by Janet Tanner
But in this life one could not have everything.
And I have more than my share, thought Elise.
In the entrance to Cairo’s main railway station, Gerald Brittain stood watching the street with barely concealed impatience.
It was five minutes to ten. Trains in this part of the world were not noted for their punctuality, but if this one left on time Elise Sanderson would not be on it.
Damn it, where was the woman? She had apparently been so anxious for her passage to Hong Kong he had felt obliged to do what he could to help her; yet she couldn’t even get herself to the station on time.
It was typical of her kind, he thought with growing annoyance. A spoilt little rich girl unable to do anything for herself. At home in Hong Kong she was probably waited on hand and foot by coolies and amahs. Now, without anyone to run behind her, a simple journey across Cairo to reach the railway station on time was beyond her. Then a taxi drew up at the station entrance and as the driver opened the door he saw a pair of long legs, slim and bare, emerge.
At last!
He started to move forward to tell her to hurry up, but she was not moving away from the taxi. Instead she stood back while the driver removed a trunk and two suitcases, then he dived back inside sweating and heaving.
‘What the …?’ He broke off, staring in amazement as something vaguely trunk-shaped was finally extricated from the taxi. Large, clearly heavy, a solid looking object, it stood there in the road by her suitcases. A porter anxious for a tip moved forward and she began issuing instructions and pointing towards the station.
Leaving the sheltering façade, he strode across the forecourt as fast as his injured leg would take him. She half turned, saw him, smiled vaguely and went on speaking to the porter.
‘What the hell is that?’ he asked.
She turned again, the smile fading.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I said, what the hell is that?’ He gesticulated at the box being lifted now with some difficulty by the combined efforts of the porter and taxi driver.
‘A chest. What does it look like?’
His eyebrows went up. ‘Yours?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘What’s it doing here?’
‘I want to take it to Hong Kong.’
‘You’re joking!’
She raised a slim, sunburnt hand, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘ Of course I’m not joking’.
‘But you can’t take that on a troop-ship! I arranged a passage for you – not for a shipment of furniture. You’ll have to leave it behind.’
Lines of determination appeared in her cheeks and her chin took on a rigid look.
‘I can’t leave it here. There is nowhere I can have it stored. Heaven knows the condition it would be in by the time I was able to collect it. This chest was my mother’s – it’s been in the family for generations. I’ve got to take proper care of it.’
‘Not on a troop-ship on a passage I’ve arranged for you, you haven’t! Good God, woman, all the storage space is needed for essential equipment. Surely you can see that?’
Her chin came up. She had wondered how long it would be before he started being arrogant again. She had not had long to wait!
‘Don’t speak to me like that.’
‘How do you expect me to speak?’ He glanced at his watch, a broad solid gold bracelet around his tanned wrist. ‘If you don’t make haste, we shall miss the train.’
She looked round at the taxi driver and porter, who were listening to the conversation in some confusion.
‘I cannot go without this chest.’
He swore, shrugged and turned away.
‘That’s your decision. I will tell you mine. If you attempt to take that chest on board the Stranraer, I shall tell them your passage was arranged under false pretences.’
‘You wouldn’t dare!’
‘Just watch me!’
‘But …’ she gesticulated helplessly. ‘ What am I to do? I can’t leave it here.’
‘You’ve made up your mind then?’ His tone was hard. ‘You don’t leave me any choice.’
‘All right.’ He turned to the taxi driver, issuing rapid instructions.
‘Take this to the British Embassy. Ask for a Mr Srandish and tell him Gerald Brittain wants this chest stored. Understand?’
The dusky face was determinedly puzzled.
‘Please …?’
Brittain put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a handful of bills. ‘For your trouble. Now do you understand?’
‘Ah, yes sir!’ The expression cleared.
He then turned swiftly to the porter. ‘And you get these cases into the station.’
‘Yes sir!’
They scurried away and she turned on him, almost speechless with anger.
‘How dare you! How dare you have my things manhandled!’
His expression was unreadable. ‘You’re late. Do you want to get this boat or don’t you?’
‘Of course I do. But …’
‘Come on then.’
With a hand on her shoulder he hurried her across the forecourt and, fuming still, she had no option but to do as he told her.
Suez was a four-hour rail journey east of Cairo, made bearable by the air-conditioning in the first-class carriage Gerald Brittain had secured for them.
But not even the sticky heat in the third-class cattle trucks would have melted the frosty atmosphere between them.
Bloody woman! thought Gerald Brittain as she sat stiffly staring straight ahead of her. What the hell does she think this is – a Sunday School picnic?
Arrogant swine! thought Elise. Disposing of my most treasured possessions as if they were so much rubbish. But that’s typical of the Brittains.
The carriage was packed and they were forced to sit close together, but each time their shoulders or legs touched Elise glared and moved away. At least they would not be in such close proximity once they got on board the troop-ship, she comforted herself. However crowded, there was bound to be segregation.
Two Army officers sitting opposite them were discussing the war; while she watched the barren countryside rattle past, Elise listened to them.
‘We’re doing nicely on the north coast, thanks to O’Connor.’ This one had a booming stentorian voice that reminded Elise of the Brigadier. ‘He’ll push the Italians back to Cyrenaica if he’s left to get on with it.’
‘If …’ The other sounded as gloomy as he looked. His voice, like his drooping moustache, seemed destined to end in his boots. ‘Those troops will be pulled out before long, mark my words. We’re sworn to send help if Hitler intervenes in Greece – and he certainly will. Where else would they draw men from except here in North Africa? It’s a pity, but there it is. We’re short of troops. Short of equipment. Now, if the Americans were to come in …’
‘Damned Yanks!’ The first man almost spat his disgust. ‘Who needs them?’
‘We do! No point in being proud. How can we hope to hold the Germans in Europe, the Italians here and the Japs in the Far East without their aid?’
‘Jerry doesn’t want them to come in. That’s why he’s studiously ignoring anything they do to help us. He knows that if they fight he’s in for trouble.’
‘But they won’t fight! You know what Roosevelt told the electors last autumn? ‘‘ Your boys are not going to be involved in any foreign wars.’’ How the hell can he go back on that, eh?’
‘Just hope that he does, my friend, especially out East. If the Japs pick on US territory for their first offensive, he’ll have no choice. Then maybe there will be a chance for us. If not …’
‘If not, they will overrun Malaysia. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘You know damn well they will!’
Elise shivered. During her visits to the Embassy she had been told often enough of the dangers of a Japanese invasion of Hong Kong, but though it had worried her it had seemed somehow unrealistic – a statement repeated so often it had become a virtually m
eaningless threat.
Now, hearing it discussed in such matter-of-fact terms by the two soldiers, she found it had fresh bite and the menace of near reality.
Gerald Brittain was aware of her shiver and glanced at her with one eyebrow raised slightly.
‘It’s not going to be much fun out there, you know.’
She stiffened, annoyed that he had seen through her guard.
‘I never thought it would be.’
‘That’s all right then, isn’t it?’ But he felt impelled to add, ‘The voyage isn’t going to be any picnic, either.’
‘I know, you told me.’
‘No, I didn’t. I told you it would not be up to your usual standards of comfort. I didn’t tell you that it could be dangerous.’
He saw her amber eyes sharpen. Then she said with admirable coolness, ‘You mean we could be attacked?’
‘Most certainly I do. There could be submarines with nasty little explosive toys called torpedoes …’
‘Don’t talk to me as if I were a child,’ she said sharply. ‘I know what a torpedo is.’
‘Do you?’ His mouth twisted upwards with a hint of bitterness. ‘And do you also know about raiders?’
When she didn’t reply he went on, ‘Raiders are converted merchantmen armed with concealed heavy-calibre weapons and torpedoes; the Indian Ocean is a happy hunting ground for them. It’s going to be rough out there, Mrs Sanderson, and I don’t just mean the sea.’
Her eyes snapped up to meet his. ‘You’ve come out from England, I understand.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
The ditectness of the question startled him and his eyes became guarded. To give himself time to think he took out a cigarette and lit it, oblivious of the disapproving glances of the two pipe-smoking Army officers.
Careful now, he was warning himself. It isn’t the first time you’ve been asked that question and it certainly won’t be the last. Just stick by the story – mostly true, anyway, but also a useful cover.
Aloud he said, ‘I’m being invalided out of the RAF. I came to grief last July at the beginning of the Battle of Britain – an appropriate name, don’t you think? My kite was shot up over the Channel, but I managed to limp back and crash-land in a field. Now I’m no longer up to the required standard of fitness for fighter pilots.’
As he spoke, he heard the undertones of bitterness in his voice and despised himself for them. Amazing how it could still hurt to know he might never fly again. He had thought he would have got used to it by now; thought he had resigned himself to the fact during those long, pain-wracked months in hospital. But not even the knowledge that he was now on a mission the success of which could prove vital to British Intelligence, and that he was one of the few men who could successfully carry it out, could still the awful ache which came from realising that he would never again climb into the cockpit of a Spitfire. There was always the Cormorant company plane, of course. If he could get himself fit again, learn to control his hand and leg and then overcome the biggest obstacle of all – his father – perhaps he would be able to pilot that again. But it would not be the same as taking off in formation, all senses sharpened, every nerve stingingly alive, knowing your survival depended on your own vigilance and skill, feeling that what you were doing was worthwhile in the defence of world freedom …
Unaware of the thoughts and emotions her question had provoked, Elise persisted, ‘But why are you going back to Hong Kong?’
He drew on his cigarette; smoke danced in the sunshine.
‘My last duties for the RAF. I brought out a draft of ten recruits to Cairo and I’m taking despatches on to Hong Kong.’ He looked at her narrowly. ‘What is this? The Spanish Inquisition?’
‘Not at all,’ she said sweetly. ‘ I just wondered why you were undertaking this voyage if it’s as dangerous as you say it is.’
His breath came out on a low sigh and he cursed himself for a fool. It wouldn’t help him to be that edgy and suspicious. He should have known there was no ulterior motive behind her question. Typically she was simply trying to win an argument, put one over on Gerald Brittain as a person, not Flight Lieutenant Brittain, Intelligence Officer.
He transferred to her his feeling of irritation with himself.
‘Look, I’m not in the business of inventing bogies. The dangers are real, they’re there, and whether or not you believe me, the Germans are very likely to try to take advantage of a ship not travelling within the protection of a convoy. It’s going to be a very risky proposition – especially, I should say, between here and Bombay. And before embarking on it, I think it’s only fair to warn you.’
For a moment she was silent. Then she said, ‘Well, thank you, Mr Brittain. It was nice of you to put me in the picture.’
The hint of sarcasm was not lost on him. Couldn’t the stupid, irresponsible woman take it seriously even now?
‘Quite all right, Mrs Sanderson. I thought you ought to know.’
And you also ought to know what it’s like to be in England in the middle of this war, he added silently. Bombing raids night after night, cities reduced to piles of rubble, people killed in their homes and in air-raid shelters. Incendiaries starting fires, fighter planes in dog-fights, tired bomber crews going out night after night until they no longer return. And alongside the fear and the danger a host of petty inconveniences to wear down resistance – ration books and gasmasks, shortages of food and clothing, the constant dread of a telegram bearing bad news of a loved one.
Oh, you haven’t a clue – beautiful, spoiled Mrs Sanderson!
But let’s hope you never have to find out.
Chapter Eight
Smooth waters sucked beneath the bows of the Stranraer as she sailed down the Gulf of Suez towards the Red Sea.
In the falling dusk, Elise stood at the rail watching the shores of Sinai slip past on the starboard side, whilst in the distance the barren cliffs of the Ataka mountains turned slowly from pink to deep, rich purple.
What a day! she thought, as the faint breeze stirred the soft gold of her hair and shivered coolly across her bare arms.
First, the performance of having to leave her mother’s carved oak chest in Cairo, then the four-hour journey clamped between Gerald Brittain and those pompous soldiers, then the interminable wait at Suez to board the Stranraer. Standing with Brittain on the small promenade in front of the Suez Canal Authority offices and watching the endless loading procedure, she had been overcome with sudden fear that she would never get aboard – that even at this late stage someone would say she had no right to be there and rescind her passage.
All around them Suez had been in chaos and it had somehow added to her sense of foreboding. Ships which – like Brittain’s – had been forced to take the long route round the Horn because the Mediterranean was under enemy control, queued one behind the other up the Gulf to disgorge their human cargoes of soldiers being brought in to reinforce General O’Connor’s force. Small steamers and tramps took their place alongside stately P and O ships.
Ashore, the streets and bazaars were crowded with sailors on shore leave and soldiers setting off on long route marches. And everywhere the soldiers were, the same raucous melody could be heard. They sang it in the streets and hanging out of railway carriages, they sang it leaning over the rail of troopships.
‘Bless’ em all, Bless’ em all, the long and the short and the tall …’
Like the conversation of the two Army officers in the train this had had the effect of bringing the war very close suddenly and Elise was aware of – though determined to hide – the stirrings of fear.
When they finally boarded the Stranraer it had been brought home to her once again.
Coming out East with Gordon, they had sailed on one of the Stranraer’s sister ships and had wined and dined in an atmosphere of leisurely and gracious living. Their stateroom, she remembered, had been luxuriously furnished with shining built-in fitments, rugs of geometric design and a barrel-shaped armchair that Gor
don had loved. The dining saloon had been softly lit, the table set with flowers and huge bowls of fresh fruit; and for entertainment deck tennis, swimming and model greyhound race meetings had helped the days slip amiably by.
That was all changed now.
The Stranraer had been virtually stripped of all her finery. Upper-deck cabins like the one Elise found herself sharing with three members of the Women’s Royal Naval Service had had their furniture removed and bunks superimposed over the existing beds, while on the lower decks bulkheads had been taken down to make large open spaces for hammocks and mess tables.
But nowhere was a change more apparent than in the officers’ dining room, once the forward lounge, where Elise – as a civilian – had been allocated a place.
As she sat at the octagonal table, trying to eat at least some of the overcooked pork and soggy steamed pudding that was served to her, she found herself remembering with longing the haute cuisine they had enjoyed on that other voyage and the wine list which had included Dom Pérignon.
‘Bring on the brandy, then at least I can pickle the rubbish.’ A young officer sitting next to Elise grinned at her amiably, then dropped his knife and fork and sketched a salute. ‘Forgive me, ma’am, I don’t believe we have been introduced. Grimly. John Grimly. Captain.’
Elise smiled. Gerald Brittain had not come in to dinner and although she did not relish the thought of his company, at least she would have felt less conspicuous with him beside her. Now the friendly attitude of the young officer was more than welcome.
‘Elise Sanderson,’ she said.
‘Good … good. Now we can chat with everything proper and above board.’ He grinned again, his smooth face lighting up, and Elise thought with a shock how young he looked. Dark hair, thoroughly Brylcreemed, was combed away from a high forehead, rosy cheeks shone like polished apples and not even a small toothbrush moustache could do anything to add the years.
‘I don’t know how they manage to make food as awful as this,’ he went on. ‘Must take a special talent I always say – or years of training. But there you are – we have to put up with this, I suppose, if we’re to get to grips with the enemy and win this war.’