Coming Home (139 page)

‘Nobody needs to walk if they don't feel up to it. We've plenty of transport if anyone wants a ride.’

But Judith's group, now swelled to about twenty men, said that they would walk.

‘Right. Then let's go.’

They set off at an unhurried pace, up the gentle slope that rose from the shore. The pipe band was now playing another tune.

Come o'er the sea, Charlie, proud Charlie, brave Charlie,

Come o'er the sea, Charlie and welcome MacLean.

For though you be weary, we'll make your heart cheery…

The man next to Judith said, ‘That Sister. Clapping her hands. We had a teacher just like that at home, when I was a lad.’

‘Where's home?’

‘Alnwick.’

‘Have you been to Colombo before?’

‘No. We stopped by on our way to Singapore, but we didn't come ashore. Officers did, but not other ranks. Suppose they thought we might scarper.’

Another of the men chipped in. ‘Wouldn't have been a bad thing if we had.’ He had scars on his neck from what looked like boils, and he walked with a painful limp.

‘Are you all right, walking? Wouldn't you rather bum a lift?’

‘Bit of a leg stretch won't hurt.’

‘Where's
your
home?’

‘Near Walsingham. The fells. My dad's a sheep farmer.’

‘Are you all Durham Light Infantry?’

‘That's right.’

‘Are there some Gordon Highlanders on board?’

‘Yes, but they're in the last tender. Following on.’

‘A bit unfriendly, playing Scottish music for coming ashore. They should have played Northumberland folk songs, specially for you.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don't know. I don't know any.’

Another man moved forward. ‘Do you not know “When the boat comes in”?’

‘No. I'm sorry. Very ignorant.’

‘What did you say your name was?’

‘Judith.’

‘Do you work in Colombo?’

‘No, I'm on leave.’

‘Why aren't you off enjoying yourself then?’

‘I am.’

Long afterwards, when it was all over, Judith remembered the official reception for the returned prisoners of war much as she recalled School Speech Days, or garden fêtes in England. All the elements of some churchly fund-raising were there. The smell of trodden grass, canvas, and over-heated humanity. The Royal Marine band, out on the Green, playing light selections from Gilbert and Sullivan. The stifling tents seething with khaki-clad men and visiting dignitaries come to pay their respects. (The vicar, the Lord Lieutenant, and Colonel Carey-Lewis would not have looked in the least out of place.) Then, the refreshments. Around the sides of the tent, trestle-tables were loaded with goodies. Buns, sandwiches, and little cakes, all of which melted away in record time, to be instantly replaced from some bottomless source or other. To drink, there was iced coffee, lemonade, and hot tea. (Again, one half expected to spy Mrs Nettlebed or Mary Millyway in charge of the tea-urn, with Mrs Mudge alongside dealing with the milk jugs and the sugar.)

So full became the tent that access to the trestle-tables was limited, so having safely delivered their charges, Judith and Sarah were pressed into duty as waitresses, loading trays with full plates and glasses and cups, and making sure that every man got his share of the feast.

By now, there was a lot of talking, and it was all very hot and noisy. But at last the assembled company, finally sated, stopped eating and drifted in twos and threes out onto the Green, to lie on the grass, smoke cigarettes, and listen to the band.

Judith looked at her watch, and saw that it was already half past eleven. Sarah Sudlow was nowhere to be seen, and the stewards were now clearing away the detritus of the party. Her shirt was sticking to her back and there didn't seem to be much else to do, so she left the tent, ducking under the canvas overhang and stepping over a couple of guy-ropes. She faced the sea, and the breeze was blissfully cooling.

She stood for a moment breathing gusts of fresh air and observing the peaceful scene. The lawns of Gordon's Green; the Royal Marine Band (suitably ceremonial in white helmets) now playing tunes from
H.M.S. Pinafore;
the random groups of relaxing men. And then her eye was caught by a single man, who did not lie prone, propped on an elbow, but stood, with his back to her, apparently intent upon the music. She noticed him because he was different. Lanky and fleshless as the others, but not wearing the anonymous uniform of jungle green and canvas gym shoes. Instead, a pair of battered desert boots, the sort that were always referred to by officers of the Royal Navy as brothel-creepers. On his dark head was a Gordon glengarry, the ribbons fluttering in the breeze. A worn khaki shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. And a kilt. A Gordon kilt. Ragged and faded, the pleats stitched down, in amateurish fashion, with twine. But still, a kilt.

Gus.

For an instant she thought it might be Gus, and then saw at once that he wasn't because Gus was dead. Lost, killed in Singapore. But perhaps he had
known
Gus.

…I cleaned the windows and I swept the floor,

And I polished up the handle of the big front door,

I polished up that handle so carefullee

That now I am the ruler of the Queen's Navee.

She walked across the grass towards him. He did not hear her coming, and he never turned.

She said, ‘Hello.’

Startled, he swung around, and she was looking up into his face. Dark eyes, thick brows, cheeks cadaverous, skin netted with fine lines that had not been there before. She experienced an extraordinary physical sensation, as though her heart had ceased to beat and for an instant she had been frozen in time.

It was he who broke the silence. ‘Good God. Judith.’

Oh, Loveday. You were wrong. You were wrong all the time.

‘Gus.’

‘Where did you spring from?’

‘Here. Colombo.’

He wasn't killed at Singapore. He isn't dead. He's here. With me. Alive.

She said, ‘You're alive.’

‘Did you think I wasn't?’

‘Yes. I've thought for years you were dead. Ever since Singapore. We all did. When I saw you standing, I knew it wasn't you, because it couldn't be.’

‘Do I look like a corpse?’

‘No. You look wonderful.’ And she meant it, and it was true. ‘The boots, and the kilt and the glengarry. How on earth did you manage to hang on to them?’

‘Only the kilt and the bonnet. I stole the boots.’

‘Oh, Gus.’

‘Don't cry.’

But she took a step towards him, put her arms around his waist and pressed her face into the worn cotton of the old khaki shirt. She could feel his ribs and his bones and could hear the beating of his heart. His arms came around her and they simply stood there, very close, for anybody to see or to remark upon. And she thought of Loveday again, and then stopped thinking of Loveday. For the moment all that was important was that she had found Gus again.

After a bit, they drew apart. If any person had witnessed their display of intimate affection, then no regard was being paid. She had not wept, and he had not kissed her. It was over. Back to basics.

‘I never saw you in the tent,’ she told him.

‘I was only there for a little while.’

‘Do you have to stay here?’

‘Not necessarily. Do you?’

‘Not necessarily. When do you have to be back on board?’

‘Tenders at three o'clock.’

‘We could go back to the Galle Road. Where I'm staying. Have a drink or some lunch. There's time.’

‘What I would really like,’ said Gus, ‘is to go to the Galle Face Hotel. I've got a sort of date there. But I couldn't just go on my own, because I haven't any proper money. No rupees. Just Japanese paper notes.’

‘I've got money. I'll take you. I'll come with you.’

‘How?’

‘We'll take a taxi. There's a rank up on the road by the Clock Tower. We can walk as far as that.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course.’

‘You won't get into trouble?’

‘I'm on leave. A free agent.’

So they slipped away. Again nobody noticed, and if they did, said nothing. They went through the now nearly empty tent, and across the grass, and out into Queen Street and so up the road to the cross-roads and the Clock Tower. There some ancient taxis waited. The drivers, spying them, instantly leaped to their feet to haggle amongst themselves for the fare, but Judith and Gus got into the first in the queue, which saved a lot of argument.

She said, ‘You know, I never realised until just now how terribly difficult it must be to be a witness. In court. At a murder trial or something. You could swear blind on the Bible that you had or hadn't seen a person at some vital moment. But I know now that what you actually
see
is governed by what you believe, or think to be true.’

‘Me, you mean?’

‘It wasn't
you,
until I saw your face.’

‘The best thing that's happened to me forever was seeing yours. Tell me about you. You're on leave. Don't you work here?’

‘No. In Trincomalee. You won't remember Bob Somerville, my uncle? I don't think you'd ever met him. He's a Rear Admiral on the C in C's staff. I'm staying with him.’

‘I see.’

‘His wife, Biddy, was my mother's sister.’

‘Was. Past tense.’

‘Yes. My parents were in Singapore, about the same time as you…’

‘I know. I met them once at a regimental party at the Selaring Barracks. It was just before Pearl Harbor, when we were still having parties. What happened to them? Did they get away?’

Judith shook her head. ‘No. My father died in Changi.’

‘I'm sorry.’

‘And my mother and my little sister tried to get to Australia, but their ship was torpedoed in the Java Sea. They didn't survive.’

‘Oh, God. I
am
so sorry.’

‘That's why I'm on leave. A month. To be with Bob. I have to go back to Trincomalee at the end of this week.’

‘So a few days later and I'd have missed you.’

‘That's right.’

The taxi was driving along the edge of the Galle Face Green. A group of small boys played football, dribbling and kicking regardless of bare toes. Gus turned his head to watch them. He said, ‘It's not exactly in the same league, but my parents have died as well. Neither starved nor drowned, but quietly, in their own beds, or hospital, or perhaps a nursing home.’ He turned back to face her. He said, ‘They were elderly; they were elderly before I was born. I was the only child. Perhaps they, too, thought I was dead.’

‘Who told you this?’

‘A kindly lady, a sort of social worker, in the hospital in Rangoon.’

‘At Singapore, couldn't you send word to
anyone?
Not even your mother and father?’

‘I tried to smuggle a letter out of Changi, but I don't suppose it ever got to them. I never got another chance.’