String of Pearls

by Madge Swindells

  The programme finished and Miro stood up. ‘I’d better go and study.’ He bounded upstairs. Then the doorbell rang.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Daisy said. Helen heard her talking. The deeper, male reply which sounded all too familiar, brought spasms of nervousness to her stomach.

  ‘I’d like to see your father, or your mother, if it’s convenient.’

  Helen panicked. The urge to flee sent adrenaline flooding through her. Unable to sit still she jumped up, but there was nowhere to go, the only door led to the hall and he was there. She had hoped never to see him again. She hated him for his innate power to send her body into sexual longing. She had intended that this would never happen again. She was a mature woman even if she did still feel like a young girl, but she had been caught unaware. Trying to compose herself, she sat down.

  Helen was not proud of the absurd fear she’d felt earlier out at sea so she had kept their strange encounter to herself. Now it would all come out. Moments later, Daisy came into the room, her eyes bright with excitement. She bent over Helen.

  ‘Listen, Mum. He’s straight out of Hollywood. Or he should be. Talk about dreamy. He wants to see you or my father,’ she said with heavy irony.

  ‘He can see Dad, can’t he?’ She looked at John apologetically. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Of course not.’ He raised one eyebrow and smiled enigmatically as he went out.

  ‘John Cooper. Great to meet you,’ she heard.

  ‘Captain Simon Johnson from the camp,’ he replied. ‘I’m a scuba diving instructor, among other duties. I came over to see if Mrs Cooper had recovered from her swim. I’m afraid I frightened her.’

  The lounge door was open and Simon glanced around, hoping that he did not look too curious. The decor contrasted with the Victorian house. It looked Scandinavian: bright handmade rugs on polished wooden floors, ultra modern furniture, the paintings were modern, too. One in particular caught his eye: a modern rendering of the bay below the house in varying shades of grey.

  ‘My wife’s work,’ John said, catching his interest.

  Why had she married someone so old? Simon wondered, guessing Cooper to be in his mid-seventies. An old husband might account for her lurking in the shrubbery. He’d had a feeling he was being watched and he’d checked the footprints and seen exactly where the horse and woman had parted company and where she had waited. In his youth he’d been a skilled hunter, but later he became sickened by the sport, so nowadays he hunted with a camera, or nothing. He said, ‘I hope your wife is all right.’

  ‘Well, I guess you must be talking about Helen, my daughter,’ John said. ‘My wife died several years ago.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry . . . The War Office commandeered your fields for us, but I want to assure you we shall leave them exactly as we found them. In the meantime, with your permission, we aim to fix the fencing and improve the path down to the bay. Your daughter had a dangerous incident there on her horse this afternoon.’

  ‘Good heavens. Come inside. I’ve heard nothing about this.’ The old man ushered him into the lounge. He followed Cooper, automatically stooping as he did so. It was an old house and the doorways were little over six foot high. Cooper just made it without scalping himself, Simon noticed.

  ‘This is my daughter, Helen Conroy and my granddaughter, Daisy.’

  They shook hands and murmured, ‘How do you do,’ English style, which always struck Simon as ridiculous, so he said, ‘Hello there,’ to both of them.

  ‘So was it you or Daisy?’ Dad asked Helen.

  ‘Me,’ Helen said shortly. ‘Leila’s back foot slipped over the edge. It was my fault. I wasn’t paying enough attention. It certainly wasn’t dangerous. Captain Johnson is exaggerating.’

  ‘I hope you didn’t scratch yourself too badly on the cliff top,’ Simon said. ‘Hawthorns are nasty critters.’ Watching her cheeks burn crimson, Simon wished he hadn’t teased her.

  ‘So what happened, Captain?’ John asked.

  ‘I was testing some new gear. I apologize for frightening you, Mrs Conroy. I should have let you know that I’d be there. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Startled would be nearer the truth,’ Helen snapped. ‘For a few insane moments I thought you were a giant squid.’

  ‘First impressions are usually on the ball.’ Now he was openly laughing at her.

  ‘Why be sorry. It’s your bay now, isn’t it? It was never really ours, but we were the only ones who could get there. Now you can. Unfortunately!’

  How bitter, she sounded. Despite his attraction Simon did a double-take. Looks weren’t everything. He exhaled slowly. Helen was mean, but stunning. He had caught sight of her a few times since he’d arrived. He’d watched her teaching riding and admired her proficiency. He’d seen her in her modest swimming costume and admired her sexy shoulders and her trim waist and long slender legs. She had a good backside, too. He’d had a good demonstration of her cool courage when he startled her, and when her horse almost slipped down the cliff face, but look at her now, hiding her beauty behind her scowls and frumpish clothes, her hair scraped back in a bun. She seemed to be wearing a man’s shirt over a bulky jersey. Without either make-up or any attempt to look pretty, one could be forgiven for believing she was butch, if she hadn’t watched him stripping from her vantage point deep in the prickly hawthorn.

  ‘Let’s share the bay, shall we?’ Simon said.

  Now Simon seemed on his guard and wounded. Helen was glad. Handsome men were out as far as she was concerned. Or any men, come to that. She scowled at him, resenting his suave manner, his close-cropped dark hair and his arresting eyes. It was absurd the way Hollywood had entered their lives, imposing standards that no one could reach. Anyone normal came off second-best, but not him. Why did he annoy her so? Perhaps because she knew what she looked like dressed in the old clothes she wore for the canteen job.

  ‘Would you like a drink, Captain?’ John asked, trying to offset her rudeness.

  ‘One of your famous English beers would be perfect.’

  ‘We have cold lager in the cellar.’

  ‘Ah, even better.’ He settled down as if for a long stay and Helen scowled at her father.

  ‘Homework,’ Helen murmured to Daisy, who got up reluctantly and paused in the doorway. ‘So what exactly were you doing out there, Captain? Or is it classified?’ Daisy asked.

  ‘It’s a new skill called SCUBA and that is an acronym for “Self Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus”, which means we can stay underwater, to blow up bridges, or fight, or attach bombs to the hulls of ships, but first we have to learn how it’s done. I’m here to train a team, but I’m still practising myself.’

  Daisy was watching him with cow’s eyes, obviously very taken by his good looks, Helen noticed. Suddenly Daisy flushed and ran upstairs.

  ‘Would your husband object if we patronize your riding school, ma’am?’

  So he’s curious to know if I have one, but why should he care? Helen wondered. And why should I answer? She looked away without answering.

  ‘My daughter and her husband have separated,’ John answered for her. ‘Perhaps you’d like to come and see the horses, but I’m sure they are too tame for you. Most of our pupils are children.’

  It was only when they had gone out to look at the stables that Helen realized they had been sitting in the dark. ‘Phew!’ she exhaled. ‘He must think we’re mad sitting here like that.’ She slammed the windows and fastened the blackout. First came the thin black, Government-issue blind, that was prone to tear and crackle and never worked properly. Then the proscribed blackout curtains, which were not sufficient either, and lastly their own lined, velvet curtains, old-fashioned, but effective. After this she pulled the lined curtain over the front door and only then could she put on the light. Just let one beam escape and the police would come knocking on their door to threaten them with a hefty fine.

  Not long afterwards the men returned via the back door. Simon shook her hand formally. ‘You have an exceptionally bea
utiful daughter, Mrs Conroy,’ he said, offering her his very best smile.

  ‘She’s only sixteen,’ Helen said flatly.

  ‘I guessed as much. It must be delightful to have a child who is the image of you.’

  She was startled. It was years since she had received a compliment, even one as roundabout as this. Oh, he was just too smooth for words. She wanted to put him in his place, but she couldn’t think how. How dare he try to butter her up this way. She knew very well what she looked like, particularly right now, past her prime and getting frumpish. That’s exactly how Eric had described her when they fought over the coming split. Why should he be interested in her? She scowled at him.

  Damn all lying, cheating men, she muttered to herself.

  Back in his tent, Simon made a note that the cliff path should be considered top priority and put it in his ‘out’ basket. While showing him the horses, Cooper had tried to excuse his daughter’s bad manners by explaining that she was overworked: she packed explosives for four-, five-hour stints a week, and most nights she worked in the troops’ canteen. But Simon felt that he understood her mood better than John. He guessed that her broken marriage had left her with a poor self-image. She was bitter and angry at being dumped. So was he, but he had managed to handle it better than she had. He found her very attractive and he admired her courage, but he decided that he would steer clear of her in future. It wasn’t often that Simon lied to himself.

  Eight

  The moment the first unconfirmed reports began to surface Simon knew that war had begun. His war! And he had to fight it his way. The allegation of attempted rape of a young girl made major headlines in local and national newspapers. Next came whispers that spread like wildfire from pub to pub: a pensioner hurt his ankle when a GI jostled him off the pavement; a housewife had her purse snatched; a girl was accosted on her way to school; a woman carrying a child was knocked down the steps of the public shelter when the air-raid siren sounded; and so on. Each incident was trivial, but together they created a furore. Over the following weeks tension between the Yanks and locals heightened. GIs complained that they were booed when they appeared in the village, the local dancehall banned them, shopkeepers were loathe to serve them and one restaurant put a notice on the door saying: Civilians Only.

  Simon used a carrot and stick approach to woo newspaper editors, radio personnel, shop keepers and businessmen. ‘Prove it or publicly apologize’, was his pithy message over many excellent lunches in the relaxed venue of the local yacht club, which he had joined. He and the local detective inspector, Rob McGuire, planned a radio interview highlighting this successful Axis whispering campaign. McGuire was a man likely to inspire confidence with his kindly expression, his candour and engaging grin. The inspector’s talk was based on a circular Simon was distributing:

  America and Britain are allies. Hitler knows that we are both powerful countries, tough and resourceful. He knows that we, with the other united Allied nations, mean his crushing defeat in the end. So it is only common sense to understand that the first and major duty Hitler has given his propaganda chiefs and spies is to separate Britain and America and spread distrust between us. If he can do that, his chance of winning might return. I’m not saying we Yankees are all angels, but many of us have volunteered, leaving our homes and families for the express purpose of beating the Nazis. So if anyone comes to you with a rumour, get to the bottom of it and if there’s any truth in it, go to the police at once.

  ‘So far we have received no complaints,’ the DI told Simon, ‘and there has been no report of an attempted rape. I checked with the hospital and local doctors.’

  The only exception was an old lady who reported that the Yanks had stolen her dog. Simon investigated and found that Rover, a cross Airedale-Irish Terrier, was prone to wander. The neighbours told him that Rover did the rounds in the early mornings, raiding the doorsteps for the families’ eggs and cheese left by the milkman. A month ago he had even smashed a bottle of milk when he knocked over a bicycle to get at the owner’s meat ration. Now Rover had found unlimited scraps around the GI canteen where he had taken up permanent residence. Simon set up a rota of youngsters to take the dog home whenever he turned up, with a parcel of scraps.

  Slowly the two men worked hard to squash all anti-American feelings amongst the locals, but they were both aware that a network of agents were masterminding a skilled, Axis counter intelligence campaign. They could be German spies, or Nazi sympathizers.

  Simon’s next task was to warn the troops, which he completed over the next few days with a series of informal talks in the canteen. ‘We are moving towards a joint invasion,’ he told them, ‘but while we’re waiting we have to be on our guard. On the day we storm the beaches we want to know we are surrounded by friends. Only idiots would fall out with their allies.’ He left it at that.

  Later that day, Simon had a surprise visit from Sergeant Mike Lawson.

  ‘Sir, I wondered if I could talk about the rape allegation. You asked for news of any incident that might have been misconstrued. I have something to tell you . . . that is, I certainly didn’t try to rape someone, but the bruised wrists . . . well, it got me wondering . . .’

  ‘Carry on,’ Simon prodded gently.

  ‘Well, this girl I gave a lift to kind of fits the bill, sir. Sixteen, but looking eighteen. Funny thing is, I didn’t even notice what she looked like until she dried out a bit. I was coming back from London about five weeks ago. It was almost dark and raining and there was this girl . . . she looked half-drowned sitting on a suitcase by the roadside with her head in her hands. I stopped and offered her a lift and as it happened she was on her way here, because she lives next door to the camp and her family owns this land we’re camped on.’

  It was going to be a long story. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ Simon said. ‘Better still, let’s have a drink in the mess. I have to finish some work. I’ll meet you there in half an hour.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The break gave Simon a chance to finish his report and examine Lawson’s record. He had volunteered right after Pearl Harbour, although he’d just completed his studies in order to run the family’s ranch. He was a first-class recruit, tipped for rapid promotion, capable, hard working and reliable. He also noticed that he was the captain of his school’s swimming team, and he’d got a few guys together to make up a water polo team in the camp. They might be just the men he needed for the scuba training.

  Sergeant Lawson was clearly ill at ease. He jumped to his feet when Simon arrived and stammered as he launched into his story before they’d even sat down. ‘You have to understand, sir, that I feel a bit of an ass. She looked eighteen.’

  ‘Relax, Lawson. Start at the beginning when we’ve ordered. I’ve been reading about your water polo team. I’m interested.’

  By the time they’d finished their first lager, Lawson was visibly relaxed and he’d been talked into volunteering for Simon’s underwater training. Simon said, ‘Well, I guess we’d better get on with the alleged attempted rape, Lawson.’

  ‘Yeah. As I said, I picked her up, but as for the rape . . . well, it wasn’t like that at all. She was . . . no, she is a very nice girl. She went up to London to trace her grannie, but she found the house boarded up and badly damaged. She didn’t have enough cash for the return trip, so she hitched, but no one picked her up until I came along. I must admit it was great to talk to a girl. It was the first time for months, so I suggested we have dinner on the way home and she agreed.

  ‘To start with I felt a bit of a country lout, I mean, she seemed sophisticated and she was talking about winning a scholarship to a top London art school. Later, I decided she was putting on an act to seem grown up, but by that time the damage was done.’

  Damage, Simon thought to himself, trying to hide his disappointment. Maybe there was some truth in the rumour. ‘Carry on then,’ he said amiably enough.

  Mike tried for total recall, but whatever he said, and he tried to be truthful, could neve
r recapture the sweet sense of belonging that began on that magical evening.

  Mike had a bitter sweet memory of Daisy framed by a potted palm, her eyes wide open and as blue as the summer sea. You could dive into them and lose yourself in the depths. The evening began awkwardly. He’d ordered a bottle of semi-sweet white wine because he’d learned at the barbecues back home that most girls like that best.

  ‘Where does it come from, this amazing hair of yours?’ he’d asked, feeling like a country idiot, tongue-tied and shy for the first time in his life.

  ‘My grandmother was Danish. Gramps says I’m exactly like her, but I’m also like my mum.’

  ‘Danish,’ he had repeated oafishly, savouring the word. Daisy would never wait for him. He’d be fighting his way through Europe while she was at art school amongst the sophisticates. She’d be the loveliest girl there.

  ‘How is it that you are a sergeant? You’re so young.’ She smiled warmly and he felt encouraged to tell her more about himself.

  ‘This is war, don’t forget. They need men. All kinds of men. As soon as I finished my degree, I volunteered.’

  ‘Go on,’ she said encouragingly.

  What did he know apart from farming? Precious little. He was acutely aware of his sheltered upbringing and the probable shortcomings of his conversation.

  ‘When I was fifteen my mum died of cancer,’ he told her. ‘From then on Dad and I have gotten along as best we can without a woman in the house. We’re close friends and we both work hard.’

  Mike loved ranching and he was glad of a chance to spend his days doing the work he loved so much. They were prospering and Mike’s half share of the profits were increasing, but he had no particular love of money: he drove a modest 4 x 4 and invested most of his profits back into the ranch. He enjoyed the smell and the sight of the land, he had youth and strength, good friends who often dropped by, and a great sense of humour. He worked hard and he was a good rider, competing and usually winning the dressage and jumping competitions. He even scored at rodeo events, all of which would be of little interest to this lovely girl who was sitting across the table from him. He’d seen beautiful women on the screen, but never in the flesh and here was Daisy hanging on his every word. What was he to say? Just how should he treat her? He had his first experience of real panic, fearing that he might do or say the wrong thing and lose her.