Page 101 of Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt

That afternoon’s trip to the Empire State Building was postponed as I recovered from the trauma of the morning. ‘I’m only glad that you weren’t there, Elle. I’m not sure I would have been able to protect you.’

‘Oh Bo. I can’t believe it. This is supposed to be a holiday, and you managed to walk straight into danger.’ She gently stroked my hair. ‘But let’s try and forget the disappointment of Eugene Meyer and the drama of the protest, and enjoy our week away. It’s so special to be here with you.’

Elle and I spent the next five days exploring ‘the Big Apple’. It was an amazing city which pulsated with energy and gave the inhabitants the impression that they were in the centre of the universe. New York had the tallest buildings, the biggest shopping centres and the largest plates of food I had ever witnessed in my life. After years of British rationing, my eyes practically bulged at the size of the beef burgers and mountains of french fries which were presented to diners.

I think the thing I loved most about the city was the positivity exuded by its citizens. They had recently endured the economic downturn of the Great Depression and involvementin the second global conflict. Nonetheless, nearly everyone we met brimmed with a cheerful confidence, and it was a delight to experience.

One day before Elle and I were due to board theQueen Maryand return home, the telephone in our hotel bedroom rang.

Elle answered. ‘Hello?... Yes, he’s just here.’ She shrugged and passed me the receiver.

‘Mr Tanit?’ said a vaguely familiar English voice.

‘Speaking,’ I replied.

‘Oh, wonderful! I’m so thrilled that I’ve finally managed to track you down. I’ve telephoned just about every hotel in Manhattan!’

‘Apologies, but who’s calling?’ I asked.

There was a giggle on the other end of the line. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Tanit. It’s Cecily Huntley-Morgan here. I’m the silly woman you rescued the other day at the civil rights protest in Harlem.’

‘Oh, hello,’ I replied, a little surprised. ‘How are you?’

‘My ankle’s slightly bruised, but I’m feeling much better now I’ve found you! Your card had the address of your bookshop in London, but I wanted to thank you personally for saving me. So I’ve been ringing hotels to ask if they have a Mr Tanit staying.’

It was my turn to give a laugh. ‘That’s a very sweet thought, Cecily, but I did what anyone would. I’m glad you’re all right.’

‘That’s not true, Mr Tanit. People were clambering all over me. You, however, saw a fellow human in need and stopped to help. I am indebted to you, and should like to treat you to lunch.’

Cecily’s warm voice put me at ease, but I didn’t wish to be any bother to her. ‘That really won’t be necessary, thank you. I really do appreciate the sentiment, though.’

‘Sorry, I won’t take no for an answer. How are you fixed for this afternoon at the Waldorf?’

‘I...’

‘And was that your wife I spoke to a moment ago?’

‘It was.’

‘Perfect! I shall arrange a table for three, and see you at one p.m.’

Before I’d even had a chance to reply, Cecily had hung up the phone. I confirmed to Elle that I had been speaking to the lady I had scooped up and bundled into a car last week. Elle, in the spirit of embracing our time in the city, was thrilled at the invitation. ‘Why wouldn’t we go? Lunch with a local at a prestigious hotel? How enchanting!’

It was hard to argue with her reasoning, so Elle and I put on the finest clothes we’d dared pack into our suitcase, and by one p.m. we were outside the slender central tower of the Waldorf hotel. We made our way inside to the dining room – an echoing space with a glittering chandelier that was probably worth more than Arthur Morston Books’ entire stock. Cecily’s blonde coiffured ripples marked her out amongst the diners, and I identified her immediately. I took Elle by the hand and led her to the table.

‘Cecily?’ I asked.

‘Mr Tanit! Hello!’ She stood up and shook my hand firmly, before looking to Elle. ‘And you must be Mrs Tanit? I think I owe your husband my life.’

I laughed it off. ‘Oh, I don’t know if I’d be so dramatic.’

‘I don’t believe Iambeing dramatic. When people are scared, they take leave of their senses,’ Cecily said in a serious tone. ‘Look!’ she continued, and reached into her purse. She produced my business card and showed it to us. ‘I even wrote “kind man” on the back!’ She laughed. ‘I shall keep it with me forever, as a token of good luck.’ She gave me a wink. ‘Anyway, please take a seat.’ She gestured to the two empty red velvet chairs. ‘Now, let’s order some champagne! Waiter...’

Our lunch with Cecily Huntley-Morgan was a delightful affair. She told us all about her life: her broken engagement, her voyage to Kenya with her godmother Kiki Preston and her eventual marriage to a cattle farmer named Bill.

‘You were at the protest the other day, Mr Tanit. You therefore sympathise with the vile racial prejudice that plagues so much of this country.’ I hadn’t revealed that my presence on Wednesday was accidental. ‘I need not keep this information from you.’ She took a sip of the Veuve Clicquot she had insisted on ordering us all. ‘When I was living in Kenya, a young Masai princess named Njala gave birth to a daughter on our land. She abandoned her, so I took her in. I named the baby Stella. Knowing I was to return to New York, I was forced to hire a maid – Lankenua. As far as my family know, she is the baby’s mother, even though, to all intents and purposes, I am.’

‘That must be incredibly hard,’ Elle sympathised.