by Ian Fleming
There was silence in the cool shadowy room where the meeting was being held. On the ceiling above the massive mahogany conference table there was an unexpected dapple of sunlight. Bond guessed that it shone up through the slats of the jalousies from a fountain or a lily pond in the garden outside the tall windows. Far away there was the sound of tennis balls being knocked about. Distantly a young girl’s voice called, ‘Smooth. Your serve, Gladys.’ The Governor’s children? Secretaries? From one end of the room King George VI, from the other end the Queen, looked down the table with grace and good humour.
‘What do you think, Colonial Secretary?’ The Governor’s voice was hustled.
Bond listened to the first few words. He gathered that Pleydell-Smith agreed with the other two. He stopped listening. His mind drifted into a world of tennis courts and lily ponds and kings and queens, of London, of people being photographed with pigeons on their heads in Trafalgar Square, of the forsythia that would soon be blazing on the bypass roundabouts, of May, the treasured housekeeper in his flat off the King’s Road, getting up to brew herself a cup of tea (here it was eleven o’clock. It would be four o’clock in London), of the first tube trains beginning to run, shaking the ground beneath his cool, dark bedroom. Of the douce weather of England: the soft airs, the heat waves, the cold spells – ‘The only country where you can take a walk every day of the year’ – Chesterfield’s Letters? And then Bond thought of Crab Key, of the hot ugly wind beginning to blow, of the stink of the marsh gas from the mangrove swamps, the jagged grey, dead coral in whose holes the black crabs were now squatting, the black and red eyes moving swiftly on their stalks as a shadow – a cloud, a bird – broke their small horizons. Down in the bird colony the brown and white and pink birds would be stalking in the shallows, or fighting or nesting, while up on the guanera the cormorants would be streaming back from their breakfast to deposit their milligramme of rent to the landlord who would no longer be collecting. And where would the landlord be? The men from the S.S. Blanche would have dug him out. The body would have been examined for signs of life and then put somewhere. Would they have washed the yellow dust off him and dressed him in his kimono while the Captain radioed Antwerp for instructions? And where had Doctor No’s soul gone to? Had it been a bad soul or just a mad one? Bond thought of the burned twist down in the swamp that had been Quarrel. He remembered the soft ways of the big body, the innocence in the grey, horizon-seeking eyes, the simple lusts and desires, the reverence for superstitions and instincts, the childish faults, the loyalty and even love that Quarrel had given him – the warmth, there was only one word for it, of the man. Surely he hadn’t gone to the same place as Doctor No. Whatever happened to dead people, there was surely one place for the warm and another for the cold. And which, when the time came, would he, Bond, go to?
The Colonial Secretary was mentioning Bond’s name. Bond pulled himself together.
‘… survived is quite extraordinary. I do think, sir, that we should show our gratitude to Commander Bond and to his Service by accepting his recommendations. It does seem, sir, that he has done at least three-quarters of the job. Surely the least we can do is look after the other quarter.’
The Governor grunted. He squinted down the table at Bond. The chap didn’t seem to be paying much attention. But one couldn’t be sure with these Secret Service fellows. Dangerous chaps to have around, sniffing and snooping. And their damned Chief carried a lot of guns in Whitehall. Didn’t do to get on the wrong side of him. Of course there was something to be said for sending the Narvik. News would leak, of course. All the Press of the world would be coming down on his head. But then suddenly the Governor saw the headlines: ‘GOVERNOR TAKES SWIFT ACTION … ISLAND’S STRONG MAN INTERVENES … THE NAVY’S THERE!’ Perhaps after all it would be better to do it that way. Even go down and see the troops off himself. Yes, that was it, by jove. Cargill, of the Gleaner, was coming to lunch. He’d drop a hint or two to the chap and make sure the story got proper coverage. Yes, that was it. That was the way to play the hand.
The Governor raised his hands and let them fall flat on the table in a gesture of submission. He embraced the conference with a wry smile of surrender.
‘So I am overruled, gentlemen. Well, then,’ the voice was avuncular, telling the children that just this once … ‘I accept your verdict. Colonial Secretary, will you please call upon the commanding officer of H.M.S. Narvik and explain the position. In strict confidence, of course. Brigadier, I leave the military arrangements in your hands. Superintendent, you will know what to do.’ The Governor rose. He inclined his head regally in the direction of Bond. ‘And it only remains to express my appreciation to Commander – er – Bond, for his part in this affair. I shall not fail to mention your assistance, Commander, to the Secretary of State.’
Outside the sun blazed down on the gravel sweep. The interior of the Hillman Minx was a Turkish bath. Bond’s bruised hands cringed as they took the wheel.
Pleydell-Smith leant through the window. He said, ‘Ever heard the Jamaican expression “rarse”?’
‘No.’
‘ “Rarse, man” is a vulgar expression meaning – er – “stuff it up”. If I may say so, it would have been appropriate for you to have used the expression just now. However,’ Pleydell-Smith gave a wave of his hand which apologized for his Chief and dismissed him, ‘is there anything else I can do for you? You really think you ought to go back to Beau Desert? They were quite definite at the hospital that they want to have you for a week.’
‘Thanks,’ said Bond shortly, ‘but I’ve got to get back. See the girl’s all right. Would you tell the hospital I’ll be back tomorrow? You got off that signal to my Chief?’
‘Urgent rates.’
‘Well, then,’ Bond pressed the self-starter, ‘I guess that’s the lot. You’ll see the Jamaica Institute people about the girl, won’t you? She really knows the hell of a lot about the natural history side of the island. Not from books either. If they’ve got the right sort of job … Like to see her settled. I’ll take her up to New York myself and see her through the operation. She’d be ready to start in a couple of weeks after that. Incidentally,’ Bond looked embarrassed, ‘she’s really the hell of a fine girl. When she comes back … if you and your wife … You know. Just so there’s someone to keep an eye on her.’
Pleydell-Smith smiled. He thought he had the picture. He said, ‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll see to it. Betty’s rather a hand at that sort of thing. She’ll like taking the girl under her wing. Nothing else? See you later in the week, anyway. That hospital’s the hell of a place in this heat. You might care to spend a night or two with us before you go ho – I mean to New York. Glad to have you – er – both.’
‘Thanks. And thanks for everything else.’ Bond put the car into gear and went off down the avenue of flaming tropical shrubbery. He went fast, scattering the gravel on the bends. He wanted to get the hell away from King’s House, and the tennis, and the kings and queens. He even wanted to get the hell away from the kindly Pleydell-Smith. Bond liked the man, but all he wanted now was to get back across the Junction Road to Beau Desert and away from the smooth world. He swung out past the sentry at the gates and on to the main road. He put his foot down.
The night voyage under the stars had been without incident. No one had come after them. The girl had done most of the sailing. Bond had not argued with her. He had lain in the bottom of the boat, totally collapsed, like a dead man. He had woken once or twice and listened to the slap of the sea against the hull and watched her quiet profile under the stars. Then the cradle of the soft swell had sent him back to sleep and to the nightmares that reached out after him from Crab Key. He didn’t mind them. He didn’t think he would ever mind a nightmare now. After what had happened the night before, it would have to be strong stuff that would ever frighten him again.
The crunch of a nigger-head against the hull had woken him. They were coming through the reef into Morgan’s Harbour. The first quarter moon was up, an
d inside the reef the sea was a silver mirror. The girl had brought the canoe through under sail. They slid across the bay to the little fringe of sand and the bows under Bond’s head sighed softly into it. She had had to help him out of the boat and across the velvet lawn and into the house. He had clung to her and cursed her softly as she had cut his clothes off him and taken him into the shower. She had said nothing when she had seen his battered body under the lights. She had turned the water full on and taken soap and washed him down as if he had been a horse. Then she led him out from under the water and dabbed him softly dry with towels that were soon streaked with blood. He had seen her reach for the bottle of Milton. He had groaned and taken hold of the washbasin and waited for it. Before she had begun to put it on him, she had come round and kissed him on the lips. She had said softly, ‘Hold tight, my darling. And cry. It’s going to hurt,’ and as she splashed the murderous stuff over his body the tears of pain had run out of his eyes and down his cheeks without shame.
Then there had been a wonderful breakfast as the dawn flared up across the bay, and then the ghastly drive over to Kingston to the white table of the surgery in the emergency ward. Pleydell-Smith had been summoned. No questions had been asked. Merthiolate had been put on the wounds and tannic ointment on the burns. The efficient negro doctor had written busily in the duty report. What? Probably just ‘Multiple burns and contusions’. Then, with promises to come into the private ward on the next day, Bond had gone off with Pleydell-Smith to King’s House and to the first of the meetings that had ended with the full-dress conference. Bond had enciphered a short signal to M. via the Colonial Office which he had coolly concluded with: ‘REGRET MUST AGAIN REQUEST SICK LEAVE STOP SURGEONS REPORT FOLLOWS STOP KINDLY INFORM ARMOURER SMITH AND WESSON INEFFECTIVE AGAINST FLAME-THROWER ENDIT.’
Now, as Bond swung the little car down the endless S-bends towards the North Shore, he regretted the gibe. M. wouldn’t like it. It was cheap. It wasted cipher groups. Oh well! Bond swerved to avoid a thundering red bus with ‘Brownskin Gal’ on the destination plate. He had just wanted M. to know that it hadn’t quite been a holiday in the sun. He would apologize when he sent in his written report. Bond’s bedroom was cool and dark. There was a plate of sandwiches and a Thermos full of coffee beside the turned-down bed. On the pillow was a sheet of paper with big childish writing. It said, ‘You are staying with me tonight. I can’t leave my animals. They were fussing. And I can’t leave you. And you owe me slave-time. I will come at seven. Your H.’
In the dusk she came across the lawn to where Bond was sitting finishing his third glass of Bourbon-on-the-rocks. She was wearing a black and white striped cotton skirt and a tight sugar-pink blouse. The golden hair smelled of cheap shampoo. She looked incredibly fresh and beautiful. She reached out her hand and Bond took it and followed her up the drive and along a narrow well-trodden path through the sugar cane. It wound along for quite a way through the tall whispering sweet-scented jungle. Then there was a patch of tidy lawn up against thick broken stone walls and steps that led down to a heavy door whose edges glinted with light.
She looked up at him from the door. ‘Don’t be frightened. The cane’s high and they’re most of them out.’
Bond didn’t know what he had expected. He had vaguely thought of a flat earthen floor and rather damp walls. There would be a few sticks of furniture, a broken bedstead covered with rags, and a strong zoo smell. He had been prepared to be careful about hurting her feelings.
Instead, it was rather like being inside a very large tidy cigar-box. The floor and ceiling were of highly polished cedar that gave out a cigar-box smell and the walls were panelled with wide split bamboo. The light came from a dozen candles in a fine silver chandelier that hung from the centre of the ceiling. High up in the walls there were three square windows through which Bond could see the dark blue sky and the stars. There were several pieces of good nineteenth-century furniture. Under the chandelier a table was laid for two with expensive-looking old-fashioned silver and glass.
Bond said, ‘Honey, what a lovely room. From what you said I thought you lived in a sort of zoo.’
She laughed delightedly. ‘I got out the old silver and things. It’s all I’ve got. I had to spend the day polishing it. I’ve never had it out before. It does look rather nice, doesn’t it? You see, generally there are a lot of little cages up against the wall. I like having them with me. It’s company. But now that you’re here …’ She paused. ‘My bedroom’s in there,’ she gestured at the other door. ‘It’s very small, but there’s room for both of us. Now come on. I’m afraid it’s cold dinner – just lobsters and fruit.’
Bond walked over to her. He took her in his arms and kissed her hard on the lips. He held her and looked down into the shining blue eyes. ‘Honey, you’re a wonderful girl. You’re one of the most wonderful girls I’ve ever known. I hope the world’s not going to change you too much. D’you really want to have that operation? I love your face – just as it is. It’s part of you. Part of all this.’
She frowned and freed herself. ‘You’re not to be serious tonight. Don’t talk about these things. I don’t want to talk about them. This is my night with you. Please talk about love. I don’t want to hear about anything else. Promise? Now come on. You sit there.’
Bond sat down. He smiled up at her. He said, ‘I promise.’
She said, ‘Here’s the mayonnaise. It’s not out of a bottle. I made it myself. And take some bread and butter.’ She sat down opposite him and began to eat, watching him. When she saw that he seemed satisfied she said, ‘Now you can start telling me about love. Everything about it. Everything you know.’
Bond looked across into the flushed, golden face. The eyes were bright and soft in the candlelight, but with the same imperious glint they had held when he had first seen her on the beach and she had thought he had come to steal her shells. The full red lips were open with excitement and impatience. With him she had no inhibitions. They were two loving animals. It was natural. She had no shame. She could ask him anything and would expect him to answer. It was as if they were already in bed together, lovers. Through the tight cotton bodice the points of her breasts showed, hard and roused.
Bond said, ‘Are you a virgin?’
‘Not quite. I told you. That man.’
‘Well …’ Bond found he couldn’t eat any more. His mouth was dry at the thought of her. He said, ‘Honey, I can either eat or talk love to you. I can’t do both.’
‘You’re going over to Kingston tomorrow. You’ll get plenty to eat there. Talk love.’
Bond’s eyes were fierce blue slits. He got up and went down on one knee beside her. He picked up her hand and looked into it. At the base of the thumb the Mount of Venus swelled luxuriously. Bond bent his head down into the warm soft hand and bit softly into the swelling. He felt her other hand in his hair. He bit harder. The hand he was holding curled round his mouth. She was panting. He bit still harder. She gave a little scream and wrenched his head away by the hair.
‘What are you doing?’ Her eyes were wide and dark. She had gone pale. She dropped her eyes and looked at his mouth. Slowly she pulled his head towards her.
Bond put out a hand to her left breast and held it hard. He lifted her captive, wounded hand and put it round his neck. Their mouths met and clung, exploring.
Above them the candles began to dance. A big hawk-moth had come in through one of the windows. It whirred round the chandelier. The girl’s closed eyes opened, looked at the moth. Her mouth drew away. She smoothed the handful of his hair back and got up, and without saying anything took down the candles one by one and blew them out. The moth whirred away through one of the windows.
The girl stood away from the table. She undid her blouse and threw it on the floor. Then her skirt. Under the glint of moonlight she was a pale figure with a central shadow. She came to Bond and took him by the hand and lifted him up. She undid his shirt and slowly, carefully took it off. Her body, close to him, smelled of new-mown hay
and sweet pepper. She led him away from the table and through a door. The filtering moonlight shone down on a single bed. On the bed was a sleeping-bag, its mouth laid open.
The girl let go his hand and climbed into the sleeping-bag. She looked up at him. She said, practically, ‘I bought this today. It’s a double one. It cost a lot of money. Take those off and come in. You promised. You owe me slave-time.’
‘But …’
‘Do as you’re told.’
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
* * *
Courtesy of the Cecil Beaton Studio Archive at Sotheby’s
IAN FLEMING was born in London on May 28, 1908. He was educated at Eton College and later spent a formative period studying languages in Europe. His first job was with Reuters News Agency where a Moscow posting gave him firsthand experience with what would become his literary bête noire—the Soviet Union. During World War II he served as Assistant to the Director of Naval Intelligence and played a key role in Allied espionage operations.
After the war he worked as foreign manager of the Sunday Times, a job that allowed him to spend two months each year in Jamaica. Here, in 1952, at his home “Goldeneye,” he wrote a book called Casino Royale—and James Bond was born. The first print run sold out within a month. For the next twelve years Fleming produced a novel a year featuring Special Agent 007, the most famous spy of the century. His travels, interests, and wartime experience lent authority to everything he wrote. Raymond Chandler described him as “the most forceful and driving writer of thrillers in England.” Sales soared when President Kennedy named the fifth title, From Russia With Love, one of his favorite books. The Bond novels have sold more than one hundred million copies worldwide, boosted by the hugely successful film franchise that began in 1962 with the release of Dr No.
