The instinctive answer was no, she wouldn’t. He’d have stayed clear, wouldn’t have risked becoming involved in the first place. Or if involvement had seemed to be on the cards, would have ducked out, fast.
So – if one had that much strength of mind – give her up? Back in Alex after this patrol, stay away from her?
Ridiculous even to think about it. Offensive, even… Breaking out of introspection, he told the group around the table, ‘They call their two-man torpedoes “pigs”, apparently. The word in Italian is maiale. Or so I’m told.’
‘So we’re on a pig-hunt.’ Teasdale glanced at the clock as he drained his mug of tea. ‘Crikey. Excuse me, Barney—’
‘But another thing I was going to say—’ addressing Forbes, who was moving, flattening his thick body against the bunks on that side so Teasdale could get out – ‘what you said about the Italian fleet avoiding battle, Number One – one theory is that some of their senior admirals are less devoted to Mussolini and his henchmen than they might be, want to keep their fleet intact for some time in the future when things might change.’
‘Meaning they might drop out of the war?’
‘Something like that, I suppose.’
‘Well. There’s a happy thought.’
Chief asked him, ‘Where does it spring from?’
‘Friend of mine in Alex who has Intelligence connections. But mind you, even if some of the top brass does feel that way—’
‘Exactly.’ The engineer was stuffing tobacco into his pipe. ‘Can’t see the Krauts just letting ’em call it quits, can you?’
* * *
Liar dice followed supper, after McKendrick had finished his and the messman – Sparrow, who was also the Oerlikon gunner – had cleared the table. Conversation meanwhile returning to plans for the following day’s search of the gulf, and McKendrick asking Mitcheson, ‘If we find what we’re looking for, sir – bombard, will we?’
Mitcheson left two aces in view on the table, shook the other three dice and peered at them under the edge of the pot. Looking pleasantly surprised. ‘Well, what d’you know…’ Glancing across at McKendrick, then. ‘Snag is there’s not much water, close inshore. Where they’re most likely to be, we can’t get within ten miles, dived. Will you accept four kings, Chief?’
‘Not bloody likely!’
‘Your bad luck, then. It’s what I’m giving you.’
‘And you can lift it.’
‘Spoilsport… No, if we can’t get into effective range, Sub – well, odds are we wouldn’t spot it either, I suppose. Otherwise – fix the position and leave it to the R.A.F. But of course if there’s anything afloat that we can get at—’
‘Captain, sir.’ Control room messenger. ‘From the O.O.W., loom of lights fine on the port bow, sir.’
‘Tell him I’m coming up.’
They watched him go – like an act of levitation, instant disappearance… Forbes telling the others then as he gathered the dice and shook them, ‘Ten to one it’s Tobruk. Searchlights. Poor sods getting it in the neck again.’
* * *
It was Tobruk for sure, at a range of forty miles. The searchlights weren’t visible for long but they reappeared several times later in the night. Luftwaffe keeping up the pressure, of course; that garrison behind his lines posed an obvious threat to Rommel’s flank, would be a very real danger to him – if it was still in being – when the 8th Army launched their great offensive.
Lucia hardly ever mentioned the war. Understandable, he thought, in her family circumstances, being in point of fact half Italian. In practical terms and in sentiment very much less than half; effectively she was French. French mother, uncle, and cousins, and now a French stepfather; most of her friends were French, too. And although her father had been Italian he’d also been actively anti-Fascist, anti-Mussolini, had died in one of their camps in consequence. Hardly surprising that while deeply respecting her father’s memory, sadly proud of him, she now insisted on her Frenchness.
Italian colouring, though. And – spirit, volatility.
She had a brother who considered himself Italian and was in the Italian navy; this seemed to be her only close Italian connection. She was fond of him, too, so much so that it upset her to have to talk about him. Rather as it might be, Mitcheson thought, if you had to answer questions about someone you loved who was serving a long gaol sentence. Very much like that. His name was Emilio, and she had a photo of him – in naval uniform, but capless, informal – amongst other family portraits in her flat. To Mitcheson’s eye there was no resemblance at all between brother and sister; Emilio had – frankly – the look of a young gorilla.
Whereas Lucia… Out of this world. About five times as feminine as any other living female.
She did have some Italian friends. Josh Currie had warned him before the wedding that there’d probably be a few Wops at the party. ‘Not many. Ninety per cent Frogs, you’ll find. Especially as the groom’s a Gaullist, therefore positively anti-Wop. But Seydoux’s business contacts are bound to include a few, and like any Frenchman he’s a pragmatist. I suppose one has to be, in business: don’t get to the top of the tree – as he certainly has – without an eye to the main chance, eh? Egypt’s not at war with Italy, you see, and there’ve always been a lot of ’em here in Alex. Perfectly tame and harmless, most of ’em. Can grate a bit, mind you – if you let it – knowing damn well they’d welcome an Axis victory. If the Afrika Korps rolled into this town you can bet your life they’d be out there chucking flowers at ’em and giving those silly salutes. Fact of life, one just has to turn a blind eye. Incidentally, our own ambassador has an Italian wife.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. Not that it matters a row of beans. In fact the poor creature has one’s sympathy. What is tricky is that the king is very definitely pro-Italian. That I can tell you does require close monitoring.’
‘Farouk…’
‘Slob that he is. Incidentally, he and the ambassador – Lord Killearn, formerly Sir Miles Lampson – hate each other’s guts. Killearn’s a pompous great – well, Farouk calls him “Gamoose Pacha”. A gamoose is a water-buffalo. Not so wide of the mark, actually. But Farouk has a whole crew of Wops in his entourage. They were palace servants originally and he up-graded them, so they fawn on him – which he likes, of course. And obviously some of their local compatriots are potentially dangerous. We and the Gyppo police which are British-run, you realize, at the top? – we keep tabs on the known subversives, obviously. Then again, there’s a very actively pro-German faction in the Egyptian army. Call ’emselves “The Young Officers”. Leading light’s a fellow called Gamal Abdel Nasser. And a chum of his called Sadat. Anwar Al-Sadat. We know for a fact he’s been in touch with Afrika Korps H.Q. So one way and another… Farouk’s a jelly, you know. Insecure. Failed every exam he ever took, wasn’t ever allowed to play with anyone but his little sisters. He’s got four – Fathia, Faika, Faiza and Fawzia. All F’s, eh? They say his papa – Fuad, the late – was told by some fortune-teller that F was his family’s lucky letter. The only exception’s Farouk’s mother, Nazli – who’s said to be at it hammer and tongs, day and night, with her chamberlain, geezer by name of Hassomein Pacha. It’s got Farouk into a considerable tizz, apparently.’
‘He’s married, isn’t he?’
‘Married at eighteen to a kid of sixteen. Some high official’s daughter. Her name was Safinaz but she had to change it to Farida. F for you-know-what, eh?’
Currie broke into song, at this point. Mitcheson had met him by arrangement at Simone’s at 3 p.m. and it was possible, he thought, that the little man was now slightly inebriated, the John Collins they’d drunk as thirst-quenchers having perhaps re-activated the dregs of the previous night’s intake. They’d left Simone’s after the second one, anyway, were having this conversation while making their way up the Rue des Soeurs towards Mohamed Ali Square, looking for a gharry to take them to the Seydoux residence. They’d get one outside the Cecil Hotel, if not sooner. Currie no
w chanting – sotto-voce but still embarrassingly – a ditty that was a favourite in naval canteens and on the messdecks: ‘King Farouk, King Farouk/ ’Ang your bollocks on a ’ook—’
‘God’s sake, man—’
A burst of laughter: ‘My dear fellow—’
‘Here’s a gharry – thank God. Hey, gharry!’
‘Save the rest for later, eh?’
‘Much later.’ The gharry reined-in beside them: horse like a bag of bones drooping in its harness, driver wrapped in what looked like last month’s laundry. ‘Where you go, Effendi?’
Currie gave him the address, and the cab tilted as they climbed in. Wiping the seat with a handkerchief before sitting down, in the hope of preserving the pristine whiteness of their ‘Number Sixes’. Currie asked him, ‘How did you feel this morning?’
‘Slightly under par. You?’
‘Oh, I’m sort of immune, I think Simone’s quite a girl, eh?’
‘Terrific.’ He tried – out of curiosity – ‘That Aussie’s got something going with her, am I right?’
‘He’d like to have.’ Currie shrugged. ‘Doesn’t stand a chance. He left with the Hungarian, eventually. That what’s her name.’
‘Olga.’
‘Olga. Right. I thought she rather had her eye on you, Mitch. If you hadn’t suddenly run for cover—’
‘Had to get back aboard, that’s all. Look, tell me these people’s names again. Our host, for instance, is Maurice Seydoux, and he’s the bride’s brother. But her name?’
‘By now, she’ll be Huguette de Gavres. But Seydoux and his wife – she’s Greek – have a fairly noxious son called Bertrand and two contrastingly delightful daughters, Solange and Candice. Huguette has a daughter, too – absolute smasher, to tell you the truth – called Lucia. Only thing is she’s a bit stand-offish. Her father – Huguette’s first husband – was Italian. If you remember, I told you—’
‘Died in a concentration camp.’
‘Correct. I’m glad all my words don’t fall on stony ground.’
‘I probably wasn’t as pissed last night as you were.’
‘My dear fellow – how you can possibly suggest I was even slightly—’
‘Who else will we be meeting?’
‘Well, we’ve covered the main players. Most of the guests’ll be either French or Greek. There’s a clutch of Greek cousins, but I don’t really know them. A few Egyptians, of course – again, Seydoux’s business acquaintances, perhaps some government officials. I dare say de Gavres - the groom – will have colleagues down from Cairo. But unless there’s someone from the embassy we’re likely to be the only Anglos.’
‘One of whom is uninvited – gatecrashing.’
‘Not at all. I was told clearly and unequivocally, bring any pal—’
‘Who told you?’
‘Oh. ’ A hand to his forehead, as the gharry swung out of Rue Cherif Pacha into the Rue Fuad. ‘I think it must have been Solange.’ He added: ‘But in her father’s presence. It’s perfectly in order, I assure you. They’re extremely hospitable, these people, as well as a hundred per cent pro-us. The very last thing Seydoux or any of his kind would want is the Krauts taking over here, believe me.’
‘But if they did – if it did come to that—’
‘Well.’ He thought about it. ‘Well – as I said, he’s a pragmatist. He wouldn’t cut off his nose to spite his face. And he’d want to protect his family and their various interests. Wouldn’t kick against the pricks, in fact: not against those pricks, even. Mind you, the Italian situation might be a bit tricky. Known anti-Fascists, I mean… But damn it, it won’t happen!’
‘Please God.’
They were arriving, now, the gharry slowing to a walk. There was a high wall, iron gates that looked antique, a paved courtyard and a fountain. Water would be piped from the lake or the canal, Mitcheson guessed. Reflecting that the Sporting Club was less than a mile north of here and that the club’s golf course owed its constant green-ness to the fact that they flooded it completely several times a week. At night, presumably… Filtered strains of music now, and a major domo in silver-buttoned tunic and scarlet tarboosh meeting them as they strolled into the pillared entrance. This personage obviously knew Currie, touched his own heart and forehead as he bowed, murmuring some greeting in Arabic. Currie responded with, ‘How’re you doing, Mustapha? Good thrash, is it? By the way, this effendi here is—’
‘Josh, you’ve come!’
A very pretty girl, her slim figure attractively wrapped in an ankle-length turquoise dress gathered at the shoulder into a clasp with what looked like real diamonds in it. She’d left double doors open behind her, on the far side of a fairly enormous staircase hall – marble floor, chandeliers, slowly circling overhead fans – and the music flooding through was a waltz. The girl – early twenties, he guessed – had a mound of golden-brown hair piled up on her head, small ears very white and naked-looking under it; she was studying him while telling Currie in French: ‘I had a bet with my idiot sister that you weren’t coming. Fifty piastres, I owe the daft creature now! It’s your fault for being so late, you’d better give it to her… Who’s this marvellous-looking person, Josh?’
‘Lieutenant-Commander Mitcheson. Not all that marvellous looking, damn it. Mitch – Mademoiselle Solange Seydoux. Didn’t I tell you? Eh?’
‘Didn’t you tell him what?’
‘That you’re the most beautiful girl in Alexandria. That since Cleopatra herself there’s never been—’
‘You’re so silly…’ She took Mitcheson’s hand. ‘Meechsun?’
‘Mitcheson. Ned Mitcheson.’
‘Ned. That’s a nice name.’ She’d put herself between them, swinging around then and taking both their arms. ‘Now we shall make a grand entrance. Come on!’ Mitcheson was smiling, taking it as it came, Currie warbling ‘Here comes the bride’, as she steered them through the double doors into a long, crowded room, actually several connecting rooms with doors standing open in the archways linking them. Heads turning, in this vicinity: women in hats and ornate coiffures, a kaleidoscopic mix of colours; all the men’s heads, Mitcheson noticed, were oiled. The music had stopped just at that moment, and there was a filtering-through of couples from the room on the right. Then he was having his hand shaken by Maurice Seydoux: about his own height, greying at the temples, an intelligent, strong face. ‘How good of you to come, Commander. You are most welcome.’ Out of politeness, he spoke in English. Or perhaps not expecting to be understood if he spoke in anything else. Mitcheson told him in French: ‘You’re very kind, Monsieur. Commander Currie here persuaded me that I might attend purely on his invitation, but I must admit to some feeling of embarrassment.’
‘He was absolutely correct in bringing you, Commander. Please be assured, I and my family are most happy to receive you. Especially as you speak such excellent French – you are more than welcome. Allow me to introduce you to my wife now. Come – please… Commander Currie, be so kind as to take Solange away and dance with her. But find him a glass of champagne first. Poor fellows, probably dying of thirst…’
The music had started up again – it was a foxtrot, this time – and the babble of conversation in several languages rose to find its own new level. Halfway across the room, Mitcheson found himself taking Madame Seydoux’s rather gingerly proffered fingers; she was dark, aquiline, unmistakably Greek, with a quiet, shy smile. Then the other daughter – Candice – younger than Solange, very like her except that puppy-fat made her face rounder and her waist thicker inside the pink, flouncy dress. He put Solange at twenty now, this one at about sixteen. She had the Greek cousins with her, all of them very young and the girls bearing closer resemblance to Maria Seydoux than her own daughters did. He was chatting to them when a hand from somewhere behind him folded on his arm: ‘Commander, I should like to introduce you to my sister, now. Ah, they gave you some champagne, that’s good. Please, if you’d follow me?’
Huguette de Gavres was lovely. Quite tall, at first sight
: probably five-six or five-seven, plus heels of course. She was wearing a pale-blue costume; mid-brown hair framed the delicate bone-structure of her oval-shaped face, and her eyes were a clear, striking blue. Straight nose, and a gentle, full-lipped mouth. She might have been forty, but could as easily have been younger. ‘How very nice to see the Royal Navy here. Is it perhaps that you’re a friend of Commander Currie?’
‘Yes. He brought me along. Madame, thank you for your welcome, and I should like to congratulate you most sincerely on your marriage.’
‘Do all Royal Navy officers speak French so well?’
‘Well, my mother married a Swiss – from Geneva – when I was five. I had two half-sisters then, growing up bilingual, so – I had to make the effort too.’
‘You must be glad you did. Are you also in that battleship, that famous H.M.S. Queen Elizabeth?’
‘No. I command a submarine.’
‘A submarine.’ Her eyes had widened. ‘You – command…’
‘Someone has to.’ He smiled, and launched out on some sort of disclaimer, as one so often had to do. ‘It’s not as terrible as people generally imagine. Really isn’t. In fact—’
‘Jules. Jules, cheri – a moment…’ She’d swung round to get the attention of the man chatting with Maurice Seydoux. This was her new husband, obviously. French uniform, Cross of Lorraine and the rank-badges of a colonel. Medium height, rugged build, very much the bearing of a soldier. Huguette telling him, ‘This is Commander – Michsun? He’s the captain of a Royal Navy submarine. You know, I never before met a submarine captain?’
‘Well, I did. Two, in fact. Good friends, fine fellows. God only knows where they may be today, however.’ The colonel grasped his hand. ‘Pleasure, Commander.’ Peering at the ribbons on Mitcheson’s shoulder: ‘Distinguished Service Cross, eh?’ In fact it was a D.S.C. and Bar – two D.S.C.s. ‘But look here—’ De Gavres turned to glance behind him, reached to take some girl’s hand and pull her forward. ‘Lucia, my dear – this is Commander – oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t quite—’
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