The Waiting Hours

by Ellie Dean

  ‘It was never tawdry,’ he said gruffly. ‘I loved you, truly loved you.’

  ‘But not enough to be honest with me right from the start,’ she replied. ‘If you had, things might have been very different, and we wouldn’t be having this painful inquest today.’

  Those cold blue eyes seemed to pierce her to the core. ‘And just how honest have you been? Did you never lie, or keep secrets from me?’

  Dolly swallowed nervously, her gaze trapped by his, unable to escape. ‘Yes, I had a secret,’ she admitted softly, ‘which was why I had to turn down your proposal at Christmas.’

  ‘Just the one secret? Surely there were more?’

  She frowned at his scathing tone. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she stammered.

  ‘Oh, I think you do,’ he replied coldly. ‘But I’d like to hear what this solitary secret was, and why you deem it so important to actually confess it.’

  An icy foreboding made Dolly shiver. The tension between them was almost at breaking point and she could barely think straight. She dragged her gaze from him and lit another cigarette with trembling fingers. ‘You can choose to think what you will, Felix, but I’ve kept only one secret,’ she managed.

  He remained silent, and Dolly willed herself to keep her thoughts clear and unhampered by his lowering presence. ‘That day you confessed to having a wife and child broke my heart. I was filled with such joy that it felt as if the sun was glowing inside me – but it wasn’t the sun, Felix. It was our precious baby.’

  She looked up at him, hoping to see some sort of reaction, but he regarded her with almost a blank indifference.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me then instead of now?’

  His lack of emotion rattled her. ‘I would have thought that was obvious,’ she replied sharply. ‘You were tied to a sick woman you couldn’t divorce, and you made it plain we had no future together.’

  There was still no reaction from him and she took a shallow breath, determined to make him see that she’d done what she’d thought was best. ‘I wasn’t prepared to carry on being your mistress, and I certainly didn’t want a part-time father for my baby who’d only take an interest out of a sense of duty. You’d have gone back to the States and soon forgotten about us, so it was better to end it there and then. What you didn’t know wouldn’t hurt any of us.’

  ‘You should have told me and let me decide what sort of a father I might have been to Carol.’ His features looked as if they’d been carved in stone. ‘That’s if I actually was her father.’

  ‘But of course you were,’ she protested, at last getting to her feet. ‘You were my love, the only man I ever really wanted. I was never, ever unfaithful to you.’

  Felix drew a brown envelope from his pocket, opened it and pulled out a photograph. ‘Who’s this man?’

  Dolly gasped as she recognised the photograph she’d given to Carol all those years ago. ‘You’ve discussed this with Carol?’ she managed.

  ‘Indeed I have,’ he replied coldly, ‘and it was most interesting to hear what she had to say.’ He held out the photograph. ‘You haven’t answered my question, Dolly.

  ‘It’s Frederick Adams,’ she said, ‘but I can explain—’

  ‘I’m sure you can,’ he replied tucking the photograph away again. ‘And I’d be most interested to hear what your devious imagination can come up with, but I happen to know that the man in the photograph is not Frederick Adams.’

  Dolly stared at him in confusion. ‘Of course it is,’ she stammered. ‘He—’

  ‘It’s Sir Hugh Cuthbertson, former attaché to the British ambassador in Paris, career diplomat, and now the head of MI5, and your boss. I made enquiries and it seems you’ve known each other for many years and are extremely close. Did you have an affair with him? Are you protecting his good name by giving him an alias?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she snapped. ‘He’s not in the least bit inclined that way.’

  ‘I know,’ he said evenly. ‘So why pretend he’s Frederick Adams – and Carol’s father?’

  Dolly’s mind and emotions were in such turmoil she couldn’t answer him.

  ‘Who was Major Frederick Adams? Was he the man you ran to when you left me? Could he be Carol’s father?’

  His words hit like machine-gun fire and she flinched. ‘It was a name I plucked out of the air,’ she stammered. ‘He wasn’t real.’

  ‘And you have the gall to accuse me of being a liar,’ he said scornfully. He pulled a cigar case out of his jacket pocket and went to stand by the window, taking his time to cut and pierce the cigar before lighting it.

  Dolly saw the tension in his shoulders and the slight tremor in his hand as he put his lighter back in his pocket. ‘I had to tell Carol something,’ she said tremulously, ‘and I thought that if I gave her that photograph of Hugh and told her he’d died, she’d be satisfied and would stop asking questions.’

  ‘Did you do the same to Pauline? Was that all lies too?’

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘I told Pauline the unvarnished truth about her father, and she has our wedding photograph as well as the divorce papers. If she wants to find him, I won’t encourage it, but she’s a grown woman, and must make her own decisions.’

  Felix carried on smoking his cigar. ‘Carol has a right to the truth as well,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘This has all come about because you broke your promise to me and couldn’t resist talking about us to Carol,’ she snapped.

  He whirled round to face her, the colour heightened in his face. ‘No, Dolly. This is because you told lie upon lie, and refused to discuss anything with either of your daughters. Carol yearns to know more about her father, but was always mindful that you got upset when questioned about your past.’ He pushed past her and began to prowl the room.

  ‘Which is hardly surprising,’ he continued, ‘when you consider just how tangled that web of lies must have become over the years. But she trusted me enough to ask if I knew Adams because we were both in the American army, so I contacted a buddy of mine back in the States to look up the military records for that time.’

  He turned to face her. ‘There were no records for a Major Frederick Adams of the Intelligence Corps, but there were two men of the same name serving at that time, and both of them had been in London that spring.’

  Dolly felt the blood drain from her face. ‘It’s coincidence,’ she stammered. ‘I swear to you, Felix, I knew neither of them, and was never unfaithful to you.’ To her chagrin, she felt the prick of tears and quickly blinked them away. ‘I loved you, only you, and I swear on all I hold precious that you are Carol’s father.’

  He took a deep breath and let it out on a sigh. ‘Yes, I know I am. I’d worked it out a while ago. The story about Adams knocked me off balance until I saw that photograph of Hugh, realised those soldiers were mere boys just out of school, and knew I’d been right all along.’

  ‘Then why …?’

  His expression darkened as he looked down at her. ‘You said earlier that what Carol and I didn’t know wouldn’t hurt us. But it has – deeply. You need to understand how much damage your lies have caused – how they’ve aroused suspicions and doubts, poisoned everything and shattered trust – and once that’s gone, there’s nothing left to salvage.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to cause you and Carol such hurt,’ she said tearfully. ‘But I wasn’t the only one at fault.’

  His expression held not a shred of compassion. ‘I fully admit the shameful part I played in all this, for I should have been straight with you right from the start – and for that, I’m truly sorry. But Carol needs a father in her life after being denied one for so long, and she deserves to know the truth. Are you going to tell her – or shall I?’

  ‘I will,’ she replied tremulously.

  ‘Tell her she can come and see me any time she wants. I’ll warn the guardhouse. But don’t take too long about it, Dolly – I’m running out of patience.’ With that, he jammed the cigar in the corner of his mouth, snatched his ha
t from the bed, and in two long strides was out the door.

  Dolly closed her eyes, the chill of his departure making her tremble. She’d never seen him so angry, or so determined to cause her hurt, and realised suddenly that he’d been mirroring her rejection of his proposal back in London. There would be no coming back from this – it was truly over – and tomorrow she’d have to face Carol.

  Felix climbed into the jeep and drove quickly through the broad arch which had once accommodated horse-drawn coaches. The dark streets beyond were bustling with soldiers and sailors making the most of their night off duty. His anger had died, and he was left feeling empty and ashamed for what he’d done to Dolly tonight.

  He weaved through the drunken sailors and screeching girls that staggered across the road from pub to pub, and headed out of town to the utter blackness of the countryside. But as the noise of the town faded and the blanket of stillness enfolded him, he was overwhelmed with sadness. He pulled into a farm entrance and switched off the engine.

  Looking up at the endless galaxy of stars, and out over the stretch of empty land where a pale moon gilded the tops of the hedgerows, he was made aware of how small and insignificant he was in the scheme of things. It was like sailing his boat, alone at the helm with the bow slicing through the dark waters, the moon and stars his only guide. He’d always felt at one with the night and the sea, but now a sense of isolation filled him and he knew that this awful loneliness would remain with him for the rest of his life. They’d lost each other, and there could be no going back.

  He threw the cigar butt in the road and saw the sparks fly as it hit the ground and rolled away. He watched the small glow slowly die, and when it was gone, he remained sitting there, staring at nothing in particular as his thoughts plagued him.

  What if Carol didn’t want him for a father – or worse still, couldn’t forgive either of them for what they’d done? It wasn’t entirely Dolly’s fault they were in such a mess, and he suspected she’d been punished enough. Perhaps all was not lost, he decided. Carol was a sensible and understanding girl, and she might come round to the idea of having him as a father – or at least a father figure – and the idea of having a daughter made him smile. If that happened, then surely he and Dolly could find a way to forgive each other, and then, at some distant time, perhaps they could rekindle the sparks that were still between them.

  On that happier thought, he switched on the engine and sent the jeep roaring down the hill on the way back to his billet at the old manor house.

  39

  Burma

  Jim folded Peggy’s letter and carefully tucked it away in his backpack, along with all the other letters and photographs from home. This latest batch had taken three weeks to reach him, and with everything that had happened over the past month, he’d almost forgotten about the documentary film that had been made whilst he and Ernie had been on short leave. It felt strange to think about it now, as if it had happened to someone else in another lifetime, for his reality had become the humid jungle, with its strange noises and ever-present sense of lurking danger.

  He remembered how he’d rehearsed what to say that morning, but when the time had come he’d been tongue-tied and embarrassed when faced with the camera, and was fairly certain he’d made a complete ass of himself. But at least he’d told everyone at home that he loved and missed them, and could show them he was fit and well. Peggy had written to say how handsome he’d looked and how much she missed him – and that even Harvey had rushed up to the screen wagging his tail and barking in recognition – so maybe it had allayed some of her fears for him, and he was glad of that.

  He closed his eyes and tried to relax in the short time he had before preparing to leave this jungle camp. Every muscle ached after having spent the last two days clearing a runway through the teak tree plantation for the C-47s which would take them over the great Irrawaddy River to Chowringhee, which was 150 miles behind Japanese lines.

  ‘They’ll be here in less than an hour if all goes to plan,’ muttered Ernie, getting to his feet. ‘We’d better get ready.’

  Jim saw that the other men were already moving about the camp in the flickering shadows of the many small fires that had been lit for warmth and to brew tea. He stripped off his sweat-stained vest, pants and filthy khaki shorts, and dunked himself in the nearby river before he began to dress for the expected enemy encounter they would face at the end of their journey.

  He donned clean underpants and vest, two pairs of thick socks knitted by Peggy, green cotton trousers held down at the ankle by short puttees, a khaki flannel shirt worn outside his trousers, and nailed boots. He hung the silk panic map of Burma and a pair of binoculars round his neck, and attached a water bottle, ammunition and compass to his webbing. On his left hip was slung a small canvas pouch containing basic field-dressings, two condoms which would come in useful as waterproof wrapping for his watch, compass, cigarettes and matches when crossing a river; and on his right hip he buckled a wickedly sharp hunting knife in a leather sheath which he’d won in a game of poker back in Chittagong.

  He settled his slouch hat at a rakish angle on his head, his carbine over his shoulder, and hoisted up the large backpack which contained five days’ worth of K-rations, one half of a lightweight green blanket – two men, one half each – a groundsheet, two more pairs of Pauline’s socks, toothbrush and paste, mepacrine tablets to fight an attack of malaria, shaving kit, hand towel, nail scissors, iodine pencil, plimsolls, an American field jacket, a small bottle of rum, his dirty clothing, and his precious letters and photographs from home.

  He felt strong, alert and fit for action as he eased the strap of the carbine loose from the backpack so it was immediately to hand, and lit a cigarette. Wingate was a commander he trusted and greatly admired, the men around him totally focused on the job ahead of them as they formed into groups with the mules, jeeps, supplies and trucks to be loaded onto the planes which would soon land on the jungle airstrip.

  There was silence as they waited in the darkness and looked skyward through the widely scattered trees that soared high above them, the tension rising with every passing minute – for surely the Japanese must know by now what was going on here.

  ‘Here they come,’ muttered Ernie as the distant throb of the C-47s became audible.

  It was a sound Jim and the others had heard many times over the past months and it had become instantly recognisable. He watched the black wings sweep over the moon, which was a day away from being full, and saw the red glow of the engines as the cones of their headlights lit up the heavily guarded jungle airstrip. If the Japs were about, this was the moment they would attack. He stamped out his cigarette and fingered the carbine’s trigger, alert for any sign of movement within the blackness of the surrounding plantation.

  The C-47s were from the RAF and the USAAF, and they swarmed in to park on the extra-wide runway. Once the mules, vehicles and supplies had been loaded, the groups of men assigned to each plane swiftly followed them, and within minutes the planes took off again, two by two.

  ‘Aircraft B-18 – load!’ shouted the plane master.

  Jim and Ernie marched to the checkpoint behind their senior officer, who had to shout above the noise of the engines to make himself heard. The backdraught kicked up great swirls of dust and debris and Jim had to screw up his eyes against it and hold on to his hat before it was tossed away and lost forever.

  They climbed the ramp into the body of the plane and were met by the sight of the large rear ends of three mules which had been jammed in tight across the forward half of the cabin, their noses against the forward bulkhead and cockpit door.

  The animals’ heads had been tightly fastened to a strong bamboo pole which had been anchored to bolts in the reinforced steel floor, with an extra-thick pole running under their behinds which pushed them forward, giving them very little room to move or buck. Their saddles and loads had been stacked on the floor, and straw had been spread beneath their hooves to stop them slipping, but with the pla
ne tilting sharply down from front to rear, this was not wholly successful.

  Jim and Ernie sat down with their backpacks between their knees as the flight lieutenant in command of the aircraft peered through the twitching ears of one of the mules and exchanged a thumbs-up with the platoon commander before slamming the cockpit door with a purposeful clang which made the mules shift and twitch their ears in alarm.

  The cabin lights went out, the engines changed pitch and throbbed earnestly as the pilot taxied with increasing speed for take-off. The mules brayed in fear, showing their enormous teeth as they threw up their heads, fought against their restraints and tried to kick out. The pilot opened the throttle and the plane surged forward and lifted into the air.

  Three men were quickly sent to act as buffers against the mules’ backsides while the muleteer readied his carbine in case the animals broke free. But as the airfield lights sank from sight and disappeared into the night, the tail of the plane rose until the floor levelled out and the mules slowly calmed down.

  ‘It’ll be fun and games again when we land,’ said Jim. ‘Those poor wee beasts will be all but looking over the pilot’s shoulder and giving him advice when the nose drops.’

  Ernie grunted, closed his eyes and was snoring within seconds. Jim was constantly amazed at his friend’s ability to do that at the drop of a hat, for try as hard as he might, sleep eluded him on flights like this – and there had been many over the past months – some of them quite stomach-churning.

  After an hour the plane’s nose dipped, the mules pressed against their keeper, and Jim and the others hoisted their backpacks on again in readiness for landing. He looked out of the window and saw the moon shining on a mile-wide river that ran through black, featureless jungle, and guessed this must be the mighty Irrawaddy.

  He nudged Ernie awake, helped him with his pack and they both peered out of the window for their first sight of Chowringhee. Ten minutes later they saw the lights glittering along the rectangular landing strip, much brighter than any they’d seen in the Calcutta street after which this makeshift landing-place had been named.