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String of Pearls

Page 16

by Madge Swindells


  John’s eyes were drawn to Simon. ‘I didn’t mention it,’ John said, glaring at him. ‘I thought it was too bloody silly for words.’

  ‘Yes, you said so,’ Simon said quietly.

  ‘What is? What’s going on?’ Helen asked.

  ‘It’s nothing serious,’ Simon said. ‘By the way, does anyone know any other way to reach the bay, other than by boat, or the path from the camp?’

  ‘I do,’ Miro said. ‘It’s a long haul, but I noticed months ago that someone – well, it must be more than one person – had cleared a path through the boulders at the western end of the bay. It’s only visible at low tide.’

  ‘It’s not low tide now,’ Simon said, glancing at his watch.

  ‘They arrived by dinghies with outboard motors,’ Miro said. ‘There are more demos along the coast towards Claremont.’

  ‘How do you know, Miro?’ John asked.

  ‘I called a friend who lives that way. As a matter of fact, they’ve been whipping up support around the market at Claremont, handing out leaflets, that sort of thing. They asked me to join them . . . well, all of us . . . you know, boys in my class. We meet there for coffee sometimes. None of us went.’

  ‘I’d better organize guards to stop them from coming up to the camp . . . or to you.’ He pushed two rashers of bacon between two pieces of toast and stood up. ‘See you guys.’ He walked out of the house and then turned and walked back again.

  ‘It’s a lovely day out of the wind,’ he announced from the doorway. ‘Warm for late April.’

  ‘We noticed,’ Daisy said, laughing at him.

  ‘Why don’t we go for lunch at the Mowbray Heights, a family outing. Come on, let’s go. It’s my treat.’

  ‘Perhaps you could pick us up from church . . .?’ Helen began.

  ‘Oh Mum. Why can’t we skip church?’

  Helen shrugged.

  ‘How about you, Miro?’ Simon asked.

  ‘It’s a great idea.’

  ‘So it all hangs on you, John. All or nothing.’ Helen was smiling happily.

  ‘I look forward to it,’ John said.

  Lunch went well. John decided to unwind and told them stories about some of the intelligence bungles he’d been involved in. When Simon went to the window to watch the demonstrators, John followed him. ‘They’re just kids, roped in by professional trouble-makers and you can bet they’re being paid to rustle up this demo. It might be worth your while to find out just who organized this nonsense. You may find it’s connected to the boats that visit the wreck at night.’

  ‘Just what I was thinking, John.’

  ‘You’ve been training there for two weeks, you are probably preventing them from doing whatever it is they were doing.’

  ‘Or maybe they’re afraid of what we might find there. It’s something that’s been bugging me. I’ve searched around the reef and the wreck a few times. I haven’t found anything yet, but visibility is poor. It’s a rough corner and surf hits the reef and churns up the sand. Why the hell would they think that a few kids waving placards would prevent us from training?’

  ‘I have an idea that certain people want to get you away from the wreck on a temporary basis,’ John said. ‘I’d take care if I were you.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. Thanks.’ Simon had given up suspecting John after hearing that he was in British intelligence in the last war. He’d checked that out and it was true. Mike had reported that John’s nightly excursions were to Alice Bronson, his mistress, who owned and ran a sweet shop in Claremont.

  The following night there was no moon and the sky was overcast. It was so dark Simon could hardly distinguish the sea from sky. He was keeping watch from the folly. Around midnight he saw dim gleams of light coming from around the wreck and he guessed that club members were once again out there. His gear was set up and ready, hidden in box in the bushes halfway down the cliff path. It took only moments to don his rubber suit and the tank and shortly afterwards he was wading into the water.

  He was taken by surprise by a blow which struck him across his head and shoulders and probably would have killed him if it weren’t that the iron bar collided with the air tank strapped on his back. He fell forward into the surf and for a brief moment he panicked, knowing that he would be unable to get up quickly enough with his heavy encumbrance. His wits returned fast and he pulled back the clip that released his harness leaving him free. His assailant, who had been wading back to the shore leaving him to drown, turned fast, but not fast enough. Simon’s right fist lashed out at his assailant’s head. He ducked, but Simon’s momentum sent his shoulder crashing into the man’s chest. They fell with flailing arms and legs into the yielding wet sand.

  Simon caught the thick, wrestler’s neck between his hands and squeezed. His attacker knew the score, Simon realized. He knew he was fighting for his life against a man trained in unarmed combat, but he knew the right moves, too. They were wrestling in waterlogged, shifting sand and their feet could get no purchase. Desperately the man grabbed a handful of sand and flung it into Simon’s face. Simon grabbed him around the neck until he was gasping for breath, his eyes bulging, his face turning blue, but they skidded on a wet rock and fell. Rising to his feet, Simon saw that his attacker had a knife in his hand. He raised his arm a split second too late and the knife cut him across the shoulder. Reeling back, he lost his balance and fell forward on to the sand as his attacker leaped forward and hit him hard with an iron bar. Simon grunted, but felt no pain. He caught hold of his boot and flung the huge body sidelong into the surf. They were both down, but Simon was stronger and fitter. Tire him out, he thought, then go in for the kill. His attacker was snorting and bellowing like a tired old bull and making mistakes. Suddenly he charged, head down, arms threshing. Simon feinted to the side, brought up his foot and sent him hurtling into the sea. He threw himself over him, shifting his full weight on the back of his head, holding his face underwater until he was only semi-conscious and his struggles were more feeble. He was unconscious when Simon pulled him out of the sea. He shoved him into the harness and bound his hands behind him. Dragging him into the bushes, he secured the harness to a tree. Falling about with exhaustion, he forced himself to hurry up the path to the camp. He sent the guard to wake the boys in the nearest tent and send them down to fetch up the unconscious man.

  By two a.m., his assailant was locked in the police station, telling McGuire all he wanted to know. When the so-called photographers arrived back at their mooring at the Claremont fishing harbour, they found a squad of police waiting for them.

  Eighteen

  Helen woke from a light sleep to hear unusual sounds coming from the camp, voices raised, vehicles moving, running footsteps. She got out of bed shivering with cold and fear. It was happening! The invasion had begun; the GIs were leaving and within hours they would be crossing the Channel to face God knows what hell. It seemed to take forever to feel her way across the room and fumble with the blackout. She nearly tore it in her agitation. The lawn was white with a late frost. Looking up she saw that the clouds were clearing. She could see patches of stars. As she flung open the window and leaned out in order to see the camp, the cold air shocked her into mental alertness.

  They were not leaving . . . not yet, but something was wrong. Several GIs were up and dressed, a crowd of MPs stood around their vehicles and lights were shining in the medical tent. Someone was hurt. Someone else was being ‘assisted’ to the back of a police van by half a dozen MPs. They pushed him in and the van took off. There was no sign of Simon. Perhaps he was sleeping downstairs. Glancing at her watch she saw that it was past two a.m.

  She closed the window, but left the blackout open and went back to bed, but not to sleep. She was remembering Simon and the way he had kissed her in the car on the night of the blitz. Guilt had drowned her need, but Simon had not understood. Since then he had been very correct, very polite, and very remote. He had removed himself to another dimension where he could remain inviolate and untouchable. He would never co
me back, she feared. Why was she so obsessed with the rightness of things? Or was she paying Simon back for Eric’s crimes? She shivered and felt a sudden revulsion for herself and the life she had created. Why couldn’t she reach out for love? Why was she so afraid? She should have grabbed any joy coming her way, however ephemeral. They were at war, once he was gone she might never see him again.

  But Eric might return. What if he did? This was her father’s house, there was no law that said she had to have him back. She had enough grounds for divorce however long it took.

  An hour later, she heard a jeep turning into their gate. It must be Simon. The door opened and she heard three men walk in. She got out of bed and opened her door, to listen to their voices. They were half-supporting Simon to his room.

  ‘Be quiet . . . careful . . . we don’t want to wake the household.’ Simon’s voice.

  She caught her breath. Something was wrong with Simon. Stepping forward, she gripped the banisters and looked down. A tall man stood silhouetted in the doorway. His mop of blue-black hair shone in the passage light. Of course, it was Mike Lawson. Simon had mentioned that Lawson was his PA. There was a third man with them.

  ‘Sure you’ll be all right, sir?’ she heard Lawson say.

  Simon muttered something that she could not hear, followed by soft laughter. The boys left.

  Helen stood worrying and shivering. Why did they have to help him home? What had happened to him? Was it Simon who she’d seen being treated by the medics? Anxious and indecisive, she listened, but heard nothing. Finally she crept downstairs. Simon’s door was unlocked. She opened it and paused in the doorway.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she whispered. Light flooded the room and suddenly she was on guard, aware that she was wearing only her nightdress. Propped up on his elbow with the blankets around him, Simon looked perfectly normal. She was overcome with embarrassment. His dark eyes were glinting with laughter. His lips, too, were curving into a grin, more on one side than the other, while one eyebrow slowly rose, wrinkling his brow

  ‘I’m so sorry to barge in, I was afraid you’d had an accident and I couldn’t sleep for worrying. I heard Mike and another man bring you home. Why was that?’

  ‘Perhaps I was drunk.’

  ‘No, not you.’

  ‘And you can’t sleep for worrying. Doesn’t that tell you something?’ He watched her critically and she flushed.

  ‘As long as you’re all right.’ She turned to leave, but paused, feeling the need to explain further.

  ‘But I’m not.’ He tried to sit up and the blankets fell back revealing the bandage around his torso. His shoulder was heavily bound with pads around it, but the blood was oozing through. When he pushed back the blankets and swung his legs to the floor, she saw that he was naked. But why was his ankle bound so tightly?

  She gasped, ‘What happened? How bad is it?’

  ‘Very bad. I’m freezing. Come and warm me, Helen.’

  ‘Tell me what happened and cover yourself. Do you always sleep naked?’

  ‘Yes, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll change all that when we’re together.’

  Her face was burning. ‘Tell me what happened?’

  ‘Don’t worry. It was worth it. It brought you here.’ He was smiling as he attempted to stand, but fell back. ‘Ouch.’

  She reached forward to steady him. ‘Simon . . . tell me.’

  ‘We had a fight. I won, but it doesn’t feel like that right now.’ He caught her wrist, but when she pulled back, he gasped. ‘Don’t do that. It hurts too much.’

  ‘Then let go.’

  ‘No. Come to bed.’

  ‘Dear God!’ she wailed. ‘Will you let go before I pull my hand and hurt you again?’

  ‘No. How cold you are . . . icy,’ he murmured, suddenly serious. He let go of her hand and tried to sit up straight. ‘Can you help me?’ She leaned over him and pushed him forward, pulling the pillows straight to prop him up and saw the cuts and bruises on his back. ‘Oh my God. You’ve been in a fight. Why?’

  ‘I wanted to find out why several men in a boat go out to the wreck on dark nights without showing any lights. I was convinced something illicit was going on.’

  ‘Eric said much the same to me before he left.’ Helen’s words sounded alarm bells, but Simon didn’t respond.

  ‘I intended to swim out there, but they’d left a guard on the beach. He came up behind me when I wasn’t looking. Criminal carelessness.’

  ‘Did you catch sight of him?’

  ‘Not really. It was too dark.’

  ‘So you’ve no idea who it was?’

  ‘He’s in the police station so they’ll soon find out. We had a fight. I won . . . eventually.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Her eyes were brimming over with salty tears.

  ‘All these tears. Why? Is it my fault? I’m so sorry.’ He smoothed her cheeks with his thumbs and pushed her hair off her face.

  Helen fumbled in her pocket and blew her nose on a handkerchief.

  ‘Come on, hop in. What have you got to lose?’

  She gazed inquiringly at him and saw the love in his eyes. Pulling off her nightdress, she slipped into bed beside him.

  ‘This is not right for you and it’s not right for me. God knows how it will end.’

  Morning light! Helen stirred sleepily and turned on her back. The memory of their brief hours together flooded into her mind and she smiled softly. They had made love, despite his wounds, and slept entwined, and later begun all over again. It was as if . . . as if . . .? How could she explain even to herself? It was as if he loved her. He had been so tender and so skillful, like a man who had been away from home for far too long. He couldn’t get enough of her. No one had ever done the things that he had done and she had reciprocated with as much ardour as he. Her body felt pleasantly used, complete, glowing in every place, with a dull ache around her thighs.

  She was too relaxed to stir, but when she reached out and found that he had gone, she felt regretful. She lay back on the pillow and closed her eyes. Then she heard gurgling in the kitchen. It sounded like the coffee percolator, muted clicks of cups and teaspoons placed on saucers. He appeared in the doorway holding a tray with his right hand.

  She scrambled out of bed to grab the tray and became aware that she was naked. Her nightdress lay on the floor. What did it matter? She smiled at him. ‘You made coffee. That’s amazing, but now you must stay in bed. I’ll bring your meals in here.’

  ‘What’s amazing about it?’

  ‘You only have one arm.’

  ‘That’s temporary, Helen.’

  He was scanning her quizzically. She had the feeling that she should comment on his amazing virility. ‘I’m afraid I let my hair down. It’s been a long time.’ It sounded like a cliché and she flushed.

  ‘That was good sex. The best.’ He stirred her coffee and passed it to her.

  ‘Helen, I’m crazy about you. I want to marry you as soon as you’re free.’

  ‘Let’s not kid ourselves,’ she began, in a harsh voice. ‘Divorce takes years in Britain. Last night was an accident that should never have happened. I was caught off-guard. I don’t intend to let this happen again.’

  ‘I’ll remember you as you were last night, softly seeking, shy and giving, a different woman altogether. What has life done to you, my sweet Helen?’

  He put down his cup and leaned forward to kiss her forehead.

  Forgetting about their one night stand wasn’t quite as easy as Helen had expected. She coped in daylight hours, for her mind was as well-schooled as a Lipizzaner horse. Admittedly her body rebelled, but she tamed it with cold showers. It was the nights she dreaded, for then she was badly let down by her sneaky subconscious which opened the door to him the moment she shut her eyes. She tried every possible cure: a stiff drink before bed, sleeping pills, even tranquilizers, but nothing worked. In her dreams, he devised the most pleasurable activities to wile away the night. At dawn she would wake
, spread-eagled on the bed, with damp thighs and a smile on her lips.

  Stupid to pine, she reasoned. He’ll leave soon and I might not hear from him again. She didn’t need two disasters in her life.

  Nineteen

  On a calm day in May, Simon took his underwater team for their pre-dawn dive to master advanced sabotage skills under the wreck. He set out through the chill mist with Mike and a team of six good swimmers from Mike’s water polo team, two of whom were experienced in handling explosives, plus twelve visiting GIs from other divisions. The sea was like a metal sheet, calm, grey and deceptive. A cold wind started from the north-west, driving a fine drizzle as they reached a spot above the wreck which they had marked with a buoy. It was low tide and a remnant of the wreck still protruded from the surface, although it was breaking up fast due to the recent storms. The guys donned their gear, gave the thumbs up sign, gripped the mouthpieces in their teeth and tumbled backwards into the sea, leaving only two men to guard the boats. Simon, who was never warm enough, shivered at the prospect of icy water filling his rubber suit. He gritted his teeth and followed them.

  Leaving the class gathered around the wreck, Simon approached the gaping hole in the stern. He was loathe to enter, but with Helen’s words in mind, he knew he must. He pushed one leg through the jagged hole and moved into the pitch dark hold.

  As he put his foot down, something thick and alive squirmed under his foot. He waited for the bite, which didn’t come. When the sediment cleared he saw dozens of eels wriggling amongst the debris. The hold filled him with loathing, but a glance at his watch told him he had better get on with it. After a complete search of the hull, he glanced at his watch again. Time to surface! His team were bobbing up around him and making for the boat.

  ‘Everyone OK?’ he asked, after a quick head count.

  ‘Irwin cut his hand, but it’s not serious,’ his buddy said.

 

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