by Janet Tanner
Elise was about to leave her suite to go down for dinner when the telephone shrilled.
She put down her small sequinned evening bag and crossed to answer it. For the last three hours she had been waiting for the call, now – just at the very moment when she was on the point of doing something else – it came through!
‘Hello?’
‘Hello – Elise? Is that you?’ His very English voice was totally familiar in spite of the crackling wires and it raised waves of homesickness in her besides conjuring up an image of him in her mind – his dapper frame immaculate in white ducks, his fair-skinned face giving the impression of paleness except for the pinkish patches at the temple where the sandy hair had receded sufficiently to allow the sun to catch.
‘Gordon!’
‘Are you there, Elise? I can hardly hear you.’
‘Yes, I’m here.’ She bit her lip to keep it from trembling. ‘ It’s a bad line, but I suppose we were lucky to get one at all. I have been trying to ring …’
‘Have you had any luck with the passage?’ he interrupted her. ‘We’re doing all we can this end. We had another Protest Meeting last night and we are going to lobby the Governor. It’s time he threw his weight behind us. We have already been promised the support of at least some of the Executive Council: Hugh de Gama …’
Irrationally Elise felt a twist of resentment. Hugh de Gama, a clever and plausible Portuguese who was a nominated ex-officio member of the Executive Council which was consulted by the Governor on all important administrative matters, was Gordon’s best friend in Hong Kong. But for some reason she could not have explained, she did not like him. Now she said rather snappishly, ‘What’s it got to do with Hugh? He’s not a husband, is he?’
She could almost feel Gordon bristle. ‘I should have thought you would have been pleased to know he’s on our side. Hugh’s influence counts for a great deal.’
‘I know.’ Elise did not want to waste precious minutes discussing Hugh de Gama. ‘ How are things there? How is Alex?’
There was a slight but discernible pause; before she could have reasonably known, her instincts had interpreted it for her.
‘What is it?’ she asked quickly. ‘Is he ill?’
‘Now don’t get into a panic, Elise.’ The calm reasonableness of Gordon’s tone annoyed her. ‘ It may be nothing.’
‘What may be nothing?’
‘He’s not been well the last day or two. I’ve had Cromer in to look at him; he thinks in all probability it’s a mild virus infection.’
‘What sort of infection?’
‘He couldn’t identify it. Now you’re not to worry, Elise.’
Not to worry! Her child was sick and she was hundreds of miles away and he told her not to worry!
‘What are his symptoms?’
‘High temperature – sickness – headache; it could be anything really; we shall have to wait and see what develops, Cromer said.’
She was holding tightly to the receiver and her knuckles had gone white. ‘It could be anything.’ Typhoid, cholera, malaria even, the list in the East was endless.
‘Elise, are you still there?’
‘Yes. Gordon, why didn’t you let me know at once?’
‘Because there is really nothing to tell and in any case it will probably turn out to be something trivial – just a bug. By tomorrow I expect he’ll be fine. You know what children are.’
Oh yes, she knew! Pathetic as a stray kitten at one moment: lifeless, pale, whimpering. Then bouncing back, playing twice as noisily as before, eating twice as much, a complete turnaround recovery. But she also knew how a sick child needed his mother. All too clearly she remembered when he had had measles. Night after night when he was getting sick he had been unable to sleep and she had woken to hear him grizzling, his nose stuffy and blocked, not knowing what was the matter with himself. She had sat up with him then, comforting him, singing softly to him until at last he fell asleep for a little while; and had made sure she was there when he woke up again, perhaps less than an hour later. When the illness was at its height she had been on hand to sponge him down when his temperature soared, tempt him with drinks of barley water and generally fuss him better.
Would Su Ming do all that? She was a good amah, but she was not his mother.
I should be there! Elise thought. Even if he’s not seriously ill, I should be there.
‘Gordon, you will ring me tomorrow, won’t you? Let me know how he is, and what Dr Cromer says?’
‘I’ll do my best, but you know how difficult it’s getting to use these international lines.’
She closed her eyes, sick with helplessness,
‘But you will try?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And so will I. Oh, Gordon, will you make sure Su Ming lets Alex have his cuddly toy if he’s not feeling well? She thinks it’s a grubby thing and that he’s too old for it, but it does comfort him so. And …’
‘Time is up, caller!’
‘Can’t we have a little longer?’ she asked in panic.
‘Sorry. The lines are booked.’
‘Gordon …’ she was almost sobbing.
‘I’ll try to get you tomorrow Elise. Goodnight, now.’
The line went dead and she stood for a moment with her hands pressed to her face. ‘Why hadn’t Dr Cromer been able to diagnose what was wrong? And why hadn’t Gordon got in touch with her immediately? Was it as he had said, that there really was no cause for concern? Or was it just the opposite – that Alex was so ill he shrank from telling her?
The panic was a blackness inside her which she fought to control, but she was still shaking as she retrieved her bag and left the room to go down to dinner.
The call had made her late and she knew the Comtesse would be growing impatient. Elise, never the best of timekeepers, had called forth a sharp remark from her on several occasions, for the old Frenchwoman did not like being kept waiting.
If she says anything tonight I shall explode, Elise thought. She may be exiled, but she doesn’t really know what it’s like to be in my position. Her children are all grown-up and her grand-children have their own mothers to look after them; if she says two words to me, I shall tell her just that!
In the dining room dinner was in full swing. Waiters glided soundlessly between tables set with heavy silver, crystal glasses and snowy white napery, and the discreet rattle of cutlery and murmur of conversation was masked by a trio playing softly on a dais behind potted palms.
The Comtesse’s regular table was hidden from the door by a screen of ferns and a six-foot-high arrangement of fresh flowers, but through it Elise caught a glimpse of jet-black lace. The head waiter approached, inclining his head deferentially, and she followed him across the room.
As she passed the concealing screen she stopped, tensing in shock and annoyance. For the Comtesse du Pare was not alone. Sitting opposite her was a tall, lean man in RAF uniform – the same man for whom she had been turned unceremoniously out of her room – Gerald Brittain.
‘Ah, Elise, ma chère …’ The Comtesse looked up and saw her. ‘You are here at last then. I am so glad, because tonight we two ladies do not have to dine alone. I have invited a friend to join us – well, I can say an old friend, can I not, when our two families have done business for so many years?’ She smiled expansively in Brittain’s direction, but Elise caught the gleam of triumph in the blue eyes and her smouldering emotions fanned to an explosion of fury.
This time the Comtesse had gone too far in her manipulating. Even before hearing the news of Alex’s illness which had added to her worries, she would not have been pleased to find herself in the position of having to make polite conversation with one of the Brittains of Cormorant throughout dinner. Now, upset as she was, the prospect was intolerable.
She drew herself up. ‘ I’m sorry. You will have to excuse me tonight.’
‘But Elise, why? What is wrong?’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘But that is not poss
ible! My child, I cannot believe …’
‘Please don’t make me give you the real reason. I don’t wish to be impolite to your guest.’ She glared at him and was repaid with an amused look from the cool hazel eyes.
‘Mrs Sanderson, I believe.’ The simple acknowledgement spoke volumes. ‘We do seem to meet under the most unfortunate circumstances.’
Her chin lifted. ‘ That’s hardly my fault,’ she flared, ‘but you may depend upon it that I will do my best to make sure it doesn’t happen again.’
She turned abruptly, honey-coloured hair bouncing against the high collar of the scarlet brocade Chinese jacket she was wearing over her simple black gown, and without a backward glance she swept out of the dining room. She strode through the foyer with head held high, clutching her sequinned bag as if she would like to club someone with it. A boy held open the door for her, his dusky face puzzled and anxious, but she did not acknowledge him; she was too furious to speak – and certain that if she tried, the torrent of tears inside her would escape.
How dare the Comtesse place her in such a position? She had made it clear how she felt about the Brittains of Cormorant, who took a delight in seeing others grovel and found amusement in their discomfort.
Her high heels clattered on the steps of Shepheard’s and as the warm air touched her flushed cheeks the bubble within her burst.
It was hopeless, hopeless! The tears aching behind her eyes spilled over, running down her cheeks, as her feet carried her blindly along the broad boulevard that ran parallel with the banks of the Nile.
Soldiers passing her turned to whistle or to stare – a woman alone in the streets of Cairo after dark was cause for comment – but she did not notice them.
What can I do? she was thinking as her breath came more unevenly, punctuated by small almost soundless sobs.
Hong Kong was in danger of invasion by the Japanese, Alex was ill – perhaps seriously – and she could not get to him. Nobody could help, nobody cared a damn!
Untrue. A stab of guilt pierced her despair. The Comtesse had cared and tried to help, but her suggestion had been to ask Gerald Brittain for his backing and Elise could not do that. No, not even if he were her last hope …
The wheel turned full circle, the twist of the screw bringing a fresh wash of tears. He was her last hope! Every other avenue had been tried and found to be a dead end. But what could he do even if she did swallow her pride and beg for his assistance? The Brittains were powerful in Hong Kong but this was Cairo. He would let her make a fool of herself, no doubt, and then inform her with that infuriatingly superior smile that she was out of her mind to even consider it. Probably he would tell her that women had no business travelling about alone – their place was in the home, looking after their husbands and children. She had met him twice for just a few minutes, yet already she knew and disliked him as thoroughly as Gordon had always disliked the Brittain family. ‘Arrogant vain bastards’, he had called them.
Vain!
The word caught in her mind. The Brittains were vain and this one, she was sure, was no exception. Supposing she was to appeal to his vanity – make it a challenge to the power the family wielded. Was it possible then that he might try to do something for her by way of proving that for a Brittain anything was possible?
Her breath came fast and shallow. The tears – always a useless luxury – had stopped now.
Could he do something if he chose? The Comtesse had thought so …
No! I can’t! I can’t ask him! she thought, but this time a small voice within prompted: You could try.
No, I can’t!
If there had ever been a chance, she had ruined it. Twice since he had come to Shepheard’s she had encountered him, twice she had been less than friendly – less than polite, even. She must have appeared an utter shrew.
‘How much do you want to get back to Alex?’ the small voice within her asked.
With all my heart. Nothing else matters. Nothing.
Not even pride?
Oh I don’t know … she swallowed, torn by an agony of indecision. Then her chin came up. No. Not even pride could be allowed to matter. If there was a chance, however tiny, that he could help her she must take advantage of it.
But what on earth am I going to say to him? she wondered.
And the small voice, triumphant, answered: ‘You’ll think of something.’
Her steps slowed; she turned. She had come a long way from Shepheard’s and the danger of being alone in the Cairo streets at night came to her in a rush. She must have been crazy, walking out like that! And really she hadn’t noticed where she was going. A group of soldiers on the opposite side of the boulevard whooped at her and as a gharry approached she raised her hand to hail it.
This would be a safer – and quicker – way of returning.
‘Shepheard’s Hotel, please,’ she said.
Dinner was over – only a few guests still lingered in the dining room – and the Comtesse and Gerald Brittain were nowhere to be seen. But Elise was glad. She did not want to face him at the scene of their last encounter. It would be bad enough to meet on neutral ground – wherever that might be.
A boy was hovering. She spoke to him with authority.
‘I’m looking for a Mr Gerald Brittain. Do you know where I could find him?’
The boy’s face wrinkled in concentration.
‘Mr Brittain?’
‘Yes.’
‘Please to wait. I will see.’
He scurried away to consult with another boy, then quickly returned. ‘Mr Brittain who wears the blue uniform?’ he said. ‘We think he go into the bar. Would Madame like me to page him?’
‘No, thank you,’ Elise said hastily.
Normally she would never have dreamed of going into the bar alone, but having him called to the lounge was certainly not the way to go about retrieving the situation.
In the doorway of the bar, however, she paused as her courage almost failed her.
The smoky room was crowded. Many of the officers from GHQ who came to visit the Turkish baths – a strange box-on-wheels contraption, where they could steam the dust of the desert out of their pores, and have their aching muscles pounded into submission by the resident Swiss masseuse – finished the evening with a convivial drink here. Their laughter and conversation, raucous compared with the exaggerated gentility in the dining room, overpowered her and as the door closed behind her she was very aware of the eyes homing in on her – some admiring, some lecherous, some simply curious. This was a man’s world and a woman alone rarely strayed into it.
Self-conscious, yet determined not to let it show, Elise crossed to the bar. Groups of men broke off their conversation and stood aside to allow her through, but for a moment – surrounded by the sea of unfamiliar faces – she could not see anyone who looked remotely like Gerald Brittain and she wondered if the boys had been wrong in thinking he was here.
Then quite suddenly she saw him sitting at the bar. Her fingers tightened around her bag and she made her way towards him.
‘Mr Brittain.’
He looked up and she caught the merest suggestion of surprise in his expression. Then his mouth quirked. ‘Well, if it isn’t Mrs Sanderson!’
With an effort she ignored the taunt. ‘I wondered if I could talk to you.’
‘Really?’ His hazel eyes gleamed with amazement. ‘ That’s quite a turnabout; the last time we met, you couldn’t wait to leave.’
She swallowed down the sharp retort she longed to make. He was her only chance, she reminded herself, and she could not afford the luxury of telling him exactly what she thought of him.
‘If I was rude, I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I have only one excuse, that I’m very worried about my son. He’s in Hong Kong and I’m desperate to get back to him.’
‘Oh yes?’ He reached into the pocket of his jacket, sliding out a monogrammed silver cigarette case. ‘What has that to do with me?’
‘Well …’ she hesitated. On both sides men
were calling out to Toni, the Italian barman, for his famous ‘Suffering Bastard’ cocktails; joking, tormenting him with claims that he must be a spy. Glasses clinked, roars of laughter temporarily drowned out conversation. This was not the best atmosphere for asking favours and going into long explanations.
‘It would be a lot easier to talk somewhere quieter,’ she ventured, flushing slightly.
‘That, if I may say so, sounds like a very tempting suggestion.’
Her flush deepened. She wasn’t used to this type of banter. Since she was seventeen she had been Mrs Gordon Sanderson and other men had treated her with respect. Nobody has ever really flirted with me, she thought with surprise. Not even Gordon …
‘Mr Brittain …’
‘It’s all right. We’ll go to the lobby.’ He drained his glass and with a hand on her shoulder guided her back through the crowded bar. His touch was light but it was enough to keep the colour burning in her cheeks and she wished they could have remained in the dim light of the bar rather than the sparkling incandescence of the chandeliers that dominated the lobby.
Once there he made no attempt to lead the way to a seat, but stood facing her as if he expected the conversation to be brief.
‘What can I do for you, then?’
Her mind raced. There was no point in beating about the bush and she might as well come straight to the point.
‘I wondered if you could help me obtain a passage back to Hong Kong.’
He drew deeply on his cigarette and behind the haze of smoke his eyes were narrowed.
‘Why should you think I could be of assistance?’
‘Because your family is very influential in the East.’ She hoped she had managed to say this without any bitterness. ‘The Brittains of Cormorant carry a great deal of weight.’
His mouth quirked. ‘Not with the Ministry of War Transport.’
‘Oh, but …’
‘How long have you been here?’ he asked.
‘Seven months. During five months of which I have been trying to persuade someone to authorise my passage home.’
