Merrie heard the thickening of his voice. She glanced again at the bar, wanting to shout but dreading a disturbance. The other patron was trying to gather up his glasses of beer, having trouble with the five of them. Oh God, Peter, she thought desperately, please come; and at once: No, wait till this swine leaves. He had to leave before Peter turned from the bar.
Bentley was having trouble with language.
"Good afternoon," he said pleasantly, aware of the need these days to treat barmaids like queens. "I'd like a pair of gimlets, please."
He got them, in the form of a stare from two mascara'd and unsmiling eyes.
"What d'ya think this is? A bloody hardware store?"
"Eh? Oh, sorry. My mistake. Two gin and limes."
"We ran outa gin yesterday. Gawd knows when the next lot comes in. Beer? Come on, sport, make up ya mind."
Merrie didn't like beer. What with his edgy moroseness, his annoyance at the barmaid's tone, and trying to think what Merrie would like in lieu of gin, Bentley made his second mistake.
"I'll have a couple of horse's necks."
"Oh, for cryin' out loud!"
Her voice was loud. Several heads turned. Bentley flushed.
"That's brandy and dry ginger ale."
"Then why don't ya say so?"
"With ice," Bentley said. "Is that plain enough?"
"We're outa ice, too. Is that plain enough?"
Bentley waited while she poured the nips and then sloshed ginger ale in. The big man was saying:
"My name's Bill. They call me Big Bill. Y'can see why. I'm a commando, just in from the Middle East. Jesus, I didn't see nothing like you over there. What's your name?"
Mutely, lips compressed with embarrassment and worry, she shook her head.
"Aw, come on, gorgeous. I bet you're not always this cold, eh? What you need is a man. Well, now you got one. I'll show you. Jesus, I will! Give that pansy the brush and meet me later, like about half an hour later, front of the Post Office. How about it?"
Desperate, Merrie was thinking of telling him she would think about it, anything to be rid of him, when she saw Bentley turn from the bar.
She saw him halt his turn, and his face tighten as he saw the man leaning over her, then he came for the table in a swift sliding movement. Merrie had been fearful. Now she felt sick.
The man they called Big Bill could not see her face, turned away as it was and had been several times during his conversation; in any case, he was staring down at something much more promising.
"Look, sweetheart," he said, "I'm loaded, I tell you. We can really show this town a rare old..."
"Something I can do for you?" a voice said suddenly beside him.
Bill looked up and as part of the same movement his body straightened. He saw a big man, but not as bulky as himself. His mouth twisted.
"Yes," he said, "you can get lost."
Bentley had already noted the grey sports coat and the khaki, open-necked shirt. Army issue. He should have been in uniform, and wasn't. This presupposed an anti-regulation, belligerent nature. Now Bentley was seeing that twisted smile, ignoring the sneer in it, noting the self-assurance.
"What's your rank, soldier?" he said evenly.
Merrie was looking up at her man, apprehensively surprised to see that this was nothing like the man she knew. Bentley's face had hardened to a total blankness of expression, with his eyes slitted and his mouth a thin straight line. He stood with feet apart and his arms hanging down, apparently slack, but the fingers curled in, as if waiting to be balled instantly into fists. Very gently, his body moved back and forward, as if he were slightly drunk. She knew he was wholly sober.
"What's my rank gotta do with you, Captain ?" Bill said.
The widened smile, the gleam in his eyes, the emphasis on that word, warned Bentley that he'd been right; his opponent was a hater and a decrier of Authority. And he was his opponent-this fellow was spoiling for trouble.
Quickly, a hiss of fearful warning, Merrie said:
"Peter, he's a commando!"
Without turning, keeping his eyes on Big Bill, Bentley said:
"I presume he told you that?"
"Yes, of course."
Bentley knew he should get out of this; shrug it off, get Merrie and himself down to the street, near a policeman. There was his elevated rank, plainly uniformed in the crowded, suddenly silent room, and there was Merrie. He was required to get out of it.
And there was the worry and the concern for his flotilla which had been sandpapering his nerves for weeks, and he said:
"I've known many commandos. I've never known a single commando who boasted that he was one. And to a girl."
"Peter..." Merrie said despairingly.
"I was hoping you might say something like that, pretty boy," said Bill. "Standby to receive."
His left hand was still resting on the table. It moved rapidly across in front of Merrie, without a check to its movement grabbed up one of the glasses Bentley had put down, and flung the contents straight for his face.
Bentley's face was not there. Nor, in the next instant, was Bill's. His mouth caught full and square the pistoning force of Bentley's fist and his face slammed back against the wall beside the window.
A woman screamed. Spitting blood, Bill thrust himself from the wall and lunged forward.
Amongst men whose interests incline practically or theoretically towards such vehement pastimes, there has always been discussion as to who would win-the boxer, the wrestler, the karate or judo expert, or the man skilled in unarmed combat? It is a perennial and profitless problem, for the solving of it would require too many equations. Each practitioner would need to be equally fit and proficient in his art-how could that be judged?-And the number of variables is enormous. If the boxer got in his first uppercut to the jaw, the karateist the first shuto to the neck, the wrestler his vice of a bearhug around the back, the unarmed combat man his kick to the groin... It all depends.
Here it depended on two things. One of them was skill. The sailor was a boxing champion, provenly the best amongst thousands. The soldier could hardly rate so relatively high in his nasty field.
The second thing was feeling. Big Bill had been simply looking for trouble, this day, now. Bentley had been troubled for weeks, with the edginess and frustration mounting inside him like a volcano's heat, but denied an outlet.
Big Bill found his trouble.
Sprawled back again to the wall by Bentley's second sledgehammer rip into his guts, held there by a flashing succession of blows so bewilderingly fast that he had no chance of avoiding them, Bill's face was a bloodied mess when at last Merrie's scream pierced into Bentley's consciousness.
"Peter! Peter! Stop it!"
He stopped, his muscled shoulders crouched and his right fist cocked for the next punch; he saw what he had done to the body sagging against the wall and the inhuman rage drained away, the flaring of this nostrils eased.
"Je... sus," Bill gasped. "No... more."
Both of Bentley's hands flashed out, gripped round his shoulders and lowered him to the floor. Weakly, his eyes squeezed shut, Big Bill shook his head.
"Get... out. Before... they come."
"Yes. Thanks."
Bentley jammed on his cap, took Merrie's hand and dragged her across the room. There was shock in some of the faces they passed, in others fear and disgust, and from a few men, stares of admiration. Bentley was concerned with only one type-new faces, running up the stairs.
But though fierce, the fight had been short. They made the street unhindered.
"Taxi!" Bentley yelled.
Merrie had got a grip on herself. "We haven't a chance," she said as the taxi sailed past.
"Tram," Bentley said, "there's one stopping."
"But where are we... ?"
"Come on."
Bentley almost shoved her aboard. He led the way to an empty seat at the rear, conscious of his hands. The tram jolted off.
"Thank God," he muttered.
She gave a little s
hudder. "It was horrible. Peter, you looked so... so frightening."
"I'm sorry." He put his hand on hers. "I didn't want to get involved in anything like that. But he did." He shrugged. "If it hadn't been me..."
"Yet you thanked him."
"Did I?"
"I heard it distinctly. You said, `Thanks'."
"Oh, that. You didn't hear what he said before that. `Get out, before they come'."
"The police?"
"Worse, the military police. It was decent of him to think of that."
"My God."
"Yes, it could have been damned awkward. Quite nasty, in fact."
"I didn't mean that. You half kill a man and then you call him decent!"
"You don't understand."
"You are absolutely right. Good heavens," she said suddenly, "your hand, both of them."
Bentley looked at his bloodied knuckles. "He's a tough boy." Then he was grinning. She frowned her query. "I feel like a lanced boil," he said. "I mean, after a boil's been lanced. I also feel like a drink. Where's the nearest?"
"The Gresham." And because her own boil of tension was draining, she added, a bit archly: "I don't imagine we'll be interrupted in there."
"You're forgetting, sweetheart, just who was the basic cause of that ruckus back there."
Smiling that way, she thought, he looked normal again. Out of evil... But would it last? A little hastily, she said:
"Maybe you'd like me to go around veiled like a harem woman?"
"An excellent idea."
"I have a better one. We stop at a chemist before the Gresham. You won't be allowed in looking like a damned gladiator."
He played along with her lightened mood." Not even one just returned from the wars?"
"Thank God you have," she said softly, and then her own smile slipped as she saw his tighten.
Oh God, she thought, staring miserably ahead, what was eating him?
CHAPTER THREE
WITH his knuckles swabbed, ointmented and taped-a dead giveaway, he reflected, except that the soldier would have told the police, if they'd been sent for, that his attacker was anything, between a sub-lieutenant and a French legionnaire; he felt sure of this, after that warning to get clear-Bentley walked behind Merrie into a different type of lounge.
All the Servicemen present were officers. There were waiters, and there was gin. For himself Bentley ordered a double whisky, diluting it with the smallest amount of water. He wasted no time in sending the stiffener south. Merrie, too, seemed thirsty.
"That's better," Bentley said, raising a finger at the waiter. "Now. What's this wonderful news of yours?"
The suddenness of his question took her by surprise, so that she answered without thinking:
"Doctor Warren's asked me to be his assistant surgeon."
"Bully for you," said Bentley, to whom the news meant nothing. "Is that why you came from the opposite direction this afternoon?"
"You were watching me?"
"Like Ferris and the flagship."
"Pardon?"
"Let it slide. Assistant? I thought you were a surgeon for a full due. In your own right, I mean. Qualified, practised, the lot. Damn it all, you practised on me once. Weren't you qualified?"
There was the slightest edge to his bantering. It made Merrie's answer sharper than she wanted it to be.
"Don't be silly. Doctor Warren happens to be the finest obstetrical surgeon in the State. At least I think so. I know it's an honour to assist him."
"Okay, okay, ease the strain, I was only kidding."
Were you? she almost said. Instead: "It came as a complete surprise." The waiter came, giving her time to choose her words; he seemed so touchy these days, she did not want to start him off. "Any surgeon would give his eyeteeth to work with Warren. I mean, anyone of my age and experience, or lack of it. And then, out of the blue, his call this morning. Phew..."
"You make this fellow sound like he's Hippocrates himself," Bentley growled. She hadn't meant to, she thought, her heart sinking. "Humility's all very well, so long as it's not overdone. You shouldn't underrate yourself. If Warren's so damned good, and he's made you his assistant, then it follows that you must be good."
"Yes, I suppose you're right."
"Then why the sackcloth and ashes bit?"
"Oh, Peter..." she started, and stopped, but he seemed not to have noticed.
"If any man on my bridge," he said raspily, "jabbered on about his lack of experience, I'd bloody soon see that he got it in some other ship. You carry on like that in front of this Warren bloke and you'll find yourself back setting broken fingers. And I wouldn't blame him. So have confidence in your own ability, for God's sake."
Anger was flashing in her. She tried to dampen its fire, and failed.
"The subject was Doctor Warren's ability!" Bentley shrugged. "I see it differently."
"You see it differently! You haven't the faintest idea what you're jabbering about!"
"Is that so?" Bentley sipped at his drink, then laid down the glass gently. "I'm not so damned humble that I don't claim to know a sizeable bit about experience, and ability, and self-confidence. And, for that matter, the lack of those..."
He stopped. At last, it seemed, he saw the anger sparking in her eyes.
"Oh, hell. I'm sorry, old girl." He shook his head. "How the devil did we get into this lot? Here, have another drink."
"I would prefer lunch, thank you."
He took a deep breath, and let it out on a sudden grin, which made his face look younger, and a lot less hard. She wanted to warm to him, to let him see it, but fear of his inexplicable touchiness held her back: and just then, unbidden and shocking, the thought struck her; was he growing tired of her; was that the cause?
"I'll just finish this, then we'll go in." He took up his glass, but did not drink. "What exactly will you be doing with Doctor Warren?"
"Gynaecological surgery, naturally."
"Naturally. For instance?"
"You... really want to know?"
"Of course. It's a pleasant pre-luncheon subject." But he was smiling.
"Well, there's a Caesarian section coming up in a few days. Julius Caesar was supposed to have been born that way."
"What way?"
"By means of an incision into the uterus, usually through the abdominal wall."
"It sounds gruesome, but fascinating."
"Fascinating, yes, especially with Doctor Warren at the table."
"Mmmm." Bentley looked up at her from under his brows. "No chance, I suppose, of my seeing something fascinating like that?"
"No chance. An operating theatre is not a picture theatre."
"Damn it all, I'm only trying to show interest in your work." He tossed down his drink. "Let's eat."
"You're acting like a spoilt kid."
The truth hurts? Certainly it flushed his face. She smiled, trying to placate him, spoiling him...
"You can do rounds with me. That will be in order."
"Great."
"Tonight, then?"
"Oh, forget it. Let's eat," he said again, and stood up.
Dinner at Merrie's home was easier than lunch, though not much. It is difficult for the most vivacious trio of women to produce a sparkling atmosphere in the face of a single, brooding male, and these were not vivacious. Mrs. Prescott was naturally quiet, and had lost her husband at Tobruk. So had Mrs. Bentley, aboard her son's ship. Now, like Merrie, she was concerned about Peter's attitude. The fact that she knew its cause didn't help at all.
Dessert came. It was Pavlova made by Mrs. Prescott, passionfruit and cream, the lot, Bentley's favourite sweet.
"Not for me, thank you," he said.
Mrs. Prescott looked hurt; it had taken a deal of searching and persuasion to get that cream. His mother spoke quickly:
"But Peter, you've always liked it so much."
"Not just now, thank you."
"Just a small piece?"
"No thanks."
"But surely you have room for..
."
"For God's sake, Mother!"
He shoved his chair back, threw down his napkin and strode out on to the front verandah. Staring after him, Merrie made to rise. Mrs. Bentley's hand pressed her arm.
"Not just now, Merrie."
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