Dust On the Sea (19 page)

She removed the hand, very gently. ‘It's my home,
when I'm not with the Royals.' Then, ‘Bring the bike, would you, please?' She tried to smile, to toss it off lightly. ‘
Sir.
' She walked to the top of the slope. ‘I'll get you some transport back to wherever it is.'

He did not appear to be listening.

‘You must be Colonel Blackwood's daughter! I must have been nuts not to realise!'

She nodded. ‘I'll show you round, if you like.'

He watched the driver at last unloading the old bicycle, but seemed unable to contain some emotion.

He said, ‘I'm Lieutenant Blackwood. My friends call me Steve.'

She took the handlebars and started to walk down the slope with him. She did not hear the truck drive away, nor did she care.

No wonder he had seemed vaguely familiar. His face was in several of the portraits, spanning a hundred years or more. Like Mike, and all those others.

A huge dog bounded across the path, barking fiercely and wagging its tail.

She said, ‘He's pretty old. He won't hurt you.' She looked at him fully for the first time since she had stepped into the road. ‘It's his way of saying “welcome home”!'

Diane Blackwood turned back a dust sheet from one of the chairs and sat down, watching him while he moved from one portrait to another. She noticed how carefully he took each step, very conscious of the beautiful floors, and of his army boots.

She said, ‘They call this the Long Room.' It seemed wrong to intrude on his thoughts. ‘I don't know why, except that it
is
long.'

He turned and looked at her. ‘My father described it to
me once. I think he said it was used for displaying trophies in old Colonel Eugene Blackwood's day.' He nodded, deep in thought. ‘I can feel it. As if I'd always been here.' He moved to a window and she was reminded of Mike again, their last meeting in this house after the funeral. She had told this quiet New Zealander about it.

She said, ‘Tell me about your father now.'

He stood, his face in shadow. ‘He was the black sheep of the family. Major Ralf, your father's cousin, the only one to survive the war.' He shrugged, and even that seemed familiar. ‘He never really made a go of things after he left the Corps.
Required to resign
is the accepted term, I believe.'

She waited, knowing he wanted to talk. That he needed to be here.

‘I was born in England, but we went out to New Zealand soon afterwards. A fresh start. But my dad wasn't the type to settle down. He liked
life
too much. Their marriage collapsed, and he went off with another woman. He came back to England apparently, but nothing worked out. My mother took good care of me, but when she remarried she made sure that I remained a Blackwood. Women, gambling, drink – it reads like a bad novel, but it did for him in the end.' He took a step towards her, and halted, his arms at his sides. ‘But he was my dad, and I still miss the old bugger!'

He walked back to the window, and, without realising she had risen from the chair, she joined him there.

The old dog was sitting on the flagstones and staring up at Harry Payne, who was holding something that shone in the sunlight. Her cap badge.
Can't let you be seen with a rookie's badge, Miss Diane! I'll give it a proper buff-up!
But all the time his eyes had been on the visitor.

When she had gone to his cottage for some keys he had exclaimed, ‘Spittin' image of his father, Miss Diane! I hope that's the only likeness!'

She said, ‘So we're sort of cousins?'

He looked at her and grinned. ‘Sort of. Does it matter?'

She pointed at the other wing of the main building. ‘That's used by the local Home Guard as their battalion H.Q. They have their drills here two or three times a week. You've never seen so many medal ribbons!' She paused. ‘No, it doesn't matter.'

They completed the tour in the old library.

‘What did you do before you joined up?'

‘Farm machinery, mostly. Where I come from, the sheep outnumber the people by twenty to one!'

‘And now?' She could not stop.

‘I'm on leave, but it's up tomorrow. I'll be going to a place in Portsmouth, explosives, that kind of thing.' He gazed at the books and the portraits. ‘The closest
I'll
ever get to the Royal Marines!'

Portsmouth
. She shied away from it. It was laughable. Because of a name, or because they were both alone. And she did not even know him.
My friends call me Steve
. Her second officer would think she was naive. Asking for it.

She said, ‘This is careless talk, but I'm at Eastney Barracks. Not that far.'

He turned as a car entered the gates. He had used the telephone to call his unit, and now he was leaving. It was better this way . . . And she knew it was not.

He hesitated.

‘I'd like to see you again. I'm sure there's somebody else, but –'

She walked with him to the library door and heard his quick intake of breath as he saw the portrait of her
mother, Alex. It could have been Diane herself, although she had always denied the resemblance.

She said, ‘No. There's nobody.' She ignored the warnings bombarding her mind. There
had
been nobody, not in that way. It had been a near thing once or twice, at the local hunt ball or at one of the farmers' parties. But she was strong, and an elbow in the right place had sufficed. Until now.

Harry Payne was in the yard talking to the army driver. He held out the badge and said, ‘Here, Miss Diane. You need me with you to keep an eye on things!'

She stared at the badge with its crimson flash, so smooth that the markings on the Globe had been polished away.

‘It's your own badge, Harry. I can't take that!'

She could feel the New Zealander watching, listening, sharing this small but significant detail, like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle.

Payne shook his head.

‘You can give it back when I've worked some spit an' polish into yours, right?'

‘Right,' she said, knowing he would never take it from her, and moved by the knowledge.

The sapper lieutenant shook hands with both of them, strangely formal after so many shared thoughts.

Then he said, ‘I wouldn't have missed this for anything. You have no idea what it means just to stand here.' He smiled awkwardly. ‘With you. You've made it perfect.' He released her hand and, surprisingly, saluted.

Together, they watched the car until it had turned into the road.

Then she said quietly, ‘Well, Harry, what did you think?'

He did not look at her. ‘Well, Miss Diane, he's not in the regiment, but he's a Blackwood right enough. That'll have to do, for the moment.'

From Harry Payne that was praise indeed.

She felt droplets of rain on her face; the sun had gone without her noticing. But it had been a perfect day, after all.

Michael Blackwood opened his eyes, and waited for his new surroundings to discover him. He had slept well, without the need for drugs, and even the pain was at bay. When he had come out of the anaesthetic at the main hospital he had been almost too weak, and too fearful, to reach down to his thigh. A nurse had seen his feeble efforts, and had brought him an old-fashioned mirror.

‘See? Good as new. We'll be able to move you soon.' Somewhere a man had cried out in agony or terror, it could have been either, and she glanced round, her ration of sympathy dispensed. ‘We need the bed.'

And now he was in Alexandria again, still in pain, but without despair. Familiar faces had hovered above him; even St John, immaculate as ever, had come to wish him well. And ‘Sticks' Welland, and several other Royals he hardly knew, and, of course, Despard.

He half-listened to the bark of an N.C.O.'s voice, and the responding stamp of boots.

‘At th' halt, on the
nght, foooorm
–
squad!
' And then, ‘For God's sake 'old yer 'ead up, that man! You're like a nun in the family way!'

Familiar and somehow comforting, after the passage in the armed yacht. Despard had told him most, but not all, he guessed, about the scuttled schooner and Carson's obvious distress, and the few Italians taken alive. They
had appeared grateful to have survived, to be out of the war. The force of the grenade had jammed the cabin door, where one Italian seaman had miraculously survived the blast. The rest, Carson's petty officer had told him cheerfully, ‘looked like an upended butcher's cart!'

Major Gaillard had visited him only once. A strangely reserved Gaillard, who had told him about the arrival of the new company in Alexandria. ‘I want
you
up and about as soon as you can hop! This is what we've been waiting for!'

Blackwood had answered, ‘I'm supposed to have a final check-up tomorrow.'
That was today
. And all he could think of was Gaillard's stiff, detached demeanour.

As he had been about to leave, Gaillard had said, ‘You did a good piece of work. I'll see that it doesn't go unnoticed this time. If you or any of your party had been taken alive, it would have ended very differently.' And then he had smiled. ‘Like Burma, remember? No prisoners.'

Blackwood was still thinking of it as the door opened a few inches and a sickberth attendant peered in at him.

‘Time for walkies, Mr Blackwood!'

The others called the S.B.A. Nancy. He could understand why.

He lay quite still while the dressing was removed, revealing a deep, livid gash in his right thigh. How it had missed a bone or an artery was beyond him. Or, as Nancy had murmured confidentially, ‘And your wedding-tackle is all safe and sound, sir!'

A white-jacketed doctor paused outside the door and nodded with approval as Blackwood took the weight on his feet. Playing it down, he thought, which was probably the best therapy. And they
did
need the beds. He had
heard about a new offensive, and more advances. Neither would come cheaply.

‘Easy does it!' Nancy hovered around him, but was careful not to assist. Blackwood took a few paces and saw himself in another mirror. The scar was a bad one. Despard had remarked, ‘When you need to find the seam of your trousers with your thumbs out there on the square, you'll have that to make it easier for you!' And they had laughed about it.

‘That's enough, sir. I'll just put on a fresh dressing and make it comfy.'

He was quick at his job, but not so fast that Blackwood did not see the fresh blood on the dressing. It had been that close; and yet he felt neither elation nor surprise.

Nancy was saying, ‘I'll fetch some tea, and you should have a nice rest.'

‘I feel fine,' he said.

Nancy pursed his lips. ‘That young lady will be here tomorrow. Must look our best, mustn't we?'

Blackwood stared at him.

‘What did you say?'

The S.B.A. said, rather severely, ‘Well, you weren't supposed to know. Even now . . .' Then he relented, but only slightly. ‘An R.A.F. lady. Came every day when she was in Alex. Most concerned, she was.'

‘Where is she now?'

‘Gone off with one of your big-pots, a major-general no less.' He sniffed. ‘I don't know what the service is coming to!'.

Blackwood lay back and gazed at the slowly revolving fan. She had been here. Right here in Alex. Perhaps he would wake up a second time . . . But he could still hear
the raucous commands of the drill-sergeant, and was glad that Nancy had gone for the tea.

The fan blurred and his eyes stung with sudden emotion.

She was safe. And she had cared enough.

Major Claud Porter leaned back stiffly in his chair, then glanced first at an almost empty cigarette packet and then at the wall clock. One-thirty. He wanted to yawn but his mouth tasted stale, and the air, even down in the privacy of the Pit, was like battery acid at this hour of the morning.

His desk had been cleared, the signals and folders already taken away to their various destinations. At times like this he often felt a certain loneliness, and knew it was not merely because of Vaughan's absence, although it would be a relief to see him back again.
The driving force.

Porter had never married, had never felt the need to. Between the wars he had served on several undemanding stations, mostly in cruisers. Mess life and ceremonial had been his mainstays. The war had changed that immediately. He had been in the right place at the right time, but at one-thirty it did not feel like it.

He stifled a yawn as someone tapped at the door. He was not the only one about, apparently.

It was a fellow major who worked in Intelligence, another of Vaughan's private army.

Porter rubbed his eyes. ‘Still here, Jack? Haven't you got a home to go to?'

He slammed his fist on the desk, furious with himself. Fatigue was no excuse.

‘I'm sorry, Jack. That was unforgivable.'

The other officer's young wife and daughter had been killed in a hit-and-run raid two weeks before. They had gone together to the scene. A neat suburban road, with a line of trees; there were a thousand such streets within twenty miles of London. There was one gap, like a missing tooth. The remainder of the houses were untouched.

The man he had called Jack said without expression, ‘It's all right. I'm coming to terms.' He put down a thin folder. ‘Thought you should see this at once, in view of the general's absence.'

They both studied the folder, the diversion like a lifeline for both.

‘Our people have been informed as a matter of policy.

But if it goes higher, the Judge Advocate's department could become involved.'

Porter pulled some papers from the file. A rough map, a cracked photograph of a young Royal Marine grinning at the camera. Porter noted the helmet and uniform. Pre-war. Another world.

His friend was saying, ‘It mainly concerns a marine named Gerald Finch. He was serving in the
Genoa
at the time of the Jap invasion of Burma, and was transferred to the land force covering the withdrawal.'