Patrick followed the Chevalier across a stone terrace and down some steps into an orchard. The sun was gradually burning the mist away, but the grass was wet, and drops reflected from the leaves of the fruit trees. At a small distance rose the ruined walls of an old towerhouse castle, and above the gate were carved two crossed battle-axes. Two men were standing in front of the gate facing the castle. One was short with a fat neck. He was dressed in plus-fours and a Harris tweed jacket, and wore an Alpine hat on his head. The other was tall and very lean in a loose-fitting summer suit. His trousers were tucked in to highly polished paratroop boots. He was bareheaded, and he turned to look towards them with the expression of a confident predator.
“We have company, Herr Konsul,” he said.
The consul turned to face them. He was smiling, and he held a long-stemmed yellow rose in one hand.
“I say, sir,” said Godfrey. “This is private property, you know. I have spoken to you before.”
The consul looked at Patrick, and his eyes altered in expression for an instant. Then he smiled at the Chevalier again. “My dear sir, we are neighbours!” said the consul. “I was just showing our new staff teacher, Herr Mueller, your gallowglass castle. He has made a study of condottiere and landsknechts and mercenary soldiers. He finds it most interesting!”
“I understand,” stammered the Chevalier, who was a civil man with a weakness for scholars. “But it rather upsets my sister. She’s English, you know.”
The consul walked directly up to Patrick and looked up into his face. He stood with his heels together, holding the rose upright, as though in benediction.
“The English think that a gentleman is one who knows on which side his bread is buttered,” said the consul to Patrick. “But the Germans know that a gentleman is a man of honour.”
Patrick was speechless. Herr Mueller glowered and glanced quickly from one to the other, with one hand tense near his belt buckle. Godfrey started to shake with impatience.
“Yes, yes, that’s fine,” he said, and he stamped his foot.
Smiling, the consul turned to Godfrey and gave a slight, stiff bow. “Forgive the intrusion. Shall we, Herr Mueller?”
The Chevalier glared after them until they disappeared around the corner then turned to Patrick. “Sorry about that, old boy. He really has become a bloody nuisance.”
Patrick trailed behind him as they walked back to rejoin the ladies, mulling over the consul’s words. He wondered what Admiral Drax would have said.
“I do hope you weren’t too nice this time round,” said Kathy.
“Too nice?” said the Chevalier. “I should think not. Sent him packing! Bloody nuisance.”
Brenda looked at Patrick with one eyebrow raised, then handed him a glass of sherry and motioned for him to sit down next to her by the fire. The Chevalier recounted what happened and then proceeded to offer his own opinions about what defines a true gentleman. Patrick’s gaze drifted outside, and he wondered what the captain was up to and what awaited him on the return voyage.
Brenda steered the Rolls Royce along the narrow roads and around the hairpin turns of the Irish countryside, occasionally glancing over at Patrick. The Chevalier carried on a non-stop conversation with his sister in the back seat; the discussion seemed to consist almost entirely of the family affairs of their mutual acquaintances in England.
“A penny for your thoughts,” said Brenda quietly.
“What? Yes, I’m sorry,” Patrick replied. “I’m afraid my mind has been drifting back to the war. It seems unreal when you’re in a place like this, but it’s waiting for me and I’ll need to get back to my ship soon.”
“Not to worry.” Brenda smiled at him and reached over and squeezed his hand.
They entered the outskirts of Dublin accompanied by the incessant chatter from the back seat, and soon were pulling up to the grounds of the horse show. It seemed as if the entire city had descended on the place, and a long line of cars was filing past the front gates to drop passengers. They eventually found parking on a roped-off lawn nearby and made their way inside. Beyond the sea of bowlers, fedoras, and colourful ladies’ hats that surrounded the main arena, Patrick glimpsed several horses and riders with their black helmets and red jackets, warming up. The familiar smells reminded him of Rosemere.
They walked up some stairs into the main seating area and the Chevalier led them to some private box seats near the far end. As Patrick was stepping in to take his seat, Kathy said, “Well, well, look who decided to make an appearance.” He followed her gaze and froze. Even at this distance, Lady Freda Lemonton was unmistakable.
He was suddenly transported to that moment at dawn when she had mounted him like a naked Brunhilde and howled savagely into the sunrise. He saw the palms bending in the trade winds against the lightening sky, and the stars twinkling out as though the universe was being wiped away and time had never existed.
“Aren’t you feeling well, Patrick?” asked Brenda.
“May I borrow the glasses?” asked Patrick. He focused them…and Lady Lemonton leapt into his sight. The vision registered through his retinas and stormed down some sealed corridor of his brain to explode. She was sitting in a private box, with a wide hat on her head, and she was wearing a dress the colour of flesh. Her chin was tilted arrogantly and her straight, fair hair fell to her shoulders, pale against her suntanned skin. She suddenly turned and looked directly at him, which couldn’t have been an accident. He lowered the glasses—and they were face to face. He saw her smile, and then she looked away. It was a smile of triumph.
“You are looking at Freda Lemonton,” said Brenda. “She is beautiful, but she is a dangerous bitch, Patrick. Stay with safe people like me.”
“I know her,” replied Patrick. “I met her in Bermuda. She told me that Rudolph Hess was bringing peace.”
“Good heavens!” said the Chevalier. “She was a friend of the Mitfords—they all thought that. Winnie outfoxed them.”
“Do you want to leave?” asked Brenda. “You never mentioned anything about this.”
“I can’t leave,” said Patrick. “Where would I go? That is all a part of me, and I can’t run away from myself.”
“That sounds awfully serious,” said Brenda.
“It might be,” answered Patrick MacQueen.
75
The official reception was in a large, white room with high bay windows overlooking the horse show grounds. It featured drinks and a buffet, and was hosted by the Irish Horseman’s Association. The Governor General stayed away, but the tall, dark prime minister dropped in, acting like a president-in-waiting. The embassy crowd tended to split into the competing factions of the world stage, and they appraised one another while drinking from the same bottles. Lady Lemonton stood in a bay window, chatting with the consul from the German Embassy and a nervous-looking Italian ambassador.
“Go and speak to her,” said Brenda. “Get it over with. You’ve hardly said a word all afternoon.”
Patrick looked at Brenda. He felt a wave of pity for all of his fellow human beings who were helplessly caught in the web of life. The most powerful force in life seemed to be meaningless coincidence, and Brenda was fading into an undulating pastel background. She was Tennyson’s Lady of Shalott, slipping beneath the waves to vanish forever. Patrick walked across the floor and stopped near Lady Lemonton. She knew that he was there, but she purposely hesitated before looking at him.
“The belt is the German symbol of knighthood,” said the consul to Lady Lemonton. Herr Mueller walked up and tugged the consul’s sleeve and whispered in his ear.
“Forgive me,” said the consul. “The imperial ambassador is arriving and I must greet our ally.” He clicked his heels and hurried away. The Italian ambassador glumly turned to the windows…and Lady Lemonton turned towards Patrick.
“I think we’ve met before,” said Lady Lemonton with that triumphant little smile. Patrick vibrated like a harp; he could not resist it, even if the harpist was Lucifer. “I hope that you and B
renda are having a nice time. I thought your taste ran to Jewish ladies?”
“I don’t know what to say,” said Patrick. “I am glad to see you again….”
“That’s nice,” said Lady Lemonton. She didn’t laugh. “Light me a cigarette, would you Patrick? Where are you staying?”
Patrick nervously lit two cigarettes and passed her one. “I’m at the Royal Hibernian,” he said.
“I will call you there,” said Lady Lemonton. The consul was escorting the Japanese ambassador towards her. “Tonight.”
“I think we had better leave,” said Brenda when Patrick returned to her side. “That was an intimate little scene, I must say. Do you have any more tricks up your sleeve, Patrick?”
They left, and Brenda drove the Rolls Royce to the Royal Hibernian Hotel. “My train leaves in the morning,” said Patrick. They had not spoken a word, and their silence was made more unbearable by the ruminations of the Chevalier and the chatter of his sister in the back seat.
Brenda looked at him coldly. He was leaning at the window, and she felt that he was imploring her. She sensed his frustration and his inner rage, and she hoped that he wouldn’t destroy himself. But she knew that he had to face it alone, whatever it was, and no one could help him.
“I’ll be here at eight in the morning,” said Brenda. “Please be careful.”
He opened the back door of the car and shook the Chevalier’s hand. “Jolly good dinner last night,” said the Chevalier Bohomund de Lallythrope. “Thanks mightily, and let us know when you’re back in town.”
“Bring your togs and we’ll have a ride,” said the Honourable Kathy Leinster. She offered her leathery cheek, and Patrick planted a kiss on it.
“That’s more than I get,” said Brenda sourly. She shifted gears and the Rolls Royce disappeared down Dawson Street towards St. Stephen’s Green. Patrick bought a copy of The Irish Times, walked downstairs to the Buttery, and drank a double Irish whisky, then went to his room to wait. He decided to have a bath, and he almost drowned in the great tub when he fell asleep in it. He steamed his uniform and hung it in the cupboard. He polished his Half Wellingtons then shaved for the second time and nicked his chin. His blood showed bright crimson on the hand towel—just one drop in the oceans that were being shed in Europe. He lay on the bed, and he couldn’t bear to think of his ship, or his comrades, or his mother far away. He thought of the rough sands of the beach against his back, and the seagulls swooping overhead, and the cypresses bowing in the coral sky. The palm trees rustled like the stiff robe of death, and he knew that he was doomed.
Patrick sprang to his feet before he realized that the telephone was ringing. He had fallen asleep, and it was dark. He grappled for the telephone and raised it to his ear.
“I am coming to fetch you,” said Lady Lemonton evenly. “Meet me in front of the hotel.” She hung up.
Patrick found the bedside lamp and switched it on. He was naked and cold, and the window blind was up. He pulled this down and hurriedly dressed, knotting Sir John’s Balliol House tie and tightening it into the stiff white collar. He pulled on the Half Wellington boots and quickly donned the baggy flannel suit. He automatically ran his hands over the jacket to check for his wallet, cigarettes, and pocket comb, then doused some cologne into a handkerchief and stuck it in the breast pocket. He pocketed the key and walked down the stairs and out the front door of the hotel. The door of a large black limousine swung open, and Patrick climbed in beside Lady Freda Lemonton. A dark glass partition was raised between them and the front seat. A busboy slammed the door, and the car edged from the curb, into silent Dawson Street, then headed towards the Park at St. Stephen’s Green. There was no traffic, and the street lamps glowed through a light fog.
“Are you kidnapping me?” asked Patrick. The seat of the limousine was wide and smooth, and Lady Lemonton sat in one corner with a mocking smile on her lips. The windows were tinted, and two little lights glowed by the sides of the rear window. Jump seats were folded into the back of the front seat, and an open drawer above them contained two miniature decanters and six small glasses. One yellow rose was placed in each tiny silver vase fixed on each side. Freda wore a small ermine jacket and a white evening gown, like a bride. A tiara sparkled on her head, and she had an emerald bracelet clasped over her white pearl-buttoned gloves. She smelled of Givenchy, and of female, and of power.
“I only want volunteers,” she said. Her laugh sounded like bells in an empty pyramid. Beneath the finery she was naked, and Patrick knew it well. Who would not volunteer for this?
She led him out of the car, which sat purring like a great black cat, through a high gate in a hedge, up a stone stairway, and through two glass doors. They passed through a hallway with marble pillars, and under an arch into a panelled room lined with leather volumes. A fire flickered in the grate. She opened two more doors and they walked past a drawing room and into a large bedroom. It smelled of cedar, and had a sand-coloured rug; potted palm trees stood along one wall, and a Chinese throne of black teak stood in the middle of the floor. The walls were white, and the bed was covered in black with scarlet cushions. It looked like an opium couch.
“I remember your house in Bermuda,” said Lady Lemonton. “These are just a few things I threw together to make you feel at home.”
Patrick could hardly believe it. Could it be possible that this woman really cared enough to furnish a room for him? She had seduced him and scorned him when he was hardly eighteen years old; what had happened to melt this beautiful glacier’s heart?
“The drinks are over there,” she said, pointing a gloved finger. “I’m going to get out of this outfit and we’ll play some games.”
She returned in a long white cloak, with bare feet and her straight pale hair tumbling around her shoulders. Patrick swallowed a strong drink of Barbados rum and it burned in his stomach. “Take that ridiculous suit off,” said Lady Lemonton. “And throw a log on the fire. I’m fed up with embassies and ridiculous little men strutting about. Let’s get reacquainted, you and I, from the bottom-up. We’ll see if your Jew lady taught you any tricks.”
Brenda was forgotten and Patrick faced his dragon. He dropped his clothes and she enveloped him in her white robe. Time spiralled into eternity as the fire crackled and this primeval woman commanded every portion of his being. The flood ebbed and surged and broke over the rocks, and the gale uprooted the trees as the gods roared and the world shattered into vanishing fragments. The battles and the bombings and the roaring seas joined them, and they spun upwards together like a great tornado, only to crash back to earth again. In this revelry, they fought with battle-axes and clubs and flails; their blood flowed together and they finally lay facing one another on the green rug with only the strength to clasp hands. The fog filtered through the window and the fire went out. There was nothing left.
“We have to stop,” said Freda in exhaustion. She was lying prostrate on the floor with her eyes closed. Her skin was puckering in brown goosebumps and the windows were turning grey.
“I have to leave in a few hours,” said Patrick.
“Come with me,” said Freda. “Forget the war. I will show you how to really live.” She rose wearily and wrapped the cloak around her shoulders. “I have to get dressed—you can wash in there.”
Patrick had a shower in a fully equipped little bathroom, then he reassembled himself in the flannel suit. He wasn’t sure if he had been drunk or sober, but he poured a glass of rum and drank it down. He righted the Chinese throne, which had been knocked over during their passions, and then he sat on it. He felt lonely and strangely abused. It was cold, and Freda had resumed her distant attitude, like a pillaging Northman withdrawing to his distant island lair. He had forgotten to wind his watch and distrusted its little hands. The rum seemed to have no effect, so he poured another. He had no idea where they were, or whose house they were in.
She came into the room carrying two small, heavy blue handbags. She was dressed in a brownish-mauve woollen suit, and she wore b
lack Oxfords, like Brenda’s. She had on a large beret, pulled to one side like a Scottish laird, and she carried a camel hair polo coat. She wore one string of pearls and a silk blouse.
“These are my jewellery and my makeup,” said Freda Lemonton. She had a large leather bag on a strap over one shoulder. “My money and some cigarettes are in here, and there is more in Switzerland.” She patted the bag. “That is all I’m taking. It’s seven o’clock,” Freda confirmed. “Come with me. I won’t kidnap you. You won’t need anything, we’ll get you some decent clothes.” She sat the bag on the carpet.
“Freda!” exclaimed Patrick. “This isn’t fair. I have to rejoin my ship, in case you don’t realize it. I can’t go anywhere, they’d court-martial me. I’m not even supposed to be in Ireland!”
Freda walked to the door and looked back at the bewildered Patrick. “Your destiny is calling,” she said. “Don’t quibble to me about Canadian court martials! Who gives a damn? Pick up the bags and let’s get out of here.” She opened the door and walked out.
Patrick felt he had no choice. He gulped the drink, picked up the heavy little bags, and raced through the empty library. He followed her through the hall, down the steps, and through the hedge into the car. He slammed the door and the car moved forward, dumping him into the seat.
“Christ, Freda, what are you doing to me?” asked Patrick angrily. “I’ve got to catch a train!”
“Light me a cigarette,” said Lady Freda Lemonton. “I’m going on a great adventure. Prove that you’re a man and come with me.”
Patrick fumbled with the cigarette package and lit two crumpled Lucky Strikes. He passed one to her.
“Have a drink,” she said.
The car sped onwards as though it was a magic carpet. Patrick could discern two figures in the front seat, through the dark glass. He nervously spilt some brandy and offered her the glass. She shook her head and he bolted it down his throat. The car stopped.
The Broken Sword Page 33