The tennis had long since finished and Biggles assumed that Algy had gone home. He was surprised therefore to find him in the hotel foyer when he checked out.
"I never said thank you."
"For what? You didn't need me – Boris had it all under control."
"So he said," Algy looked sceptical. "Anyway, it's the thought that counts," he grinned. "Are you going back to London now?"
"Yes."
"Fancy a bit of company on the journey?" Algy assumed Biggles was going back by train and ferry.
Biggles hesitated, thinking of his self-imposed isolation, then gave in. "Could give you a lift in my Moth. I might even let you fly it if you promise not to break it."
Algy's eyes sparkled "That sounds more like it!"
"I've got a flat in London now, so you could stop a night before going back to Wales… if you wanted."
"Yes, thanks, I'd like that. Chance to catch up…"
"Mrs Symes, this is my cousin Algernon Lacey. He's stopping for a couple of days on his way home to Merioneth. Is there any chance you could do us both a bit of supper? If it's too short notice though, we can easily eat at the Club," Biggles added hastily.
Algy smiled at Mrs Symes and held out his hand "Algy, please," he begged, "not Algernon".
Mrs Symes realised she was looking at the other boy in the photograph of the aeroplane. Despite now being several years older, he didn't appear to have changed much – somewhat untidy fairish hair, freckles and an engaging smile. A charming young man with impeccable manners she suspected.
"Of course I can do supper for you, Major, as long as you don't mind something simple."
They assured her they didn't, and she departed to pop a pie into the oven, make up beds, and fill hot water bottles.
Algy glared at Biggles "At least you had the decency not to call me an 'Hon'. But honestly, 'Algernon'…!" Biggles grinned – it was going to be a good couple of days.
Mrs Symes was a Quaker and attended the local Meeting every Sunday morning. Normally her employer was up early but on that particular Sunday morning the house was silent. She hesitated, wondering whether she should stay at home to prepare the coffee and toast that was the Major's normal breakfast, but she was sure he wouldn't expect her to miss her regular worship. "Anyway they might both still be asleep when I get back" she decided.
When she got back, to her surprise there was a faint aroma of bacon. Going into her kitchen, she could smell that somebody had been frying bacon, but her kitchen was spotless. Somebody had even been thoughtful enough to open the kitchen window a little.
Algy popped his head round the door. "Good morning, Mrs Symes. I hope you will forgive us for invading your domain, but I do like a proper breakfast and, I'm sorry, we both overslept. Excellent little shop you have round the corner," he added. "Open on a Sunday, and lovely bacon! I think Biggles has put the rest in the larder with the remaining eggs."
"Mr Lacey, sir, you shouldn't have done the washing up as well" she protested.
Algy's eyes danced in merriment "I didn't," he assured her. "I cooked his breakfast for him – I wasn't going to clear up after him as well!"
He started to go, but stopped and popped his head back round the door. "By the way, if you think he needs a proper breakfast, don't ask him what he wants, just put it in front of him…" They smiled at each other conspiratorially – confident and approving.
After the Monte Carlo affair, Algy turned up at the Mount Street flat from time to time but not very frequently, much to Mrs Symes disappointment. She observed that his cheerful outlook on life and an apparent inability to take his cousin seriously was good for her employer. "The Major is so much brighter when Mr Lacey is around," she confided to her mother. "Mr Lacey makes the flat more alive, more a home. He really appreciates good cooking and is always telling me how much he has enjoyed my meals." It wasn't that the Major was unappreciative, she knew that, but just that too often he ate without thinking, reading a book or the paper at the same time.
Algy didn't go back to Monte Carlo the following year. He had been more than a little annoyed that Boris had deceived him over his involvement in the French group. He had a sneaking feeling that he was being unreasonable and that there was no reason why Boris should have taken him into his confidence, but it left him feeling slightly resentful. After his narrow escape, he felt disinclined to run any further risk of being associated with somebody who had been calmly prepared to use him as a pawn in his game. He also agreed with Biggles that Boris' reluctance to collaborate with the British agents had been at best unhelpful, and might have had more serious consequences.
He was still determined to avoid his mother's attempts to match him up with some suitable girl, preferably with enough money "so you can live like a proper gentleman as befits your social status, Algernon," she would lecture him.
Britain in the 1920s and '30s was still a class-ridden society. Breeding, in influential circles, was everything. Algy's mother assumed, correctly, that her younger son's aristocratic lineage was adequate exchange for good financial prospects in some appropriate girl, even if her son didn't have much money of his own other than a small allowance. However, she left out of her calculations what the war had done to her son's outlook on life and attitude to his fellow man. Algy had always been tolerant and never a snob. His experiences as a pilot, living and working with men from many backgrounds, just confirmed his innate tendency not to judge a man – or woman – by accent or upbringing. He regarded his mother's efforts in the marriage market with abhorrence, and envied Biggles his freedom.
Algy's next venture was into sailing. He had done some as a boy with a family friend and absolutely loved it – he had memories of blue sky and sunshine, the joy of speeding through the water, the excitement of big waves and the challenge of persuading a boat powered by wind in its sails to move against that same wind.
When an old friend from school rang him up with a suggestion that he join his crew racing in the Solent during Cowes Week, Algy jumped at the chance. He even persuaded Biggles to come down and watch, although Biggles quickly got bored with watching tiny specks of white, performing what seemed to him incomprehensible manoeuvres in choppy water, to say nothing of having to shiver in a cold wind blowing across the Solent. "August is supposed to be summer," he grumbled to Algy later that day. He didn't stay beyond the first day, not just because watching the racing was cold – Biggles hated the upper class social set with its pretensions and posturing. Algy was used to it and usually oblivious as long as he was doing something he liked during the day.
Unfortunately, Cowes Week was dogged by bad weather that year and Algy's friend had overestimated the potential of both his boat and his crew to finish even in the allotted time. But Algy was not put off. He retained a love of sailing and, even though his first love was flying and that dominated the rest of his life, he seized any yachting opportunity that came his way.
