Dust on the Sea (1999)

by Reeman, Douglas

Was. To most people it might mean little or nothing. To him, it said everything. Was . . .

  She turned to look at a man with a performing monkey, and he watched her. The dark hair curling around the regulation cap with its crown and spread-winged albatross. The curve of her lip; even the tiny mole which had remained in his mind.

  They walked on, and she remarked, ‘How is your major? Still angry with everything?’

  Something to say. She was recovering herself, looking for a way out.

  He said abruptly, ‘I want to see you again. Soon. I don’t care how, but I’ll manage it.’ He was pleading, just as he knew she was listening.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ She hesitated, testing the sound. ‘Mike.’ Then she nodded. ‘It suits you.’ She smiled openly, without reserve. ‘Mike.’

  There was a chorus of shouted insults as an army despatch rider roared past in a cloud of dust and fumes. For an instant Blackwood saw her sudden alarm. Anxiety.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said.

  She turned and glanced at him. She was quite slight, not as tall as Diane. She barely came up to his shoulder.

  He said, ‘I know a place where we can have some awful coffee. Then we’ll come back and collect your K.D.’ He almost held his breath, seeing the thoughts, the reservations inher face.

  Then she said, ‘Good idea. D’you think it really will fit me?’

  They both laughed and some soldiers turned to stare. The same looks he had received when he had kissed his sister good-bye. All right for some.

  They walked on, past the brassware and the rugs, the vases and the garish robes.

  She said, ‘I’m awaiting passage. It’s not a secret.’ She did not look at him. ‘Not to you, anyway. They put me in a house over in Rosetta, d’you know it?’

  ‘I was there once, on my way to Cairo. I forget why.’

  ‘Up to no good, I expect. The Chief of Staff’s wife is staying there, officially. She’s a nice old stick. It’s taken over by the military now.’

  They found a café; it was not much of a place, but it was almost empty. A grim-faced proprietor brought them small cups of thick black coffee.

  They sat facing one another beneath the shadow of a faded blind. Each had one hand on the table, close but not touching; the other was kept moving back and forth like a fan. The flies in Alex were as persistent as the beggars.

  The coffee was surprisingly good. When he looked up again he realised that she was gazing at him. Seeking something. Or maybe, like Despard, comparing.

  He brushed a fly from her sleeve, but she did not flinch or draw away.

  ‘Can we meet? It’s not just a game, not to me. You see, I’ve never known anyone like you before. . . .’ He broke off. She must have heard that line so many times; it was as clumsy as my wife doesn’t understand me!

  He found her hand was resting on his, so lightly that it could have been an accident,although he knew it was not.

  She said, ‘I shall have to report to my superior this afternoon.’

  ‘I’ll come with you . . .’

  She shook her head, then, after the smallest hesitation, removed her cap.

  ‘No. I think that might be a mistake.’ She did not explain.

  Perhaps there was somebody else she knew here? No, it was not that. He waited, knowing that if he pursued it he would spoil everything.

  She seemed to come to a decision, as if she had been having an argument with herself.

  ‘You could come to the house.’ Doubtfully. ‘It’s a long way.’

  ‘I’ll steal a Tiger tank if need be!’

  She watched his eagerness, the impulsiveness which was the very young man again.

  ‘Tomorrow, then?’

  She looked down at their hands, the empty cups, with the flies moving eagerly around them. ‘Christmas Eve!’

  He stood up to call the proprietor and did not see her eyes fall to the webbing holster at his hip. Then she picked up her cap and looked at the dust on the badge. She wouldnot turn back, not this time.

  Blackwood examined his watch. ‘Let’s go and see how far your tailor has got.’ He wanted to laugh aloud, to share this sudden, unexpected happiness.

  She said suddenly, ‘I did enjoy that.’ She took his arm and guided him into another shadow.

  She said, ‘It will be crowded as soon as we move.’ She lifted her chin. ‘We must remember all officer-like qualities.’ She sounded very tense. ‘Kiss me. It’ll be a secret.’

  Their lips barely touched but he could feel her, taste her, and even though it could not possibly be happening, he knew he must not let her go. It was never wise to say or think such things in wartime. But in the noisy, crowded souk, the war was suddenly a long, long way away.

  The khaki staff car stood outside the imposing house, the engine revving in time with the driver’s foot.

  ‘I’ll be here at midnight, old son!’ His eyes moved to the house; he did not bother to hide his curiosity. ‘You be ready, or I’ll probably turn into a pumpkin!’

  Blackwood smiled. The paymaster lieutenant at the wheel was also the S.N.O.’s secretary at the base. He would know the Chief of Staff’s wife was staying here. Perhaps she would refuse to let him in.

  ‘I’ll be waiting, don’t worry.’ The lieutenant was going to Cairo to collect some documents, or so he claimed. A good piss-up, more likely.

  He watched the car roar away in a rolling bank of dust, and realised for the first time that there was a military police jeep parked a little way along the road. The sunlight reflected from the windscreen and he could not see the occupants, but somehow he knew they were observing him.

  He walked up to the gates and looked at the house. Grand but shabby. Someone wealthy must have lived here once.

  He was early; the paymaster lieutenant had driven like a maniac. He walked up to the door, his shoes loud on the loose stones. There had been flowers here, and a fountain, which was empty and covered with blown sand. Perhaps the owners had fled when Rommel’s tanks had been reported making their final approach. It was said that a lot of people had made a run for it.

  The door opened, and after the fierce sunlight it was like walking into a blacked-outroom. And then he saw her. She was standing by another open door, watching him, one handholding a towel to her hair. She wore a long bathrobe.

  He was early.

  She said, ‘Come into the garden. I was just having a swim.’ She laughed, he thought nervously. ‘Salt water and none too clean, but it’s sheer heaven for all that!’ She waited for him to join her, but kept her distance. ‘I’m so glad you could make it. I thought something might turn up and prevent you from coming.’

  They stood side by side and looked at the swimming pool, where her footprints were already drying in the sun.

  She said, ‘It’s like the Marie Celeste here. You keep expecting the real owners to walk in.’

  He asked, ‘The Chief of Staffs wife?’

  ‘Lady Duncan?’ She smiled. ‘Tinker, as she likes to be called. She’s in Cairo. Be back some time tomorrow. She’s here on business, looking into the facilities at various hospitals, for the men coming back from the desert. She’s at the Royal Military Hospital today, if anyone needs her.’ She saw his face. ‘What is it? Did I remind you of something?’

  He took her arm and they walked across the tiled terrace. ‘Strange coincidence, that’s all. My father was there after Gallipoli, when he was wounded.’ He recalled with sudden clarity the only time he had seen his father’s back, and the great star-shaped wounds running diagonally across it. He had never seen them again, as if his father had been ashamed of them. All he could remember was his own sense of awe, and his pride.

  A white-coated servant had appeared from nowhere, and Blackwood heard them exchange a few words in French.

  She faced him again. ‘He’s Tunisian. My French is better than his English.’ She laughed, suddenly untroubled, happier than he had yet seen her. ‘He’ll bring some tea, or something stronger, if you like?’ She looked at him in
that characteristic, direct way. ‘My grandmother was French, you know. We lived in Marseilles for a time. My father was a shipping agent then – we were always going back and forth.’ The mood changed again, and afterwards Blackwood thought it had been like a cloud passing across moonlight. ‘Poor Dad . . . he took it badly when Mike was killed. His heart’s not good. And he worries a lot. Too much . . .’

  ‘Your brother . . .’ He hesitated.

  ‘It’s all right. I don’t mind you asking about him.’

  ‘Was he much older than you?’

  She dropped the towel and combed her hair with her fingers.

  ‘He was nineteen when he went down. My kid brother. I was already in the W.A.A.F. I sometimes wonder if it was because of me . . .’ She did not go on.

  He said, ‘You mustn’t even think it, Joanna.’

  She glanced at him, startled perhaps by the easy use of her name.

  ‘That was a nice thing to say.’ She smiled. ‘Mike.’

  He heard the servant clattering crockery in the room they had just left.

  He said, ‘I saw some redcaps parked along the road just now.’

  Her fingers paused in her hair. ‘I must look a mess.’ She seemed to recall what he had said. ‘The M.P.s? Yes, they’re always there, apparently.’ Then, ‘That uniform you bought for me – how much was it?’

  ‘It’s a present. For Christmas. I’d have got something a bit more exciting if I’d only known we’d meet again like that.’

  She stood up almost abruptly. Against the coloured tiles her bare feet looked small, vulnerable.

  ‘Would you like to see the house? Not as big as your place, I’ll bet. Hawks Hill, that’s what it’s called, right?’

  She slipped her hand through his arm and together they walked past a carefully laid table. He could sense her sudden tension. He did not realise it matched his own.

  He said, ‘I’ll take you there one day. It’s a bit of a shambles at the moment. Land girls and Italian prisoners of war, as far as I can make out.’

  She did not look at him. ‘I’d like that.’

  They were at the top of a staircase. It was pure marble. Whoever they were, they must have been very rich.

  She pointed along a passageway. ‘That’s where Lady Duncan abides.’ She giggled. ‘Tinker. A bit of a battle-axe, but she’s quite sweet really, though she’d hate to admit it!’ There was a long pause. ‘Would you like to see the “bazaar K.D.”? Was that what you called it?’

  ‘I would.’

  It was a large room, with slatted louvres at the windows which he sensed would overlook the garden and the pool, where two strangers had been standing together.

  He saw the khaki drill jacket lying on a chair, her uniform cap on another.

  She picked up the jacket, and said, ‘What time is your car coming?’

  ‘Midnight. But if you think Lady Duncan will be back before that, I can call the base . . .’

  She turned towards him and said, ‘Eight hours.’ She put out her hand as he tried to hold her, to reassure her. ‘It’s not all that much.’

  He said, ‘It’s a lifetime.’

  She let her hand fall. ‘Then make it a lifetime.’ She held her face against his while he touched her neck and her damp hair. He felt her back stiffen as he found her spine and pulled her closer to him, until they were together. Then she freed herself and gripped his hand, as she had in the café.

  She could not look into his eyes, but watched his hands on her robe.

  Then she faced him again, her chin uplifted, her voice quite steady as the robe fell around her ankles.

  ‘Take me, Mike. Love me. It’s what you want, isn’t it?’

  She kissed him, even as he picked her up and laid her on the bed. She seemed so light, so supple that he ached for her.

  He sat beside her, holding her, exploring her, until she drew him down and kissed him again. There was no hesitation, no lingering doubt or reserve. Their mouths were pressed together, open, their tongues driving away all caution.

  He threw off his clothes, and she exclaimed, ‘You’re all brown! You have a beautiful body, Mike!’

  Only once did the anxiety show itself. ‘It’s been so long. I want it to last.’ She fell back, her eyes tightly closed as his shadow moved over her, then she arched her back to find him, to receive him. She cried out, the sound like an echo in the empty house, but the pain passed within a second, and she returned his passion with a fervour which broke down any remaining control.

  Afterwards, she lay beneath him, her heart like a small, trapped hammer against his body. When he moved as though to leave her she gripped his shoulders until her nails broke the skin. ‘No. Stay. I want to feel you like this . . . a part of me.’

  Later, how long he did not know, she left him and walked across the room, her nakedness somehow natural and without artifice or hesitation. She returned with two glasses of wine. They had proably been chilled, but he would not have noticed. They kissed, and kissed again, and her hands aroused him in a way he would have thought impossible.

  ‘I love you.’ He scarcely recognised his own voice. He was so used to covering emotion, hiding his feelings and his fears, that to say it was like being freed from something.

  She whispered, ‘I couldn’t wait. I needed you. Don’t talk of love – just be glad we found it and took it while we could!’

  Eventually they left the bed, and Blackwood put on his uniform.

  The staff car arrived an hour early, but the S.N.O.’s secretary did not come to the house. In his job, he probably knew all about discretion.

  She walked with him to the big room, lit now by a solitary lamp. The untouched plates and cups had disappeared.

  When she opened the door he felt her shiver. The night was much colder; this was a place of extremes and contrasts.

  Blackwood saw the shaded lights of the car, and the jeep parked in the same place. Or maybe it was a different one.

  She put her arms around his neck and raised herself on her bare toes.

  ‘Touch me.’ She gasped as he opened her robe and stroked her breasts, her hip.

  ‘I shall see you soon, Joanna. I must.’

  She smiled in the darkness, and then laid her fingers on his mouth.

  ‘Don’t hope for too much.’

  And then he was moving down to the gates. Once he turned, thinking she had called after him, but the door was closed, black against the peeling white stucco.

  The paymaster lieutenant was apologetic. ‘Sorry, old son.’ He had seen the girl’s robe in the doorway. ‘There’s a bit of a flap on, I’m told. Nothing we can’t handle.’ He let in the clutch and pulled out on to the road.

  Blackwood concentrated on the dim light given off by the shaded beams. He must remember every last detail. What she said. What they did. How she had given herself without shame or restraint. He could still feel her, like the moment he had entered her. And the scratches on his shoulders where she had clung to him. Her warmth when he had shown concern for the fading bruises on her body. No wonder she hated flying.

  A bit of a flap on. There usually was. And it was almost Christmas Day. But afterwards, he would see her again, as friends, as lovers. As one. He thought then of his father. How pleased he would have been.

  The girl stood quite still in the same room, facing the wall mirror, testing each reaction; testing her strength.

  She could hear the muffled murmur of voices from downstairs, the driver, and maybe one of the military policemen, the redcaps. She straightened her tie and ensured that the collar was properly attached and fastened. Then she put on her jacket, remembering his face in the crowd, raising her arm to look at the two stripes on the sleeve. Heard his voice again. Flight Officer Gordon. She fastened each button, slowly and deliberately, watching her reflection all the time. A stranger again.

  She could see the bed behind her, where they had loved with such abandon, such need. In the past, it had been so different. He had been experienced, and often demanding, but ev
en then she had known he was measuring each hour they had together.

  But nothing like this. She had not merely submitted; she had returned his love in ways she had hardly dared to contemplate. Given herself again and again.

  She glanced at the case and the paper parcel by the door. She had packed the khaki drill tunic and slacks last of all, holding on to the memory. She shook her head angrily. It was no use; memories would destroy her.

  They had talked, too, lying side by side on that bed. About her brother who had been killed, and about his own doubts, of which she knew he had never spoken to anyone else. Of his admiration and pride in men like her brother, like so many of his young marines. They had volunteered because they had believed in it; because they cared.

  She had watched him, his profile etched against the mosquito netting.

  ‘I had no such moral commitment. It was my life, my career, whether I wanted it or not. Because I am a Blackwood and all that it means. I needed to see what drew such men to the Corps, to the real war. Not seen through a bomb sight at ten thousand feet, or the rangefinder of a cruiser’s gun turret . . . or even through the periscope as it comes down, while the submarine is already diving, twisting away, when the torpedoes are still speeding towards their target.’

  She had said, ‘And have you seen it now?’

  He had rolled over, and laid his head very gently between her breasts.

  He did not need to answer her question.

  She heard Lady Duncan’s voice; she had arrived in the middle of the night. It was time.

  The sealed envelope had been waiting for her; she had heard the motor-cycle sputtering away. The message was as brief as it was urgent.

  Lastly she placed her cap on her dark hair, and stared at herself in the mirror. Then she picked up the case and the small parcel, and took one final look at the room. It was Christmas Day.

  She opened the door, and heard the conversation stop instantly, like a radio being turned off.

  It had been beautiful, the most wonderful thing which had ever happened to her. And, perhaps, to him.

  She closed the door behind her. But it was just a dream.

  ‘Ah, there you are, my dear. The car’s here for you!’