Simon went alone. He had taken June Lucas out a few times, but he was still suffering pangs of guilt from dumping Maria in Buenos Aires. He didn’t need another attachment and he could see that June was getting too fond of him.
The course had gone well, he considered. With the communication network they had set up, they’d be able to hone in on any future Axis disinformation and deal with it promptly, or so he said in a farewell speech to a room full of newly created military agents. Behind his confident manner he was aware that he had not yet found the agent responsible for creating mayhem in Mowbray. ‘Never forget the other side of the coin, which is to forge close ties with our local communities,’ he said to round off his speech. ‘You’ve all come up with brilliant ideas, some of which I shall crib, but now you have to put these ideas into practice.’
Back in Mowbray again, it was cold and raining and the fields were a quagmire. After a night spent under canvas, Simon made up his mind to call on the local council and see if there were any billets still available. As it happened there were plenty. Most of his compatriots preferred to be with their pals in the camps. When he saw Cooper House on the list he made up his mind at once. ‘This will do,’ he said to the young woman who was running the office. She marked it off, made a note of his name and number and he drove back to get his gear.
Ten
John was mucking out the stables and swearing quietly as the fierce wind gusted into whirlpools and played havoc with the straw. It was chilly, even for December, and if the weather didn’t improve they might have a white Christmas. That would please the kids, but no one else. The camouflaged US army tents were fluttering noisily, and the mares were startled enough to race around, churning up what was left of the lawn. Daunty was jostling the mares, showing them who was boss. Absurd to have a stallion in a small riding school, but Eric insisted on having him. He always had to have his way.
John had never liked Helen’s husband. Like his horse, he was stuffed full of testosterone. Eric was a womanizer and this was tough on Helen. She had loved him since meeting him at only eighteen. Both John and his wife had fought the idea of Helen marrying so young, but she had always been headstrong and she had her way. After their marriage, they travelled the world together as Eric moved from one salvage contract to the next. Like everyone else, the war disrupted their lives. Eric’s salvage business was taken over by the Admiralty and Eric found himself in uniform with the honorary rank of commander. From then on he moved from one sunken ship to the next. His work had taken them to most of the blitz areas: Dover, Southampton and Plymouth. Two of their homes had been destroyed, two beloved dogs killed, although she and the kids were in municipal shelters at the time. Even Daisy’s school had been blitzed, supposedly in a safe area, but thank God she was home for the weekend at the time.
Then came the night of the worst raid on Plymouth’s docks. Seven bombs were seen to have sunk the cruiser Eric was salvaging, but only six exploded. Eric had called his crew and rushed to the sunken vessel to assess the damage. The final explosion released a concrete block that pinned him in the hold. Eventually his linesman had dived down and brought him up unconscious. On that same night Helen and her children had been burned out of the Farley Hotel, where they were staying. He went looking for them when he heard the news and found them in a Red Cross shelter. He brought them home and when Eric left hospital, a month later, he too had returned here to recuperate. And this was where he had broken Helen’s heart.
John stopped raking and leaned the rake against the wall, panting more than he should. Sitting on an oak stump, he lit a cigarette and thought about his family. If only he were younger. The children needed him and so did Helen, but at seventy-five he was past his prime, unable to do the hard work that had to be done. The stables and the estate were the worse for it.
He hated the Yanks having his fields, mainly because it made them neighbours. John had a fear of losing his family and he worried about Daisy. She was still a kid at heart. Her looks and her sensuality bewildered her, but lately he had seen her using her guile on anyone who called, savouring her unexpected power. She reminded him so much of his late wife, Mia.
John was twenty-seven when he met his wife. As the newly-appointed marketing director of his father’s pottery company, it was his plan to widen their exports by a series of marketing drives through the Scandinavian countries, but business was forgotten the moment they met. He could still remember the thrill when he set eyes on her. He took her out every night and a month later he proposed.
‘When you want me for myself and not for my looks, perhaps, who knows,’ she had teased him. He could still remember the sexual lather he was in. She had to be his or his life would be ruined
On his return to Poole he told his father he was going to stay in Copenhagen until Mia married him. They argued and his father threatened to disinherit him. John lost his temper and threw back his shares. He scribbled a note of resignation which his father tore up. Their fight became louder and harsher and when they came to blows, his stepmother called the police. Dad had bailed him out at midnight and given him two hundred pounds. ‘Don’t come back until you’re ready for hard work and then you’ll get your shares back,’ he had told him.
He knew all about the need to possess such beauty. He had set off for Copenhagen on his yacht and stayed there until Mia married him. It took over a year, while he scraped a meagre living giving sailing lessons and working shifts in a local boatyard. The marriage had turned out well and they been very happy until she’d died ten years ago.
He longed for Helen to be as happy as they had been. She was still lovely and young enough to marry again, or even have more children, if she wanted to, but not to a GI. America was a bit too far away for him to be there if she needed him. The less he saw of the Yanks around here the better.
Feeling irritable, he began stuffing the soiled straw into sacks. ‘Speak of the devil,’ he muttered under his breath when he saw that damned Captain Johnson striding around the house towards him. How smart the bastard looked in his off-duty, tailored jacket and brilliantly creased trousers. He couldn’t help comparing him with their own officers who had no off-duty gear.
‘Hello John. Hard at work as usual I see.’ Simon held out his hand which John ignored.
‘Good morning, Captain Johnson.’ He looked away, hating their easy familiarity and American habit of calling mere acquaintances by their first names. ‘I won’t shake your hand since I’m on a filthy job,’ he said, remembering his manners.
‘The sun’s come out at last.’
‘Windy!’ John scowled, unwilling to swop inanities.
‘I’ve been thinking of volunteering to help with the horses.’
‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.’ Irritation surged again, but he fought it down.
‘But we have your fields. Fair do’s. Come on, give it a break.’
Johnson reached for his pitch fork and John, in a rare moment of spite, let him have it. Hah! In that outfit, he laughed to himself. Convinced that the offer was not genuine, he sat on a tree stump, moodily scraping the muck off his shoes with a stick and let Simon get on with it.
Johnson had a determined look in his astute brown eyes. He hung his jacket on a peg, rolled up his trousers, and had the last three stables cleaned out a good deal faster than he could have managed, to give the fellow his due. He washed his hands at the outside tap. ‘Does Miro help you with this job?’
‘Of course. Miro loves the horses. He probably does more than the rest of us, but we all take turns with everything.’
‘That’s a sound, democratic, process.’
Why is the bugger being so patronizing? It occurred to John that this was the captain’s way of trying to be pleasant. He’s definitely after Helen, he decided, but he’s not getting round me.
‘I’d love a cup of coffee,’ the Yank said. ‘That’s if you’d sit and chat with me. I’ve saved you time here,’ he added, when he saw how reluctant John was.
‘We on
ly have instant . . . made out of chicory . . . ghastly stuff.’
‘I brought coffee along . . . instant and filter coffee.’
‘Real coffee?’ John’s mouth was watering.
‘Sure. Costa Rica and Kenya. It’s a nice mix.’
‘Used to be. I haven’t seen it for a couple of years.’ John followed him to the jeep which was parked outside their front door.
‘You going somewhere?’ he asked, noting two suitcases in the back and feeling uneasy.
Johnson didn’t answer immediately, but took a box from the seat.
Beware of GIs bearing gifts, John thought to himself, seeing at least twelve packs of coffee inside. He led the way to the kitchen.
‘Perhaps you’d better sit down, John. The fact is I’ve been billeted on you.’
John felt his cheeks flushing. The damned Yank was infiltrating his family and there was nothing at all he could do about it. He’d seen the bugger’s shock when he set eyes on Helen. He’d bet his last penny that she was the best-looking woman he’d seen in a long while. He’d heard the clumsy compliment he paid her. How the hell had he swung this one? John tried to hide his chagrin. Evidently he didn’t succeed because Johnson flushed and began apologizing.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Cooper. I promise you I’ll do my share of the chores when I’m around, whenever I can, that is. I have a heavy work schedule at the camp and I spend half my time in London at present, but of course we get time off. I’m tidy about the house, and I’m a lawyer, or I was, in case you need any legal advice.’
‘I can’t see that happening,’ John said. ‘Would you like a sandwich . . . I mean since you’re living here. We have some cold chicken. The fact is, we knew we’d get someone billeted on us. It was arranged some time ago.’
‘Thank you, sir, but I’ll eat at the canteen. Where is everyone?’
John gave him a scathing look. ‘If you mean Helen . . .’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Right now she should be sleeping. She works at a factory packing explosives for five mornings a week and runs a canteen for servicemen and women four evenings a week. She gives riding lessons to kids three afternoons a week, although not today. She’s exhausted most of the time, so I’ve persuaded her to sleep when she gets a break, which isn’t often.’
While he listened, the captain was spooning the coffee into the percolator.
‘Where shall I put this stuff?’ he asked, touching the box.
John pointed to the larder. The bastard is taking over and he hasn’t got his foot in the door yet.
‘And Daisy?’
‘Daisy is out painting somewhere. She’s finished school and she has her matric. She won a scholarship to an art school in London but Helen feels she’s too young to go. She’ll start the year after next.’
‘Miro is not part of your family, is he?’
‘In a way he is. We think of him as ours. He’s billeted on us for the duration of the war, rather like you, but you’ll be gone sooner.’
The captain grinned and said nothing.
‘We don’t know if Miro has a family to go to. He lives in a world of his own. He doesn’t make many friends and he won’t talk about the past, but we were told that his parents are in a concentration camp in Czechoslovakia.’
‘Is he Jewish?’
‘So they told us. He never talks about it.’
‘My grandfather was Jewish. I learned a bit about Judaism from him. I loved him, but he died a couple of years back.’ He looked around, found some mugs and the sugar and poured the coffee. ‘Where’s the milk.’
‘In the fridge behind you.’
‘I see the milkman with his horse and wagon every morning. Magnificent cart horse. I’ve never seen such a beauty.’
‘He’s a Shire carthorse. Frank, the milkman, is very proud of him.’
‘Is milk rationed? Do you get plenty?’
‘From today our milk allowance is cut to two and a half pints a week per adult. It’s quite enough, to tell the truth. Another cut is expected soon, but we don’t use a lot of milk. All sorts of cuts take effect from today, for instance, confectioners will be allowed to add only one layer of jam or chocolate to cakes after baking. We don’t eat many cakes so that won’t be much of a problem, either.’
They discussed the rationing and the war effort and refilled their mugs, and soon John couldn’t help thinking that under any other circumstances he might get to like the guy. Eventually he said, ‘I’ll show you to your room. You have a French window that leads to the garden, but your bathroom is upstairs on the right.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Better call me John. How long will you guys be staying in England?’
‘That’s the best kept secret of the war, John. I’m just a humble scuba diving instructor. And I’m Simon.’ He tried not to grin at this sudden capitulation.
‘Well, there we are. On first name terms already. You guys are going to change Britain out of all recognition.’
He gave him a key, pointed to the door and left Johnson to take in his suitcases and unpack. As John went out into the garden, he was more uneasy than he’d been for years.
Simon took the key and ran upstairs to the bathroom, his mind going over the different responses he could have given to John’s question. ‘Maybe we’ll stay long enough to toss your nation out of the Victorian age, John, but I doubt you’ll ever lose your xenophobia.’ To Simon, the Brits were victims of their repressed feelings, resulting from their hypocritical class consciousness in a society hide-bound by tradition. Only time might change them.
He pushed open the bathroom door and stood gaping as time came to a dead halt. Each moment seemed to last forever as his body reacted to the unexpected sensuality of Helen standing naked in the bath, holding a bar of soap in one hand and a long brush in the other. Her elbow was tilted towards the ceiling, her right breast had risen and her hand holding the brush was out of sight behind her back. His blood raced, his mind panicked, his phallus roared up to meet the challenge, his skin prickled and lust almost propelled him to walk forward and touch her . . . grab her . . . any damn thing. But he, too, was a victim of repressed feelings and he backed out stammering, ‘Sorry,’ and slammed the door.
But what incredible loveliness! He sat on the top stair, his hands over his face, trying to memorize the scene. No, more than that, he wanted it engraved in his consciousness: the creamy whiteness of her skin so invitingly touchable, her gorgeous honey blonde hair tumbling out of the shower cap to her shoulders, her lips perfectly formed, such sensual lips when they weren’t forced into a hard, thin line, to match her mood. All that loveliness should never be hidden behind her frumpish clothes, her ugly head scarf and her cold exterior. He felt he had seen the real woman: trembling, defenceless and utterly desirable, but he guessed she would never forgive him for what he had seen.
‘Shit!’ he exclaimed, but at that moment the bathroom door opened and she came out of the bathroom, her hair now hidden under a towel, and her lovely body, with the full breasts, the narrow, brave waist, swelling to perfect hips, disguised by a tatty man’s dressing gown.
Simon stood up fast. They spoke at the same time, and they both said the same word, ‘Sorry!’
‘Have you been billeted on us?’ Helen took a step forward and leaned towards him as she scanned his face. A wave of perfume, soap and the softest scent engulfed him.
‘Afraid so.’
‘Afraid?’ She mused at the use of that word and frowned. ‘But you’re a captain, so presumably you had a choice.’
‘Yes . . . that is so . . . yes. I checked and saw which billets were available.’
‘It was my bathroom and I had no idea . . . no idea at all.’
‘John said you were sleeping.’
‘Yes, that’s right. I was. Are you here permanently?’
‘Yes, but I’m in London a great deal, too. I’ll be here tonight, but tomorrow I must go back to London. I’ll be there for a few days, maybe longer.’
‘See you later perhaps.
’
‘Yes, but I’ll eat at the mess most of the time. Wait . . . just a minute . . . I want to say something.’
She paused impatiently, her door half open.
‘I don’t have to be here. There are a couple of other places available. I haven’t yet unpacked . . .’
‘You must not try to make others take responsibility for your decisions, captain,’ she said mockingly. She went into her bedroom closing the door behind her. He heard the key turn in the lock and that offended him, although he knew he was being absurd.
That night an almost physical sense of guilt ruined his sleep. He used to be truthful until he became a spy. No wonder they shoot spies or hang them, he pondered. It is the most despicable of all professions. All too soon deception becomes a way of life. He had allowed Helen to think that he was here because of her, but he was here to investigate Miro. That was what he had told himself, but what was the real reason? Was it ever possible to have one’s motives cut and dried and laid out on a plate? he questioned. All he knew was that the sight of Cooper House on the list of available billets had inspired him to book it instantly. For Miro? For Helen? More likely for a dry mattress, on a sprung bed, under a substantial roof that didn’t buckle and crack in gale force winds.
In the first grey light of dawn he stood at the window gazing out to sea wondering how cold the water would be when he began his scuba training. It was about five hundred metres to the wreck. There should be plenty of fish around the rocks out there. It was a good place to begin. He could see the dark shadow of the bows which were only visible at low tide. He reached for his binoculars and focused on the wreck. It was then that he saw a boat surging away from the ship and moving westward in the direction of the next bay. A dinghy with an outboard engine, he decided. He could just make out four figures huddled under oilskin capes with hoods. Fishermen perhaps, but he couldn’t see their gear. Strange, but there was probably a perfectly innocent reason for them being there. As soon as his London classes were over and done with, scuba lessons would be his first priority.
String of Pearls Page 9
