A Dawn Like Thunder (35 page)

He brushed the hair from her forehead. ‘Will you?'

She looked away. ‘Do you have a handkerchief?'

He gave her his and watched her dab her eyes with it.

She said lightly, ‘I'm all right, Jamie. I'm not going to spoil it. Twenty-four hours? They might cancel it, whatever it is – I've known it happen before. So must you?' She looked at him, her eyes pleading. ‘It happens, doesn't it?' Then she threw her arms around his neck and exclaimed, ‘But you don't think so. You
know
, don't you?'

He touched her hair, and her neck where he could feel the thin gold chain she always wore. ‘Too much at stake,
Victoria.' So many lives, reputations too; no, they would not cancel it unless the enemy were one jump ahead. He held her even closer.
Am I afraid? Like poor David. Would I know if I was afraid?

He thought of Villiers and Sinclair, and the young Royal Marine captain with the absurd moustache. And all the others. Mike Tucker would be there as well. He would know, too. Mike had changed in some way: there were fewer jokes now, and he had acquired a calm maturity which had taken Ross by surprise. After being a prisoner he must have seen how narrow was the margin between hope and despair. He had come through it, but what had really changed him?

He said quietly, ‘I love you so much, Victoria.' It felt as if he had shouted it aloud. ‘I don't want to hurt you any more. You deserve so much more than I can offer.' He touched her mouth and throat. ‘But nobody could love you more.'

She thrust her hand through his arm. ‘That's settled then. It's up to us.' They paused by one of the pillars. ‘Now kiss me, as if you mean it.' She smiled up at him, some small tears on her dark lashes unheeded. ‘Just keep on loving me!'

He kissed her. The smile was still on her lips, and he could taste the salt of her tears.

Second Officer Celia Blandford looked around the operations room and plucked the shirt away from her damp shoulder. There were two sailors on duty beside the array of telephones and one glanced up to watch, but averted his eyes when he saw her irritation.

She compared this to the operations room where she had served before: the bustle, the orderly comings and goings of messengers, senior officers and other Wrens like herself. She glanced at the damp, curling notices and faded maps on
the walls. This place was a shambles, more like a seedy club than the springboard of Special Operations.

She recalled Pryce's precise instructions about signals and Intelligence reports. He at least was a true professional, whereas some of the others . . .

Then there was Lieutenant-Commander Ross. What was he really like? The Victoria Cross should have said it all, but it only scratched the surface. Also there was that half-Chinese Wren petty officer. She had confessed out loud that she was in love with James Ross, had even seemed rather shy about it: perhaps she would have been more open with Jane Clarke. Love – what could she know about it? Although she had an influential father; she would be very wealthy one day . . .

It was so unfair. But get a commission? She smiled quickly. They needed good officers in the Wrens, but there were standards, limits. Perhaps she ought to take her aside and have a talk with her.

She looked up, frowning, as the door opened very slightly and a khaki arm came around it. For a moment she thought it was that dashing Major Sinclair, who had made such a name for himself in Burma and Malaya, and whose fierce manner intrigued her. But it was not. Anyway, Sinclair was married, or so she had heard.

‘Yes? Do you wish to see somebody here?' It came out more sharply than she had intended, and she tried to soften it. ‘I'm Second Officer Blandford . . .'

The officer entered the room. He was wearing smart khaki drill, well pressed, somehow at odds with the tanned, lean features and steely eyes above it.

He said calmly, ‘I know who you are. I want to see Captain Pryce.'

She smiled, on firm ground again.
I want.
‘Captain Pryce is not here at present.' She made a careful note of the crown
on his shoulder and the Military Police flash on his sleeve. ‘I'm sorry, er, Major . . . ?'

‘Guest. George Guest. I need to see him.'

He sauntered across the room, the eyes of the two sailors following him like lamps.

‘I can call the Base, Major Guest, if it really is so urgent. We've been rather busy . . .'

The steely eyes settled on her. ‘A flap on, right?' He saw her flush and smiled. ‘I've seen a few come and go here. I felt it as I drove in.' He recalled what she had said. ‘Yes, give him a buzz. I should have come earlier, but this sort of thing takes time, and tenacity.'

‘May I tell him what it's about?'

He watched her hands, their quick, nervous movements. ‘It's about your predecessor. Jane Clarke.'

‘I – I see.' The cool way he had spoken her name, and without her rank: it made her sound like a suspect. But she was dead.

Guest walked to the door. ‘Where's Petty Officer Mackenzie?'

She said, ‘Ashore, sir. On local leave. I have a number where she can be reached.'

Guest nodded.
I'll bet you have.
‘I'll not disturb her.' He closed the door behind him without a sound.

His sergeant was waiting for him, his red cap shining like blood in the police-light by the compound.

‘All right, sir?'

Guest smiled. ‘We'll have to get a move on.' He compared the dead girl with the one he had just met. How could they send her to a place like this, he wondered. Surrounded by all those young tearaways, most of whom had probably never been with a woman in their lives. But this one, Blandford, would run a mile if a man so much as smiled at her.
If I'm any judge.

Like his sergeant, he had been a copper on the beat long before he had joined the Military Police for the duration. He listened to the piano and the lusty singing coming from the petty officers' mess, and then headed towards the wardroom. A far cry from the East End of London, with its jellied eels and Saturday night punch-ups at the old
Salmon and Ball
pub. To go back to it after this was unthinkable.

He was himself again. ‘We may not have enough to make it stick, but a court of enquiry – well, that would be something else.'

They both grinned.
Once a cop . . .

The hospital seemed very quiet, even deserted, not at all the way that he remembered it. Petty Officer Mike Tucker held up his arm and looked at the small red mark where the needle had gone in. It was almost funny when you thought about it. While he had been here in this same hospital with the delirious Sub-Lieutenant Napier, some busybody had noticed in his paybook that one of his inoculations was out of date. He clenched his fist. It should cause no pain; with him it almost never did. Must keep the naval records up to date, even when you stood a fair chance of having your arse blown off. He picked up his cap, his best one, and wondered why he had bothered. Then he glanced at a closed door, where he had waited by Napier's bedside, when the girl had come to him. He smiled again.
Jamie's girl.
He hoped so, anyway.

He glanced at his reflection in a window and tilted his cap to a rakish angle. His family would know he was safe. They would never know he was already off again. He had even had some letters, some so old that they were still talking about the nearness of Christmas. Young Madge had had the kid, his mother had written. He had been able to feel her indignation through her sloping handwriting. It was
more black than white, apparently. He could smile about it now, but it must have lit a fuse under his mum and dad. Madge and her bloody Yanks, another benefit of the Lease-Lend agreement.

‘Why, hello! Didn't expect to see
you
back here!'

He swung round, shading his eyes from the sunlight that filled the corridor. The nurse was small and neat in her tropical uniform: pretty, too, with a nice smile.

He said, ‘Oh, just for a jab from the doc.'

She shook her head. ‘You don't remember me at all, do you?'

It was like turning back a page. He said quietly, ‘Nurse Julyan. I'm hardly likely to forget you.' He saw her surprise and uncertainty. ‘You were such a help to young Mr Napier, before they took off his arm. You must be used to it, I suppose.'

She seemed to consider it. ‘Not really.' She hesitated. ‘He was such a nice young chap. One night when he was able to speak properly, he told me all about you, how you saved him and carried him for miles.' She saw his face cloud over. ‘Sometimes he was too drugged to know what he was saying. He kept talking about somebody called Mango.' She smiled. ‘You'd fallen asleep in the chair by his bed.'

‘Mango was just a kid caught up in somebody else's war. He was killed.'

She said, ‘I see
you
don't get used to it, either.'

He said, ‘You told me about your brother.'

‘Did I?' She glanced at her wrist; it was bandaged, but Tucker had not noticed it before. She said, ‘One poor chap tried to kill himself. Some clot had left the scissors where he could get at them. I stopped him, but he had a go at me instead.' She tried to smile. ‘He didn't know about my famous right hook!'

All at once they were walking together towards the entrance. She said, ‘Did I really tell you about Jack?'

‘Yeah. He was a rear-gunner on a Lanc. Bought it over Germany.'

She nodded. ‘And you come from Hendon. North London. Very posh.'

She smiled again, her teeth white in her tanned face. ‘Not our part of it!'

There was a naval van in front of the drive, with the Special Operations flash painted on the wing.

He said, ‘I'll cadge a lift. Got some gear to pack.' She said nothing, but stood quite still watching him as if she were waiting for something. ‘I was wondering.' He looked down at her: she was short, and had a pretty, turned-up nose. ‘Bit of a cheek – I'm not even sure if I'll be back in these parts. But would you care to come out for a drink, a meal or something? Maybe we could see a flick down at the army cinema?'

‘Thought you'd never ask.' She studied his face, where the cruel bruises had been. Like the scars on his back. It must have been agony, but he had not complained like some men did when they were on the mend. Before that they were like small, lost boys, ashamed of their wounds or injuries, embarrassed at being washed, swabbed and handled, and suffering every indignity thrown their way. Mike Tucker had not been like that. She had been easily able to picture him carrying poor Napier mile after mile. Once, Napier had gripped her hand and said in a level, conversational voice, ‘He could have left me, you know. Or killed me. It's what they do over there.'

What they do.
She looked at the line of closed doors behind him.
We don't even know the half of it. We only pick up the pieces.

Tucker was looking at her, as if they had met somewhere before.

‘I really ought to know your name, Nurse Julyan. You know mine!'

She wished they were somewhere else. There were so many things. She replied, ‘Actually, it's Eve. No cracks now, if you don't mind!'

He took her hands in his, very careful not to touch the bandage.

‘Eve.' He looked at her for several seconds. ‘
Eve.
It would be. Eve.' He stooped and kissed her on the cheek, then turned away before she could speak.

A sick-berth attendant passed with a large jug of lemon juice.

‘There now, Nurse Julyan! What did I just see?'

She smiled. After all, he couldn't help being the way he was. He was called Flossie by his workmates, and he seemed to enjoy it.

He said suddenly, ‘That was Mike Tucker, just had a jab. Can't see the sense in it, if the buzz I've heard is true. I should forget about him if I were you.'

But she was staring after the van as it moved towards the gates. It had blurred over like a painting left out in the rain. A light began to flash above one of the doors and she automatically straightened her cap before hurrying towards it.

She touched her cheek where he had kissed her, remembering his face when she had told him her name.
It would be.
What had he meant? She gripped the door-handle so hard that it hurt her fingers. She might never know.

James Ross lay on top of the bed and watched the moonlight through the mosquito netting spreading patterns across the opposite wall. The house was full of creaks and small sounds, although he guessed that everyone else was
asleep. He could see the close, brilliant stars through the window and imagined a warm breeze playing through the palm fronds. There had been no rain after all, although he had heard the Colonel predicting it to his old friend, the doctor, over dinner. An awkward meal despite everyone's kindness, and the unmasked interest of the doctor. Had it been planned, or had it just happened that way?

She had been seated opposite him and each time their eyes had met over another course, he had felt their emotion like physical pain. She had worn a plain silk dress with her throat bare; he had seen the gold chain moving even when she had kept her features composed.

Tomorrow. Or was it today? She would be in uniform. That would be the hardest time . . . He had thought he might lose himself in the preparations, the ‘ifs' and ‘maybes' of Pryce's Operation
Trident
, but there was nothing more to do. He had forgotten nothing, had even seen all their faces in his mind when he had gone over it yet again.
The volunteers.
If they had accepted all the volunteers, they would have needed four submarines and more chariots as well. He had been deeply touched that men he had come to know as friends could offer their lives so freely. The target and the location were set. Even if something changed at the last minute, or the vital recognition signals were never discovered, he knew, just as he had known other significant things in his life, that the operation would not be cancelled. When he tried to think ahead, beyond the nerve-stretching strategy which had seemed so clear in the operations room, the shock really hit him. Beyond the deed there had been nothing. Like a last chapter being torn out of a book.