Dust On the Sea (27 page)

The doctor waited, remembering her examination. The deep bruises, scratches on the shoulders where she had been held.

‘And then we were in a boat. I knew we were in danger – he had a hand over my mouth. There were voices, men marching.' She shuddered. ‘Soldiers.'

‘And they hid you. To help you escape.'

She did not reply for a full minute. The silence seemed to surround them.

‘We were in a sort of hold, like a storeroom under the deck somewhere. There was no space to stand, and I had to lie on some canvas, and I think some sacking, while he lay beside me, holding my mouth. Listening. My head was swimming, I could scarcely breathe, and I'm sure now that he drugged me again. But I heard the boots right overhead. The voices, one of them shouting. Angry. Like a barking dog.

‘I missed the next part, and when I could breathe again I heard the boat's engine, water against the side. I didn't know where we were going. I didn't care.
I was free.

‘I kept drifting off. I just don't know . . .'

The doctor did not move. One word now might destroy everything.

‘At first I thought he was trying to cover me up, I was cold, most of my clothes were still at the
gendarmerie.
I
tried to feel my legs, but his hand was there. I tried, I tried . . .'

The doctor stood up, and joined her by the window without touching her.

‘You could do nothing, Joanna. Nothing.'

‘He was saying something. He was careful not to touch my burned arm. I wanted to scream but I was too drugged . . . I wanted to be sick. But I knew he was doing it, raping me. When I had recovered myself he was gone.' Her hand moved to her groin as if powerless to resist. ‘But I could still feel him.
Feel him.
'

They both watched in silence as a tall figure in a blue dressing-gown appeared on the familiar gravel path. Walking slowly, as she had once done. A male nurse was following a few yards behind him, as if by coincidence.

Joanna said in a small voice, ‘I'm afraid of what it might do to Mike, if he found out. He might think . . .' She glanced down as the doctor gripped her arm. ‘He needs me. I couldn't bear to be the one to destroy him.'

They both looked at the path again. The man in the dressing-gown was kneeling on the grass, peering at one of the roses as if it was some personal miracle. The male nurse remained motionless.

‘Only you can tell him. If he needs you, he will understand. If not, then he's not worth it.' She patted the arm, very gently. ‘I can have you taken off that duty, just by picking up the phone. Nobody would blame you, no one would know. You should never have been there – you're not the first, or the last, I'll wager!'

The tall figure in the dressing-gown had turned and was pointing down at the rose, his grin very white in his tanned face.

The doctor glanced at her profile and watched a smile emerge for the first time.

Joanna said, ‘I shall go.'

They walked together into the corridor with its cream-coloured telephones and numbered rooms.

The doctor took one case at a time, if only to preserve her own sanity. It was pointless to give in to the horror of what might have been. That happened too often here.

She said, ‘You'll not be needing me any more, Joanna.' She saw the furtive movement of a white-jacketed orderly, trying to catch her attention. ‘You did it on your own, always remember that.'

At the gatekeeper's lodge Joanna Gordon paused to look back at the big, rambling house, the windows like dark, hostile eyes in this bright sunshine. She nodded, as if to someone else. The nightmares might return . . .

The gatekeeper touched his cap as she passed and did not see her take a deep breath.

There was hope now. It was enough.

Captain Michael Blackwood was officially awarded the Distinguished Service Cross on June twelfth, one month to the day after the last of the Axis forces in Tunisia had been either evacuated or captured. Compared with the great events which were to pave the way for a combined invasion of Sicily, already codenamed
Husky
, the ceremony was a quiet and simple sideline, for which Blackwood and four other recipients were both pleased and grateful. The Commander-in-Chief, Mediterranean, made the presentations on behalf of the King, before he too was whisked away to his headquarters in Malta. That in itself was another visible proof of the victory in North Africa: Malta, bombed, mined, blockaded for so long,
with only her people's determination and a handful of fighters which had been required to fly almost around the clock, was now a symbol of success. So many ships had been sunk trying to force supplies through to that beleaguered island, so many men lost, that it had seemed almost inevitable that Malta, too, would fall. But it had not fallen, and
Husky
was not a dream; it was a reality, at least to the British and American planners and staff officers whose responsibility now was to co-ordinate the movements of hundreds of ships, thousands upon thousands of tons of supplies, tanks, vehicles of every size and class, and men.

Even in Alexandria the change in atmosphere was apparent. Landing craft were arriving daily to transport men and tanks:
shoe boxes
as they were called, because of their limitations in handling and speed in anything but perfect conditions. Big supply ships too, and troops of every description.
Not even got their knees brown
, as Archer had been heard to comment.

The C-in-C had spoken to each of the recipients while the Chief of Staff had read out the citations.

Blackwood was touched by the simplicity of it. No bands or bugles, and only a guard of honour for the C-in-C. There were a lot of faces he knew, and many he did not. And there were absences, like Lieutenant Falconer, who had gone down in his M.G.B. after fighting his last battle with the E-Boats. It was still hard to accept, a bitter memory after their return to Alex in triumph, with their German prisoners paraded on the deck of the lighter like trophies.

But Lieutenant Terry Carson was there, almost unrecognisable in perfect whites, and clean-shaven, with an unlikely appointment now in Cairo as Small Craft
Adviser, and a half-stripe in the pipeline if he behaved himself.

He had said almost dreamily, ‘Still, not too bad, Mike. Lots of relics in Cairo!'

It was hard to set the stiff wording against the events and the stark memories.
Showing extreme courage under fire.
When men had died with brutal suddenness.
Over and above the line of duty.
Where there had never been any choice.

A handshake, and a searching look from the slight figure who, more than anyone, had held these ships and these men together when they were most needed.

He had hesitated, the ceremonial taking second place. ‘I was sorry about your father, Captain Blackwood. A very fine man and a great loss.'

And then it was over, as quickly as it had begun. More handshakes, and a general movement towards the mess.

It was a proud moment, or should have been. The admiral's mention of his father brought it sharply home to him. The tradition, the Corps; there never could be any doubts.

And in any case, how could she have been here, even if she had wanted to? Major-General Vaughan was in Malta for conferences on
Husky
, and ‘beyond that', as Gaillard had put it. Gaillard himself had gone to Cairo to collect some new uniforms; his promotion had been brought forward. Lieutenant-Colonel Marcus Gaillard, D.S.O., Royal Marines, was to command the new force of commandos,
Trident
, which was to be among the first to land on Sicily.

And yet, like the mention of his father, the prospect had left him feeling empty, and alone.

He saw Lieutenant Despard talking with one of the new officers who had come from England with
Trident.

Some of the others were applauding, and he saw Brigadier Naismith nodding with approval.

Despard came up to him and said, ‘It's all right, sir. I don't want to talk about it. Not now, anyway.' They shook hands as all the others watched in sudden silence. ‘This is
your day
, sir. You deserve it.'

Blackwood said, ‘I was always brought up to think of the Corps as a family. But at times like this, I'm not so sure it's a good thing.'

The message had arrived just before the C-in-C. It would have been Gaillard's task to tell him, but, feeling Despard's wordless despair, Blackwood had been thankful that he was away. It was never explained how bad news always got priority, but it did. Despard's mother had died in the Channel Islands almost unnoticed, much as she had lived.

He said, ‘We'll have a drink later.' He smiled. ‘Suit you?'

He watched Despard stride away, most likely to the sergeants' mess.
Escape.
He faced the others; even the Chief of Staff was grinning, and they meant it, all of them, as he had done often enough when someone he knew had ‘made it'.

‘Congratulations, Mike!' The Chief of Staff shook his fist at his secretary. ‘Not
now
, for God's sake! We have a hero to celebrate!'

The secretary shrugged, and then moved up beside Blackwood while his lord and master broke into a carefully prepared speech.

He murmured, ‘That girl you met, at Rosetta.'

Blackwood gripped his arm.

‘What about her?'

‘She's coming to Alex. I got word from Malta.' He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Friends in high places!'

‘Are you sure?' His mind was reeling, as if he had already had too much to drink.

‘Tomorrow. She's flying in. I have to pick up some papers for his lordship. I could give you a lift.'

He nodded, her face very clear in his thoughts. Like the moment when he had last seen her, here in Alex; they had been surrounded by people, but somehow he remembered only the two of them.

It might be just another brief meeting. But she was coming, probably with Vaughan's blessing.

It did not do to dwell on the growing lines of landing craft, and the mounting piles of provisions and ammunition. That was tomorrow. They had to seize what they could, while they could.

They were all applauding again, and then there was an expectant silence. He could see a shadow by the door; Despard had waited after all. To share it, and rightly so.

He said, ‘This is certainly the finest day for me.'

Across the smiling faces and the raised glasses he caught the Chief of Staff's secretary's eye, and saw him wink.

And it was true.
Now.

The car's progress seemed slower and slower the closer they got to the harbour. Noise, service vehicles taking their chances with local donkey carts, dust, and choking exhaust fumes often made the journey difficult to endure.

The Chief of Staff's secretary was driving, one elbow resting on the opened window, probably to show how nonchalant and detached he was. Blackwood noticed that
the front passenger seat was occupied by the lieutenant's briefcase and the small bag she had been carrying when they had met at the airport, so they could sit together in the back without attracting undue attention.

He knew her hand was beside his on the worn seat, but they did not touch. Like that time in the café; it seemed so long ago.

She had seen him as soon as she had finished showing her documents, had looked straight at him as if she had known he would be there. An over-attentive flight lieutenant, probably impressed that one so junior in rank could travel in a priority aircraft, could have been invisible. She had not even noticed him.

She was wearing the khaki drill he had bought for her in the
souk
, and she was holding her injured arm at her side as if to hide it from him. As if she were ashamed of it, as his father had seemed ashamed of his wounds. She wore a loose bandage over it, and had even tried to make some sort of joke on the subject, but he had sensed the tension immediately, and was troubled by his inability to identify or understand it.

She had told him that a billet had been arranged for her at the old yacht club, now used for officers in transit. It was comfortable enough, in a place which was teeming with servicemen of every sort, but certainly not private. He laid his hand over hers almost before he knew what he was doing, and felt her flinch. Surprised, embarrassed perhaps? But she did not pull the hand away.

‘How long will you be here, Joanna?' Even the sound of her name seemed different.

She said quickly, ‘Two days. Then back to England. It's all arranged.' She turned to look at him. ‘It's not long, is it?'

‘I've been worried about you. I keep thinking about what happened.' He glanced at the driver, but he appeared intent on an army truck directly in front of him. It was full of grinning soldiers, and someone had chalked on the back,
Berlin or bust!

She said, ‘I saw all the ships. It was like that in Gibraltar when we flew out, and Malta's filling up as well.' Her hand moved slightly. ‘It's all coming to a head, isn't it, Mike?'

He realised it was the first time she had used his name. Was it that bad?

‘I think so. Glad I don't have the job of organising it. Must be a real test of allied co-operation!'

She lowered her voice so that he could barely hear her. ‘You'll be going over, Mike? It's what you've been preparing for, isn't it?'

‘Yes.' How flat and empty it sounded. If only he could hold her, tell her. What it was like, really like. But how could he? There could never be any doubts for him.

She leaned closer, and he could smell her hair, perhaps her perfume.

‘I recognise that place, the mosque! It's where we got this uniform!'

For those few seconds he saw her as he had held her in his memory. She had momentarily put her anxieties aside; she was even gripping his hand again.

‘It suits you, Joanna.' She looked directly at him, and then, surprisingly, lifted her hand to his face and held it there.