Dust On the Sea (28 page)

‘I worry about
you
, Mike. About us. What it's doing, has already done to our lives.'

He said, ‘I love you. That's all I care about.'

The lieutenant must have heard; he would be inhuman
not to be listening. But this was important. The old yacht club was in the next street. Too important to lose. To spoil.

She said quietly, ‘You will write when you can, won't you? Just so that I know you're safe.'

Blackwood tightened his grip on her fingers. ‘You know I will.' But all he could think of were the dead marines lying by the burning tank, and Robyns's last cry before he had died, and Gaillard had walked away.

The lieutenant said brightly over his shoulder, ‘Here it is! Supposed to have been quite a smart place to be seen at one time.' It was something to say, his attempt to help. Two servants were already hurrying into the road, and Blackwood saw several uniformed figures in chairs, with drinks in their hands. There were one or two women, probably nurses awaiting transfer, or passage in the next hospital ship.

The lieutenant said, ‘I'll stay with the car, Mike. They'll steal the wheels otherwise!' But he did not smile. Perhaps he felt guilty at intruding upon something so painful, and so private.

They walked into the lobby together, where an orderly made a display of checking his records before handing the girl a key.

‘The boys will get you what you need, miss.' He glanced at Blackwood. ‘You can use the lounge, sir. The rest is Residents Only.' He smiled. ‘Rules, I'm afraid.'

Blackwood had the feeling he was enjoying it.

She took her bag and said, ‘Can you wait? I'll only be a moment.' She reached out as if to touch him again, but withdrew her hand. ‘I'd like a drink if you can manage it.' She turned her back deliberately on the orderly. ‘No
rules
about that, I hope!'

Blackwood found two empty chairs and signalled for a steward. Two days, in this place? He avoided the curious eyes, and tried to shut them from his mind. Something serious had happened, and in two days she would be gone. Maybe this was her way of saying good-bye.
Never get close to anybody in wartime.
Another stupid rule, obviously made by somebody who had never been in one. He looked at his clenched fists, seeing again the German's contorted face when he had driven the knife into him.

He stood up quickly, scraping his leg against the table. She had returned, and was looking at him, with concern and what he wanted to imagine was something else.

‘Your wound – is it bad?' Then the hand came to rest on his arm. ‘Please tell me, Mike.'

They sat down, facing one another, the tall glasses having appeared unnoticed.

‘It's fine. Really.'

She reached out once more. ‘You wouldn't tell me anyway. I know you so well!' She could not keep it up. ‘I want . . . I
want
to know you so well.'

Blackwood sensed the glances, and the more blatant stares.

‘And I you.' He tried again. ‘Is there somebody else?'

She shook her head, so vehemently that she almost upset the glass.

‘You must never think that! When we had those hours together, in that funny house with the swimming pool . . .' She broke off, almost visibly composing herself. ‘I wanted you then. When I saw you at the airfield I was afraid you might have changed . . . towards me, don't you see?'

He gave the glass to her and watched her trying to
swallow some of the contents; he had no idea what he had been drinking. It did not matter. Nothing mattered.

He said, ‘When I heard you were coming from Malta I could hardly believe it. And now,' he watched her holding the glass, skin tanned against the khaki drill. She was afraid, and the realisation filled him with sudden anger. ‘Tell me what happened. What they did. Everything.
Just tell me
, share it with me.'

She looked at him in that searching, direct way, her breathing quite calm, her eyes steady.

‘You will be going to fight again soon, Mike. All those ships, all the troops I've seen here and in Malta. I'll not just walk away from you, leave you worrying, doubting . . .' She looked past him, and he saw a small pulse moving in her throat, making her semblance of composure a lie. ‘Your friend. The one who drove us.' She stared across the room, as if she were trapped. ‘He seems to know his way around.'

He held her hand across the table. ‘In his job, he needs to.'

She looked at him again, as if to make certain he was not making a joke of it. Then she said, ‘Ask him, will you, Mike? Find us a room, I don't care where it is. I just want to be alone with you.' Then she smiled faintly. ‘Only you with all your private troubles would understand. You know that, don't you?'

He stood. He had not released her hand.

‘I'll tell him it was my idea.'

She watched his mouth, his eyes, searching for something.

Then she said, ‘I love you.'

She watched him leave the room, and saw two officers at the next table whispering to each other.

She recalled what Major-General Vaughan had said when he had invented a reason for her flight under his orders.

‘Tell them all to go to hell, my dear!' His battered face had bent into a grin. ‘And tell Captain Blackwood, from me, that if I'd been a year or so younger he wouldn't have had a bloody look-in!'

He was back, gazing down at her, his eyes full of questions, of longing.

‘You were right. He does know a place. Not that far.' He hesitated, as if afraid she had changed her mind.

She stood up and reached for her shoulder bag. ‘Let's go. I've got all I need here.'

He saw the way she was looking at the two officers at the next table. Defiance, contempt; maybe they had made some remark to her in his absence.

She turned to him and almost smiled. As if she had made a decision, or one had been forced upon her.

Two days.
He opened the door for her. It was more than some people discovered in a lifetime.

The Chief of Staff's secretary certainly knew his way around, and even the sight of several military police vehicles did not deter him.

‘The chap who owns this place does a lot of work for the base. Boat repairs, carpentry – useful man to know.' He returned one of the redcaps' salutes and added, ‘Bit noisy. But it's safe enough.'

The girl had walked between them from the car. There were servicemen everywhere, in the narrow streets where the balconies almost touched each other, in the bazaars and the cafés. But the heavy military police presence suggested something else: brothels, which, despite having
been ruled off-limits, would be a ready temptation for the innocent.

The lieutenant said, ‘He's Dutch, by the way. Left the sea to live here, of all places.'

She asked, ‘Is it private?' It sounded so silly she almost laughed. She felt light-headed, reckless. Impatient with herself for being afraid, and angered by the rude stares at the old yacht club.

‘It's okay.' He pushed open a gate and led the way across a small courtyard. ‘Oh, he's in Cairo at the moment.' He sensed Blackwood's hesitation, and knew it was because of the girl. ‘Really. It's all right. Believe me.'

Up an outside stairway and into a low-ceilinged room which faced over the harbour. An untidy room, a masculine room. There was a large and severe portrait of Queen Wilhelmina of the Netherlands on one wall, an engraving of Rotterdam on another. A man a long way from home.

The lieutenant glanced at his watch and waited until the girl had gone to the other door before he said, ‘Pick you up early, Mike. Back to the old yacht club, I'm afraid. There's a servant here, a dozy Greek; he'll look after things. There's food and wine.' He grimaced. ‘The sanitation is somewhat primitive.'

She called across the room, ‘Thank you. It's fine.'

Blackwood looked at the small balcony, a feature in most of these waterfront buildings. The sky was darker, with a hint of red in it, like the reflected fires over London. So soon? Where had the time gone since he had waited for her at the airfield?

And Gaillard would be returning tomorrow. Perhaps he could . . .

He turned as she came to him and put her head against his shoulder. The lieutenant had gone, and he could imagine the M.P.s nudging one another while they waited for the evening brawls and drunken disputes. Like the two officers at the yacht club.
All right for some
 . . .

Together they walked to the table; it was surprisingly neat, and simply arranged. The lieutenant must have telephoned somebody, or maybe he used the place himself.

She said, ‘I think we should eat. But I'll go and wash first.'

He said, ‘I understand it's a bit crude!' They laughed together for the first time.

She picked up her bag. ‘We don't all have marble bathrooms, you know!'

Blackwood poured some wine and tasted it. It reminded him of the resinous wine Carson had taken from the island, with a definite bite to it.

She came from the other room and picked up her own glass. ‘I suppose I should feel sinful, wicked.' She gazed at him over the rim. ‘I don't. We're on our own.' She turned slightly as a roar of laughter came up from the street, then she took his arm and they walked out on to the balcony and leaned on the sun-flaked plaster. The heat of the day lingered here despite the shadows, and the great spread of fire across the sky. Angry, unmoving, defying the coming of night.

Blackwood could smell the place: cooking of every sort, people, dirt. He slipped his arm around her shoulders, and realised that she had removed the protective bandage. He could feel the intensity of her eyes as he held the arm and studied it in the fierce sunset.

It had been a terrible burn. The marks of the fire bars
were still livid, the seared skin in brutal contrast with her body.

‘I'll kill whoever did this!'

She was shocked by the depth and pain of his emotion, but said nothing. He held her closely, and felt the warmth of her shoulders, her spine, like that time in the empty house in Rosetta.

He felt her stiffen and turn her head, alert, like a frightened animal.

‘What is it?'

She whispered, ‘That smell.'

He sensed her sudden resistance against his body. ‘Tar. For the boats.'

She nodded, as if she had heard someone else's voice. ‘I know. Like the van. And later in the boat. It took me by surprise.' He would have released her. ‘No, don't stop, Mike. Not now. Especially not now. I need you so much. I must know, you see. I don't want to spoil it . . .'

He unfastened her belt and let it fall, and as his fingers paused and then opened the buttons on her jacket, he knew she was naked underneath. Why she had said at the awful yacht club,
I've got all I need here.

She stood against him as he slid his hands around her waist and up over her breasts. She was trembling, barely able to control it, and yet so determined, as if something were driving her, forcing her.

Once she said, ‘I'm all right. They told me. But I have to
know
, for your sake.'

He half-carried her through to the other room, her jacket falling to the floor, her face against his; somehow he knew her eyes were tightly closed. The bare shoulders were stiff and unyielding.

He laid her on the bed and unbuttoned her khaki slacks.
He had to lift her to pull them from her; she made no move to help or resist him. He straightened and stood over her, her body motionless on the unknown bed, her arms outflung, like an exquisite carving.

She said suddenly, ‘I want to be yours. You must know that. I need to find it again, to give it.'

She moved her head from side to side as if in pain.

‘I've been so afraid. I was terrified when it happened. I still am, because of you. Because of us . . .'

He realised that her eyes were open, but he sensed that she saw something or someone else, at once a spectre and a terrible memory.

She said, ‘Take me, Mike.' He had to bend over her to hear her voice. So small, so afraid. ‘I don't care what you do, I want you to
take me.
Then I'll know.'

He lay beside her, his hand on her breast, then the tightened muscles of her stomach, wanting her, and yet afraid.

She said, ‘Your hand. Put it there. Take me.'

He sensed resistance as he knelt over her, and then felt her entire body denying him. Then, like the madness of battle, caution was gone. She was writhing beneath him, her body wet with sweat, her eyes still tightly shut as he found her, sensed her pain, her strength finally breaking as he entered her and their bodies came together.

She had one hand over his mouth, perhaps to reassure him as she responded to his need, suddenly aroused, freed from doubt and despair.

They lay together, not wanting it to end, not wishing to withdraw one from the other. She could feel his heart, his joy, his need of her. Something so strong and so demanding, so pure, could never be soiled. And when she
touched herself again, she would feel him and no one else, no matter how many miles lay between them.

Somewhere beyond the shadows a ship's siren vibrated over the hidden water.

But she could listen to it now without fear.

Captain Mike Blackwood returned the salute of a seaman in webbing belt and gaiters, with the familiar mail bag slung over one arm. The postman was the all-important link for servicemen and women overseas, vital at times like these. He wondered if there might be a letter waiting for him in the mess, but decided not to hope too much.

He strode into the wooden building which had been allocated to Force
Trident
, until the next owners moved in. Units, specialised or not, shifted in and out of Alex with barely time for a signboard or company crest to be erected.

Lieutenant Fellowes, one of the new officers from England, made to rise from the desk but Blackwood waved him down.