She smiled, on firm ground again. I want. ‘Captain Pryce is not here at present.’ She made a careful note of the crown on his shoulder and the Military Police flash on his sleeve. ‘I’m sorry, er, Major . . . ?’
‘Guest. George Guest. I need to see him.’
He sauntered across the room, the eyes of the two sailors following him like lamps.
‘I can call the Base, Major Guest, if it really is so urgent. We’ve been rather busy . . .’
The steely eyes settled on her. ‘A flap on, right?’ He saw her flush and smiled. ‘I’ve seen a few come and go here. I felt it as I drove in.’ He recalled what she had said. ‘Yes, give him a buzz. I should have come earlier, but this sort of thing takes time, and tenacity.’
‘May I tell him what it’s about?’
He watched her hands, their quick, nervous movements. ‘It’s about your predecessor. Jane Clarke.’
‘I – I see.’ The cool way he had spoken her name, and without her rank: it made her sound like a suspect. But she was dead.
Guest walked to the door. ‘Where’s Petty Officer Mackenzie?’
She said, ‘Ashore, sir. On local leave. I have a number where she can be reached.’
Guest nodded. I’ll bet you have. ‘I’ll not disturb her.’ He closed the door behind him without a sound.
His sergeant was waiting for him, his red cap shining like blood in the police-light by the compound.
‘All right, sir?’
Guest smiled. ‘We’ll have to get a move on.’ He compared the dead girl with the one he had just met. How could they send her to a place like this, he wondered. Surrounded by all those young tearaways, most of whom had probably never been with a woman in their lives. But this one, Blandford, would run a mile if a man so much as smiled at her. If I’m any judge.
Like his sergeant, he had been a copper on the beat long before he had joined the Military Police for the duration. He listened to the piano and the lusty singing coming from the petty officers’ mess, and then headed towards the wardroom. A far cry from the East End of London, with its jellied eels and Saturday night punch-ups at the old Salmon and Ball pub. To go back to it after this was unthinkable.
He was himself again. ‘We may not have enough to make it stick, but a court of enquiry – well, that would be something else.’
They both grinned. Once a cop . . .
The hospital seemed very quiet, even deserted, not at all the way that he remembered it. Petty Officer Mike Tucker held up his arm and looked at the small red mark where the needle had gone in. It was almost funny when you thought about it. While he had been here in this same hospital with the delirious Sub-Lieutenant Napier, some busybody had noticed in his paybook that one of his inoculations was out of date. He clenched his fist. It should cause no pain; with him it almost never did. Must keep the naval records up to date, even when you stood a fair chance of having your arse blown off. He picked up his cap, his best one, and wondered why he had bothered. Then he glanced at a closed door, where he had waited by Napier’s bedside, when the girl had come to him. He smiled again. Jamie’s girl. He hoped so, anyway.
He glanced at his reflection in a window and tilted his cap to a rakish angle. His family would know he was safe. They would never know he was already off again. He had even had some letters, some so old that they were still talking about the nearness of Christmas. Young Madge had had the kid, his mother had written. He had been able to feel her indignation through her sloping handwriting. It was more black than white, apparently. He could smile about it now, but it must have lit a fuse under his mum and dad. Madge and her bloody Yanks, another benefit of the Lease-Lend agreement.
‘Why, hello! Didn’t expect to see you back here!’
He swung round, shading his eyes from the sunlight that filled the corridor. The nurse was small and neat in her tropical uniform: pretty, too, with a nice smile.
He said, ‘Oh, just for a jab from the doc.’
She shook her head. ‘You don’t remember me at all, do you?’
It was like turning back a page. He said quietly, ‘Nurse Julyan. I’m hardly likely to forget you.’ He saw her surprise and uncertainty. ‘You were such a help to young Mr Napier, before they took off his arm. You must be used to it, I suppose.’
She seemed to consider it. ‘Not really.’ She hesitated. ‘He was such a nice young chap. One night when he was able to speak properly, he told me all about you, how you saved him and carried him for miles.’ She saw his face cloud over. ‘Sometimes he was too drugged to know what he was saying. He kept talking about somebody called Mango.’ She smiled. ‘You’d fallen asleep in the chair by his bed.’
‘Mango was just a kid caught up in somebody else’s war. He was killed.’
She said, ‘I see you don’t get used to it, either.’
He said, ‘You told me about your brother.’
‘Did I?’ She glanced at her wrist; it was bandaged, but Tucker had not noticed it before. She said, ‘One poor chap tried to kill himself. Some clot had left the scissors where he could get at them. I stopped him, but he had a go at me instead.’ She tried to smile. ‘He didn’t know about my famous right hook!’
All at once they were walking together towards the entrance. She said, ‘Did I really tell you about Jack?’
‘Yeah. He was a rear-gunner on a Lanc. Bought it over Germany.’
She nodded. ‘And you come from Hendon. North London. Very posh.’
She smiled again, her teeth white in her tanned face. ‘Not our part of it!’
There was a naval van in front of the drive, with the Special Operations flash painted on the wing.
He said, ‘I’ll cadge a lift. Got some gear to pack.’ She said nothing, but stood quite still watching him as if she were waiting for something. ‘I was wondering.’ He looked down at her: she was short, and had a pretty, turned-up nose. ‘Bit of a cheek – I’m not even sure if I’ll be back in these parts. But would you care to come out for a drink, a meal or something? Maybe we could see a flick down at the army cinema?’
‘Thought you’d never ask.’ She studied his face, where the cruel bruises had been. Like the scars on his back. It must have been agony, but he had not complained like some men did when they were on the mend. Before that they were like small, lost boys, ashamed of their wounds or injuries, embarrassed at being washed, swabbed and handled, and suffering every indignity thrown their way. Mike Tucker had not been like that. She had been easily able to picture him carrying poor Napier mile after mile. Once, Napier had gripped her hand and said in a level, conversational voice, ‘He could have left me, you know. Or killed me. It’s what they do over there.’
What they do. She looked at the line of closed doors behind him. We don’t even know the half of it. We only pick up the pieces.
Tucker was looking at her, as if they had met somewhere before.
‘I really ought to know your name, Nurse Julyan. You know mine!’
She wished they were somewhere else. There were so many things. She replied, ‘Actually, it’s Eve. No cracks now, if you don’t mind!’
He took her hands in his, very careful not to touch the bandage.
‘Eve.’ He looked at her for several seconds. ‘Eve. It would be. Eve.’ He stooped and kissed her on the cheek, then turned away before she could speak.
A sick-berth attendant passed with a large jug of lemon juice.
‘There now, Nurse Julyan! What did I just see?’
She smiled. After all, he couldn’t help being the way he was. He was called Flossie by his workmates, and he seemed to enjoy it.
He said suddenly, ‘That was Mike Tucker, just had a jab. Can’t see the sense in it, if the buzz I’ve heard is true. I should forget about him if I were you.’
But she was staring after the van as it moved towards the gates. It had blurred over like a painting left out in the rain. A light began to flash above one of the doors and she automatically straightened her cap before hurrying towards it.
&
nbsp; She touched her cheek where he had kissed her, remembering his face when she had told him her name. It would be. What had he meant? She gripped the door-handle so hard that it hurt her fingers. She might never know.
James Ross lay on top of the bed and watched the moonlight through the mosquito netting spreading patterns across the opposite wall. The house was full of creaks and small sounds, although he guessed that everyone else was asleep. He could see the close, brilliant stars through the window and imagined a warm breeze playing through the palm fronds. There had been no rain after all, although he had heard the Colonel predicting it to his old friend, the doctor, over dinner. An awkward meal despite everyone’s kindness, and the unmasked interest of the doctor. Had it been planned, or had it just happened that way?
She had been seated opposite him and each time their eyes had met over another course, he had felt their emotion like physical pain. She had worn a plain silk dress with her throat bare; he had seen the gold chain moving even when she had kept her features composed.
Tomorrow. Or was it today? She would be in uniform. That would be the hardest time . . . He had thought he might lose himself in the preparations, the ‘ifs’ and ‘maybes’ of Pryce’s Operation Trident, but there was nothing more to do. He had forgotten nothing, had even seen all their faces in his mind when he had gone over it yet again. The volunteers. If they had accepted all the volunteers, they would have needed four submarines and more chariots as well. He had been deeply touched that men he had come to know as friends could offer their lives so freely. The target and the location were set. Even if something changed at the last minute, or the vital recognition signals were never discovered, he knew, just as he had known other significant things in his life, that the operation would not be cancelled. When he tried to think ahead, beyond the nerve-stretching strategy which had seemed so clear in the operations room, the shock really hit him. Beyond the deed there had been nothing. Like a last chapter being torn out of a book.
He thought of the faces again. The Canadian lieutenant Bill Walker would be in charge of the chariots; Major Trevor Sinclair was to supervise the landing party once the target had been reached. Surprise was everything. Without it, they were dead and buried.
He looked over at the drink on the bedside table, some of the Colonel’s special malt. ‘Make you sleep, my boy!’ But even that had been said with a certain sadness. Ross had known plenty of men who had drunk themselves stupid before an operation. A good defence, but not for long.
He had kissed Victoria goodnight on the veranda. Like parting at a railway station; it was nothing new. No words when they were needed so badly, then so many when it was too late and the train was moving from the station.
Charles Villiers would be thinking of it, too. Remembering . . . The hotel off St James’s owned by the Villiers family. Yes, he would be thinking of his girl right now; and every time he bumped into Sinclair it would remind him of what could never be.
If only. He stared at the ceiling. If only what? The war would step between them; yet but for the war they would never have met. Never seen her? Never heard her laugh? He rolled over and reached for the glass.
For an instant he believed that he was dreaming, had imagined it. Round the bend.
She stood in the doorway beyond the filmy curtain, framed against the darkened corridor, all in white, her feet bare on the carpet.
Then she closed the door and deliberately locked it. ‘I came.’
He swung himself out of the bed and through the netting like a dream, and held her against him. He could feel her heart beating against him, the thrust of her breasts as if she could barely breathe.
She said, ‘I had to. I feel no doubt, no shame. I could not bear to lie there, aching for you, knowing what we must go through together.’
He kissed her hair, saw her eyes shine in the moonlight as she raised her mouth to his. She was trembling but her body was warm, even hot, and he knew what it had cost her, was costing her while they kissed with an intimacy unfamiliar to them both.
She looked down as he pulled at the ribbons of her gown and allowed it to fall to the floor. For a while longer he held her at arms’ length, knowing that this was meant to happen, that even if she had protested it might have been too late.
He laid her carefully on the bed and watched the moon drench her tanned body, so that the skin shone in the cold light like bronze. He sat beside her, kissing her, exploring her neck, her uplifted breasts, feeling her excitement rising to match his own as he stroked her nipples and the smooth curve of stomach. He did not even recall throwing off his underpants to lie naked beside her; he knew only that she wanted him as much as he needed her. Not merely an act, not some passing encounter, but passion, real and overwhelming.
She was kissing him again, her mouth seeking his, their tongues meeting like temptation itself.
She arched her back and gasped as he slipped his hand deeper. There was no more time. Perhaps there never was.
She looked at him as he lifted over her, her eyes like flames in the moonlight.
She gasped, ‘I can’t wait! Not any more! Take me, Jamie! Take me!’
It was like nothing else, and he heard her cry out just once as he found and entered her.
Then and only then she murmured, ‘I couldn’t wait. It had to be.’
Her head lolled against his shoulder but when he made to move away she held him tightly. ‘No. Stay, Jamie. I want to feel you inside me.’
Eventually they slept, and the moon moved, and left them in peace.
16
The Sailor’s Way
CAPTAIN RALPH PRYCE rested his elbows on the depot-ship’s guardrail, but withdrew them instantly as the heat penetrated his drill sleeves. The sun was high overhead and even the ship’s tightly spread awnings afforded very little relief.
He said, ‘It’s all in the Intelligence pack. I’ve checked it myself.’ He glanced at Ross’s profile. ‘I don’t have to tell you about ditching them.’
‘No, sir.’ Ross watched the outboard submarine with professional interest as white-clad seamen bustled across the brows with sacks, boxes and every kind of supply for the next patrol. More heavily built than the other submarines, she bore the old pre-war K lettering to mark her as one of the Royal Netherlands Navy’s East Indies Fleet. Ross had often wondered what it must be like for such men. Free Dutch, Free Norwegians and all the others. Still fighting the common enemy, with the terrible knowledge that their own countries were overrun and occupied. How would we feel, he thought. Would we still be able to fight with such determination and at such risk if London and Edinburgh were thronged with German uniforms? If every ration-card, postage stamp and newspaper came only with the enemy’s consent?
K-21 was the Dutch submarine which had lifted Mike Tucker and Peter Napier to safety. Once Tybalt left Trincomalee, the Dutchman would follow. Her commander was well used to these waters; in peacetime he had probably been based out here, at one of the ports mentioned by Richard Tsao which were now in Japanese hands.
Pryce was saying, ‘Our people in Singapore got the recognition signals from Richard Tsao. They might be changed – we can’t be sure . . .’
‘Of anything, sir.’ He turned and looked at Pryce, surprised by this unusual display of uncertainty. They both straightened up and walked across the depot-ship’s broad deck; it seemed like a parade-ground. A few seamen paused in their work and looked up as they passed. Like those who had also been watching in Trincomalee’s Royal Navy Yard, where they had been driven, to be collected by the depot-ship’s smart launch.
Faces that watched them, but what did they see? Brave men or fools, heroes or lunatics? Ross had even hoped that she would somehow have been able to drive them, although he knew it was impossible. It had been bad enough when he had left the estate: Victoria once more in uniform, smiling at him and holding up her cheek to be kissed. Did her father sense the difference in their manner? If he did, he was good at concealing it. Would she tell him that they had been lovers
, giving and taking without hesitation and without regrets? If he did not already know, he had probably guessed.
All he had said was, ‘Come back, Jamie.’ He had put his arm around the girl’s shoulder and for the first time Ross had seen her resolve falter.
Just a few hours ago. It was already a lifetime.
With Pryce, he reached the opposite rail and looked down at the partly-concealed Tybalt. A few figures were moving on her casing, and the chariots had been carefully stowed in their special containers, which, if seen from the air, should be taken for deck cargo. The chariot crews had had no time to practise launching their craft from the containers, but as they had always said in those long-ago days of training in Scotland, it will be all right on the night.
But Tybalt was different in another way. The air above her after-casing was blue with drifting diesel exhaust, and the throaty growl of her engines was returning her to life.
Two of Tybalt’s original company had volunteered for Operation Trident. ‘Insisted’ would be a better description, and Pryce had accepted both of them without hesitation. One was the boat’s first lieutenant, and the other, equally valuable, was the Chief, a senior commissioned engineer. The latter had passed it off scornfully by saying, ‘I’d hardly leave the old girl in the hands of a bunch of amateurs!’ Pryce had thanked him, and had said nothing of the fact that the Chief’s wife and son had been reported killed in an air-raid.
Pryce said, ‘We’ve just got to get the marines and the Gurkhas packed aboard and that will be it. You can leave on schedule.’
Ross stared at the glittering water, the sedate line of anchored troopships. Like that other time: slip out under cover of darkness. Like the assassin. He looked at his watch. What would she be doing now? Back at operations with all her signals and codes. Essential to Pryce and to the men of Operation Trident. But unknown at the Admiralty, like so many others. He smiled. Like me.
Pryce saw the smile and was partly satisfied. Trident,a three-pronged attack, was entirely his creation. There would be no mercy if things went wrong. Others would make certain of that.
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