by Isobel Chace
“Should I use perfume?” she asked. And then she was ready. Nick and Charlotte watched as Seamus helped her down into the tender, arranging her skirts so that there was no possible danger of their getting wet.
“You should have taken her,” Charlotte said suddenly. “You can’t work all the time!”
Nick looked at her quizzically.
“But you forget, I am busy flirting with you,” he reminded her smugly. “Don’t you remember?” She gave him a startled look and left him. In the seclusion of her cabin she felt she could breathe again. She sat down on her bunk and caught a sight of her determined expression in the looking-glass. Well, she asked her reflection, she had something to be determined about, hadn’t she? She had to find some way of living in such close quarters with Nick, and she had to find it quickly!
CHAPTER TEN
It was more difficult than it had been to turn on the Calor gas in the morning. The salt water and the sun had had their effect on the screws, and Charlotte had to use a cloth before she could get the taps to turn and release the gas that travelled silently down the pipes towards the galley. With a sigh of relief she straightened up and looked ruefully down at her reddened hands. If the taps got any stiffer one of the men would have to turn them on for her.
In some ways the early morning was the best part of the day, she thought. Before the sun had had time to dispel the relative coolness of the night, and when the world was still, breathless with suspense, waiting for the coming day; when the sea was calm, so placid that she could see the town of Aden reflected in the water as clearly as if it had been a sheet of glass.
There was nothing cool about the galley, though, when she had lit the gas and had put the kettle on to boil. The airlessness down below decks was still inclined to worry her a little, and even with every porthole wide open it was both hot and stuffy.
She herself would willingly forgo breakfast, but this was one thing that Nick was incredibly English about. He liked breakfast. More than that, he refused to face the day until he had had his quota of bacon and eggs, or something similar, followed by toast and marmalade. Charlotte could already hear him dressing, or, to be more exact, shaving. He had an electric shaver and, because he disliked the noise it made, he sang at the top of his voice against it. Charlotte had never succeeded in sleeping through this operation, but neither Seamus nor Monique seemed to have any difficulty, and so breakfast had gradually become her responsibility.
Nick finished shaving and there was a splashing sound of water as he washed his face, followed by his footsteps as he came towards the saloon. Charlotte looked up from setting the table as he came in and smiled at him.
“Monique up yet?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“They were very late last night,” she said.
Nick laughed.
“I expect they were,” he agreed. “But however tired she is, I want her here, now. Go and wake her up and tell her it’s time she began to earn her living as a geologist to this expedition. I want to know what sort of bottom I can expect here, just at the entrance to the Red Sea.”
Charlotte looked to where his finger was pointing.
“Does it matter?” she asked.
“It might,” he said. “If there are large crevices there we may find some merou—that’s a fish,” he explained, seeing her bewildered expression. “It’s very good eating, and large too. It would be worth finding out about its habits.”
“I’ll take Monique a cup of tea,” she suggested. “She may resent coming back to the earth quite so abruptly.”
Nick nodded, but she doubted whether he had even heard what she had said; he was once again deep in his charts.
She poured out a large mug of tea and sugared it well. Of them all, Monique had the sweetest tooth, and yet she was the only one not to take sugar in coffee. Charlotte gave the tea a brisk stir and carried it carefully down to Monique’s cabin.
"May I come in?” she called out, knocking on the half-open door.
A sleepy “Oui, entrez!” came from inside, and she went in, hooking the door bade as she went.
Monique had not bothered to put anything away the night before and the whole cabin was in chaos. Her dress had been thrown on the floor and her cosmetics littered the dressing-table in happy profusion. Only one thing had been carefully placed on the table beside her bunk—a brand-new pair of high-heeled sandals, ridiculously fragile and obviously Arab in origin.
Charlotte plonked the mug of tea down beside them.
“Dar-r-ling!” muttered Monique. “Are they not beautiful, my new shoes?” she asked. “Seamus gave them to me.”
Charlotte looked closely at the two slight thongs of silver leather, the ornate sole and the three-inch heel that went to each shoe. They were indeed beautifully made.
“Have you noticed how important shoes are to Arab women?” Monique went on. “When they are veiled they all look exactly the same except for their shoes. But what they can say with them! I would not like to be an Arab woman if I had ugly feet!” She sat up with a sigh and readied out for her tea. “Do you mind that Seamus should give me shoes?” she demanded.
Charlotte looked at her with bewilderment. “Not at all,” she said. “Why should I? I should have thought that it was more to the point whether Nick minds!”
“Oh, Nick!” Monique snorted. “He will only mind if you do. There is something else, though, that he may mind very much!” She looked so guilty that Charlotte laughed. “It is not at all funny!” she exclaimed. “In fact you must tell him, I think.”
Charlotte sat on the end of her bunk and watched her sip her tea.
“Go no,” she said.
“There was a man at the dance last night,” Monique began. “A nice man. You will like him very well. He is called Captain Adamson.” She blinked rapidly into her mug. “He has three weeks’ leave, and so he is coming diving with us!”
Charlotte looked at her in dismay.
“But does he know anything about it?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Monique admitted. “But he is asleep on Michael’s bunk. Seamus said we could do with another pair of hands on board and he wanted to come so badly. The trouble is everyone will think he is interested in me, so you must tell Nick and look after him. That will be best, don’t you think?”
Charlotte couldn’t think so, but then she had to admit that perhaps she was prejudiced. It was obvious that it was much better for Monique that Nick shouldn’t think this Captain Adamson had anything to do with her, but on the other hand she wasn’t sure that she wanted him to think that he was interested in her, Charlotte, either. Of course there was no reason to suppose that he would be interested in either of them, but—
“Dad can tell Nick,” she suggested triumphantly. “It must have been partly his idea that he came on board.”
Monique shook her head dolefully.
“No,” She said. “He said only that he would ask Nick. It was I who suggested that he came last night.”
“But why?” Charlotte demanded.
Monique shrugged her shoulders.
“I cannot imagine!” she admitted.
Charlotte sighed.
“You’d better go and see Nick,” she said gently. “He asked me to wake you because he wants to ask you about the bottom, or something. I’ll go and see if I can find Captain Adamson.”
From force of habit she picked up Monique’s evening dress and put it on a coat-hanger. Quite suddenly she felt very sorry for Nick. It seemed to her that he was trying to run this expedition against almost impossible odds.
Charlotte didn’t like going to the men’s quarters. She felt somehow that every time she did so it was an intrusion on their privacy, and so she went first on deck, hoping to find one of the sailors so that she could ask him to escort her.
The glassy effect on the sea was over and the heat was already beginning to be oppressive. It was unbelievable to her that people actually worked and lived in such heat and survived. It was only the
fact that they were some way from the land that they had any breeze at all. In those narrow Streets of the town, it must be like living in a furnace.
It was almost a relief when she saw a strange back leaning over the railings of the bridge. She hadn’t wanted to talk to Captain Adamson in front of an audience, and she was glad when she saw that he was alone. He turned towards her as she climbed the short ladder up to the bridge, and smiled. He was young, she noticed, and terribly fair. His hair was as yellow as a child’s and his skin was slightly reddened but otherwise as untanned as anyone she had ever seen.
“Phew!” he said. “I didn’t know they kept them like you on board!”
Charlotte stared at him. However could Monique have got involved with someone so young, so boyish, so—so gauche!
“Captain Adamson?” she asked faintly.
“Sure,” he agreed. “Were you at the party last night? Because I don’t remember seeing you there. Maybe something went wrong with my eyesight—”
“No,” Charlotte interrupted him coldly. “I was not at the party last night.”
“Well, I must say I’m relieved,” he said. “You had me worried for a moment. I thought I’d danced with everyone there! Everyone that matters, that is,” he added confidentially. He took a deep breath of sea air. “Boy, am I glad to be here!” he enthused. “Mr. D'Abernon has always been rather a hero of mine, you know. I couldn’t believe it was true when that French girl suggested that I should come aboard.”
“She did suggest it, I suppose?” Charlotte asked innocently.
Captain Adamson blushed.
“Not exactly. Well, that is, Mr. Hastings asked me on board for a drink, but I guess I had already had enough, if you see what I mean. I just couldn’t get ashore again. Mr. Hastings didn’t know, but some Irish fellow put me to bed. I kipped down on a bunk. And he sure set me up this morning! Boy, does he know his onions!”
“He ought to,” Charlotte said dryly. “He’s had practice.”
Captain Adamson looked anxiously down at her.
“Now don’t get me wrong,” he begged her “It’s never happened to me like that before. I’m just not used to whatever mixture it was that they were handing out last night!”
Charlotte was prepared to believe him,
“Forgive me, Captain Adamson,” she murmured, “but you aren’t English, are you?”
The young man grinned and looked a trifle more confident.
“No, I’m a Kiwi, like yourself.” He took a step towards her. “Any objections?”
It was Liam who started the story, for sure, with a New Zealander coming aboard, what else would he be wanting but to be taking a look at Miss Hastings? And hadn’t she looked pleased to see him? Allowing him to put his hand on her shoulder like that? Only Charlotte knew that she had told him through clenched teeth to take his hand away. Captain Adamson wasn’t likely to tell anyone a thing like that. No, Captain Adamson was just one big bouncy, outdoor boy! And a New Zealander! That was almost more than she could bear.
Nick had looked him up and down with dispassionate eyes and had remarked obliquely that if he was coming for the ride he had better go ashore and get his kit. He had even suggested that Charlotte should accompany him, and Charlotte had found herself meekly agreeing as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Monique had only smiled. Charlotte could have broken her brand-new shoes with the greatest of ease, but instead she only smiled back and hoped she looked as happy with the arrangement as she was trying to appear.
She sat in the back of the boat because she didn’t altogether trust the young man to steer the tender properly, and only then remembered that she herself had never driven it at all before. He jumped in after her and gave Nick a perilous wave.
“Awfully good of you, sir,” he called up to him. “Gee whiz! I never expected anything like this!”
Charlotte couldn’t face Nick’s sardonic smile, so she stared at some imaginary spot straight in front of her and wished ardently that young Captain Adamson would sit down before he had them both in the sea.
It was too much to expect that the outboard motor would start first time for her. The string cut sharply into her fingers, but she hardly noticed it. With renewed vigor she pulled again, and was rewarded by a splutter followed by a roar and a cloud of smoke.
“Not too much of the mixture,” Nick warned her from above. “You’ll drown her, and then you’ll have to wait for her to dry out. Good girl! She’s all yours now.”
She grasped the tiller firmly in one hand and flicked the gear-lever with her finger. The little boat shot forward, giving her a supreme sense of power. She moved as easily as a child’s pram. Charlotte was tempted to take her once round the harbor with a flourish, just to show that she could, but she restrained the impulse, turning meekly instead towards the jetty.
It was a different matter to get the boat to stop. Common sense told her to push the gear into reverse as hard as possible, and she found this worked very well. Captain Adamson caught at an old rope that was attached to an enormous iron ring in the concrete and he tied the painter on to it and then jumped ashore.
Charlotte followed more slowly. She felt as though she was moving inside a cloud of heat and she could feel the perspiration running in little trickles down her back.
“I say,” Captain Adamson said impulsively. “You don’t want to trek all the way up to my quarters, do you? Why don’t you take a look round the town and I’ll meet you in about two hours’ time?”
Charlotte nodded. Perhaps she could find somewhere cool and inviting to spend the time, somewhere out of this blazing sun. She watched him run up the steps and marvelled that he seemed to feel the heat so little. She had always thought that fair people were especially prone to sunstroke and blistering, but he showed no sign of it.
She went first to the bazaar because she liked to watch people and the never-ending kaleidoscope of changing nationalities appealed to her. She liked, too, to watch the craftsmen at work, actually making the wares they were selling in their shops, knowing and loving their trades with every movement they made, rebelling against the utilitarian neatness of the buildings all around them.
She walked through the streets of the modern town, a little amused that the Army should have had such an effect on the architecture, and then, huddled away from the parade ground atmosphere of the rest, she came across the mosque of Aidarus, the saint of Aden, and went in eagerly to escape from the heat outside. With all the others she laid her shoes on the steps and washed her hands at the fountain. Here at least was one building that she could wholeheartedly admire; the tombs of the founder and his family enclosed in richly-carved covers; and the doors that legend says floated into Aden from India when the builders of the mosque were at a loss because they had no more wood.
Charlotte was sorry to have to go outside again into the street: Why, she wondered, had she ever agreed to have anything to do with Captain Adamson? It had been stupid to invite him on board in the first place, and she wished she could rid herself of the suspicion that Monique had done it deliberately for some ulterior motive of her own. But why Captain Adamson?
Whatever her feelings for him, however, Charlotte felt that she could not keep him waiting, and so she retracted her steps to the harbor. He was already there, his kit-bag at his feet, marked in large letters with ‘Captn. Jock Adamson’ and his military number. Of course he was probably of Scottish descent. So many New Zealanders were. But why was he serving in the British Army, and at Aden of all places?
“Have you got everything?” she asked him as cheerfully as possible. It was not his fault that she didn’t want him on board the Sea Fever.
“I hope so.” He held the boat for her to get in and flung his kit-bag in after her. “The boys up there were green with envy when I told them where I was going!” He smiled at her, the sun catching his eyes. “You’ll have to keep me on the straight and narrow, I guess. Mr. D’Abernon doesn’t look the type of man to suffer fools gladly.”
“No,” Charlotte agreed reflectively, “I suppose he doesn’t. But you’ll have to ask Monique, I’m a novice myself!” And that would serve Monique right, she thought with unusual bitterness.
Jock Adamson looked thoughtful.
“You don’t like me, do you?” he said wistfully.
Charlotte flushed.
“I—I don’t know,” she stammered. “I don’t really know you yet, do I?”
“No,” he agreed. “You don’t. So what’s the matter? Have you fallen for Mr. D’Abernon himself, is that it? And you think I shall just be in the way?”
It was so exactly what Charlotte had been thinking but had not liked to admit even to herself that she could make no reply.
“So that’s it,” the young New Zealander said. “And what price the French girl? Is she his ideal? She seemed pretty happy with that other fellow last night. Who’s he, by the way?”
“He’s my father,” Charlotte told him stiffly.
To her indignation he burst out laughing.
“Is he though?” he said. “Well, who’d have thought it! So you’re the singer in the family!”
Now what in the world was so funny about that?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Nick had got all the cameras out on deck, looking strange and menacing out of the water. Some were fitted into things that looked like divers’ headpieces, some like television cameras, and some so small and neat that they could only be still cameras. Charlotte looked at them all and felt the excitement grow within her.
“You’re getting ready to dive!” she accused him.
He looked up and smiled at her, his eyes deeply grey and a little mysterious. “I’m worried about the focusing gauge under water,” he told her. “Distances are apt to look different under water, because of refraction and so on, but the lenses aren’t bluffed. I’m going down after lunch to work out some system of measuring distances. Coming?”