“Thank God he’s not in the Coldstream Guards!” said the countess, with conviction. “Isn’t it time for cocktails?”
“We’ll have to drink to Bill’s promotion, of course,” said Eva MacQueen. “I’ll see what there is.”
Patrick extended his hand to his friend Bill. “Congratulations, old boy,” he said sincerely. “Whatever Churchill plans to do, we’ll see it through to the end, eh?”
“That’s the ticket,” replied Bill Cyples, with a wide grin. “If he pulls out, I’ll join the Germans!”
“That comment would delight her ladyship,” observed the countess. “Do you have any gin, dear? I think a martini would be nice.”
“Tomorrow is the graduation parade,” said MacQueen. “I hope that you both can come? We are going to be inspected by an ex-governor of the Falkland Islands, no less!”
“I know the old trout,” said the countess.
“I can’t find the vermouth,” complained Eva MacQueen. “How about a gin and bitters?”
The small party moved onto the shaded veranda and settled down to drink pink gins. The Reverend Mr. Stalker was discussing an endowment fund with the ex-governor, and hoped for a large donation from Lady Lemonton. The Australian novelist’s two daughters eyed them warily while they were playing hop-scotch on the flagged walk below. Beyond a curved wall the old slave cottage was nestled under its huge green canopy, and the cries from the tennis courts were barely audible beyond this. The excited boys were finishing their final examinations and nervously contemplated the coming day, when, in the evening, The Merchant of Venice would be presented in a natural amphitheatre near the cricket pitch.
Patrick MacQueen had agreed to take the boys camping for a week. The honorary major would be the cook, and they would camp near the cottage of Mrs. Beach.
Later that night, Patrick MacQueen lay naked on his bed under the mosquito netting that hung from the four cedar posts. His figure was dark brown against the sheets, with a white swath around his middle where his swimming shorts had shielded out the sun. He idly smoked a Lucky Strike cigarette, and flicked the ashes into an ashtray beside his hip. He raised and lowered his arms, and listened to the crickets chirp and the frustrated mosquitoes trying to find a hole in the net. It was a corner room, and both windows were open, with green shutters thrust outwards on wooden poles. A slight breeze stirred through the darkened room, and silver shafts of faint moonlight filtered through the shutters.
His mother had told him of his father’s wish that he become a naval officer. Patrick’s first reaction had been outright incredulity. Despite his welcoming plunge into the waters of the great womb of the universe, Patrick had never imagined a career as a seaman. The Royal Navy had no compunction about calling itself the “senior service”, but Patrick felt a great affinity for the land. He was feudal at heart, and had never been more happy than when riding his horse over his grandfather’s land. The sea seemed as ephemeral as the air, and the basic purpose of one’s feet was to walk on land. In theory, the Royal Marines had it both ways, but Canada had no marine corps. A battleship might create the illusion of a floating fortress, but Canada had no battleships either. All of the straps and buckles and boots that concerned Lieutenant Cyples would have to be forgotten. But he did not think seriously of opposing his father’s will. Patrick MacQueen was a fatalist, and only God knew the future.
He forced the subject from his mind, stubbed out the cigarette, and rolled onto his side.
If Lady Lemonton’s predictions came true it would be a whole new game anyway.
44
Lady Lemonton had taken a small cottage at Cambridge Beaches, on the bluff overlooking Long Bay, close to where she had made her startling prediction. She remained secluded, sunbathed on a small patio in the rear, and had all of her meals served from the main building on Mangrove Bay. From her vantage point she had a sweeping view of the horizon to the north and west, with David’s Head pushing towards it on the east. That was the burial ground of a hundred galleons, and no ships were ever seen in those waters.
Hibiscus and other more fragrant flowers cascaded over the small front porch, disguising the doorway and providing a sheltered lookout for her early morning, and very private, ceremony. It was here that she would greet the sun. She knew from Tao that she was a leader and had developed a simmering hatred of bourgeois society in the liberal west. From her vantage point, she watched as Patrick MacQueen dropped his yellow robe and tested the water with one foot. This daily ritual, just before dawn, had been an unexpected but pleasant intrusion on her retreat. The boy was slim as a sword’s blade, with wide shoulders and a flat chest. He was totally naked, and the ribbon of white against his darkening skin excited her. She sat in the grey light, hidden by the hibiscus, huddled in a voluminous white cape of terry cloth.
Patrick’s old habit of an early morning dip in the nude had started when he was very young. Before heading for school, he and his brother would wrap towels around themselves and dash for the sea. At times they would be joined by a family dog, or later by their little sister. This particular morning, he was in no great rush, as the parade was not scheduled until after lunch. Nude swimming was not encouraged, however, so he arrived at his usual hour.
He looks like a Knappschaft, thought Lady Lemonton. A novitiate knight. As Patrick stroked gently through the quiet sea she rose, walked over the dew-damp grass in her bare feet, and descended to the beach. The sand sloped gently into grass and underbrush, with some driftwood thrown from last season’s hurricane. The birds were just starting to chatter, and one faint ray of the sun could be seen extending from the east, over David’s Head.
She sat quietly, like a Circassian beauty in a burnoose cloak, and awaited his return. She noticed the cheap sunglasses and the package of American cigarettes casually thrown into one leather sandal, along with a pocket comb. The yellow robe lay beside these like a primitive priestly vestment. She felt a drumming in her ears. The white robe folded around her like a small tent, crowned by her creamy brown face and long yellow hair.
Patrick stepped out of the water and was brushing it from his body when he glanced up and saw her. He was bent, and he did not straighten. He was paralyzed. He twitched his head and looked again. Lady Lemonton was looking right through him.
“You may call me Freda,” she said finally. “Come and sit beside me.” He straightened, and his entire body seemed to follow that direction. Angrily, he blushed. He walked up quickly and reached for the yellow robe. Lady Lemonton shot a hand from her cape and clasped his arm.
“No,” she said. She quickly pulled the strings from under her chin and shrugged her shoulders. She was sitting with her legs crossed, and she was also naked. “Sit down,” she commanded.
In a feverish daze, Patrick sat on the yellow robe. A sea gull swooped over their heads, and the sky was turning pink behind the waving palm trees. She placed a hand on his chest and pushed him backwards onto the sand. Then she mounted him and faced exultantly into the new morning.
“Don’t move!” she cried. Her eyes were wide and shining, and her arms were upraised towards the last flickering star. Patrick clamped his eyes shut and experienced such a revolution of glorious sensations coursing through him that he knew he would detonate. His toes and his calves and his ears were screaming choruses of delight, and his entire midriff exploded like the breaking of an infinite logjam. He could not have held it for one more instant. She howled into the sunrise like the last grey wolf of the universe, then collapsed on his chest and tugged at his hair in a frenzy. He couldn’t breathe, and he didn’t care. Never would anything be the same; his very life was pumping out of him in torrents.
But even in storm-tossed Eden, tranquility returns. She was back under her cape and smoking a cigarette. Patrick could still not believe what had happened, and he looked at her in dejection. He was standing in his yellow robe, uncertain what to do.
“Try to forget this,” said Lady Lemonton. “I am moving out today and back to my house in Warwick parish
. They will think I have died. I will be with Sir Humphrey at your parade and my daughter will be with me. Please don’t do anything rash.”
“Of course not,” replied Patrick. “…it meant a lot to me. Do you understand?”
She looked straight into his eyes without hesitation. Her irises were pale blue and seemed to reflect distant fjords and snow-capped mountains. “This isn’t sex, or love,” she said. “It is the new order. A naked man with a sword in his hand, with the stars sweeping westward and the long grass bowing before the wind. That is what you meant to me. I contrived our scene and we lived it for a moment. You cannot prolong it, young man. To me, it is my nature.”
Lady Lemonton rose from the sand. The rays from the sun were now touching the tops of the trees and spilling across the headland that cradled her cottage. She turned and walked along the beach. Patrick turned between the century plants and walked through the cypresses, towards Moville. He may have lost his virginity on Vivienne’s island, but he had lost his innocence here.
They had not even kissed.
A pair of aviator sunglasses rimmed in gold were anonymously delivered to him at Moville. He was eating a salad with his mother and the countess when the package was brought to him. A carriage waited in the driveway; Lieutenant Cyples was expected at any moment. MacQueen wore his khaki twill trousers, blue shirt with the epaulettes, and his yachting cap with the seahorse badge. His mother was in a long blue gown, and the countess wore pink organdy. It would be a gala day. He adjusted the mysterious golden sunglasses under the visor of his cap. He approved of the effect.
45
The dance at the Somerset Parish Hall bore no resemblance to the stately gathering on the lawns of Southampton College. The flag of the British Empire flew gallantly above the gathering throng of ladies dressed for a garden party and their escorts. Young girls in pretty frocks prepared a long table with covered trays of sandwiches and sweets, while the young cadets ushered the carriages and assisted the ladies to alight. The lawn was staked and ribboned for the parade, and the headmaster, in a mild frenzy of excitement, supervised the installation of two large chairs on the small hill that would serve to seat his guests.
When MacQueen arrived the carriage was immediately surrounded by eager cadets, who raised a cheer. They stood back in awe as Lieutenant Cyples assisted the countess, then crowded around MacQueen again.
“Sergeant Major!” shouted Captain MacQueen. “Get these men back to work—fall them in. Two ranks over there in the shade!”
“Yes, sir!” said Sergeant Major Hawkins, with a salute. He now wore the yellow and green ribbons, and he would receive the red one from the governor today. “Over here, men!” he said, in a rather unmilitary manner.
“Mummy couldn’t come,” said John Warnefeld-Davies breathlessly. “She doesn’t go anywhere….”
“Will she see you in the play?” asked MacQueen.
John shrugged and ran to join his comrades. Sir Humphry’s carriage was turning across the railway tracks, and then between the gates into the driveway. Two nervous black horses were pulling it, and a tall black man in a white sun helmet sat high on the box. Behind him sat the aide-de-camp in a white naval officer’s uniform, and a young girl. They were facing a large, florid man wearing a white suit and a panama hat, and the Lady Lemonton in a long, salmon-coloured dress and wide hat. She carried a fan with the badge of Queen Isabella painted on it.
MacQueen stood beside the headmaster to receive the ex-governor of the Falkland Islands. Peripherally, he was astonished to see their honorary major, the Reverend Mr. Pearkes, hurrying across the road; he was dressed in lilac-tinted riding breeches and jingling silver spurs. He was in a rush to greet Lady Lemonton, and Patrick thought that he was going the wrong way about it.
The carriage sagged dangerously as His Excellency put his weight onto the small step and grabbed his aide’s outstretched hand. This young officer was an RNVR lieutenant, and MacQueen remembered him from the old days at the tennis club.
“Hello, Pat,” he muttered inaudibly.
“Hello, Bobbie,” said Pat.
His Excellency puffed his cheeks, doffed his hat, and ran a handkerchief around the sweatband. “Bloody hot,” he snorted, then turned back towards Lady Lemonton. Somehow the Reverend Mr. Pearkes popped up in front of him and reached for Lady Lemonton’s hand. He had pinned the brightest lanyard around his shoulder and over his withered arm. His hand fluttered like a wounded sparrow, and he held a knotted hunting whip under the armpit. His boots were waxed, and his blue yachting cap was at a jaunty angle. It was the first time that anyone had seen him in uniform.
Lady Lemonton did not even glance at him. She passed MacQueen in a wave of light cologne that almost knocked him off his feet.
Angella stood on a small hill, with her mother. They both wore large hats and tried to look unconcerned. Major Stead had stepped towards the jetty in the back, and was sharing a flask of whisky with Lieutenant Cyples.
Mrs. Eva MacQueen greeted Lady Lemonton and immediately sensed what had happened. It explained the gold sunglasses, and Patrick’s obvious distraction throughout the day.
“Freda, my dear, you look lovely,” said Eva MacQueen. “Is that your daughter? My, what a big girl.”
Lady Lemonton’s daughter wore a hot velvet skirt with white stockings and thought all of this an intolerable bore. She was a long-legged, angular girl of twelve, and was completely overshadowed by her mother.
To Lady Lemonton, Eva MacQueen’s most outstanding trait was her lack of pretentiousness, although she did not view this in a necessarily positive light. Lady Lemonton’s father’s family traced back through countless slaughtered knights who had misplaced their trust, and her husband’s family was just on the way up—so her ladyship was wary of everyone. She was still a renowned beauty, but her image had been tarnished along with King Edward VIII. The dynamics of the new order in Europe fascinated her, and she was currently out of favour in London. She would have gone to the Bahamas, but she didn’t like the Duchess, and Edward seemed bewitched.
“Your son has done a fine job,” she said noncommittally.
The two chairs stood on the hill. The governor lumbered his way to one and sat down. Lady Lemonton sat in the other. Lieutenant Cyples found an old wooden whisky crate and upended it as a footstool for His Excellency. Bobbie noticed Angella, and her mother noticed him. He would be a better catch than the Canadian fellow with the bad arm, she thought. Bobbie’s fate was sealed.
The inspection party was composed of the governor, the honorary major, the sergeant major, and Captain MacQueen. When this was finished, a few of the boys were summoned to receive medals. The drummer rolled a rhythm on the drum, and one boy fainted. Then they performed manoeuvres, and the sick boy insisted on rejoining them. They marched past the governor and Lady Lemonton, down the shaded driveway, and were dismissed by the gate. Then they all excitedly returned to their mothers’ embraces and exited, chattering among themselves. The young girls passed plates of sandwiches, and the governor disappeared into the schoolhouse, where Bobbie set up his private bar. The punch that was served was a malodorous mixture of pineapple and lime juice blended with cold tea and bobbing with lemon rinds. It was a specialty of Mrs. Beach’s, and everyone quietly poured it into the grass.
“It’s a crisis,” whispered MacQueen to the honorary major. The headmaster agreed, and the sergeant major was dispatched on his bicycle to the nearest bar. He soon returned, escorting a wagon on which was perched a barman and wooden boxes of bottles. Everyone cheered.
The governor instructed the barman to transport the entire bar to the amphitheatre. The countess offered to foot the entire bill; her social prestige escalated immediately. MacQueen saw Angella laughing gaily at one of Bobbie’s tales from Government House—at least his presence explained how his mother had known of the Lady Hawkins’ arrival.
“Have you anything to tell me, Pat?” asked Bill Cyples. “You seem a little distant today.”
Patrick MacQueen
looked at the brown, craggy, reassuring face of his friend. He laughed and shook his head. “Imagine those stupid bastards neglecting a bar!” he said. “Christ, everybody was ready to drop! That’s carrying low Anglicanism too far.”
Gradually they straggled down the driveway and across the railway tracks towards the amphitheatre. The sun was dipping behind the hills and the shadows were lengthening on the ground. Two wickets stood at an angle on the cricket pitch, and Mrs. Beach trotted out to rescue them. In her gaudy, flowering gown she looked like a big aspidistra plant.
MacQueen went behind the stage that the boys had erected. The guests stood around in knots or sat on the grass. “Is everything okay?” he asked Angella. She was adjusting John Warnefeld-Davies’ costume.
“I think so, Pat,” said Angella. There was no flirtatious glance now, and she appeared nervous.
“Mummy called,” said John. His face was flushed with delight. “She’s coming to the play!”
Patrick joined Bobbie, who was chatting with Mrs. Stead.
“Make way for a naval officer!” said MacQueen. They laughed.
Everyone settled on the wooden benches or remained on the grass. Two boys lit the lanterns in front of the stage, and MacQueen’s set design of Venice drew a little gasp of appreciation from the audience. The Reverend Mr. Pearkes strutted onto centre stage to commence the introduction. A carriage drove up the roadway in the rear, and MacQueen caught a flash of gold and scarlet. He walked to the little wooden gate, where the coachman was assisting a black-haired lady to alight. Patrick had never seen anyone so striking in his life.
“Are you Captain MacQueen?” she asked. She had uncoiled from her seat like a leopard. Her shoulders were covered with a tailored gold lamé jacket, which she wore over a scarlet evening dress. Her cheekbones were high, and her heavy lidded eyes swept upwards at the outer corners. Her hair hung to her shoulders and was parted in the middle of her head. She was fine-boned, very small, and carried a golden purse. Her fragrance was musky and exciting.
The Broken Sword Page 20