The Unlikely Adventures of Ranulf The Unready

It had once been a fishing hut and sail locker set on the pristine sands of a perfectly formed, isolated, tiny bay.  Long ago a jerry-built pier was begun out into the clean, blue water to expedite transfer of plaice and flounder and sardine from fishing dory to drying rack, from drying rack to mule back, from mule back to civilization.

But with the end of the Great War (World War I to some) and the advent of the twenties, progress reared its unpleasant head in the form of a road and then "Civilization" itself followed.  The hutment and pier were unchanged on the outside but now were 'Le Jazz Hot Hut' which despite its Gallic name was located at the Far Eastern end of the Costa Brava.

Inside it was still unfinished wood embedded with fish scales but now scantily furnished with dim lights, loud sound, heat, sweat, cheap liquor and expensive perfume.  It was now the 'modish place' on the Costa.

The combo (piano, drums and sax) were becoming widely known.  Called now Maurice, Francois and Tyrone, they were better known in New Orleans where their publicity stills, front face and side view were to be seen in most Post Office waiting rooms, each with a number at the bottom.

Their sound was neither jazz nor hot.  It was discordant blues and one could well believe their boast, "We don' read notes we jus' plays 'em."

Tonight it was jammed with a cosmopolitan crowd from all the cultures of Europe, Africa and the Near East.  All sizes, shapes, makes and models, were mashed together in the tiny room, bar and dance floor, where they pushed, pawed, pinched and philandered, each in his own preferred manner in the pursuit of happiness.

Notable among the crowd was a table in the corner where a dozen young men and women sat stiffly, in stiff yachting clothes, stiff silence, with the stiff upper lip and disdainful expression that only the British upper class can assume when enjoying themselves abroad.

One was even telling a risqué joke.

The joke ended there was a silence and then approbation.  There was a lusty "Haw" here and there, one exuberant even tapping the table with his salad fork in his appreciation.  One could know it was a salad fork as it was the only fork at each setting and as the place served only salad, booze and dope.

One member of the group, a tall, pale, very slender girl with hair black as graphite did not laugh.  Indeed she did not even hear as she was glaring across the room at a tall, fair, young man seated near the band in solitary splendor.  Handsome enough, he seemed nothing worthy of a glare, resplendent as he was in his costume of striped polo shirt, red canvas pants, espadrilles and a tam.  It would seem then there must be a more personal reason for the glare.

A blonde, English rose type at the bigger table noted the interchange and turning.  "Look Audie.  Isn’t that Viscount Lindley?"

"Haven't the foggiest, Ellen.  In this light everyone looks ghastly especially him."