Dust On the Sea (10 page)

It would be Christmas in two days' time; he had seen some wilting paper decorations in the base wardroom. A brave link with that other life. There had been no mail, nor would there be until things settled down. He often
wondered how his sister was progressing in her new life with the Wrens, a far cry, he thought, from the countryside and her bookkeeping for the estate. She would miss her riding. . . .

He saw some soldiers pause by a line of stalls to watch something, grinning, and enjoying the spectacle.

A tall, robed figure in a fez was holding out a length of pale khaki material. It was common enough here for servicemen to have a lightweight rig run up in a few hours by street-side tailors. It was known unofficially as ‘bazaar khaki drill', and was infinitely more comfortable than the regulation serge. Most of the officers and senior rates at the base wore it, and with the ever-growing diversity of uniforms in the Eighth Army, it hardly raised an eyebrow any more.

He stopped in his tracks as he heard a woman's voice exclaiming, ‘
No.
Please understand. It's
not
what I want.'

The grins on every side widened as the vendor solemnly continued with his patter while attempting to drape some of the cloth over the woman's shoulder.

No wonder the soldiers were enjoying themselves. It was rare to see a woman here, and a woman in uniform was like something from another planet.

The uniform was the blue-grey of the Royal Air Force, and Blackwood was instantly reminded of the W.A.A.F. officer in the train. It was impossible to accept that it was little more than a month ago. He should be used to it now, but he was not.

The soldiers had realised that he was amongst them, and they parted but did not disperse, unwilling to leave something so interesting.

The W.A.A.F. turned and saw him, her eyes moving to his face with something like disbelief. Shock.

Blackwood reached out and took her hand. It was not cold now.

‘Joanna!' He raised the hand and examined her cuff. Two stripes. But even that eluded him.

‘I'm sorry . . .' He tried again; it was hopeless. She could not be here. ‘Flight Officer Gordon. I don't believe it. I might never have known.'

She said, ‘Captain Blackwood. I thought you'd gone. You see . . .' The khaki material was covering her shoulder now, the vendor unimpressed by their meeting. It was business.

She said, ‘I was passing through.' Nothing was making sense. He had not released her hand.

‘Seeing you like this, in uniform, I thought I was halfway round the bend!'

Then she laughed, her teeth very white against skin which was showing the first hint of a tan.

Blackwood looked at the man in the fez. ‘How long?' and then, to her, ‘Would you like it?' He felt her hand move in his as she nodded. He tapped his breast pocket.
The language
 . . . ‘Two hours. Then we come back, okay?'

Doubt flashed through the man's eyes. But this was an officer, and the woman was dressed like one. And anyway, he would make certain it would do for another if need be. He beamed. ‘Very good, Colonel! Fine fit, you see!'

The watching soldiers had finally gone, and the throng in the street was moving again like an unblocked stream.

And they were walking together, their arms occasionally brushing, neither knowing how to begin.

She said, ‘I thought of you a lot after you left Gib. Wondered how you got on.'

He said, ‘I won't ask you how you knew, but I'm fine.' He wanted to stop and hold her, like any ordinary man. ‘I had no idea you were in the services.'

She glanced down at her tunic, and shrugged lightly. ‘My brother was in the R.A.F. His name was Mike as well.'

Was.
To most people it might mean little or nothing. To him, it said everything.
Was
 . . .

She turned to look at a man with a performing monkey, and he watched her. The dark hair curling around the regulation cap with its crown and spread-winged albatross. The curve of her lip; even the tiny mole which had remained in his mind.

They walked on, and she remarked, ‘How is your major? Still angry with everything?'

Something to say. She was recovering herself, looking for a way out.

He said abruptly, ‘I want to see you again. Soon. I don't care how, but I'll manage it.' He was pleading, just as he knew she was listening.

‘I'm not sure.' She hesitated, testing the sound. ‘Mike.' Then she nodded. ‘It suits you.' She smiled openly, without reserve. ‘Mike.'

There was a chorus of shouted insults as an army despatch rider roared past in a cloud of dust and fumes. For an instant Blackwood saw her sudden alarm. Anxiety.

‘It's all right,' he said.

She turned and glanced at him. She was quite slight, not as tall as Diane. She barely came up to his shoulder.

He said, ‘I know a place where we can have some awful coffee. Then we'll come back and collect your K.D.' He almost held his breath, seeing the thoughts, the reservations inher face.

Then she said, ‘Good idea. D'you think it really will fit me?'

They both laughed and some soldiers turned to stare. The same looks he had received when he had kissed his sister good-bye.
All right for some.

They walked on, past the brassware and the rugs, the vases and the garish robes.

She said, ‘I'm awaiting passage. It's not a secret.' She did not look at him. ‘Not to you, anyway. They put me in a house over in Rosetta, d'you know it?'

‘I was there once, on my way to Cairo. I forget why.'

‘Up to no good, I expect. The Chief of Staff's wife is staying there, officially. She's a nice old stick. It's taken over by the military now.'

They found a café; it was not much of a place, but it was almost empty. A grim-faced proprietor brought them small cups of thick black coffee.

They sat facing one another beneath the shadow of a faded blind. Each had one hand on the table, close but not touching; the other was kept moving back and forth like a fan. The flies in Alex were as persistent as the beggars.

The coffee was surprisingly good. When he looked up again he realised that she was gazing at him. Seeking something. Or maybe, like Despard, comparing.

He brushed a fly from her sleeve, but she did not flinch or draw away.

‘Can we meet? It's not just a game, not to me. You see, I've never known anyone like you before. . . .' He broke off. She must have heard that line so many times; it was as clumsy as
my wife doesn't understand me
!

He found her hand was resting on his, so lightly that it could have been an accident,although he knew it was not.

She said, ‘I shall have to report to my superior this afternoon.'

‘I'll come with you . . .'

She shook her head, then, after the smallest hesitation, removed her cap.

‘No. I think that might be a mistake.' She did not explain.

Perhaps there was somebody else she knew here? No, it was not that. He waited, knowing that if he pursued it he would spoil everything.

She seemed to come to a decision, as if she had been having an argument with herself.

‘You could come to the house.' Doubtfully. ‘It's a long way.'

‘I'll steal a Tiger tank if need be!'

She watched his eagerness, the impulsiveness which was the very young man again.

‘Tomorrow, then?'

She looked down at their hands, the empty cups, with the flies moving eagerly around them. ‘Christmas Eve!'

He stood up to call the proprietor and did not see her eyes fall to the webbing holster at his hip. Then she picked up her cap and looked at the dust on the badge. She wouldnot turn back, not this time.

Blackwood examined his watch. ‘Let's go and see how far your tailor has got.' He wanted to laugh aloud, to share this sudden, unexpected happiness.

She said suddenly, ‘I did enjoy that.' She took his arm and guided him into another shadow.

She said, ‘It will be crowded as soon as we move.' She lifted her chin. ‘We must remember all officer-like qualities.' She sounded very tense. ‘Kiss me. It'll be a secret.'

Their lips barely touched but he could feel her, taste her, and even though it could not possibly be happening, he knew he must not let her go. It was never wise to say or think such things in wartime. But in the noisy, crowded
souk
, the war was suddenly a long, long way away.

The khaki staff car stood outside the imposing house, the engine revving in time with the driver's foot.

‘I'll be here at midnight, old son!' His eyes moved to the house; he did not bother to hide his curiosity. ‘You be ready, or I'll probably turn into a pumpkin!'

Blackwood smiled. The paymaster lieutenant at the wheel was also the S.N.O.'s secretary at the base. He would know the Chief of Staff's wife was staying here. Perhaps she would refuse to let him in.

‘I'll be waiting, don't worry.' The lieutenant was going to Cairo to collect some documents, or so he claimed. A good piss-up, more likely.

He watched the car roar away in a rolling bank of dust, and realised for the first time that there was a military police jeep parked a little way along the road. The sunlight reflected from the windscreen and he could not see the occupants, but somehow he knew they were observing him.

He walked up to the gates and looked at the house. Grand but shabby. Someone wealthy must have lived here once.

He was early; the paymaster lieutenant had driven like a maniac. He walked up to the door, his shoes loud on the loose stones. There had been flowers here, and a fountain, which was empty and covered with blown sand. Perhaps the owners had fled when Rommel's tanks had been
reported making their final approach. It was said that a lot of people had made a run for it.

The door opened, and after the fierce sunlight it was like walking into a blacked-outroom. And then he saw her. She was standing by another open door, watching him, one handholding a towel to her hair. She wore a long bathrobe.

He
was
early.

She said, ‘Come into the garden. I was just having a swim.' She laughed, he thought nervously. ‘Salt water and none too clean, but it's sheer heaven for all that!' She waited for him to join her, but kept her distance. ‘I'm so glad you could make it. I thought something might turn up and prevent you from coming.'

They stood side by side and looked at the swimming pool, where her footprints were already drying in the sun.

She said, ‘It's like the
Marie Celeste
here. You keep expecting the real owners to walk in.'

He asked, ‘The Chief of Staffs wife?'

‘Lady Duncan?' She smiled. ‘Tinker, as she likes to be called. She's in Cairo. Be back some time tomorrow. She's here on business, looking into the facilities at various hospitals, for the men coming back from the desert. She's at the Royal Military Hospital today, if anyone needs her.' She saw his face. ‘What is it? Did I remind you of something?'

He took her arm and they walked across the tiled terrace. ‘Strange coincidence, that's all. My father was there after Gallipoli, when he was wounded.' He recalled with sudden clarity the only time he had seen his father's back, and the great star-shaped wounds running diagonally across it. He had never seen them again, as if his
father had been ashamed of them. All he could remember was his own sense of awe, and his pride.

A white-coated servant had appeared from nowhere, and Blackwood heard them exchange a few words in French.

She faced him again. ‘He's Tunisian. My French is better than his English.' She laughed, suddenly untroubled, happier than he had yet seen her. ‘He'll bring some tea, or something stronger, if you like?' She looked at him in that characteristic, direct way. ‘My grandmother was French, you know. We lived in Marseilles for a time. My father was a shipping agent then – we were always going back and forth.' The mood changed again, and afterwards Blackwood thought it had been like a cloud passing across moonlight. ‘Poor Dad . . . he took it badly when Mike was killed. His heart's not good. And he worries a lot. Too much . . .'

‘Your brother . . .' He hesitated.

‘It's all right. I don't mind you asking about him.'

‘Was he much older than you?'

She dropped the towel and combed her hair with her fingers.

‘He was nineteen when he went down. My kid brother. I was already in the W.A.A.F. I sometimes wonder if it was because of me . . .' She did not go on.

He said, ‘You mustn't even think it, Joanna.'

She glanced at him, startled perhaps by the easy use of her name.

‘That was a nice thing to say.' She smiled. ‘Mike.'

He heard the servant clattering crockery in the room they had just left.

He said, ‘I saw some redcaps parked along the road just now.'

Her fingers paused in her hair. ‘I must look a mess.' She seemed to recall what he had said. ‘The M.P.s? Yes, they're always there, apparently.' Then, ‘That uniform you bought for me – how much was it?'

‘It's a present. For Christmas. I'd have got something a bit more exciting if I'd only known we'd meet again like that.'

She stood up almost abruptly. Against the coloured tiles her bare feet looked small, vulnerable.

‘Would you like to see the house? Not as big as your place, I'll bet. Hawks Hill, that's what it's called, right?'

She slipped her hand through his arm and together they walked past a carefully laid table. He could sense her sudden tension. He did not realise it matched his own.

He said, ‘I'll take you there one day. It's a bit of a shambles at the moment. Land girls and Italian prisoners of war, as far as I can make out.'

She did not look at him. ‘I'd like that.'

They were at the top of a staircase. It was pure marble. Whoever they were, they must have been
very
rich.