Dust On the Sea (5 page)

It was Gaillard's eyes you always remembered. Very dark; what Diane would call ‘button-eyes'. A man who rarely seemed to raise his voice, but one who could reduce an incompetent subordinate to a jelly without effort.

He was smiling now, holding out his hand.

‘So here you are, Mike. Getting bloody fed up with all the delays and foul-ups, I'll be bound.' The eyes did not flicker or move; they never did. ‘I've heard all about the training programme. Maybe now we can put it to good use.'

His handshake was dry and hard. Like the man.

‘Drink, old boy?' He looked at the woman in blue as if he had never seen her before. ‘You off, then? Good show.' He watched her walk to a cupboard and take out a decanter and two glasses.

She said in that same level voice, ‘I'll not be long. There's some more Scotch in the kitchen.' She left them, and Blackwood heard her go out by the same door where he had waited, so full of doubts and misgivings about this moment.

Gaillard grinned. ‘Yes, Scotch. I know what you're thinking. Well, why not, I say, you never know when the
next chance will come, eh?' Again that short, hard laugh. It was no longer a dream.

Gaillard filled the glasses almost to the top and waved him to a chair; it felt new, unused. He glanced around the room: pictures dusted, but boring, a few ornaments. But it was not a home; it was just another place.

He realised that Gaillard was studying him, and said, ‘That girl . . .' He got no further.

Gaillard shook his head. ‘Hands off, old boy! Way out of your league!' He wagged the glass, so that some of the Scotch slopped over his tunic. ‘Unless you've changed, eh?'

‘I thought she seemed a bit on edge, that's all.'

Gaillard stared into his glass. ‘We get all sorts in and out of H.Q., you know.' He frowned. ‘Gordon, that's her name. Joanna Gordon. One of Commander Diamond's little high fliers. A go-between, at the moment.'

Blackwood felt his muscles relax slightly. Gaillard was never vague about anything. Maybe he had made a pass at the girl and she had told him where to go.

Gaillard was saying, ‘I can tell you now, Mike. We're off to North Africa in a matter of days. But keep it to yourself as much as you can. Walls have ears, too bloody many in London. Don't bother getting any special kit . . . that can all be fixed when we get there.' He flinched very slightly as the windows rattled to a far-off explosion, and muttered, ‘Docks again, by the sound of it.'

It was something to say, Blackwood thought, to cover his mood.

He added, ‘You'll meet all sorts. Special Boat Squadron, the schooner people, maybe even the S.A.S. They're all at it. It could spoil things, unless we act fast.' He studied him suddenly, his dark eyes shining in the
lamplight like glass. ‘You'll know all the details when we get there.'

Blackwood noticed that his own glass was empty, and yet he could not recall having drained it. He thought of a medical officer he had met in Burma.
Combat fatigue
, he had described it. ‘You can drink a gallon of hooch and feel nothing. Then you go out like a light. Oblivion!'

Gaillard stood up and walked to a window, and peered through a crack in the blackout shutter.

‘I'll not be sorry to get back into it.' He spoke with unusual vehemence, and Blackwood saw him touch his side, where he had been wounded.

When he had gone into hiding. He allowed the thought to continue. When he had run away, and had left the wounded to their fate.

Gaillard swung away from the window, the mood apparently changed. ‘We'll fly to Alexandria, via Gib of course, just in case the whole show's gone sour on us. Some of those duffers at the top don't realise what it's like – they're still fighting the Zulus, not an enemy which has been preparing and training for years, just for this! Take the Japs, for instance. Now they
know
how to fight, no messing about, and no white flag of surrender when the going gets rough and the other side forgets to play by the rules! God, what
soldiers
!'

Blackwood heard the front door open and felt a draught stirring beneath the chair.

She walked across the room and put some parcels on the table.

‘Thought you might be hungry. Just needs grilling.' She looked at Blackwood directly for the first time. ‘I've arranged a car for you.' She touched the front of her battledress blouse as if feeling for something. ‘Tomorrow
at eight. The usual place.' Then, for a second, her reserve seemed to falter. ‘I hope everything goes well for you, Captain Blackwood.'

He stood. ‘I'll get a cab for you. It's dark, and there's a raid going on.'

She smiled briefly. ‘There usually is.' She shook her head. ‘There will be a car waiting for me.'

Gaillard said rudely, ‘I'm going to pump the bilges.' He glanced at Blackwood and grimaced. ‘Then we'll eat, eh?'

He followed her to the door, and out into the darkness. It was cold, but the air seemed somehow less damp.

She turned slightly, and he sensed that she was looking at him.

‘I can manage on my own now, thank you.'

He heard a car start up, and wanted her to stay. He said, ‘What exactly do you do in this outfit?' It sounded clumsy, and stupid.

‘This and that. Nothing too dangerous.'

Was she laughing at him? Putting him on the same level as Gaillard, and probably all the others who made passes at her?

Then she said, ‘I read about your father. He must have been a fine man.'

‘Yes. We loved him very much.' It came out, just like that, and he could hardly believe he could have spoken so openly, so proudly. He felt her grip his wrist, her hand like ice.

‘Remember him like that. Don't change just because of . . .' She twisted away, in control again as a large car drew up beside them.

Then she turned and looked up at the flats, or perhaps at him.

‘Have a nice meal. I tried to find something you might like.'

He was still staring after her when the car had turned into the next street.

It was an uncomfortable meal, for all that. Gaillard seemed unusually restless, and left the table several times to make telephone calls, and to switch on the nine o'clock news.

The girl had brought two healthy-looking steaks, and when Blackwood had commented on this in some surprise Gaillard had replied offhandedly, ‘Rations? Not likely. You can get anything you want in London, if you're prepared to pay for it!'

He had tried to listen to the news bulletin, but it seemed like any other. The Eighth Army was still advancing in North Africa; a strategic withdrawal had been made somewhere else. The Royal Air Force had carried out a heavy raid over marshalling yards and U-Boat pens in France.
Thirty of our aircraft failed to return.
All in the same unemotional, well-modulated voice, as if it were a cricket score.

Gaillard had said suddenly, ‘I have to go out. Don't wait up.' He had patted his pockets as if to reassure himself of something. ‘Someone will be in to clean up after we've gone tomorrow.' He had gone, banging the front door behind him.

After a while Blackwood, too, went out, and climbed an internal ladder to the flat roof. He saw two figures huddled in a corner, wearing steel helmets: fire-watchers, staring at the sky over London. There was a bad blaze somewhere; he could see it reflected in the Thames, as if the river itself was on fire, and the tang of smoke and charred wood was apparent even here; occasionally he
heard the distant clamour of bells, fire engines, ambulances, maybe even the cabby, with his little pump dragging behind his taxi. A city at war, the battle about which servicemen knew the least. Ordinary people doing extraordinary things. Fighting and surviving. Dying.

He thought of the girl, the way she had looked, the feel of her cold fingers on his wrist. Where was she now, while all this was going on? If the raid came this way a single stick of bombs, like the one which had killed his father, and he, Gaillard and the girl might be no more. What, then, of the secret plans? Diamond had said clearly,
others could do it.
 . . .

He thought of all the faces he had known since the war had taken him from routine duties and made him what he was now. Young, eager, with little thought beyond the next day. After three years of it, there were not many left.

There was a loud explosion, and he saw a column of sparks rise into the sky like something solid. It must be miles away, and yet he imagined he felt the searing heat. He glanced at the fire-watchers, one wearing pyjama trousers beneath his duffle coat. They were both drinking tea; neither was young, but Blackwood knew they would be ready to use their stirrup pumps and buckets of sand if incendiaries straddled this block of flats.

One of Diamond's little high fliers.
He recalled the way she had looked back at him when he had caught himself staring at her. A defiance. But when she had spoken of his father she had seemed very different, or maybe she had been reminded of somebody.

He sighed, and the two muffled figures turned to peer at him.

It was stupid even to think of it. He would probably never see her again. In war, it was like that, and it was
probably better so. In the same breath, he knew it was not.

He groped his way back to the ladder and one of the fire-watchers called after him, ‘Good luck! Take care of yourself!'

He paused and raised a hand to them.
And what about you
, he thought.

He let himself into the flat, and was thankful that Gaillard had not returned. It was ridiculous.
We shall be working together. Discipline, trust, determination.

He looked around the room which was to be his refuge for the night. Clean sheets, and his greatcoat was on a hanger behind the door. She must have done that. The thought made him glance around with new eyes, although it was as plain and unimaginative as the others in the flat.

Then he sat on the bed, and imagined her here, beside him. Smiling, perhaps, at his clumsy uncertainty. But smiling . . .

He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling; he was still awake when the all-clear eventually sounded across London.

He got up, with effort, and looked at himself in a mirror. Maybe, like Gaillard, he was glad to be going back.

The face in the mirror regarded him impassively, and he was reminded of old Harry Payne at Hawks Hill.

Aloud, to the empty room, he said, ‘You never left!'

He was ready.

They stood side by side in the bare, unheated waiting room, staring at the aircraft standing quite alone on the makeshift runway. A wartime airfield somewhere in
Hampshire, at a guess, Blackwood thought, not all that far from Hawks Hill.

They had been driven down from London soon after dawn, with the same petty officer who had met him at Waterloo at the wheel. If the man remembered him, he gave no sign of recognition. Maybe all this cloak and dagger stuff was catching.

The aircraft was testing its engines, like a big, awkward bird, an intruder here, as incongruous as the small control tower, which looked as if it had been built overnight. There appeared to be no other planes around. It must be strange to serve in places like these where cows had once roamed, when life had been far simpler. They had already met the pilot, very young with a round, pink face, more like a choirboy than the captain of the camouflaged Dakota. He had greeted them cheerfully, as if he did not have a care in the world.

‘Five hours with a following wind – should be all right. Reports seem fair enough.'

Just as well, Blackwood thought. The plane was unarmed.

He glanced at Gaillard. There was no hint of strain or doubt; he was as alert and watchful as ever. If anything, he seemed impatient.

He said sharply, ‘God, these people take a month of Sundays to shift into gear! Wouldn't do for me!'

An aircraftman was peering in at them. ‘All loaded, sir. You can board now.'

They walked together across the hard-packed ground and past an unmanned battery of Bofors guns. The sky was bright, and almost clear; their pilot would have that in mind while he was gaining height. Blackwood had
already seen the filled-in bomb craters near the perimeter fence; it was not always so quiet here.

Another officer, grinning, checked them against his list. ‘Better watch your language, gentlemen. There's a woman in our midst!'

Gaillard remarked, ‘Didn't I tell you? Your little friend's coming with us, part of the way.' He climbed up into the aircraft, effortlessly, as Blackwood had seen him scale cliffs at Flannel Alley, as it was nicknamed, in Cornwall. Where they had first met.

No, you didn't tell me.

Another airman was waiting for them. ‘Up here, sir.'

There were several passengers, some already asleep despite the vibration of the twin engines. She was sitting by a window, and looked up briefly as he removed his greatcoat. She was wearing the same dark blue battledress, and her face seemed very pale against the curved side of the cabin.

She pulled herself to her feet, and as he protested she said, ‘No. You sit here, Captain Blackwood. I don't like looking out when I'm flying.'

They changed round, and a light began to flicker to announce take-off. He sat quite still and upright in the much-used seat, very aware of her nearness, and the unreality of their meeting again like this.

What did she do for Diamond's team? Courier, somebody's secretary or aide? It must be something important; seats were like gold on these flights. Despite the ever-present danger, it was always a matter of priority. Everyone else either took the long haul aroundthe Cape to Suez, where every troopship was a choice target for U-Boats and long-range Focke-Wulf bombers, or the shorter and even more hazardous route via Malta,
when, at this stage of the war in the Mediterranean, an attack could be expected from any direction.

He looked out and saw men scampering away as dust and smoke fanned from beneath the engines. A couple of aircraftmen were waving; others were already walking unconcernedly towards the N.A.A.F.I., if only to show what old hands they were.