A Dawn Like Thunder (9 page)

Ross considered it. It was rare for Pryce to offer praise so freely. ‘I'd have thought the Wrens would have provided an officer.'

Pryce unscrewed the bottle slowly. ‘I am sure Miss Mackenzie thinks so, too. She would make a good one.'

Ross recalled her eyes, her barely concealed dislike. ‘Then why not, sir?'

Pryce looked furtively at the door and murmured, ‘Upbringing – you know how it is. Wrong side of the blanket, does that explain?'

She came back with the glass. ‘Anything else, sir?'

She was looking at Pryce, but Ross could feel the anger in her voice as if it had been directed at him.
She knows we've been talking about her.

He felt Pryce put the glass into his hand. It was almost full, and yet he had never seen Pryce take a drink before, not even in the mess.

Pryce was saying, ‘I imagine many a wardroom Romeo has tried to feel his way into her affections, eh? My guess is she'd have the little buggers for breakfast!'

He held up his glass. ‘Cheers! To all those chaps we knew who never got back.' The mood passed just as quickly, and he turned over the file on his desk.

‘You were a great friend of a lieutenant called David Napier.' It was not a question. ‘He died in that last big operation, yes? Not all that far from the bloody
Tirpitz.'

Ross acknowledged it, wondering what was coming, wondering also why he had felt something warning him earlier.

Pryce said, ‘When our other people arrive there will be one extra chariot team. Sub-Lieutenant Peter Napier is in command.'

Ross gripped the arms of his chair, some of the whisky spilling unheeded on to his leg.

‘Not Peter.' Words eluded him. ‘He's too young, not experienced. Can't you prevent it, sir?'

‘Of course he's young. Most of them were, once.' Pryce smiled, but his eyes remained still and cold. ‘Even you. The training commander had nothing but the highest praise for him – far and away the best applicant he's had for some time. Why should I stop it? He's good and damned keen, just what we need. If it was anyone else you'd accuse me of favouritism, pulling rank, right?'

Ross barely heard. ‘He was just a kid. Worshipped his brother.'

‘And you too, by all accounts. We always need somebody to look up to, Ross, even the bloody war doesn't change that!'

He glanced meaningfully at his watch. ‘I've been having words with our friends in khaki. We shall have to discuss jungle training. Keep them up to the mark, on top line for the real thing.'

He turned away. ‘Something else for you to keep under your hat, and this really is Top Secret. Lord Louis Mountbatten is being given overall command of South-East Asia: Army, Navy, everything.' He smiled at the wall-map with all its bright little flags. ‘Nobody is going to push
us
into a backwater, not any more.'

Ross walked out of a side door and stood in the warm, enveloping darkness. The air was heady with blossom, and yet he could taste the salt on his lips. Here, like the West Country, the sea was never far away.

He thought of the girl with the jet-black hair.
The wrong side of the blanket.
How would someone like Pryce understand?

Somebody to look up to.
And would Peter die like his
brother for such a stupid reason?

He heard muffled cheering; it seemed to come from the building occupied by the petty officers' mess. He was certain that the name
Tirpitz
was one of the causes of the general celebration.

He found that he could smile, somehow safe in the darkness. So much for Top Secret. ‘Tommy' Tucker was probably in there with his new mates, with the photo of his London clippie still in his oilskin pouch. He and men like him asked so little, but gave everything in return.

Figures spilled from the petty officers' mess, and he heard somebody thumping on a piano.

The words of the song were so familiar, and yet somehow reassuring because of it. Perhaps David had been right after all.
If it's got your name on it, there's nothing you can do.

Between them, they said it all.

The hotel's Malacca Room was empty. Outside, the evening was growing dark, and there was a hint of autumn in the air. Villiers took the girl's raincoat and said, ‘Sorry about all this. Not quite what I planned.'

It had been an unsatisfactory afternoon, after they had both dared to look forward to it so much. Her interview had been delayed, and by the time she had reached the hotel, the table he had reserved elsewhere for afternoon tea had been given to somebody else. The place they had eventually found off Piccadilly had been crowded, noisy and characterless. The next mistake had been the cinema. To sit in the secret darkness had been nice enough. He had even
put his arm around her shoulders while the film, about the Americans in the Pacific, had thundered on. And then the too-familiar slide creaking across the screen,
THE AIR-RAID WARNING HAS JUST BEEN SOUNDED
, had brought even that small privacy to an end, while the audience, mostly servicemen and their girls, had bellowed with indignation and stamped their boots in protest. But the rules were tougher now. Too many crowded cinemas had been hit by bombs, the inmates unaware or indifferent to the danger until it was too late.

She was going to Putney; she had friends there who would put her up for the night. Tomorrow she would hear the result of the interview. It could have been such a perfect day. Now it was spoiled for both of them.

Villiers said, ‘I'll see if I can get us a drink.' He looked at her gravely, remembering her dark curls on his wrist when he had put his arm around her. A lot of other couples had been doing the same, and he gathered from the muffled sounds that some had gone far beyond restraint and caution.

They had walked arm in arm in the fading daylight, had watched the bright pinpricks in the sky, bursting flak, made harmless by distance. The East End again, according to a newspaper seller.

He said abruptly, ‘I don't like the idea of your going to Putney, wherever that is, tonight. Not alone. It's going to rain – you'd never get a taxi.'

The door opened slightly and the manager peered in at them. ‘It's a bit chilly in here. I could send for an electric fire.' He looked at the girl discreetly. ‘Too early for coal, they say.' He held out a buff-coloured letter. ‘This came this afternoon, Mr Charles. I had to sign for it.'

She watched his face and sensed the change in him. Not excited, or even resigned. It was a strangely lost look, she thought, like a little boy.

The manager was saying, ‘I could arrange for some refreshment. I know it's not officially . . .'

He withdrew.

Villiers folded the letter and said, ‘Tomorrow then. I have to go north.'

She waited, watching his fingers on the paper, the hand she had felt on her collar in the cinema, which had held her arm on the street. She asked, ‘Overseas?'

He looked at her and through her and then walked to her chair and touched her shoulder. She was not certain he even noticed what he was doing. ‘I wanted it to be so nice for you. I'm off tomorrow, and you're going to Putney.' The smile would not come. ‘Can't even have a bloody fire in here. Save fuel, save power, save every damned thing except lives. They even have six-inch lines painted on the baths, you know. It's unpatriotic to use more water than you really need!'

She said, ‘Don't be angry, Charles. I've loved being here . . . with you. It put everything else into proportion. We knew it couldn't last.'

He sat down beside her and stared at her. ‘You could telephone your friends from here. Tell them you've made other arrangements. We could have supper. Just the two of us.'

She said, ‘Do you know what you're asking? What you're doing?' She was surprised at her own calmness. ‘You know I must go. When we've had our drink. After that . . .'

He took both of her hands. ‘I want you to stay, Carol. I want it so much it hurts. You can still find out about your interview.' He squeezed her hands and looked very young, very vulnerable. ‘I'm sure you'll get the job you want.'

The manager entered with a tray and the drinks. He said, ‘I had to give old Henry the day off, Mr Charles. His boy,
the air-gunner, was reported missing – down in the sea, they say.'

Villiers looked at her hands, which she had not attempted to withdraw. ‘Poor chap. If he needs anything . . . anything I can do. You know.'

The manager glanced towards the portrait of the old Captain Villiers. ‘Yes, I do know. He'd have been very proud of you, if I may say so.'

Villiers picked up his glass. ‘Well, Carol.'

She asked, ‘Have you got your wallet?'

He pulled it out, mystified. ‘Here.'

She opened it and took out the card where he had written her name. She had seen a pencil in the same pocket and reached into his jacket for it. Only for an instant, she felt his body through his shirt. It was hot, as though with fever.

The pencil was gold and had his initials engraved on it. A gift from somebody who loved him, she thought.

He said, ‘My twenty-first birthday present. From my sister.'

She crossed out the name on the card and could feel his sudden emotion, like her own. ‘You must have it right, Charles. It's
Caryl.
' She reached for the sherry, but turned her face to his and said softly, ‘If you're
sure.
I don't want you to think . . .' She did not finish, as he kissed her very gently on the cheek. She gripped his hand. So gently, carefully; it seemed likely that he had never been with a girl before.

He said, ‘I'm sure, Caryl. Never more certain of anything. You see, I've never been in love before, not like this.'

She touched his lips with her fingers. ‘Don't say that. Everything's against us. I'm married to a man I don't love, and we'll probably both regret what we're doing.' Then she smiled, as if her true feelings had been lying in wait, even though she had not understood them. ‘I'll stay. I
want
to
stay. I know a lot of girls would jump at the chance and never question the rights and wrongs of it . . . You're very nice-looking –' she touched the medal ribbon on his breast. ‘What is this?'

He watched her, trying to control the thoughts, the emotions, everything. It was a dream. In a moment he would come out of it. He would wake. ‘The D.S.C.' He tried to make light of it. ‘
Doing Something Constructive.
'

She looked up as the manager came in again. ‘I have your bag at the desk, Miss. I can try for a taxi, if you wish, but it's raining quite heavily.'

Villiers said, ‘My guest will be staying. Can you arrange it?'

The manager touched the mantelpiece below the portrait as if to seek out some dust. ‘There is the rule about Identity Cards for overnight guests.' He smiled sadly. ‘The war, you know. But I usually put the register in my safe about now. The formalities can wait until the morning.'

Villiers waited until they were alone again. ‘Are you certain?'

She touched his face, his hair, his mouth. ‘I never thought it could happen, that I could be like this.' She watched his hand on her wrist, like that very first time . . . And it
was
madness. Suppose somebody found out, her father for instance, and all those who would take sides against her on Trevor's behalf. The war hero. She could never begin to imagine him making jokes about his medals and his brave deeds . . . She should have left him that first time. Before she had been made to feel guilty when he had been isolated in one hospital after another. Each visit had been like a penance. He had never spoken, and had barely shown any recognition unless her father or one of his parents had been present. A different man. Or was he? Had she deluded herself over that, too?

She said quickly, ‘Take me up, Charles. The future can wait. The past is gone.'

The room was on the second floor, which was just as well, Villiers thought; the lift was always switched off at night to save something-or-other. Somebody had been in and had turned down the bed. On one side of it his new silk pyjamas, which had so far never been worn, were carefully displayed.

She touched them and exclaimed, ‘I shall look a proper frump. I brought some warm ones in case I had to go to the shelter.'

He watched her, warmed and moved by her excitement, her happiness, which was genuine, if only for the moment.

She held up the pyjama jacket. ‘I'll wear this. You can have the bottom half.'

There was an
en suite
bathroom and she picked up her overnight bag and said, ‘Luxury! The places I usually stay in have a bathroom down the corridor and on a different floor!'

She paused by the door, suddenly very small and uncertain. ‘Do you have anything to drink, I – I mean without sending for it?'

He replied, ‘Only gin, I'm afraid.'

She nodded gravely. ‘Then I shall have some gin.'

He smiled. It should have been champagne. He picked up the pyjama trousers defiantly. One day it
would
be champagne.

She came into the room again, her bare feet soundless on the pale carpet. ‘It's a beautiful bathroom.' She took the gin and stared at it dubiously. ‘Well, here goes!'

He waited for her to finish coughing and said, ‘You weren't meant to swallow it in one go!'

She rolled on to her back and reached up for his shoulders. ‘You have a lovely tan. I knew you would.'

He said quietly, ‘Biscuit-coloured.'

Then he touched her face and leaned over her for the lamp.

She said, ‘No. This is our time. We won't hide from it.' She watched his fingers on the buttons of her jacket, sensed his shyness, something as strong as guilt.

She said, ‘Kiss me.'