotel luncheon, but below the usual standard. First came a thick yellowish soup composed apparently of flour and tepid water; next, a bony fragment of fish which had probably travelled from Aberdeen to Gairsay by the long way through Billingsgate, a fact only partially concealed by a coating of glutinous pink sauce.
    â€˜It’s not fresh, Mary,’ Willie whispered, leaning towards her.
    â€˜Hush, dear,’ she murmured, struggling with the bones, sitting very straight, her eyes on her plate. Moray saw that under her apparent calm she was suffering acutely. For himself, he did not, in his own phrase, care a tinker’s curse – he was not personally involved – but strangely it worried him to see her hurt. He tried to think of something light and gay that would cheer her but it would not come to him. Across the table Walter was now chewing his way through the next course, a slab of stringy mutton served with tinned peas and potatoes which cut and tasted like soap.
    The sweet was a chalky blancmange accompanied by tough prunes. The savoury, which followed swiftly, for now they were really being rushed, took the shape of a stiff, spectral sardine, emitting a kind of bluish radiance, and impaled on a strip of desiccated toast. Then, though it was not yet one o’clock and no other guests had as yet appeared, the bill was brought.
    If Stoddart had paid this immediately and they had departed forthwith all would have been well. But by this time Walter, through his unfeeling