Solomon's Song

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mr Johnson, the British lads fought most gallantly, I’m sure your son died bravely,’ Ben says, not able to think of anything more comforting to say to the old man.

  ‘It’s been a real pleasure serving you, sir,’ Johnson says, ‘I’d like to think my son had a sergeant-major such as you to lead him into battle.’

  ‘And you, sir,’ Ben says genuinely enough, ‘a pleasure also. I don’t imagine too many N.C.O.s come into your shop. Your doorman ought to leave the judgment of those who do to you.’

  Jack Johnson laughs. ‘I very nearly got it wrong myself, Mr Teekleman. We have learned to be cautious about judging the Americans but, I regret, we still have a rather patronising attitude towards the colonials. You have taught me much this afternoon.’

  Ben shakes his hand. ‘No hard feelings. I’ve got the duchess’s ring for a princess, can’t do better than that now, can you?’

  This time Ben elicits a smart salute from the doorman.

  Ben, with the ‘almost’ duchess’s ring safely in his pocket and with Mr Jack Johnson’s mention of Claridges’, has a sudden idea and hails a taxi cab. ‘Claridges’, please,’ he instructs the driver.

  The desk at Claridges’ proves more accommodating than his initial reception at Garrard’s, though Ben is also somewhat wiser. ‘I’d like to book a suite for two nights and will pay for it in advance,’ he says to the desk clerk.

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ the man says, ‘I shall ring for our manager. What name shall I say?’

  ‘Teekleman, and don’t tell me my sister has already written to you?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Very well, sir, will you require the newspapers in the morning?’

  ‘Only The Times,’ Ben says grinning. ‘Does it carry the football results?’

  ‘Certainly, sir, though I should include the Telegraph in that case, it has much the better coverage. When can we expect your party to arrive, sir?’

  ‘About seven o’clock. Skip The Times, I’ll take the Telegraph.’

  ‘Very well, sir, seven o’clock.’

  Ben arrives at Piccadilly Circus with half an hour to spare but enjoys watching the people and the large red buses which seem to pass every half-minute or so. There are several dozen soldiers and sailors and a host of civilians all waiting for someone. Somewhere close by a military band plays, though he cannot see it. It is a perfect spring day in May and Ben plans to walk with Sarah to St

  James’s Park and find the tree where they had their first picnic. The precious orange had been carefully peeled by Sarah and shared quarter by quarter between them. Tea at the Ritz afterwards had been a painless experience, with the head waiter being especially attentive. After two glasses of champagne, Sarah, who admitted she had never tasted it before, got the giggles and later, on the bus returning to the hospital, she fell asleep against his shoulder. Ben simply couldn’t remember when he’d felt as happy.

  Although he’s been keeping his eye on the arrival of every red bus Sarah comes up behind him, slips her arm in his and says, ‘Hello, soldier, don’t I know you from somewhere?’

  ‘Ha, you’ll need to do better than that, young lady,’ Ben says. ‘Will you take afternoon tea or shall we walk?’ He kisses her lightly on the forehead and takes her small portmanteau. Waiting to cross the road, he sees that Sarah has borrowed the same blue overcoat as before.

  ‘Let’s walk, I’ve been in a stuffy operating theatre all day and when I opened a window on the bus half the people in it suddenly cleared their throats and rattled their newspapers so fiercely that I hurriedly closed it again. The English can be very intimidating.’

  ‘See that shop over there,’ Ben says, pointing at Simpson’s. ‘We’re going to buy you a nice new coat and a dress that hasn’t been worn by someone else, the prettiest shoes in the shop and a smart new hat.’

  ‘Oh, Ben, I don’t still wear hand-me-downs, that was when I was young and living at home. Now I can afford to make my own, you’re not to spend your army pay on me. Besides, do you have any idea what a good winter coat costs these days, it’s iniquitous!’

  ‘We’ll manage somehow,’ Ben says. ‘Come along, girl, there’s not a lot of time and we have to get to St James’s

  Park as well, the crocuses and daffodils are out and there’s a patch of bluebells I want you to see.’

  ‘Oh, I see, been there with someone else, have we?’ Sarah teases.

  ‘No, the bobby on the beat while I was waiting for you told me. I asked him the directions to St James’s Park and he said, “Ah, the royal park, grand time to go, sir, daffs and crocuses are out and there’s bluebells under the elms, with a bit of luck the King’s tulips will just be coming out.” Ben adds, ‘Ah, “the darling buds of May”.’

  ‘That’s very pretty, Ben,’ Sarah exclaims.

  ‘It’s Shakespeare, compliments of Mrs Wickworth-Spode, my English teacher. It’s about all I remember, that and, “There is a tide in the affairs of men . . . ” ’ Ben doesn’t complete the phrase as they’ve reached the doors of Simpson’s.

  ‘Welcome to Simpson’s of Piccadilly, madam, sir,’ the doorman says, nodding his head and opening one of the several polished brass and glass doors for them to enter.

  ‘All the doormen look like Russian generals,’ Sarah says, when they are out of earshot.

  ‘The Brits love a uniform,’ Ben says, then takes Sarah by both hands and looks into her eyes. ‘Now, there is only one rule you have to promise to observe,’ he says sternly. ‘What?’ Sarah asks, looking suddenly serious.

  ‘You have to pick out exactly what you like without having a sticky at the price tag. And no cheating, you hear?’

  ‘But, darling, what if you’re embarrassed?’ Sarah looks about. ‘It’s an awfully posh shop?’

  ‘I’ve already told one person today that I’m Australian, so I’m incapable of being embarrassed.’

  Sarah laughs. ‘I’m beginning to think I know very little about you, Ben Teekleman. Perhaps I shall write to my cousin Lucy and ask her to have a bit of a stickybeak. See what she can dig up on the Teeklemans.’

  ‘Well, before she discovers I’m wanted for an armed bank robbery, let’s agree to my shopping terms, eh?’

  Sarah, somewhat apprehensively, chooses a lovely camelhair overcoat, the temptation to look at the price tag is almost overwhelming. ‘What do you think?’ she says, spinning around in it as she pulls the lapels up to her cheeks.

  ‘Terrific,’ Ben says, pleased at the happiness on Sarah’s face. ‘That the one you want?’ Sarah smiles and nods and he thinks she looks not a bit like a hardened nursing sister who has seen almost as much death and destruction as he has. ‘Righto,’ he says to the shop assistant, a pleasant-looking woman in her forties with prematurely grey hair drawn back into a severe bun, ‘we’ll take the coat.’ Ben turns back to Sarah. ‘Now choose one for your friend.’

  ‘What, a coat?’ Sarah is thunderstruck.

  ‘She’s let you use hers every time we’ve been out,’ Ben explains. ‘You choose one you think she’ll like.’

  After purchasing the two coats, two day dresses, a pair of pretty shoes and an evening ensemble with a second pair of grey velvet evening slippers which Sarah describes as ‘simply divine’, Ben makes her wear the coat out of the shop. As he pays for their purchases he gives the shop assistant his surname and asks her to send all the parcels to Claridges’, though he does this while Sarah is busy changing back into her clothes. Then he gives the woman another twenty pounds. ‘Ma’am, I wonder if you could, you know, choose a nightdress, silk or something, and some o’ that . . . er, French . . .’

  ‘Lingerie?’ The woman smiles. ‘It will be a pleasure, Mr Teekleman. But you’ve given me too much, fifteen pounds will be ample.’

  ‘You’ve been very kind and helpful, would you buy yourself something nice?’

  ‘Thank you. It’s been a pleasure, I hope the two of you are very hap
py,’ the shop assistant says, smiling.

  Sarah emerges from the changing booth wearing her new coat which sweeps down to her ankles in the latest fashion. ‘How ever are we going to carry everything?’ she says.

  ‘It will all be sent to your hotel, madam,’ the shop assistant assures her. ‘We’ll send your suitcase on with it and the gentleman’s kitbag.’

  ‘Hotel? It’s a . . .’

  ‘Yes, I have given her our address,’ Ben says, cutting Sarah short.

  Outside again they walk towards Knightsbridge. ‘What say tomorrow we do Hyde Park?’ Ben says.

  ‘Oh, Ben, that was so kind, buying a second coat for Linda Newings, she’ll be thrilled to bits.’ She snuggles into him as they walk, her arm clasped about his own. ‘I’ve never owned anything as nice, I do love you so.’

  Most of the warmth has gone from the spring afternoon sunshine by the time they get to St James’s Park but the light is still good and they stop to admire the policeman’s bluebell patch and wonder at the clumps of daffodils and crocuses that simply grow willy-nilly out of the emerald grass. Ben spreads his army coat on almost the same spot they’d sat before, having to move it a couple of feet to avoid a patch of lilac-coloured crocuses.

  They settle down on his coat and Ben takes Sarah in his arms and kisses her. ‘Oh, my God, I nearly forgot!’ he suddenly exclaims, pulling away from her and, on his knees, begins to frantically pat the surface of the greatcoat in a parody of panic. ‘Thank goodness!’ he sighs, at last stopping, his hand held over a patch of coat.

  ‘What is it, Ben?’ Sarah asks, alarmed.

  Ben turns, enjoying his tomfoolery. ‘Sarah, while I’m down on my knees, will you marry me?’

  ‘I already said I would, whatever’s gotten into you, Ben?’

  ‘So we’re engaged, it’s official, right?’

  Sarah frowns. ‘Well, yes, I suppose? It’s wartime, Ben, I don’t want you to make any promises to me you may regret later.’

  ‘But, nevertheless, you agree to be engaged to me?’ Ben persists.

  ‘Of course, silly, why do you think we’re spending the night together? I’m not a loose woman, some cheap floozy, you know.’

  Ben has found the opening to the pocket of his greatcoat and now produces the little black box. ‘Sarah Atkins, will you marry me?’ he asks, resting on his knees in front of her. He opens the lid of the little box to reveal the diamond ring.

  ‘Shit!’ Sarah exclaims involuntarily, jerking her head backwards in surprise. Wide-eyed, she brings her hands up to her mouth, horrified at what she’s just said, ‘Oo-ahh!’

  Ben throws back his head and laughs. ‘Is that all you have to say?’ He pushes the little box towards her. ‘Go on, it’s yours.’ Sarah takes it tentatively and Ben sees that her hand is trembling violently. Then she suddenly begins to sob, clutching the box to her lap in both hands. She sniffs and brings her right hand up and knuckles the tears from her eyes, sniffs again and then begins to weep, letting the tears run unabashedly down her cheeks and into her lap.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says tearfully at last.

  ‘Here,’ Ben says, offering her his handkerchief.

  Sarah dabs at her eyes then blows her nose, looks down at the ring and starts to cry again, dabbing at her eyes again. ‘Oh, Ben, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,’ she chokes.

  Ben takes the box from her hand and removes the ring. ‘Here, let’s have your finger,’ he commands.

  ‘Which one?’ Sarah, still tearful, cries in a sudden panic. ‘What hand, I forget?’

  ‘How should I know, every girl is supposed to know that from infancy!’ Ben teases. He points to her left hand, ‘The one next to your pinkie. That’s where they said it goes in the shop.’

  Sarah holds her hand out and Ben slips the ring onto her finger, and it is a perfect fit. ‘There you go, you’re booked for Armistice Day. You have the hands of a duchess, my love,’ he says, savouring the private joke. The light is beginning to fade and it has grown quite chilly. ‘We need to celebrate,’ he decides. ‘A glass of champagne is called for immediately.’

  ‘The Ritz? I’m no longer scared of the cake fork.’

  ‘Nah, let’s try Claridges’? Victoria says it’s a better pub.’

  ‘Does Victoria know everything?’

  ‘Just about,’ Ben says.

  ‘Will she like me?’

  ‘It’s compulsory.’

  ‘Last time the champagne made me squiffy, it was lovely.’

  ‘C’mon, we’ll take a taxi, it’s too cold to walk, besides I don’t know how to get there from here.’

  At Claridges’, in the manner of all good hotels, the desk clerk greets him by name. ‘Good evening, Mr Teekleman, good evening, madam, I trust you’ve both had a pleasant day?’

  ‘Yeah, it was lovely, thanks,’ Ben replies and wonders momentarily how the clerk knows his name as it isn’t the same man he met earlier.

  ‘Your parcels have arrived, sir, and have been sent up, will you be dining in the hotel this evening, sir?’

  Ben turns to Sarah, who has a bemused look on her face. ‘What do you reckon, Sarah?’

  Sarah is too surprised and confused to say anything.

  ‘Tell you what,’ Ben says to the desk clerk, ‘we’ll have it in our suite. In the meantime, will you send up a bottle of good French champagne.’

  ‘Certainly, sir, dinner in your suite, I shall send you up the menu. Do you have a preference in champagne?’

  ‘No, what would you choose?’

  ‘I shall consult the cellarmaster, sir. You may depend on him. Shall I show you to your suite?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  They follow the clerk and Sarah nudges Ben. ‘What’s happening, Ben? Tell me!’

  Ben allows the clerk to go further ahead. ‘Well, you know how you got a bit squiffy on champagne last time at the Ritz, well, I thought we’d just stay on and get even squiffier. They say if you can get a girl squiffy enough . . . ?’

  ‘Ben Teekleman, how dare you!’ Sarah giggles.

  Sarah is like a little girl at her first birthday party when they get into their suite where all her shopping has been neatly laid out on the huge bed. Soon the bedroom is in chaos as she once again opens all the boxes. The shop assistant has chosen a beautiful dove-grey silk nightdress with a matching peignoir, and, knowing Sarah’s shoe size, she has chosen an elegant pair of slippers with a charming little heel. Sarah blushes violently when she opens the ribboned box of lingerie. ‘Ben Teekleman, what have you done! Turn around at once.’

  Ben turns his back and Sarah takes each neatly folded item out of the box. ‘Darling, they’re positively wicked, I can’t possibly wear these!’

  ‘Oh well, we’ll take them back in the morning then, I’m sure the nice lady who looked after you won’t mind, we’ll swap them for a dozen each of good sensible spencers and bloomers, shall we?’

  ‘Don’t you dare! I’ve never seen anything as beautiful in my life.’

  In the middle of unpacking her shopping a waiter arrives with the champagne in an ice bucket. ‘Sir, our cellarmaster, Mr Boddington, hopes that you will accept this with his compliments. It is a 1908 Dom Perignon, a particularly good year and the last bottle he has of that vintage. He lost a son at Gallipoli and this is a small tribute to the Australians.’

  ‘That’s very decent of him,’ Ben says, slightly taken aback. The English are such a curious mixture of aloofness and warmth, a hot and cold people who constantly surprise.

  ‘May I leave the menu? You may telephone when you are ready for dinner. We ask that you allow half an hour for preparation. Will you choose the wine now so that it may either be chilled or decanted?’

  ‘Would you give Mr Boddington my sincere thanks and please offer him my commiserations, the English lads fought with pride and determination at Gallipoli. I would be happy to have him select a good bottle of red.’ He calls to Sarah, ‘Red wine all right with you, dear?’

  ‘Lovely!’ Sara
h calls back, though she cannot remember ever having tasted red wine.

  After the waiter departs Ben turns to Sarah. ‘That’s twice today I’ve heard of an English lad’s death at Gallipoli. We forget that the English lost nearly twice as many men as we did in the Dardanelles campaign.’

  Sarah moves over to Ben and puts her hands about his waist, leaning back and looking into his eyes. ‘Darling, let’s not even think about the war for the next two days. I don’t want to go out again, perhaps Hyde Park tomorrow, there are too many people in uniform on the streets, too many reminders of where we’ve been and where you have to go.’ She stands on tiptoe and kisses him lightly on the nose. ‘I know this is all make-believe, a fairytale. I can’t imagine how you’ve managed to do it and, what’s more, just this once I don’t want to know. I just want to be with you for the next forty-eight hours.’ She smiles. ‘And then if they throw us in gaol, I won’t mind in the least. I love you, Ben, with all my heart. Right now, at this very moment, I am happier than I’ve ever been and you haven’t even made love to me yet.’

  Ben takes her in his arms and kisses her deeply and then draws away, still holding her against him. ‘Sarah, I want you so badly and have done so since the moment I saw you on the Orvieto. I confess, I have made love to you in my head a hundred times, no, many more times than that.’ Ben can scarcely contain himself, his hardness pressing against Sarah’s slim body. They kiss for a long moment until Sarah, in turn, gently draws away. Ben can feel his heart pumping, he is nervous, not quite knowing what to do next, waiting for Sarah to encourage him.

  ‘Ben, let me have a bath, darling. Change into my lovely new things. We’ll have a glass of champagne when I come out? But I don’t want to get too squiffy, I want to love you just the way I am now.’ Ben watches as she goes into the bathroom and closes the door behind her.

  Suddenly he is depressed. He tells himself he is simply a bit weary. He’s been up since dawn and taken the 6.15 train from Weymouth to London and then the underground to Horseferry Road. The waiting around, the anxiety of covering up during his final medical examination, where he knows in his heart of hearts he isn’t fully recovered from his wound and the subsequent operation has taken its toll. He tells himself it is mostly the time he’s been off his feet. The strength hasn’t returned, he simply isn’t as fit as he ought to be. His wound still hurts and he wonders if it will always be with him. Then there’s been the excitement of the engagement ring and the shopping and the strain and emotion of finding himself alone at last with Sarah. It is as if he has stretched out his arms to take something more than just the war and has had them suddenly filled with something too heavy for him to carry.