The Levant Trilogy (32 page)

'And you, Professor Pringle, you will remember
our Gamal for a long time, even when you have gone back to England. Isn't that
so, Professor Pringle?'

Sarwar Bey spoke impressively and Guy was impressed.
Tears stood in his eyes and at the final words, he gulped and put his face into
his hands. The Egyptians, emotional people who warmed to any display of
emotion, crowded round him to console him by pressing his arm or patting his
back or murmuring appreciation. Sarwar Bey, holding him by the shoulder, led
him away from the house and wept in sympathy.

A woman servant came from within carrying cups
of Turkish coffee on a large brass tray. This strong restorative was pressed on
Guy who, making a swift recovery, became the vivacious centre of the group of
men.

Harriet, remaining apart, watched the men making
much of Guy who beamed about him, enjoying the attention and recalling things
said and done by Gamal. Gamal, he said, had written in an essay: 'My professor,
Professor Pringle, is an Oriental. But if he is not, he should be because he is
one of us!'

Gamal may have said that, or written it.
Certainly someone had said it: and in Rumania and Greece there were people who
had said the same thing. They had all laid claim to him and he had responded.
He was, Harriet felt, disseminated among so many, there was little left for
her.

The evening was coming down. The heat fog was
turning to umber and through it the lowering sun hung, a circle of red-gold,
above the western riverbank that had been the burial place of the ancient dead.

The gharry horse stamped its feet and Harriet
shared its bored weariness. She was depressed by the arid inactivity of the
cemetery and wished them away. Then, as the light changed, the scene changed
and she was entranced by it. The white Mohammed Ali mosque, that squatted like
a prick-eared cat on the Citadel, took on the roseate gold of the sky and
everything about it - the Mokattam cliffs, the high Citadel walls, the small
tomb houses - glowed with evening. As the heat mist cleared, she could see in
the distance the elaborate tombs of the Caliphs and Mamelukes, and thought that
as they had driven so far, they might drive a little further and see the
Khalifa close to.

The colours faded and twilight came down. Inside
the Sarwar house, the women had lit petrol lamps and the flames flickered in
the unglazed windows. The Khalifa tombs ceased to be visible but as the moon
rose, they reappeared, touched in by a line of silver light.

Guy, eager enough to stay among his admirers,
had to realize that time was passing. It was almost dark. The last day of mourning
was coming to an end. The Sarwars themselves would soon return home and Gamal
would be left alone. One after the other the men took Guy by the hand and held
to him a little longer than necessary as though, for a while, he could deliver
them from the bewildering inexpediency of life.

Then they had to let him go. As he followed
Harriet to the gharry, she pointed to the Khalifa monuments edged with moon
light: 'Let's go and look at them.'

'Good lord, no. Who would want to see things
like that?'

"They're magnificent. And they're no
distance away.'

'Sorry, but I'm late as it is. I have to get to
the Institute. You can go any time to see them Ask Angela to go with you.'

'But I want to go with you.'

'Darling, don't be unreasonable. You know how I
hate things like that. Useless bric-a-brac, death objects,
memento mori!
What
point in making oneself miserable?' He climbed into the gharry.

Harriet stood where she was, watching the moon
that heaved and rippled like liquid silver through the moisture on the horizon.
Then, rising clear, it shed a light of diamond whiteness that picked out the
traceries of the great tombs and lit the small houses of the common dead so
that the cemeteries, arid and dreary during the day, became mysterious and
beautiful.

Guy, losing patience, called to her and they
drove down into the old streets where the mosques lifted themselves out of
shadows into the pure indigo of the upper air. The evening star was alone in
the sky but before they reached the main roads, the sky was ablaze with stars,
all brilliant so the evening star was lost among them. This time of the
evening, Harriet felt, compensated for the heat and glare, the flies and
stomach upsets of the Egyptian summer. Her energy was renewed and feeling
reconciled to Guy, she put her hand on his and said, 'Darling, don't be cross.'

He said, 'Have you thought any more about taking
the boat to England?'

She withdrew her hand: 'No, I haven't thought
anymore because I'm not going. I don't want to hear any more about it.'

She had told him the question was settled and
his bringing it up again when she was affectionate and, he supposed, compliant,
gave evidence of his obstinacy and his cunning. These qualities, known only to
her, were seldom manifested but when manifested, irritated her beyond bearing.

Neither spoke again until they came into the
wide, busy roads with large pseudo-French buildings, shabby and dusty during
the day but coming alive at night when windows lit up, and there were glimpses
of rooms where anything might be happening. Pointing to some figures moving
behind lace curtains, Harriet said, 'What do you think is going on in there?'

Guy shook his head. He did not know and did not
care. He seemed distant and vexed, and she felt this was because she had
refused to go on the boat to England. The thought came into her head: 'He wants
me to go because he wants me out of the way.' But why should he want her out of
the way?

When they came to the Institute, he left her to
take the gharry on to the Garden City.' I won't be late,' he said and Harriet
said, 'It doesn't matter. I'll probably be in bed before you return.'

She thought,' If I go, it will be because I want
to go. And if I don't want to go, I won't go. And if he has any reason for
wanting me to go, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care.'

She looked defiantly at the crowded, brilliant
street where everyone seemed intent on enjoyment, and she wondered, miserably,
what reason she had for staying with a husband she seldom saw in a place where
she had no real home and little enough to do.

Reaching the Column five days sooner than he was
expected, Simon was aware of ridicule rather than approbation. When he reported
his return to Major Hardy, the major said fretfully: 'What brings you back at
this time, Boulderstone?'

'I thought you'd want me here, sir. In Cairo,
they're all saying the balloon's going up.'

Hardy, his dark, lined face contracting as
though he were in intense pain, seemed at a loss. He had been headmaster of a
small school, and no doubt had been happy in his power, but the war had
disrupted his life and he had manoeuvred himself, from vanity, into a position
beyond his capacity. Simon, who had gathered this partly from Ridley and partly
from his own observation of the man, saw now that his unnecessary return had
upset Hardy by exceeding the natural order of things.

'I'm sorry, sir.'

'All right, Boulderstone.' Reassured by the
apology, Hardy spoke more kindly: ' It's as well you're here. No knowing what
will happen. Something could be underway, though I've heard nothing.'

Ridley, finding Simon back in camp, could hardly
hide his derision. 'You handed in five days, sir? Back to the old grind for
sweet damn all? Well, I hope the night you was there, you didn't waste no
time.'

Simon was able to say with truth: 'I went to the
Berka.'

'You didn't!' Ridley's face, burnt to the colour
of an Arbroath smokie, was cut through by his lascivious smile: 'Well, good for
you, sir!' He whistled his appreciation and said nothing more about the wasted
five days. That evening, when they were supervising a brew-up, he asked Simon:
'Find the captain all right, sir?'

'The captain?'

'That captain you went to look up? The one you
thought might be your brother?'

As Simon shook his head and walked away, Ridley
called after him: 'Not the right bloke, then, sir?' but Simon pretended not to
hear.

The battle at Himeimat was in its third day
before the Column came within sound of it. Ridley, in touch with the news and
rumours of the line, brought what he heard to Simon.

He said, 'The jerries've been taking a pasting.
They were stuck all day in the mine fields with our bombers belting hell out of
them and our tanks waiting to blast them when they got out.'

'And did they get out?'

'Don't know. Better ask his nibs.' Ridley jerked
his head towards the H Q truck where Hardy, standing on a seat with his head
through a hole in the roof, was observing the westward scene through his
over-large binoculars.

Simon went to him: 'See anything, sir?'

He was risking a snub because Hardy, inclined to
self-importance, preferred to keep his information to himself. This time,
surprisingly, he replied with unusual friendliness: 'Not much. Plenty of smoke
from burning vehicles but no sign of the hun.' Putting down the binoculars, he
turned to smile on Simon who flushed, feeling a fondness for the man.

The Sunday after his return to the unit had been
declared a national day of prayer: Monty's idea. Ridley said: 'They say he's a
holy Toe. Thinks he's got a direct line to God.'

The padre arrived in a staff car and a squaddy
set up a small portable altar in the sand. Going into the HQ truck, the padre
was affable and smiling. Coming out, wearing his cassock, he was grave-faced
and he made an authoritative gesture to the congregation of men seated
cross-legged, awaiting him. They stood up for the hymn,' Now praise we all our
God.' The singing began but the battle did not stop. During the night the flashes
and flares on the horizon, and the near gunfire, had kept the camp in a state
of semi-wakefulness. Now, as the loud but tuneless praise went forth, it was
drowned by flights of Wellingtons overhead. Ridley whispered behind Simon:
'Still giving the buggers hell.'

A new distraction arrived during prayers. A
messenger on a motor-cycle drew up beside the group of officers and waited
until Hardy, head bent, put out a hand for the signal. Opening it, still
muttering his devotions, he appeared to be thunderstruck by what he read. His
prayers ceased and, looking up, he stared at Simon in furious astonishment.
Simon, his conscience clear, glanced uneasily round at Ridley who shrugged his
ignorance of the contretemps. As soon as the padre had driven off to another
camp, Hardy's batman called Simon to the HQ truck.

'Any idea what's wrong?'

'Haven't a clue, sir.'

As Simon approached the truck, Hardy, seated at
an outdoor table, observed him with black indignant eyes, saying as soon as he
was within earshot: 'So Boulderstone, you have friends in high places?'

'Me, sir! I don't know anyone.'

'Well, someone appears to know you. Or know
about
you. Your fame has spread beyond the Column - can't think why. I, myself,
failed to recognize your superior qualities, but the fault no doubt was mine.'

Hardy went on at length until Simon, baffled and
miserable, broke in: 'I'm sorry, sir, but I don't understand any of this.'

'No? Well, you're to leave us, Boulderstone. The
Column is to be deprived of your intelligence and initiative. We must somehow
manage without you. Its activities are obviously too limited for a man of your
resource and vision.'

Simon, by remaining silent, at last brought
Hardy to the point. 'You've landed, God knows how, one of the most sought-after
jobs in the British army. For some reason hidden from me, someone has seen fit
to appoint you a liaison officer.'

As Hardy spoke the memory of Peter Lisdoonvarna
came to Simon and he murmured, 'Good heavens!' never having imagined that the
social chat in the Garden City flat had meant anything at all.

Simon began, 'I did meet a chap in Cairo...'
then came to an embarrassed stop. It must seem that he had, ungratefully,
sought a transfer behind the back of his commanding officer and he tried to
explain.

Hardy refused to listen: 'I don't know how you
managed it, and I don't want to know. You've got the job. Whether you're fit
for it or not is another matter. It's none of my concern. It'll be up to you,
Boulderstone, to prove yourself.'

'Sir! Where am I to go, sir?'

'You'll hear soon enough. They're sending a
pick-up for you and you'll be taken to Corps HQ. The driver will bring your
instructions. And I'd advise you to clean yourself up. Get your shirt and
shorts properly washed. At Corps HQ, you'll be among the nobs.'

The other officers of the Column showed that
they shared Hardy's disapproval of Simon's advancement and it was also shared
by Ridley. Ridley who in early days had been Simon's guide and support, now
avoided him and was vague when Simon sought him out to question him. What,
Simon wanted to know, were the duties of a liaison officer?

'Don't worry, sir. You'll find out for yourself.
Youll soon cotton on.'

'You don't think I'm up to it, do you?'

'It's not for me to say, sir. With respect, I'd
rather not discuss it. I've got to be getting along.'

Simon, unnerved at leaving the safety of the
Column, felt an impulse to stay where he was but knew that the appointment came
when he most needed it. He was sick of the tedium of eventless patrols.
Opportunity to escape was offered and he would not be restricted by the
disapprobation of other men.

Still, he was troubled. Hardy's annoyance came
of Hardy's vanity, but Ridley was another matter. Ridley was hurt by his going
and this hurt resulted from affection, even love. In the desert where there
were no women or animals, Ridley had to love something and he had chosen Simon.
Simon was touched, but not as deeply as he would once have been. His own
attachments - Trench on the troopship which brought them to Egypt, Arnold his
batman and driver, and Hugo - were dead and their deaths had absolved him from
overmuch feeling. He was sorry to leave Ridley, but no more than that.

The transport, which arrived two days later, was
not a pick-up but a jeep. The jeep had been assigned to Simon, it was his own
vehicle, and this fact, when Hardy and the others heard of it, confirmed them
in their belief that Simon had been appointed above his station. They were
short with their goodbyes but the men, crowding about him as he prepared his
departure, showed genuine regret at his going. They liked him. Only Ridley did
not join in their good wishes but stood at a distance. When Simon shouted to
him, 'Goodbye, Ridley, thanks for everything,' he dropped his head briefly,
then walked away. When, starting out, Simon looked back to wave, the men waved
him away but there was no sign of Ridley.

For a mile or so Simon was sunk in sadness, then
the Column and everyone in it dwindled behind him and he felt the exhilaration
of a new beginning. He looked at the driver and asked his name.

'Crosbie, sir.'

'You attached to me permanently?'

'Yes, sir.'

Crosbie, lumpish, snub-faced, with a habit of
smiling to himself, showed no inclination to talk but drove with the stolid
efficiency of a man who did one, and only one, thing well. He could drive.

They passed the Ridge, almost lost in the dusty
haze, and turned on to a barrel track. The track took them eastwards beyond
the sound of the guns into the spacious, empty desert where the only danger was
from the air. Relaxing from his usual attentive fear, Simon faced the challenge
of the work awaiting him. He would have liked to question Crosbie about the
corps, but his instinct was to keep himself to himself.

He had started his desert life under Hardy and
had relied on Arnold and Ridley. These two NCOs, taking pity on his ignorance,
had pampered him as though he were a youngster, but he had tried Hardy's
patience and Hardy saw him as a fool. Well, that episode was over. Simon now
had experience of the desert, and no one would treat him either as fool or
youngster.

The horizon lightened as they approached the
coast. There were aircraft about and Simon, seeing one of them rise, leaving in
the distance a long trail of ginger-brown dust, asked from an old habit of
enquiry: 'Where's that taking off from?'

Crosbie, not bothering to look at it, mumbled,
'Don't know, sir!' Neither knowing nor caring, he was not one to answer
questions and Simon decided that he would no longer be the one to ask them.

They reached the perimeter of Corps HQ in the
early afternoon. Passing concentrations of trucks and equipment, and all the
appurtenances of operational and administrative staff, Simon was awed by the
extent of the camp. But this was where he now belonged. Its size denoted his
status in the world. When the jeep jerked to a stop, they had reached the dead
end of a lane and Crosbie said, 'This doesn't look right, sir.'

Simon brusquely replied: 'Get your finger out,
Crosbie. You're supposed to know where you're going. The command vehicle is
posted. Use your eyes.'

Crosbie might well have pointed out that Simon
had eyes and could use them but, instead, he acknowledged authority with a
brisk' Sir', and backing the jeep out of the lane, brought them at last to the
busy centre of the camp.

Simon was not the only new arrival. The command
vehicle, a three-ton truck converted for use as an office, had a canvas
lean-to, camouflaged with netting that extended on both sides. A number of
officers, all senior to Simon, stood in groups under the lean-to awaiting the
attention of the officer in charge. They talked with the flippant ease he had
admired in the Cherrypickers and he saw them as old campaigners to whom the
desert was a second home.

Simon, who had been oppressed by Hardy's doubts
and uncertainties, now felt his spirits rise as he listened to these men who
had no doubts at all that, whatever happened, the allies would be the victors
in the end.

The officer in charge was a major, verging on
middle-age, with a thin, serious face, who tolerated the chaffing of the other
men but did not respond to it. Simon, when his turn came, expected no more than
an acknowledgement of his arrival, but the major, who said, 'I'm Fitzwilliams.
You'll take your orders from me,' looked at him with interest and afforded him
several minutes of his time.

'I'm afraid, Boulderstone, you've reached us
just when the chaps are moving up from their training grounds. A deal of armour
will be coming in and you'll find it a bit confusing at first, but you'll soon
know your way around. Don't be frightened to ask. You're in B mess so you can
go along now and get yourself a snack. Report back here at 23.00 hours. I'll
probably have a job for you.'

Simon, sitting under the canvas lean-to that was
B mess, wondered if he had heard right. To the men of the Column, 23.00 hours
was in the middle of the night. Was he expected to start work at a time when
other men were fast asleep? All he could do was report at the hour given and
hope he was not making a fool of himself.

Twenty-three hours, it turned out, was the
expected arrival time of an armoured division and Simon was sent to conduct the
tank commander to the correct assembly point. Where that point was, Simon had
to find for himself and, returning to the jeep, he said casually to Crosbie: 'I
suppose you know the assembly point for tanks?'