A Dawn Like Thunder (14 page)

Like his own father, Tucker thought. Quiet, popular with his mates, but firm when need be. God alone knew what he must think about Madge. But surprise would not come into it.

Shunting his little tank engine up at the Junction, working all hours; but luckier than so many during the period of depression and mass unemployment which had been lying in wait for servicemen returning from the Great War.
The survivors.
Yes, their fathers had had more in common than he had realized. That knowledge had come to him gradually as he had slowly become accustomed to working with a straight-laced regular officer on a first-name basis.

Tucker had been used to another kind of officer. Remote, in charge. Decisions made with unquestioned efficiency, almost like a rubber stamp labelled
Duty.
He and Ross had once been in Edinburgh together, to be interviewed by people from the Intelligence Department. They had had half a day to spare, and Ross had told the car's driver to take them on to Leith, to a small, quiet spot along the coast, where they had stopped at a pub for a drink. Ross had pointed to a neat, white-painted house almost opposite and had remarked, ‘That was my home, Mike. Where I drew my first breath.'

Tucker was not sure what he had been expecting. It was a nice enough house, but less than half the size of his own in Battersea.

You never knew, he thought. Tucker had learned the hard way never to take anything for granted. There were officers and officers. He had seen for himself how Ross
cared for the people he worked with, and he had felt the bond between Ross and his friend David like a living force. He thought, too, of the new subbie, Peter Napier. Very like his dead brother to look at, but that was as far as it went. The smile, the moments of gravity which were almost as deep as despair had been David's alone. Peter was not the same. He was immature. Tucker grappled with the comparison.
Shallow.

He rapped on the door, almost expecting to hear Pryce's curt
‘Come!'
He and some of the others had had to admit that life at Trincomalee was less boring with Pryce burrowing around.

Ross looked up from the desk and smiled. Tucker had the impression that he was grateful for the interruption.

Second Officer Jane Clarke, the only Wren officer so far to be directly attached to their Special Operations Force, was leaning over Ross's shoulder while she arranged a clipboard of signals. Blonde, blue-eyed, with a turned-up nose and
such an English face
, as his mother would have put it. She had a candid and very direct way of looking at you. A nice, buxom figure, too: very tasty, as the petty officer cook had described it.

She looked unusually disconcerted as Ross asked, ‘What can I do for you, Mike?'

Second Officer Clarke stood upright and plucked at her shirt while she looked at the slowly revolving fan. The effect was not lost on Tucker. Very bedworthy. A flirt. It surprised him. He had rarely thought of other women after Eve had been killed.

‘There's a car laid on, sir.' Tucker contained a smile. It was obvious that Ross had forgotten all about the appointment. ‘To take you to the Mackenzie estate this evening.'

Ross sighed. He had hoped that Pryce would be back
before this, but all reports showed that he would be staying in Bombay for at least another four days.

The girl said, ‘I know the way.'

Ross looked at her. The message was clear, if not loud. He had been very aware of the casual touch of her breast against his shoulder, the warm perfume of her body. She sensed his hesitation and added, ‘I've been there before.'

Ross said, ‘You're on duty this evening. You told me.'

She moistened her lower lip. ‘I can get someone to cover for me. Base Ops know what's happening, anyway.'

Tucker said politely, ‘Mr Villiers will be with you, sir.'

Ross smiled at the girl. ‘Next time, maybe.'

She touched his hand. ‘My friends call me Jane.' She walked out of the room without a glance at Tucker.

Ross said, ‘I didn't know about Charles Villiers.'

Tucker shuffled his feet. ‘Well, I expect he'd
like
to go along.'

‘Trying to save me, eh, Mike?'

Tucker faced him calmly. ‘Nice girl. But not your sort.'

Ross examined the clip of signals to avoid his eyes. ‘Four more chariots arriving in the next convoy, two as replacements. I'll leave you to fix things with the chief tiffy.' He thought of the girl who had just left.
Not your sort.
But why not? Nothing serious: she was not the kind to expect that. Merely to hold her, let everything go . . . When he looked up, Tucker was still watching him.

He said, ‘Petty Officer Mackenzie has offered to drive, sir.'

Ross stared past him at the blue sky. He had spoken to her a few times but only on the subject of certain signals, because Pryce was away. Then once, when he had been lighting his pipe and she had had her back turned while she locked the filing cabinet, she had said, ‘I was sorry, sir, so
sorry about your father.' He had sensed her determination to keep her voice neutral. ‘I know how I would have felt.'

She must have known about the signal before
Turquoise
had sailed. Perhaps she had agreed to suppress it, realizing the effect it would have had on him.

He had asked, ‘Did you enjoy your date with Sub-Lieutenant Napier?' It had been a stupid remark, merely for something to say.

Her reaction had been swift. ‘Should I have asked permission, sir? Put in a request through my divisional officer?' It had been like a shield dropping between them.

Tucker said, ‘There's one thing, sir. I'm a bit bothered about it.' He was being serious now, even formal.

‘Spit it out.'

‘Mr Napier's Number Two, Nick Rice. Telegraphist, that was.'

‘Yes, what about him?' He could sense the sudden concern, the tension in the other man. Tucker had very strong views on loyalty and how far you could take advantage of it. It
was
serious.

‘He came to me this morning. I told him straight, “Don't beat around the bloody bush with me, Nick. Speak up or drink up”.'

‘And?'

‘He wants a transfer, sir. Change crews when there's an opportunity. You've just told me about the replacements – well, that might be the time. There's bound to be some new faces as well.'

Ross wished there was something to drink in the office. But if Pryce still had anything decent left, it would be under lock and key. He said, ‘I don't understand it. They seemed to get on so well. First-class reports, nothing that might have prevented me from sending him on such an early mission.'
That, and Pryce's pig-headedness.

Tucker considered it. Nick Rice had blurted out, ‘Look, Tommy, I'm as game as the next bloke, but the subbie nearly did for both of us. He lost his bottle completely!' He said to Ross, ‘There's a lack of confidence, sir. Might blow over. I've known it happen.'

Ross smiled.
Even with me, I expect.
‘Looking round here, you'd never believe it, but this is a front-line operational force. We can't afford any foul-ups, right?'

Tucker grinned, glad he had mentioned it. ‘Right, sir.'

As he turned to go, Ross asked, ‘Did she really offer to drive us to the estate? I wonder why.'

Tucker pressed his famous luck. ‘Probably wants to defend you against her officer. “Jane”, isn't it?'

When Ross had taken a shower and changed into a clean shirt and slacks, Tucker was ready and waiting for him, a cardboard box held carefully under one arm.

Ross said, ‘I don't know how you do it – the Colonel might not even touch the stuff. But thanks, all the same.'

Tucker grinned. ‘His name's Mackenzie. Of course he'll like it. The chief steward arranged it. The same as Captain Pryce favours.'

They walked into the evening sunshine and there was another surprise waiting for Ross. He had expected one of the usual overworked staff cars, worn-out springs and completely airless. It was anything but that. Sleek and rounded like a sports car, he recognized it as a Sunbeam Talbot. It had been an expensive rarity in England before the war and now, of course, it was unobtainable. It was cream-coloured, the bonnet covered with the inevitable layer of dust from the roads. Like part of the past, for the lucky ones anyway. It made Ross think of his father's Bentley, which had been laid up for the duration. What would become of that, Big Andy's pride and joy, he wondered? She might marry again and give it to her new
husband. He was surprised at how bitter it made him feel.

‘Ready when you are, sir.' She had been standing beside the car, chatting quite freely with Villiers. She took the box from Tucker, and Ross noted their quick exchange of glances. Then she opened the doors and indicated that he should get into the back. Villiers held the door for her, and then sat beside her while she took the wheel.

Over her shoulder she explained, ‘It will take about an hour, all being well, sir. The roads are good.' In the driving mirror, Ross saw her smile at Villiers. ‘But the north-east monsoon will soon change all that!'

Past the sentry and out on to the open road, the colours and smells of this exotic country even more striking in the evening light.

Villiers said, ‘We'll follow the road south along the sea and then head inland and get a bit of height – right, Victoria?'

She nodded, her black hair whipping out from beneath her hat. ‘Like England – you are never more than eighty miles from the sea in Ceylon!'

Ross stared at some gaunt cattle which were being driven into a field: this was an island of great beauty, and of desperate poverty, too. The others were chatting together, while she occasionally took her hand from the wheel to point out something of interest: a ruined temple, a Catholic church. A place she had come to know, but Ross, who had been told she was born in Singapore, sensed she did not think of it as home.

They were heading away from the sea now, the trees overhanging the car like a green tunnel. He watched her hand as she tightened her grip to take the next slow bend in the road. Small, and strong. Her conversation with Villiers made him feel isolated. He tried to smile.
Jealous, perhaps
?

She said suddenly over her shoulder, ‘My father is
looking forward to your visit, sir. Whatever he says, I think he still misses being a part of things.' She glanced at Villiers. ‘Not far now.'

‘I could sit and be driven all day!' He ran his fingers through his fair hair. ‘It's been a long time.'

The gates were painted white and were propped open to reveal a long, well tended driveway with flower-beds, and colourful shrubs Ross could not even begin to recognize. There was a fountain, too, where bronze cranes lifted their wings to the cascading water.

The house was impressive. Built on brick stilts to keep termites at bay, it was broad and spacious, with a veranda running from end to end. Ross saw Villiers lean forward for a better look. It was a typical colonial bungalow, and Ross suspected suddenly that it reminded him of his home.

She slowed the car, and must have recognized the expression in Villiers' eyes. She touched his arm and said softly, ‘You must enjoy today. Do not be sad.' Ross felt the simple words turn in his stomach like a knife.

Villiers murmured, ‘I knew you'd understand. Thank you.'

The car pulled up in front of the entrance and a servant in a white coat hurried to greet them.

She opened the door for Ross and handed him Tucker's box. ‘There will be drinks presently. Please go inside.'

Villiers replaced his cap, shaking off the mood. ‘What a place!'

She studied him gravely. ‘Like Hollywood? That is what visitors say.'

Villiers grinned. ‘You know exactly what I mean!'

Ross said awkwardly to her, ‘Will you wait, or are you coming in, too?'

She looked through him, and then at him as if seeing him for the first time. ‘I live here, sir.'

They went up the steps and Ross, trying to recover from his embarrassment, said, ‘I don't mean to annoy her.'

Villiers said casually, ‘I think you may remind her of someone, Jamie. Somebody who once brought her unhappiness.'

Irritated, Ross said, ‘Old head on young shoulders! You'll have to teach some of it to me.'

Villiers paused to admire the broad entrance. There were many Chinese statues and carvings, some Indian ones as well, but mostly souvenirs of the Colonel's Far East travels. He said quietly, ‘Caryl would love to see all this.'

Just like that. She was never far from his thoughts. Such things could, then, happen so quickly; in their case,
had
happened.

Their caps were whisked away and Ross found himself strangely glad that he had come. There was another fountain here, but as he turned to watch it the water fizzled away; at the same time, all the lights dimmed for a few seconds before picking up again. The fountain returned to life.

‘Can't rely on anything! My generator was one of the best investments I ever made!'

Colonel Basil Mackenzie strode to greet them. Tall, craggy-faced, with a bushy white moustache and eyebrows to match, he would have been recognizable as a soldier in this or any other century. Very upright, with square shoulders in a well-fitting jacket, he was still that same man, like the pictures at Highmead School and in the various service clubs Ross had visited. Omdurman, Sebastopol, the shoulder-to-shoulder British squares at Waterloo: he would have fitted into any of them.

‘Lieutenant-Commander Ross – I shall call you Jamie, if I may. And Lieutenant Villiers. Will “Charles” suit?'

They shook hands warmly, and he took their arms.
‘
Officers' Call
, or in your case, the sun is over the yardarm, correct?'

Ross handed him the box. ‘I hope you like it, sir.'

He held it up to the rejuvenated lights. ‘Islay malt, by God!' He beamed. ‘You must be not only a man of courage and perception, but a very influential one to boot!' He turned and called to the servant, but not before Ross had seen his eyes. Tawny, like the girl's.