by Tom Gamble
‘I know what you’re thinking, Jeanne,’ said Sarah, nodding. ‘I only hope they don’t begin their silly war before my honeymoon. Come on—I suppose we’d better return and start revising,’ she added, glumly.
‘You revise first. I have to write a letter,’ said Jeanne, her face glowing. ‘For Harry.’
28
Summerfield sat in the dusty café—more of a drinks stand than anything else—and unfolded his copy of The Times, oblivious to the distrustful glances and low growls of the local men. Hardly a year ago, he would have been afraid, taking the behaviour as threats and it sent a slither of mild surprise through him that he should now not care. He cleared his throat and, as if to underline his complete insouciance, sent a neat, compact ball of spit out into the dusty road. His coffee was served and he thanked the owner in Arabic.
The Times was a week old, though looked a lot more. Somehow ending up in a stand at the railway station, the heat had baked crisp the sheets. It made an awful noise and looked outrageously large in the cramped place. Irritated by this, a vague promise to write a letter to the editor on the subject came and went fleetingly from his head.
The title on the front page read Roosevelt appeals to good sense, Churchill attacks Chamberlain. So, thought Summerfield, after years in the wilderness, the old war dog is making a come back. Further down, two other articles: B.E.F. geared up to go and, in the oddly officious style of The Times, Mr Hitler receives enthusiastic ovation during Danzig speech. Finally, a footer nestled next to an advert for Burberry Mackintoshes, indicating banishment to page two: Spain: capitulation talks under way.
So it was all over. Or almost. Summerfield searched in the pocket of his jellaba for a ready-rolled cigarette and lit up. Over, he repeated to himself and felt neither anger nor regret. Rather surprising, he realised, given that barely two years before he’d given up a life in England to fight in Spain. He raised his eyes for a brief few seconds and gazed out, unfocused, on the past he’d almost forgotten. I wonder what Wilding is up to?
Summerfield allowed himself a further half-hour of reading before finally rising. He left The Times, neatly folded, on the rickety table in the street café, wondering who would pick it up. As an afterthought, it could have come in useful for the loo.
It was an important day. And Summerfield realised that perhaps it was why he’d deliberately tried to appear so carefree—to stop the excitement from getting a grip. Today was when Jeanne would at last be free to meet him at the orange grove.
Arriving at his lodgings, the threat of world war, Abrach, lack of any income and his future in Morocco were relegated to unimportance. Of the utmost importance, however, was the worry of the hole in his left boot, finding a pair of dry socks and having a shave.
He washed thoroughly, rubbing a bar of jasmine upon his skin to smother the smell of summer sweat. Shaving took longer than he’d planned—he didn’t want any cuts what with his blunt razor. And none of the socks he’d washed upon waking were yet dry, the sun having chosen to dawdle behind the cloud. He padded downstairs barefoot, knocked on his neighbour’s door and asked if he could use their hob, which was permanently lit, for a while.
Abdlakabir, his eyes alight, was only too helpful, insisting also that his first wife give his hair a quick tidying with a pair of clippers which, judging from both the design and the rust, Summerfield imagined to have come straight out of ancient Egypt.
‘Is she young?’ enquired Abdlakabir, watching on as his dour first wife appropriately manoeuvred Summerfield’s head in a series of jerks.
‘I’ve told you—I’m after a job, Abdlakabir,’ replied Summerfield, shaking his head, a gesture that provoked a rather sharper jerk than usual and a warble of discontent from Abdlakabir’s wife.
‘Is she one of us? If so, I may take you aside and tell you a few worthy and useful things,’ persisted his neighbour.
‘It’s a post on a local newspaper—translating,’ continued Summerfield, secretly thinking of Jeanne and her heavenly face. Come to think of it, she did indeed possess some of the unique elegance of the Berber women.
‘And will you offer her a present?’ came Abdlakabir’s voice.
‘A present? God—I forgot!’
‘Ha-ha!’ triumphed Abdlakabir and clapped his hands. Even his frosty-faced wife allowed a trace of a smile to come to her lips. ‘A job indeed, Mr Summerfield! No present, you say—then you must find her one.’
‘What could one give the most beautiful woman in the world?’ said Summerfield. ‘Her beauty renders all the gold and jewels of the earth as rusty and un-shining as the clippers your good wife is using on my hair.’
‘A poem,’ said Abdlakabir. ‘Write her a poem.’
‘That I have done many a time,’ answered Summerfield. ‘She has bracelets and necklaces made of my words.’
‘Then flowers.’
‘Mere baubles, my friend, for she is the Flower of All Flowers.’
‘A ring—no, not a jewel, you have said that already,’ said Abdlakabir, seeming to run dry of ideas.
‘And a ring would spoil her lovely fingers, my friend, the only ring possible being the Sacred one—and that time has not come.’
‘That time has not come,’ echoed his neighbour, now scratching his head. ‘I am lost, Mr Summerfield. I can think of no present fit for such a princess. But how do you gain a woman’s heart in your country? Try that.’
‘Chocolates? In this heat?’
A final jerk, a final snip and Abdlakabir’s first wife released her grip on Summerfield’s head.
‘I am empty of ideas,’ groaned Abdlakabir, taking Summerfield’s plight most to heart. ‘And I cannot remember what I did when I was young.’
At this, his wife gave a grunt and to both their surprise, began to speak. ‘My husband, who has momentarily lost his memory. Who no longer remembers how to woo the beauty of woman, other than offering her a goat, a roof and a stove to work over. If our Lord permits, I would suggest that such beauty as Mr Summerfield describes can only be honoured with simplicity. For beauty is often so simple and unexplainable that it deserves to be offered that what it is.’
‘Explain, oh wife!’ demanded Abdlakabir. ‘You have not spoken thus since our beginnings.’
‘You did not ask me to,’ replied his wife, tersely. Once again, her face drew cold and blank and she pulled her gown around her as she stepped across to a crate in the corner. The two men looked on in silence as she bent down, rummaged inside and brought out a small, darkly polished mahogany box, its edges beaded in intricate patterns of mother-of-pearl. She wiped it free of dust with her sleeve, smiled the smallest trace of a smile and opened it. With the tip of her index finger, she pressed downwards on something inside and, with the box in one hand and holding aloft the outstretched index finger of her other, she motioned across to Summerfield.
‘Look,’ she said, placing her finger before Summerfield’s eyes. ‘It is so small, so delicate, so simple, yes?’
‘Yes,’ nodded Summerfield, looking up into her eyes and smiling.
‘But also so intricate. And its meaning goes much beyond any gold or jewel or flower. For it is those and much more.’
‘The hand of Fatima,’ smiled Abdlakabir, leaning across. ‘Yes—why didn’t I think of it?’
Stuck by the simple moisture of the skin to her fingertip, Summerfield marvelled at the tiny little hand, hardly bigger than an orange pip, delicately worked in silver thread into a pattern that seemed without end, spiralling back on itself and continuing once again.
‘It is beautiful,’ murmured Summerfield.
‘Like the woman you will see.’
‘Tell me—where can I find one. I don’t have much with what to pay.’
‘It is for you to offer her,’ said Abdlakabir’s wife and her eyes softened momentarily before turning back to stone. ‘And in return, I will keep your hair that the old clippers have cut. I shall stitch them onto my cushions for decoration and for a while at least, they shall keep their yell
ow.’
It was nearing midday and Summerfield returned his gaze once again from the distant plain to scan the path through the orange trees. Nearly time, he told himself and hoped she wouldn’t meet with any problem.
The leaves had changed from a spring green to thick and dark, almost black. Everywhere, clusters of little oranges, looking more like limes for the moment, sprouted from the branches, hard and strong and impudent.
There had been no note in the little cranny in the ditch, but Summerfield knew that Sarah, her friend, had been there for he had discovered another little structure made of twigs that Jeanne had probably made when confined to her rooms. The tiny bits of wood had been tied into the shape of a heart. It was all so sweet, it had almost brought tears of happiness to his eyes.
Jeanne did not come gracefully into the hollow. He heard her approaching, a hurried rustle of leaves and snapping twigs and then she lurched into the grove, nearly losing her balance. She was out of breath, a radiant smile coming and going between gulps of air. Summerfield reached out and took her hand. They clasped each other, pressing their bodies forwards, tight and inseparable. Her waist felt so small and childish and Summerfield felt a surge of something approaching paternalism flood through him. He would protect her, carry her through time while she grew into life. They pulled apart, eager to look at each other, as though they’d forgotten, as though they were checking that all was real.
‘So you came!’ said Summerfield.
‘And you, my love!’ replied Jeanne. They stood, full of too many words, mute, shy.
‘I—I want to hold you.’
‘Yes—hold me.’
Once more they held close. Summerfield could feel his breathing against hers, the way his chest moved, the rise and fall of her ribs and the inexorable synchronicity of their movements. He imagined them making love in much the same way. He kissed her softly on her cheek, then her lips and again. She seemed to hesitate, falter, and then she turned to him and their tongues met. A little whine, as though sipping champagne for the first time, came from her mouth.
‘It’s beautiful!’ she whispered.
Summerfield pressed harder and her body went limp. This time she whimpered. Summerfield’s sex hardened and he pulled back slightly, not wishing to alarm her, but she pulled him towards her. They kissed for a long, long time.
‘I love you.’
‘Je t’aime.’
Eventually they withdrew, slowly, as if prising apart two magnets. Summerfield couldn’t help but stare at her and she reddened.
‘What’s wrong?’ Summerfield laughed with enchantment, but Jeanne flushed darker, misunderstanding. ‘I’m not pretty? I know I’m not the most beautiful—’
‘No, no!’ Summerfield shook his head and pressed her hands in his. ‘You silly girl. You’re—you’re just so beautiful. I wanted to look at you, that’s all. Make sure you were real.’
‘Well, I am. And I was thinking the same thing, Harry. It’s like—like being in a dream.’
‘Then dream on, my love.’
‘Yes—’ Jeanne looked away, suddenly shy and a smiled burst upon her lips. ‘I want this to last forever.’
‘Come,’ said Summerfield, tugging softly on her hands. ‘Lie next to me. Close your eyes and rest.’ Again she hesitated and Summerfield smiled. ‘Just a few minutes—come.’
‘I—I’ve never lain next to anybody.’
He pulled her gently, leading her to the side of the grove where the ground formed a gentle slope. He sat down and Jeanne, still standing, gave a little shrug of her shoulders.
‘Come, my love. Sit. Please,’ he said, putting pressure on her arm. It was like coaxing a foal. Finally, she gave in, bent down and turned to sit down beside him.
‘I’ve brought you something. Here—’ He probed carefully into his pocket and brought out a folded piece of wax paper. Jeanne looked at him, shy and inquiring. ‘It’s for you,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing grand. Open it, Jeanne—be careful, though.’
Jeanne’s fingers—so slender, he thought, observing how they moved—took the small packet and gingerly prodded the little flaps.
‘It’s like a little letter,’ she grinned. ‘One of your poems.’ She had opened it fully, parting the folds with her fingertips like the petals of a flower. She peered and a little gasp escaped her lips. ‘It’s wonderful! So intricate—I can’t explain.’
‘The women here use it as a talisman.’
Jeanne nodded. ‘Yes, Soumia has one. She says it protects her. But this—this is miles more beautiful than hers. It’s lovely. Where did you get it, Harry?’
Summerfield looked at her and smiled. ‘From somewhere I didn’t expect at all.’
Summerfield lay back and she followed. Above them, they could see the clear blue sky beyond the canopy of leaves, the pattern of the sun on the shade. In the distance, a donkey brayed insolently for a few moments and then was calm. A bird fluttered noisily into the grove and chirped in surprise.
Summerfield let out a sigh of contentment and reached for Jeanne’s hand. They clasped together softly and tightened. He watched the rise and fall of her body as her breath came and went, the little shiver every now and then and the pressure of her fingers around his. Unable to resist any longer, he leaned over and kissed her softly on the forehead, her eyebrows, the tip of her nose, her lips, her chin, her neck. Her breathing became rapid and she changed position, craning her neck for more. Her skin was salty to his tongue. Moving down, into the little hollow at the base of her neck, his tongue licked up the moisture in the V of her blouse—one button, one little ivory button separating him from the discovery of her breasts, one small, but tenacious barrier. Jeanne straightened then relaxed and Summerfield hesitated, wondering if this was resistance. Then down, a deft flick of his thumb and forefinger and the button gave, snapping open the thick, white cotton to reveal the hidden skin of her cleavage and the cream-coloured silk of her bra. She was pale in these parts. So striking the difference that Summerfield gazed in awe. She was breathing so deeply now that at every second breath her bra came away from her skin, a fraction of an inch, to reveal the dark aureole surrounding her nipple. Summerfield pushed inside, eager but tender, nudging away her hand that had suddenly come to rest on her chest, his free hand snapping open another button before she could resist and parting the material. It was as though he were watching his fingers through another’s eyes, detached and fascinated as they worked their way across the plump little rise of her left breast, prising beneath her bra strap and edging across cooler and cooler skin towards the bud of her nipple. He touched. It was hard and erect, almost bursting. Jeanne whined and a moan escaped her lips. More space—he forced away the bra cup and slipped in his hand to encompass her breast. As he squeezed Jeanne shuddered, perhaps in pain, he didn’t know, but it excited him.
‘Kiss me,’ she whispered. ‘Kiss me.’ Summerfield moved his head towards her lips and parted them with his tongue. ‘Kiss my breasts,’ she added, rectifying the request and Summerfield obliged, removing the encumbrance of her bra and flicking the tip of her nipples with his tongue, each in turn, then sucking, biting softly until Jeanne’s body arched and rose from the ground and she let out a soft, girlish yelp. It was the first time any man, anybody, had brought her to that unique and heady summit.
For a long time they lay in silence, immobile. Summerfield’s sex was stiff with desire for long, almost painful minutes before it subsided to a delicious state of semi-erection. He still held her hand, sticky with sweat, in his. Words of love came softly from their lips and it seemed, in that moment, that they would not be separated by anything. And then the time. A sudden panic with Jeanne rising to peer at her watch. A sigh of relief. Not yet. Still fifteen minutes before she had to get back.
‘I don’t want to leave you, Harry,’ she said.
‘Stay with me, then. You are—’ Summerfield shook his head in amazement. ‘You are a jewel, Jeanne. And I feel so damn humble before you.’
A wide, bashful smile
shone on her lips and she shook her head. ‘No—you’re the beautiful one, Harry. Really.’
‘I thought we couldn’t say that for a man,’ teased Summerfield.
‘I was thinking of the whole of you,’ she replied, earnestly and then realised. A sound of reproach. And then her eyes grew distant, her face blank. She shook her head, sadly. ‘I cannot stay. Must go back. Oh, damn school, bother exams.’
‘What about the next time? When can we next meet?’
‘And damn my father!’ she added, desperately. ‘It’s like being a prisoner. And the war—it’s all he ever talks about. They’re preparing, Harry. It’s a foregone conclusion. Official.’
Summerfield frowned, grew cold and focused. ‘If it is, I shall have to return to England.’
‘No,’ she whispered.
‘I’ve thought about it, Jeanne.’ Summerfield shook his head and sighed. ‘I have to go back. I can’t stay here and watch.’
‘It’s not our war, Harry. It’s the war of stuffy old politicians and madmen. Not ours.’
‘The fact remains that I’m British and my country—I don’t want to fail her.’
‘And is dying for her the answer?’
Summerfield remained silent, perplexed—how could a woman understand that? he thought. It was somehow ridiculous, yes—but somehow…somehow necessary. ‘Come with me, Jeanne. Back to England.’
‘Not to England—my studies. Father intends to send me to France.’
‘France? Don’t you realise that that’s where the war will be? No, come with me and we’ll be free and alone to do what we want. You can study in England.’
‘And see you march off. And wait endlessly until you come back—if you do come back. Oh, Harry!’