Howard tried to smile, but thought of the one survivor from Marrack’s ship, the one Moffatt had described as just a kid. “We have to.”
He wound down the window and felt the damp air on his face. Not the bitter touch of the North Atlantic with its tang of salt and fuel oil; a gentle, fresh breeze. No wonder the doctor loved the place. “Otherwise all this is finished. It will never be the same again, but at least it will be ours.”
His companion jammed the car in gear and drove on to the lane again; it was even narrower than the one in Hampshire where the bombs had come screaming down.
Eventually he said, “If you need me, my number’s by the phone. I gather you’ve both been through it.” He shook his head. “I’m not prying, but I’m here if you want me.”
“Thanks. I’m sorry I’ve been a bit screwed-up.” He thought of Treherne on the bridge after Marrack’s ship had vanished. Don’t you ever bloody well forget it! He found time to wonder how he and Vickers would hit it off.
“Here it is. Watch out for the puddles. The lake’s over there. You can see it in the daylight.”
They stood side by side looking at the cottage’s square silhouette. There would be a moon soon, and Howard thought he saw smoke from the squat chimney stack.
Then the doctor held out his hand. “I can’t lend you the car, but there are some old bikes in the shed.”
Howard watched him drive away, then turned and walked slowly towards the front door.
It opened wide even before he reached it and she was in his arms, her hair pressed against his cheek while she hugged him. Then she took his hand and helped him in with his case.
She had a great log fire roaring in the hearth, and the place had been made to look lived-in, pleased with itself, as the shadows danced and flickered around the room.
Howard slipped out of his greatcoat and tossed his cap on to a chair.
“Let me look at you.” She was dressed in a white, roll-necked sweater and a pair of sailor’s bell-bottoms. He held her again and then they kissed for the first time. “I never thought it could happen. I shall probably find it’s all a dream.”
She pinched his arm gently and said, “See? I’m real!”
Her eyes were very bright, her cheeks flushed, and not merely from the fire. He noticed too that she was wearing her wedding ring. She saw his glance and removed it—like a guilty child, he thought. But there was nothing childish in her voice as she looked at him and said, “I borrowed this one. It’s not his. It’s just that I’ve done a bit of shopping, and some of the people round here are—well, you know …” She held him again, but would not look at him. “We are alone here. This is our place for …”
“Nine whole days.” He tried not to think of Gladiator leaving harbour without him. Vickers on his chair; the old destroyer hand. Probably he’d be loving every minute, he thought; Vickers made no secret of the fact he regarded the more modern destroyers as a collection of gimmicks.
She led him to the table; even that she had decorated with some sort of autumnal fern. “Wine on ice—champagne, in fact …” She saw his disbelief. “There is some use in being an admiral’s daughter!”
They embraced again, uncertainly, as if they did not know what was happening.
She said softly, “You can have a bath—it’s all a bit Heath Robinson, but it works—then get out of uniform, and I’ll give you a meal to remember.” She held him at arms’ length, smiling at him; her heart was almost breaking at his expression. It was something like gratitude. Then she said, “Stop worrying about me for once, and think of yourself. I said I was bad luck for you, that I’d never go through all that again … I’m still not sure if I’ll be able—”
He touched her mouth. “Don’t, Celia. I love you. I want you, all for myself—no matter what.” She tried to release his grip but he said, “Just be with me.”
“I must put a log on the fire.” As she stooped down, her hair falling over her forehead, she said quietly, “You see, David, it came to me quite suddenly, that day when everything was so terrible for you and we were so far apart. I want you to love me. I don’t think it’s wicked or pointless because of the war—it’s something I must have known since that day when I made you talk about Jamie, with never a thought for what you had just been through.”
He knelt behind her and put his arms around her waist while they both stared into the blaze.
“I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t come.”
He caressed her and felt her muscles tense. “I’d never hurt you.”
She stood up and watched him as he took off his jacket and tossed it on to another chair.
She said, “You’re not very tidy, Commander.”
Their eyes met, and each knew there was no going back, even if they had wanted to.
She left the door ajar and walked across the adjoining room, her bare feet noiseless on the scattered rugs. Through a window she could see the stark outlines of trees, the bright moonlight making the sky almost white by comparison.
She moved slowly past the table where they had eaten and talked, each trying to find the other. The champagne bottle stood upended in its bucket, the doctor’s ice long turned to tepid water. They had left more than they had eaten; nervousness and the need of one another had seen to that. She stood quite still in front of the great fireplace and held out her arms to the fallen embers which had so recently been a roaring mass of flames.
She had been nursing him against her body, calming him, after he had cried out. She had felt the pang of jealousy, until she had remembered that the name he had uttered, Ross, had been that of the missing midshipman and not some other girl’s.
Was that what had really become of Jamie? The war already become too much and he had wanted to end it, in the only way he knew. She was surprised that she could think of it now, without guilt any more, without anything more than curiosity.
Jamie had often spoken of his previous squadron commander, an ace, and all that went with it. He had been nicknamed Dicer because of the chances he took, and over the years of fighting he had shot down what must have amounted to a whole enemy squadron. Then, one day, flying alone in his beloved Spit, he had been attacked by a solitary Messerschmitt, and had crashed on a nearby beach. When the salvage team had arrived to clear the wreckage, they had discovered the firing button still at safe, the guns fully loaded. Was that how it happened? Too much flying, sated with all the individual killing. Like Dicer, perhaps Jamie had ended it in the way he had always expected to die, in close combat, but his death arranged by himself.
Without thought she took a shawl from the sofa and walked to the window and looked out at the arctic landscape. She could even see the same moonlight glittering on the lake through the trees.
She shivered as a vixen gave her shrill bark amongst the undergrowth, and pulled the shawl closer over her shoulders.
Then, trying to keep her mind clear, she thought of what had happened to her. Jamie had always been eager, even violent, needing to conquer rather than seduce her. She thought suddenly of her dead friend Jane, who had said more than once that the climax was the true delight of making love. The complete giving of one to the other. No wonder Daddy had thought of her as flighty.
Celia had never experienced it. Not even tonight when he had held her and touched her, and then entered her. David had been gentle and caring, as she had known he would be, but there had been some pain, and she had clenched her fists over his shoulders so that he should not know, or blame himself. It had been such a long while since …
She touched her breasts through her nightdress, as he had done, her thighs and the smooth skin where she had sensed him preparing her for that dreamed-of and feared moment when she would feel him come into her. He had fallen asleep almost immediately, and for hours she had held him, soothing his nightmares, praying that he would have no regrets when he remembered.
She found she was still shivering, and yet her limbs felt no chill. It was like hearing a voice, feeling hands grip
ping her arms.
She walked to the table and groped in the shadows for the brandy she had left untouched.
Like the time in the restaurant when she had secretly wished that the old waiter had offered the room; that they had taken it no matter what people had thought, or if her parents had got to know about it.
The brandy was like fire on her tongue. She tossed the shawl aside and the invisible hands propelled her forward again.
The room was full of moonlight, and on the opposite side of the bed she saw herself reflected in the old-fashioned wardrobe’s mirror where their discarded uniforms hung together like interlopers.
She heard him stir, his breathing quicken, but she kept her eyes on her reflection as with slow deliberation she pulled up her nightdress, over her head, before throwing it towards a chair.
In the cold light her naked body, her fine uplifted breasts seemed to shine like sculptured marble. She said, “You’re my man, David.” She knelt on the heavy feather-bedded mattress and took his hand in hers. “And I will be yours for as long as you want.” His face was in shadow but she could sense his desire for her as she pulled his hand to where he had touched her, roused her, entered her. Then she had been passive and frightened. Now she knew her passion for him had over-ridden everything.
They lay in each other’s arms, her leg thrown across his body, prolonging it with their caresses and kisses. Quite suddenly she exclaimed, “Take me, David. All you know, all you’ve wanted to do …” The rest was lost as he turned her carefully on to her back.
Outside, the vixen’s cry went unheard.
A million miles away from that isolated cottage, Lieutenant Lionel Bizley pushed past two naval ratings and closed the telephone booth behind him.
Gladiator was getting underway in less than an hour, and if the formidable Captain (D) discovered what he was doing things would get nasty. But there had been talk of leave, two weeks at least, after this next operation, whatever it was. He had to let Sarah Milvain know about it. With luck he might be able to stay at their Mayfair house, provided her mother, who sounded a bit of a battleaxe, would allow it.
A house in Mayfair. In Bizley’s suburban mind it was something between high society and Hollywood.
He had already revamped his own background, to make it suitable for Sarah’s parents, especially the general if he happened to be there. He would describe his father as being in banking, maybe in the City. People were always impressed by finance. It was a joke when you thought about it. The dingy little high street bank in Horsham, where his father had been for most of his life. And his mother, who was undoubtedly proud of her son’s becoming “a real officer,” as she had put it, more so since his DSC—she would be amazed when he told them where he had been and stayed, and about the girl he had met.
Through the glass he saw Gladiator’s chief quartermaster walking slowly back towards Gladstone Dock, an empty mail sack over one arm. It gave Bizley a sense of nervous urgency and he cursed impatiently as the telephone rattled and clicked in his grasp. “Come on, damn you!”
Then he heard her voice. It was a relief to find it was not her mother, with so little time left to talk.
“It’s me! Lionel!” He glanced at the queue outside the booth. “Don’t say anything, Sarah, we might get cut off.”
She sounded faraway, surprised. “I hoped you would call.”
Bizley studied himself in the little mirror below the printed notice which said WHAT TO DO IN AN AIR RAID. Some wag had scrawled, Try not to shit yourself!
“Fact is, I may get some leave shortly. I was wondering …” She must have moved away to close a door somewhere. He flushed at the thought of their privacy.
“Sorry, Lionel, I’m back.” She cleared her throat. “Leave, you say? That will be nice for you.”
It was not quite what he had expected. Nice. How his mother would have described it.
“Is something wrong? Are you all right?”
She said, “I was listening for Mother. She’s a bit upset.”
“I’m sorry. Give her my love. Tell her I’m still in one piece. I’m longing to meet her.”
“There was a man here to see her.” His lie seemed to have gone unnoticed.
“Man? What man?”
Somebody unseen rapped on the glass with some pennies but Bizley glared out, shaking his head.
He repeated the question and she replied, “She won’t say, but he was an official of some kind. I let him in. He was from the Admiralty. Mother got very upset. He apparently asked her a lot of questions about Greg—his death, things like that.” There was a sob in her voice. “Why can’t they leave things alone? He even mentioned poor Andy.”
Somewhere an air raid warning wailed dismally. It was strange to think it was all that way away, in London.
Bizley stared at the mirror at his own eyes, which were suddenly wide with shocked disbelief.
“Maybe he was just doing it for the records, you know.” But his mind seemed to scream at him. They suspect something! All this time, and somebody was probing what had happened.
He said, “I’ll ring again. Must go. Take care …”
“But it is all right, isn’t it, Lionel? They’re not keeping something secret from us—you would know, surely?” She was still speaking when he carefully replaced the telephone and pushed out into the shadows.
There was nothing to worry about. They had quite rightly accepted his report. And the two other survivors would know better than to interfere.
By the time he reached Gladiator’s brow he was sweating badly, as if he had been running all the way.
The duty quartermaster and gangway sentry were lounging by the lobby desk, and Bizley shouted, “Stand up! Smarten yourselves, or I’ll have you in front of the first lieutenant!” But even that gave him no satisfaction.
The quartermaster adjusted his cap and muttered, “I’d been ’opin’ he might drop dead, Bill.”
The sentry grinned. “Probably caught the boat up. I’m real sorry for the prostitute!” They both laughed.
In his small cabin Bizley knelt down and took a bottle of vodka from his locker. He had been given it on the North Russian run. He disliked it, but had been told it did not lie on your breath. He tossed some water out of his tooth-glass and poured until it was half-full.
It seemed to work.
Don’t be such a bloody fool. Nobody knows. He touched the blue and white ribbon on his jacket and took another swallow. Just keep your nerve.
Over the tannoy the voice called, “Special sea dutymen to your stations! All the port watch! First part forrard, second part aft, stand by for leaving harbour!”
Bizley stood up. That was more like it. Routine and duty. He would show them all!
David Howard lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. There was a smell of woodsmoke, mingled with another, of bacon. He had slept well, a night devoid of pressure and guilt, and he had awakened with her in his arms, wrapped around each other, and at peace. They made love with fierceness and sometimes in slow harmony, neither willing to think of the hours or the days. There was just four more left.
The door opened and she stood there looking at him. She was wearing his pyjama jacket and nothing more, not even slippers while she had been preparing breakfast, or perhaps it was lunch.
“We’ll have another lovely walk today.” She moved to the bed and watched him with a tenderness she had never known. “But first we eat. It’s egg day today, a ration not to be missed!”
He rolled over and held her, then slipped his hand beneath the pyjama jacket and stroked her buttocks. “You are quite shameless.” He pulled her down on to the bed. “And I love you.”
She watched his eyes as he unbuttoned the jacket and touched her, his hand moving as if independent of its owner to explore and arouse her again. He had confided a lot about his war, and the more he had talked while they had sat by the fire each evening after their walks, their simple adventures, the calmer he had become. She had tried not to think of their event
ual parting. In a matter of weeks it would be Christmas; the Atlantic at its worst. This would have to last.
She said, “If you keep touching me there I shall forget about the eggs!”
He had not even blurted out his doubts again. The way he had blamed himself for not understanding what the midshipman might do, how he should perhaps have reacted differently to his friend Marrack’s ordeal. Once in the night he had sat up staring at her, but she had known he was asleep. “He just sat there waiting to die, and it was all because of me!” In the morning he had not remembered it, nor had he mentioned it since.
She felt his fingers move down across her stomach and gave up the battle. Afterwards they lay together and watched the cold sunlight lance across the room.
She said, “I can still feel you, David. So deep. So much love.”
He raised himself on one elbow. “We don’t talk about it, Celia, but it’s still there.” He touched her hair, and saw her watching him. “I’d like to know—do you think you might change your mind?”
She stared at him, her eyes very green in the smoky sunshine. “About us?”
He held her hand tightly in his. “Would you marry me?”
“Hold me.” She buried her face on his shoulder. “Is it wrong to want someone so much? To put us first, instead of the bloody war?”
He stroked her bare back. He had never heard her swear before. “That’s settled then.”
They both stiffened as the telephone shattered the peace and the stillness like an alarm bell.
She walked naked to the table and lifted the telephone to her ear, watching his face the whole time.
She said, “I thought you might. Yes, I’ll tell him. Bless you.”
She replaced the receiver and picked up the pyjama jacket.
“Who was that?” Just for an instant he had felt the same old dread.
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