The doctor glanced at her profile and watched a smile emerge for the first time.
Joanna said, ‘I shall go.’
They walked together into the corridor with its cream-coloured telephones and numbered rooms.
The doctor took one case at a time, if only to preserve her own sanity. It was pointless to give in to the horror of what might have been. That happened too often here.
She said, ‘You’ll not be needing me any more, Joanna.’ She saw the furtive movement of a white-jacketed orderly, trying to catch her attention. ‘You did it on your own, always remember that.’
At the gatekeeper’s lodge Joanna Gordon paused to look back at the big, rambling house, the windows like dark, hostile eyes in this bright sunshine. She nodded, as if to someone else. The nightmares might return . . .
The gatekeeper touched his cap as she passed and did not see her take a deep breath.
There was hope now. It was enough.
Captain Michael Blackwood was officially awarded the Distinguished Service Cross on June twelfth, one month to the day after the last of the Axis forces in Tunisia had been either evacuated or captured. Compared with the great events which were to pave the way for a combined invasion of Sicily, already codenamed Husky, the ceremony was a quiet and simple sideline, for which Blackwood and four other recipients were both pleased and grateful. The Commander-in-Chief, Mediterranean, made the presentations on behalf of the King, before he too was whisked away to his headquarters in Malta. That in itself was another visible proof of the victory in North Africa: Malta, bombed, mined, blockaded for so long, with only her people’s determination and a handful of fighters which had been required to fly almost around the clock, was now a symbol of success. So many ships had been sunk trying to force supplies through to that beleaguered island, so many men lost, that it had seemed almost inevitable that Malta, too, would fall. But it had not fallen, and Husky was not a dream; it was a reality, at least to the British and American planners and staff officers whose responsibility now was to co-ordinate the movements of hundreds of ships, thousands upon thousands of tons of supplies, tanks, vehicles of every size and class, and men.
Even in Alexandria the change in atmosphere was apparent. Landing craft were arriving daily to transport men and tanks: shoe boxes as they were called, because of their limitations in handling and speed in anything but perfect conditions. Big supply ships too, and troops of every description. Not even got their knees brown, as Archer had been heard to comment.
The C-in-C had spoken to each of the recipients while the Chief of Staff had read out the citations.
Blackwood was touched by the simplicity of it. No bands or bugles, and only a guard of honour for the C-in-C. There were a lot of faces he knew, and many he did not. And there were absences, like Lieutenant Falconer, who had gone down in his M.G.B. after fighting his last battle with the E-Boats. It was still hard to accept, a bitter memory after their return to Alex in triumph, with their German prisoners paraded on the deck of the lighter like trophies.
But Lieutenant Terry Carson was there, almost unrecognisable in perfect whites, and clean-shaven, with an unlikely appointment now in Cairo as Small Craft Adviser, and a half-stripe in the pipeline if he behaved himself.
He had said almost dreamily, ‘Still, not too bad, Mike. Lots of relics in Cairo!’
It was hard to set the stiff wording against the events and the stark memories. Showing extreme courage under fire. When men had died with brutal suddenness. Over and above the line of duty. Where there had never been any choice.
A handshake, and a searching look from the slight figure who, more than anyone, had held these ships and these men together when they were most needed.
He had hesitated, the ceremonial taking second place. ‘I was sorry about your father, Captain Blackwood. A very fine man and a great loss.’
And then it was over, as quickly as it had begun. More handshakes, and a general movement towards the mess.
It was a proud moment, or should have been. The admiral’s mention of his father brought it sharply home to him. The tradition, the Corps; there never could be any doubts.
And in any case, how could she have been here, even if she had wanted to? Major-General Vaughan was in Malta for conferences on Husky, and ‘beyond that’, as Gaillard had put it. Gaillard himself had gone to Cairo to collect some new uniforms; his promotion had been brought forward. Lieutenant-Colonel Marcus Gaillard, D.S.O., Royal Marines, was to command the new force of commandos, Trident, which was to be among the first to land on Sicily.
And yet, like the mention of his father, the prospect had left him feeling empty, and alone.
He saw Lieutenant Despard talking with one of the new officers who had come from England with Trident.
Some of the others were applauding, and he saw Brigadier Naismith nodding with approval.
Despard came up to him and said, ‘It’s all right, sir. I don’t want to talk about it. Not now, anyway.’ They shook hands as all the others watched in sudden silence. ‘This is your day, sir. You deserve it.’
Blackwood said, ‘I was always brought up to think of the Corps as a family. But at times like this, I’m not so sure it’s a good thing.’
The message had arrived just before the C-in-C. It would have been Gaillard’s task to tell him, but, feeling Despard’s wordless despair, Blackwood had been thankful that he was away. It was never explained how bad news always got priority, but it did. Despard’s mother had died in the Channel Islands almost unnoticed, much as she had lived.
He said, ‘We’ll have a drink later.’ He smiled. ‘Suit you?’
He watched Despard stride away, most likely to the sergeants’ mess. Escape. He faced the others; even the Chief of Staff was grinning, and they meant it, all of them, as he had done often enough when someone he knew had ‘made it’.
‘Congratulations, Mike!’ The Chief of Staff shook his fist at his secretary. ‘Not now, for God’s sake! We have a hero to celebrate!’
The secretary shrugged, and then moved up beside Blackwood while his lord and master broke into a carefully prepared speech.
He murmured, ‘That girl you met, at Rosetta.’
Blackwood gripped his arm.
‘What about her?’
‘She’s coming to Alex. I got word from Malta.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Friends in high places!’
‘Are you sure?’ His mind was reeling, as if he had already had too much to drink.
‘Tomorrow. She’s flying in. I have to pick up some papers for his lordship. I could give you a lift.’
He nodded, her face very clear in his thoughts. Like the moment when he had last seen her, here in Alex; they had been surrounded by people, but somehow he remembered only the two of them.
It might be just another brief meeting. But she was coming, probably with Vaughan’s blessing.
It did not do to dwell on the growing lines of landing craft, and the mounting piles of provisions and ammunition. That was tomorrow. They had to seize what they could, while they could.
They were all applauding again, and then there was an expectant silence. He could see a shadow by the door; Despard had waited after all. To share it, and rightly so.
He said, ‘This is certainly the finest day for me.’
Across the smiling faces and the raised glasses he caught the Chief of Staff’s secretary’s eye, and saw him wink.
And it was true. Now.
The car’s progress seemed slower and slower the closer they got to the harbour. Noise, service vehicles taking their chances with local donkey carts, dust, and choking exhaust fumes often made the journey difficult to endure.
The Chief of Staff’s secretary was driving, one elbow resting on the opened window, probably to show how nonchalant and detached he was. Blackwood noticed that the front passenger seat was occupied by the lieutenant’s briefcase and the small bag she had been carrying when they had met at the airport, so they could sit together in the back without attr
acting undue attention.
He knew her hand was beside his on the worn seat, but they did not touch. Like that time in the café; it seemed so long ago.
She had seen him as soon as she had finished showing her documents, had looked straight at him as if she had known he would be there. An over-attentive flight lieutenant, probably impressed that one so junior in rank could travel in a priority aircraft, could have been invisible. She had not even noticed him.
She was wearing the khaki drill he had bought for her in the souk, and she was holding her injured arm at her side as if to hide it from him. As if she were ashamed of it, as his father had seemed ashamed of his wounds. She wore a loose bandage over it, and had even tried to make some sort of joke on the subject, but he had sensed the tension immediately, and was troubled by his inability to identify or understand it.
She had told him that a billet had been arranged for her at the old yacht club, now used for officers in transit. It was comfortable enough, in a place which was teeming with servicemen of every sort, but certainly not private. He laid his hand over hers almost before he knew what he was doing, and felt her flinch. Surprised, embarrassed perhaps? But she did not pull the hand away.
‘How long will you be here, Joanna?’ Even the sound of her name seemed different.
She said quickly, ‘Two days. Then back to England. It’s all arranged.’ She turned to look at him. ‘It’s not long, is it?’
‘I’ve been worried about you. I keep thinking about what happened.’ He glanced at the driver, but he appeared intent on an army truck directly in front of him. It was full of grinning soldiers, and someone had chalked on the back, Berlin or bust!
She said, ‘I saw all the ships. It was like that in Gibraltar when we flew out, and Malta’s filling up as well.’ Her hand moved slightly. ‘It’s all coming to a head, isn’t it, Mike?’
He realised it was the first time she had used his name. Was it that bad?
‘I think so. Glad I don’t have the job of organising it. Must be a real test of allied co-operation!’
She lowered her voice so that he could barely hear her. ‘You’ll be going over, Mike? It’s what you’ve been preparing for, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ How flat and empty it sounded. If only he could hold her, tell her. What it was like, really like. But how could he? There could never be any doubts for him.
She leaned closer, and he could smell her hair, perhaps her perfume.
‘I recognise that place, the mosque! It’s where we got this uniform!’
For those few seconds he saw her as he had held her in his memory. She had momentarily put her anxieties aside; she was even gripping his hand again.
‘It suits you, Joanna.’ She looked directly at him, and then, surprisingly, lifted her hand to his face and held it there.
‘I worry about you, Mike. About us. What it’s doing, has already done to our lives.’
He said, ‘I love you. That’s all I care about.’
The lieutenant must have heard; he would be inhuman not to be listening. But this was important. The old yacht club was in the next street. Too important to lose. To spoil.
She said quietly, ‘You will write when you can, won’t you? Just so that I know you’re safe.’
Blackwood tightened his grip on her fingers. ‘You know I will.’ But all he could think of were the dead marines lying by the burning tank, and Robyns’s last cry before he had died, and Gaillard had walked away.
The lieutenant said brightly over his shoulder, ‘Here it is! Supposed to have been quite a smart place to be seen at one time.’ It was something to say, his attempt to help. Two servants were already hurrying into the road, and Blackwood saw several uniformed figures in chairs, with drinks in their hands. There were one or two women, probably nurses awaiting transfer, or passage in the next hospital ship.
The lieutenant said, ‘I’ll stay with the car, Mike. They’ll steal the wheels otherwise!’ But he did not smile. Perhaps he felt guilty at intruding upon something so painful, and so private.
They walked into the lobby together, where an orderly made a display of checking his records before handing the girl a key.
‘The boys will get you what you need, miss.’ He glanced at Blackwood. ‘You can use the lounge, sir. The rest is Residents Only.’ He smiled. ‘Rules, I’m afraid.’
Blackwood had the feeling he was enjoying it.
She took her bag and said, ‘Can you wait? I’ll only be a moment.’ She reached out as if to touch him again, but withdrew her hand. ‘I’d like a drink if you can manage it.’ She turned her back deliberately on the orderly. ‘No rules about that, I hope!’
Blackwood found two empty chairs and signalled for a steward. Two days, in this place? He avoided the curious eyes, and tried to shut them from his mind. Something serious had happened, and in two days she would be gone. Maybe this was her way of saying good-bye. Never get close to anybody in wartime. Another stupid rule, obviously made by somebody who had never been in one. He looked at his clenched fists, seeing again the German’s contorted face when he had driven the knife into him.
He stood up quickly, scraping his leg against the table. She had returned, and was looking at him, with concern and what he wanted to imagine was something else.
‘Your wound – is it bad?’ Then the hand came to rest on his arm. ‘Please tell me, Mike.’
They sat down, facing one another, the tall glasses having appeared unnoticed.
‘It’s fine. Really.’
She reached out once more. ‘You wouldn’t tell me anyway. I know you so well!’ She could not keep it up. ‘I want . . . I want to know you so well.’
Blackwood sensed the glances, and the more blatant stares.
‘And I you.’ He tried again. ‘Is there somebody else?’
She shook her head, so vehemently that she almost upset the glass.
‘You must never think that! When we had those hours together, in that funny house with the swimming pool . . .’ She broke off, almost visibly composing herself. ‘I wanted you then. When I saw you at the airfield I was afraid you might have changed . . . towards me, don’t you see?’
He gave the glass to her and watched her trying to swallow some of the contents; he had no idea what he had been drinking. It did not matter. Nothing mattered.
He said, ‘When I heard you were coming from Malta I could hardly believe it. And now,’ he watched her holding the glass, skin tanned against the khaki drill. She was afraid, and the realisation filled him with sudden anger. ‘Tell me what happened. What they did. Everything. Just tell me, share it with me.’
She looked at him in that searching, direct way, her breathing quite calm, her eyes steady.
‘You will be going to fight again soon, Mike. All those ships, all the troops I’ve seen here and in Malta. I’ll not just walk away from you, leave you worrying, doubting . . .’ She looked past him, and he saw a small pulse moving in her throat, making her semblance of composure a lie. ‘Your friend. The one who drove us.’ She stared across the room, as if she were trapped. ‘He seems to know his way around.’
He held her hand across the table. ‘In his job, he needs to.’
She looked at him again, as if to make certain he was not making a joke of it. Then she said, ‘Ask him, will you, Mike? Find us a room, I don’t care where it is. I just want to be alone with you.’ Then she smiled faintly. ‘Only you with all your private troubles would understand. You know that, don’t you?’
He stood. He had not released her hand.
‘I’ll tell him it was my idea.’
She watched his mouth, his eyes, searching for something.
Then she said, ‘I love you.’
She watched him leave the room, and saw two officers at the next table whispering to each other.
She recalled what Major-General Vaughan had said when he had invented a reason for her flight under his orders.
‘Tell them all to go to hell, my dear!’ His battered face had bent into a
grin. ‘And tell Captain Blackwood, from me, that if I’d been a year or so younger he wouldn’t have had a bloody look-in!’
He was back, gazing down at her, his eyes full of questions, of longing.
‘You were right. He does know a place. Not that far.’ He hesitated, as if afraid she had changed her mind.
She stood up and reached for her shoulder bag. ‘Let’s go. I’ve got all I need here.’
He saw the way she was looking at the two officers at the next table. Defiance, contempt; maybe they had made some remark to her in his absence.
She turned to him and almost smiled. As if she had made a decision, or one had been forced upon her.
Two days. He opened the door for her. It was more than some people discovered in a lifetime.
The Chief of Staff’s secretary certainly knew his way around, and even the sight of several military police vehicles did not deter him.
‘The chap who owns this place does a lot of work for the base. Boat repairs, carpentry – useful man to know.’ He returned one of the redcaps’ salutes and added, ‘Bit noisy. But it’s safe enough.’
The girl had walked between them from the car. There were servicemen everywhere, in the narrow streets where the balconies almost touched each other, in the bazaars and the cafés. But the heavy military police presence suggested something else: brothels, which, despite having been ruled off-limits, would be a ready temptation for the innocent.
The lieutenant said, ‘He’s Dutch, by the way. Left the sea to live here, of all places.’
She asked, ‘Is it private?’ It sounded so silly she almost laughed. She felt light-headed, reckless. Impatient with herself for being afraid, and angered by the rude stares at the old yacht club.
‘It’s okay.’ He pushed open a gate and led the way across a small courtyard. ‘Oh, he’s in Cairo at the moment.’ He sensed Blackwood’s hesitation, and knew it was because of the girl. ‘Really. It’s all right. Believe me.’
Up an outside stairway and into a low-ceilinged room which faced over the harbour. An untidy room, a masculine room. There was a large and severe portrait of Queen Wilhelmina of the Netherlands on one wall, an engraving of Rotterdam on another. A man a long way from home.
Dust on the Sea (1999) Page 21
