Fortunes of War

by Olivia Manning

  Breathless and still hoarse, Mrs Rutter said: ‘You didn’t know what happened? You don’t know that we were torpedoed? Some of us got into a life-boat. Marion and me and poor little Richard . . .’ She choked and gasped before asking: ‘You didn’t know any of this?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But it was in the Egyptian Mail.’

  ‘I didn’t return to Egypt. I heard nothing.’

  ‘The boat drifted. There was something wrong with the steering. We had two lascars on board but they didn’t know what to do. We had no water, nothing to eat . . . It went on for days. We caught some rainwater in a tarpaulin and drank it, but it wasn’t enough. People started dying . . . Poor little Richard was one of the first.’

  ‘And Marion?’

  Mrs Rutter shook her head, unable to speak, then whispered: ‘All dead except me and the lascars. The children first, then the women . . . I don’t want to talk about it. I came here to forget it.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you but I had to know.’

  Mrs Rutter, like an invalid in need of help, looked towards her friends and one of the men, giving Harriet a look of reproach, crossed to her and led her away.

  Harriet remained by the wall, shock-bound by Mrs Rutter’s story. Angela, seeing she was alone, came to ask: ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Guy thinks I’m dead.’

  ‘Is that what that woman told you?’

  ‘No. She told me the evacuation ship was torpedoed and she was the only woman who survived. Marion and Richard were lost. Guy thinks I was on the ship.’

  ‘But he may not have heard . . .’

  ‘Yes, it was in the Egyptian Mail.’ As Harriet absorbed this fact, tears came into her eyes and she broke down, sobbing: ‘Poor Guy. Oh, poor Guy, he thinks I’m dead.’

  Angela led her over to Castlebar and Lister. Walking back to the Jaffa Gate, all three tried to comfort her by giving different unfounded reasons for supposing Guy would know nothing of the sinking. Harriet was too tense to listen. She wanted only one thing: to contact Guy and assure him she was alive and well.

  They stood together in the foyer of the King David discussing how best to deal with the situation. Lister had been invited to luncheon at the hotel but Harriet would not join the party. She said: ‘I’d better ring the Institute first.’

  Castlebar said: ‘It’s Saturday. Isn’t that Guy’s day off?’

  Angela said to Lister: ‘Is it easy to ring Egypt?’

  ‘Not very. The lines are always engaged. The military used to have an emergency line but that closed down when the army moved west. Better put the hotel porter on to it. Tell him to ring every two minutes till he gets a line.’

  Angela said to Harriet: ‘It may be ages before he gets through You might as well come and eat.’

  ‘I can’t eat.’

  Harriet sat through the afternoon in the foyer, awaiting a summons to the telephone. It was six in the evening before the porter was connected to the Garden City flat. Smiling at his achievement, he called Harriet and handed her the receiver. Her impatience, that had lapsed during the hours of waiting, now filled her with such perturbation, she felt sick. A strange safragi answered the telephone. In a remote, small voice, she asked for Professor Pringle.

  ‘Not here, Blofessor Blingle.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘How do I know, lady?’

  How, indeed! How did anyone ever know where Guy was?

  ‘Who is there?’

  ‘Not no one. All out, lady.’

  Desperately, she asked for the safragi she had known: ‘Where’s Hassan? Tell him to come to the ’phone.’

  ‘No, no Hassan. Hassan gone away. Me Awad, me do all now.’

  ‘I see. Thank you, Awad.’

  Downcast with disappointment, she went to the bar to join Angela and Castlebar. She said: ‘He’s not at the flat. I can’t find anyone.’

  Angela looked at Castlebar: ‘If we took the train tonight, we’d be in Cairo tomorrow morning.’

  Scarcely understanding, Harriet stared at her: ‘Do you mean you’d come with me?’

  ‘Of course. We can’t let you go alone.’

  ‘Angela, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.’

  ‘Thanks: but the truth is we want to go to Cairo. Bill can’t stand the food here. If it hadn’t meant leaving you to fend for yourself, we would have gone before this.’

  After supper, when Lister came to the hotel, he found Harriet, Angela and Castlebar packed and ready to set out for the station. They would take the train to Jaffa and there change to the Kantara train which would reach the canal before day-break. They would not be in Cairo as soon as Angela supposed, but they would be there soon enough.

  ‘And you’re taking all this baggage? You travel like a Russian princess.’ Lister smiled at Angela but his manner was unusually subdued. He offered to arrange sleepers for them. Most of the wagon-lits were permanently reserved for army officers and usually left empty. He went to the telephone and came back saying: ‘I’ve fixed it,’ then he helped carry the bags to Angela’s car. At the station, Angela put the car keys into his hand.

  ‘I’ll leave it with you.’

  ‘A loan?’

  ‘In a way. I don’t suppose I’ll ever ask for it back.’

  ‘A car’s always useful.’ Lister looked down at the keys for some moments before he said: ‘I’m afraid I’ve bad news for you, Harriet. Your friend Aidan Pratt has been shot.’

  ‘But not dead?’

  ‘Well, yes. It was on the train coming back from Cairo. In the corridor.’

  ‘Who would shoot him? He had no enemies.’

  ‘No, no enemies. He shot himself.’ Lister raised his wet, blue eyes and looked at Harriet: ‘I’m sorry. Bad time to tell you, but thought you ought to know.’

  The whistle blew and Harriet, too confused by her own problem to give Aidan the attention due to his memory, embarked with Angela and Castlebar on her return to Egypt.

  Twenty

  The news of Aidan Pratt’s suicide reached Guy with unusual speed. The commanding officer at Kantara had telephoned the Embassy where Dobson was on night duty and Dobson, coming in to breakfast next morning, said: ‘You know that actor chap, Aidan Sheridan! He seems to have gone berserk on the train to Palestine. Killed himself in the corridor of the sleeping-car. Put his gun to his head and blew his brains out. I imagine we’ll hear from the Minister of Transport about the mess. Why couldn’t he have waited till he got to his own quarters.’ Then, observing Guy’s face, he apologized: ‘Didn’t mean to upset you. He wasn’t a particular friend, was he?’

  ‘I saw him fairly often. He used to ring up when he came here. In fact, I had supper with him last night. He was attached to Harriet and upset by her death, but not to that extent. I’m afraid he was rather a one for dramatic gestures.’

  ‘Unstable sort of chap, was he?’

  Bemused by this second tragedy, Guy said: ‘I don’t know. I don’t think I’d say unstable. The war had trapped him in an intolerable situation and he probably took this way out.’

  ‘The war’s trapped a good many of us but death’s a pretty desperate escape route.’

  Guy could feel little more than exasperation at Aidan’s death. Too much was being imposed on him. He tried to put it out of his mind but for the rest of the day Aidan’s dark, appealing gaze followed him as he went about his work. Aidan had wanted response, reassurance and affection, perhaps even love, and Guy had made it clear that he would give none of those things. He remembered that Harriet had accused him of taking up with inadequate people so for the first time they felt understood and appreciated. Then, their dependence becoming tedious, he would leave her to cope with them. She had, apparently, coped with Aidan. Guy, having talked him out of his defences, had become bored with him and wished him away. He had gone, and gone for good.

  Edwina, told of his death, dismissed Aidan without a tear: ‘You mean that actor who came to the fish restaurant? I’m not surprised he sho
t himself. He was an absolute misery.’

  It was the eve of her wedding and she passed at once to the much more important subject of the reception.

  ‘You’re coming, aren’t you, Guy darling?’

  Guy, in no mood for parties, tried to excuse himself: ‘I’m afraid I can’t. I promised to go and see Simon.’

  ‘Oh, but Guy, you can see Simon any time. This is a special occasion; I don’t get married every day.’

  ‘Well, the arrangements have been rather sudden, and I’m committed to Simon. He’s leaving the hospital. It may be some time before I see him again.’

  ‘Bring him with you. I’d love him to come. Now, Guy, you’ve no excuse. You’re to come to my reception. I’ll never forgive you if you don’t. You’re such a close friend, if you weren’t there, people would think we’d had a row or something.’

  Realizing it would be wise to put in an appearance, Guy telephoned Simon at the hospital and asked if he would like to come to a party in Garden City.

  ‘Will Edwina be there?’

  Simon’s voice was eager and Guy said: ‘Of course,’ forgetting to tell him that the party was to be Edwina’s wedding reception.

  Simon was hoping to leave the hospital soon. He refused all offers of rest in convalescent homes and intended to take himself to Kasr el Nil barracks before being posted to an office job. What the job would be, he did not know but it was to be temporary. The party in Garden City had come at the right time. It would be for him a celebration of his complete recovery.

  He had brought from England, as part of his kit, a dress uniform of fawn twill which, packed in an insect-proof tin trunk, had followed him about in the regimental baggage train. Now, for the first time, he had a use for it. The tin trunk had been sent after him to the hospital. He dragged it out from under his bed and Greening found him trying to smooth out the creases in the twill.

  ‘Dressing ourselves up, are we, sir? Come on, I’ll get that pressed for you.’

  Guy, when he reached the hospital, found Simon dressed and ready, a handsome and elegant young officer, in high spirits and aglow with health. Guy had brought a taxi which took them to Garden City earlier than they were expected.

  Simon, breathless at the thought of seeing Edwina again, bounded up the long flight of steps to the upper flat with Guy some way behind. Shown into the living-room, Simon was deflated at finding they were alone.

  ‘But where is Edwina?’

  ‘Don’t worry. She’ll be along soon.’

  They waited with the appurtenances of the party all round them. There was a table with cold meats and a cake from Groppi’s, five rented champagne buckets and three cases of champagne. There were also vases of tuberoses, white asters, lilies and ferns.

  ‘I say, it’s quite a party, isn’t it?’ Simon said.

  It was some time before, the other guests came, and they came all together. Simon, unaware of the nature of the occasion, was surprised that there should be so much laughter in the street; then came an inrush of young people, mostly from the British Embassy, all wearing white carnations. There was still no sign of Edwina but her name was repeatedly mentioned and when most of the guests hurried out to the balcony, Simon realized they were watching for her. He guessed that this was a wedding party yet it did not occur to him that it could be Edwina’s wedding.

  There was the sound of a car door banging below. The guests on the balcony shouted a noisy welcome. Two girls entered, dressed in pink chiffon and carrying bouquets of Parma violets. Then, at last, Edwina herself appeared. She stood posed in the doorway of the room so all might admire her in her dress of white slipper satin, a veil thrown back, a wreath of gardenias crowning her resplendent hair. She remained there for nearly a minute, the day’s bright star, then the dazzled audience thought to applaud. She burst out laughing and the young men crowded about her, clamouring for a kiss.

  Simon, stunned, realized there was a man looking over her shoulder: the dim, grinning face of Major Brody, the man in possession. As Edwina was drawn into the room, the safragis started bringing round the champagne in ice buckets. Simon, given a glass, whispered to Guy: ‘You didn’t tell me.’

  Edwina was now making her way round the room. The effusive hostess, she greeted each guest in turn, kissing the girls who were her office friends. The guests embraced her and she gave squeals of excitement, declaring her love for all of them. Coming to Simon, she was stopped, astonished by the change in him. She gasped before she said: ‘But you look wonderful!’

  As she bent to kiss him, a confusion of emotion strained her face and she said under her breath: ‘You’re so like Hugo . . . so like Hugo!’ then turned quickly away and gave her attention to Guy. ‘Dear Guy, so glad you’re here,’ speaking his name as though there existed between them a particular intimacy. He kissed her lightly and she passed on.

  The cake was a large cream sponge but Edwina, using Tony Brody’s dress sword, cut it as though it were a real bridal cake. As this performance went on, Simon said pleadingly to Guy: ‘Please, let’s go.’

  Guy was about to make their excuses to the wedded couple when he became aware that the room had grown silent. People were staring towards the door and a figure, apparently uninvited and unexpected, was sidling into the room, self-consciously smirking, as surprised at finding himself at a party as the party was at seeing him. The new arrival was Castlebar.

  Guy pushed forward, saying: ‘But this is wonderful! Jake’s been taken from us and you’ve come to console us.’

  ‘Y-y-yes,’ Castlebar was fumbling for his cigarette pack: ‘Y-y-you’re right. I have come to console you.’

  Edwina, asserting her importance, said: ‘Good gracious, where have you come from? Where have you been all this time?’

  ‘Oh, swanning around,’ Castlebar managed to get a cigarette into his mouth and his speech became clearer, ‘I came to see Guy. Didn’t know there was something on. Angie’s downstairs in a taxi and she sent me up to break it to you. She thought I should come up first and t-t-tell you, she’s not alone.’ Whatever Castlebar intended to say to Guy, he had obviously been warned to say it without undue haste. He lit his cigarette before adding: ‘It . . . it’s about Harriet.’

  There was an uncomfortable movement throughout the room. This was no time for recalling the dead and Guy, going close to him, said urgently: ‘You don’t know, of course, but Harriet was lost . . .’

  ‘But that’s just it. That’s what I came to tell you. She wasn’t. She kept trying to telephone you yesterday but couldn’t get hold of you, so we thought we’d better come straight here and . . .’

  Dobson asked sternly: ‘What are you talking about, Castlebar?’

  ‘I’m not doing very well, am I? I wanted Angela to come up first but she decided to stay with Harriet.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Guy, agitated, took Castlebar by the shoulders and shook him: ‘Are you trying to say Harriet is alive?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been telling you — she’s downstairs with Angela.’

  Dobson pulled Castlebar away from Guy and gave him another shake: ‘If you’re lying, I think I’ll murder you.’

  ‘I’m not lying. Don’t be an ass. Who would lie about such a thing? She is alive. She didn’t get on to the ship for some reason, I don’t know why. She went to Syria and we found her there and brought her back. That’s the truth. If you go downstairs, you’ll find her with Angie in the taxi.’

  Guy did not seem able to move and Edwina, elevated by all that had happened that day and was still happening, darted forward: ‘I’ll go. I’ll bring her up. I was her best friend.’

  Guy, his face creased in an expression of longing and disbelief, stared at the door until Edwina returned holding Harriet tightly, Angela following behind. Edwina cried out to the room: ‘Isn’t this marvellous! To think it should happen at my wedding! The whole of Cairo will be talking about it.’

  Harriet took a step towards Guy then stopped in uncertainty: ‘I wasn’t sure you’d want me back.’


  Guy put out his arms. She ran to him and he clutched her against his breast and broke into a convulsive sob. Dropping his head down to her head, he wept loudly and wildly while people watched him, amazed. He was known as a good-humoured fellow, a generous and helpful fellow but no one expected him to show any depths of emotion.

  Harriet kept saying: ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know the ship went down. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have stayed away.’ She tried to explain her action but Guy did not want an explanation. His paroxysm subsided and, finding his voice, he said: ‘What does it matter? You’re safe. You’re alive. You’re here,’ and, his face still wet with tears, he started into laughter.

  Simon, caught up in the drama of Harriet’s return, no longer wanted to leave the party. Had Guy offered to go with him, he would have said: ‘It doesn’t matter,’ and it did not matter. A part of his mind had been returned to him. His vision of Edwina had dropped out of it, just as Anne’s photograph had dropped from his wallet, and he knew he was free of her. His sudden freedom produced in him an emptiness like an empty gift box that in time would be filled with gifts.

  Looking at her now, he saw the glow had faded. Her hair was still lustrous, her skin smooth, yet it was as though a film of dust had settled on the golden image.

  She had been a fantasy of his adolescence but now he had not only reached his majority, he was verging on maturity. He had been the younger son, Hugo’s admirer and imitator, and Edwina’s attraction had lain not only in her beauty but the fact he had believed her to be Hugo’s girl. He had wanted to be Hugo and he had wanted Hugo’s girl, but now he was on his own. And Edwina had been no more Hugo’s girl than she could be his.

  He realized he was becoming less like Hugo. He was losing the qualities that had made him Hugo’s counterpart. He was becoming less simple, less gentle, less considerate of others. He had, he feared, been tainted by experience, but he did not greatly care. Hugo did not have to face the future; he could remain innocent for ever. But there was no knowing what he, Simon, might still have to endure.

  Harriet came over to speak to him. Not knowing he had been wounded, she asked: ‘How are you, Simon?’