The Triumph

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘And so good to see you.’ Her finger traced the crimson ribbon on his breast, and then the red and blue one next to it. ‘You are going to be as distinguished as your father.’

  ‘That’ll be the day. But, talking about Father...’

  ‘Fergus, my dear, dear boy.’ Philippa came hurrying up from the stables. ‘I heard the noise...my, but you’re looking well. You’re burnt quite brown.’

  Fergus embraced her and suppressed a wince. If his ribs were officially knitted, they were still susceptible to extreme pressure, and Aunt Philippa was a large, powerful woman.

  ‘Fergus? Is it really you?’

  Both the older Mackinder women stepped aside to let him look at Annaliese. Although it was still not the end of May, the weather was delightfully warm, and she had clearly been sunbathing. Now she was wrapped in a bathrobe, but it was obvious she had nothing on underneath, and her feet were bare as her hair was tousled. Fergus thought she looked delightful, as if she had just left her bed. He had almost forgotten how beautiful she was.

  She had also taken the time to collect little Ian, or maybe he had been sunbathing with her; he wore only a bathing costume. He was nearly at his third birthday, and stood sturdily beside her, holding her hand.

  ‘Fergus,’ she said again, and came down the steps, Ian still attached. ‘Darling, this is your Uncle Fergus.’

  ‘Liese, one day you are going to catch your death of cold,’ Philippa admonished. ‘And give Baby chronic bronchitis.’ Liese ignored her, and was in Fergus’s arms. He kissed her mouth, and it opened for him. He held her close, forgetting the pain in his side, and she stood on tiptoe and pressed her pelvis against his. Oh, she loved him all right. And he loved her.

  He released her, scooped Ian from the ground. The little boy had still been a feeding babe when he had left England. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re going to be my new daddy,’ Ian said.

  Still holding him, Fergus kissed Annaliese again. ‘It’s so good to be home,’ he whispered in her ear.

  *

  ‘Two broken ribs?’ Lee asked. ‘Oh, my God! How you must have suffered.’

  ‘I was well looked after,’ Fergus assured her.

  ‘But...only two weeks?’ Annaliese pouted. ‘It hardly seems worthwhile.’

  ‘We’ll make every minute count,’ Fergus promised, and sipped his whisky; he hadn’t tasted Johnnie Walker Black since the last time he had been in Shepheard’s Hotel in Cairo, and that seemed a very long time ago.

  And that hadn’t been his own drawing room. Now he sat, with the three women around him, and Robbins popping in and out every few minutes to make sure all was well; Fergus had already been down to the kitchen to say hello to Cook and the maids, and up to the nursery to introduce himself to Ian’s new nanny.

  He looked around him at the so familiar pictures, the ornaments and bric-a-brac, the chandelier and the other light fixtures. Then he looked at the women. Annaliese had dressed herself, slacks and a loose shirt and sandals. Again she looked absolutely delightful. He felt a great sense of wellbeing. And a great sense of humility, too, when he thought of all the fellows who would never come back to this: Wilkinson and Bentley, Brothers and Butler...and most of all, Ian and Harry.

  ‘Now tell me about Dad,’ he said.

  ‘God knows what he was doing,’ Philippa said. ‘We don’t.’

  ‘We were all so surprised,’ Annaliese said. ‘We knew he was in something very hush-hush, but not what it was.’ She looked at Lee. As did Philippa.

  Lee stood up. ‘You’d better come into the study for a moment, Fergus.’

  Fergus looked at Annaliese, who raised her eyebrows. Then he got up in turn and followed his mother into Murdoch’s private room, where the reproduction of the charge in 1843 hung behind the desk.

  Lee sat at the desk, unlocked one of the drawers, and took out a letter. ‘What I am going to show you, and tell you, Fergus, is in the strictest confidence. The contents of this letter are known to very few people. One of them is the Prime Minister.’

  ‘Sounds terribly important.’ He grinned, trying to lighten her mood.

  Lee gave him the letter and he scanned the contents. ‘The old devil,’ he commented. ‘You mean he didn’t even tell you what he was going to do?’

  ‘He didn’t even tell the Prime Minister,’ Lee said. ‘He apparently just acted on the spur of the moment when that man Durien died.’

  Fergus raised his head. Now, Mom, you mustn’t be mad at him.’

  ‘Mustn’t I?’

  ‘So he couldn’t let you know before he event. Of course he couldn’t. But he did let you know. And...is he all right? I mean, Dad in a prison camp...’

  ‘He isn’t in a prison camp, Fergus.’

  ‘Eh? But the newspaper report...’

  ‘That is the confidential bit. The newspapers reported what the Germans put out on the wireless. But only a week later we received a code message, using Murdoch’s private identification, from the partisans. Winston told me this himself, in the strictest confidence.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Fergus confessed.

  ‘Nobody understands. The Germans have not retracted their claim to have made him prisoner, but it seems almost certain that he isn’t. And the whole world knows he went to Yugoslavia. Winston is hopping mad. But in the circumstance, he wants the fact that your father is actually free to be kept secret, at least until the Germans choose to confess that their claim was a hoax. Or a mistake. It’s something to do with not having to admit himself that we have a lieutenant-general as our liaison officer with the guerrillas.’

  ‘Trust Dad to turn the world upside down. Gosh, he must be having the time of his life. I knew he wouldn’t spend the entire war sitting at a desk. Not Dad.’

  ‘Fergus, your father is nearly sixty-two years old. He should be sitting at a desk. Not crawling around a lot of mountains, living rough, being shot at...my God! If he isn’t killed or really captured he’ll probably die of pneumonia.’

  ‘Now, Mom,’ Fergus said. ‘Admit that you’re actually proud of him.’

  Lee glared at him for a moment, then sighed and smiled. ‘Of course I’m really proud of him. But I do worry so.’

  ‘He’ll survive. Dad always survives.’

  ‘I know. That’s what Winston says. But Fergus...no one must know the truth. No one.’

  Fergus grinned at her. ‘Mum’s the word. But by God, I feel on top of the world.’

  *

  ‘So what’s the great secret about Uncle Murdoch?’ Annaliese asked.

  They had had dinner, for which Fergus had worn mess kit and she had put on a blood-red skin-tight evening gown, and had worn her glowing golden hair brushed straight and slightly over one eye, which made her look like Veronica Lake, Fergus thought. Facially, indeed she rather reminded him of the famous actress, although she was much the taller woman. Either way, she was quite irresistibly beautiful.

  And now they were alone, for the first time, sitting in the conservatory: Annaliese had added a stole, as once the sun had gone down the evenings were quite chilly.

  ‘Oh, simply that he was engaged in something very hush-hush, and has been taken prisoner.’

  ‘I told you that,’ she pointed out. ‘It was in the newspapers. There has to be something more. Which Aunt Lee and now you will not tell me about.’

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t expect us to, would you? There’s a war on. And I’d be awfully grateful if you wouldn’t ask me anything more about it.’

  ‘Because I am a German and you don’t trust me.’

  ‘As I have only two weeks, my darling, it seems rather stupid to quarrel. Of course I trust you. But I must respect the secrets which go with my job.’

  She continued to stare at him for a few seconds, then she smiled. ‘Of course. I am being stupid. It is just that I want to share with you. Everything.’

  He squeezed her hands. ‘And you will. As soon as this war is over, and I can tell you everything
.’

  ‘This stupid war,’ she said. ‘I cannot see why it drags on. It is no longer serving any purpose. Hitler cannot beat the Allies; the Allies cannot beat Hitler unless they can invade Europe, and there is no prospect of them doing that. It is time to call a halt.’

  ‘We aren’t going to do that either.’

  ‘I know. I saw the news of the announcement by Churchill and Roosevelt. Unconditional surrender! Germany will never surrender unconditionally again. The war will last for ever.’

  Were there tears in her eyes? In the semi-darkness of the conservatory he couldn’t be sure.

  ‘No it won’t,’ he promised her. ‘I know it won’t.’

  ‘But you can’t tell me about that, either. Fergus...kiss me.’

  He was happy to do that, to slide his hands over her arms and round her shoulders and bring her against him, to kiss those moist lips and find that eager, questing tongue. It was an aggressive tongue, and it took him by surprise -- as it had done the night he had asked her to marry him, nearly three years ago, he remembered. It was, somehow, an unladylike tongue. What had Dad said about her nude sunbathing? Not exactly in keeping with a general’s wife? Did generals’ wives have aggressive tongues? Did Mom? That was an impossible thought.

  Annaliese took her tongue away, but her cheek was pressed against his. ‘Make love to me, Fergus,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, please make love to me.’

  ‘Liese,’ he said. ‘We’re going to be married.’

  ‘I know. So what is to stop us? And Lee and Philippa have gone to bed. So have the servants. Oh, Fergus, I have waited so long.’

  Thoughts tumbled through his mind. There was nothing to stop him. Nothing at all. She wanted. He wanted. My God, how he wanted. And they were going to be married.

  But there were things to stop him. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to make love to her, or just a woman. As for making love to her before they were married ... that thought hadn’t troubled him for a moment with Monique Deschards. But he hadn’t been going to marry Monique. They had been two people who had met under the stress of war, and had tumbled into each other’s arms. They hadn’t known each other for years and years, and they hadn’t been going to spend the rest of their lives together. And Monique had not been going to become a general’s wife. But Annaliese was. He had no doubt about that now.

  Annaliese found his hand, and placed it on her breast; the flesh felt curiously hard beneath the fabric.

  ‘Liese,’ he said. ‘We must wait.’

  Her head went back. ‘Why? Tell me why?’

  ‘It’s just that, on our wedding night...’

  ‘For God’s sake, Fergus,’ she said. ‘You know I am not a virgin, so what difference does it make?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know that you are not a virgin.’

  For a moment her face hardened. ‘Your father has been speaking against me.’

  ‘You were married to my brother,’ he reminded her. ‘And you are a mother.’

  She gazed at him, with a slight frown, for a moment. ‘Then you are not angry with me?’

  ‘Of course I am not angry with you, my darling. I love you.’ Perhaps if he repeated it often enough he would believe it. How could any man not love so magnificent a creature?

  ‘But you will not take me to bed.’

  ‘I will take you to bed when we are married.’

  ‘But why? Why wait so long? Suppose you were to be killed?’

  ‘That is exactly why I mustn’t take you to bed.’

  ‘Men!’ She threw her hands in the air. ‘I want you. I want you to make love to me. I want you, here!’ She squeezed her groin.

  He wished she wouldn’t do things like that. Or say them. ‘And I want you, Liese. As my wife. Nothing less than that.’

  ‘Then let’s get married. Now. Tomorrow. We can get a special licence. Oh, Fergus...’

  ‘Liese.’ He held her hands. ‘I asked you to marry me when this war is over. I am not going to change my mind about that. As you say, I could be killed, at any time. I cannot ask you to bear the burden of having twice been widowed. Nor can I ask you to...well, feel under any obligation to me, because we have shared a bed. If I die, I want you to feel absolutely free to find yourself another husband, to find little Ian another father.’

  He paused, uncertainly, because he wasn’t at all sure those were the reasons for rejecting her. Could it possibly be that he didn’t want to make love to Annaliese, even Annaliese, because of the memory of Monique? But that was absurd. He would never see Monique again. He couldn’t carry her image, the recollection of that un-forgettable lovemaking, through the rest of his life.

  Annaliese gave him another of her long stares. ‘Then I must be patient,’ she said at last. ‘Well...if you won’t marry me and you won’t fuck me, what are we going to do with your two weeks?’

  Once again, her choice of words jarred. Where Monique had said ‘fuck’ more than once while they had been doing just that together, it had seemed entirely natural. With Annaliese it sounded forced. And Annaliese was going to be a general’s wife. But he was determined not to be angry with her. Not after two and a half years, and not knowing when he would get home again.

  ‘We have a lot to do,’ he said. ‘Principally just talk, and, well...?’

  ‘Neck,’ she suggested. ‘Like a couple of school kids. Even they at least feel each other up.’

  ‘We have to get to know each other,’ Fergus said.

  ‘We have known each other for years.’

  ‘And do we really know each other?’

  Annaliese gave him another of her stares.

  He hurried on. ‘And then there’s Bath to visit...I can hardly remember what the old place looks like.’

  ‘And London,’ she said eagerly. ‘I should so like you to take me to London.’

  ‘Why, we could do that. We’ll take Mom along, and stay at Aunt Rosemary’s, if she hasn’t been bombed out.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Annaliese said sadly. ‘Mom, and Aunt Rosemary. What fun that will be.’ Clearly she had been thinking of a hotel, with perhaps only one room available.

  ‘And then, we’ll do some entertaining here.’

  ‘Will we?’

  ‘Of course. May as well let the county know I’m back. Oh, and that lad Bert Manly-Smith is coming up to see us. You remember Bert Manly-Smith, Liese? Rather gangling youth who used to help out at the village shop. Well, you’d hardly recognize him now. He’s bigger than I am, and a sergeant-major.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ Annaliese commented. ‘Yes, indeed, I remember Bert Manly-Smith. You mean he is in England, too?’

  ‘He’s in the village right this minute,’ Fergus told her. ‘Probably telling the lads how he won North Africa, single-handed.’

  *

  ‘There was this Jerry tank, see,’ Bert told his audience. ‘And there was another one here...’ he arranged the glasses on the bar counter of the Marquis of Granby public house. ‘And we were here.’ He indicated his own pint mug. ‘Now, then, you have to remember that the Jerries had bigger guns, then, and bigger machines, too. While we had our little two-pounder. But it’s the man behind the gun that matters, not the size of it. So we traversed to the right, lined the first one up, and bingo, shot the tracks right off him. Then we lined the second one up, and put a round right through his observation slit. Talk about brew. He went up like a firework.’

  ‘That must have been some shooting,’ observed Mr Bartlett.

  ‘It was, if I say so myself,’ Bert agreed modestly. ‘Sighted that one myself, I did.’

  ‘What do you really think about Montgomery?’ asked Mr Linley.

  These were all men who had given him Christmas tips when he had delivered their newspapers, and whom he had addressed as sir. Men who, only four years ago, wouldn’t have dreamed of standing him drinks in a pub. Now they were bewitched by the badge on his arm, which showed a lion and a unicorn inside a laurel wreath and told everyone he held the highest non-commissioned rank in the British Army,
and even more, by the blue, white and red vertical stripes on the ribbon above his breast pocket.

  ‘Have another pint, Sergeant-Major,’ invited Mr Cross.

  ‘Well...’ Bert looked at his watch. But it was only twelve fifteen, and there was nothing ahead but lunch with Grandad. He pushed his mug across the counter. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’

  ‘Tell us about Tripoli,’ Mr Bartlett suggested. ‘I was there, once, back in 1926. I wonder if it’s changed.’

  ‘Well...’

  The publican placed his tankard on the counter. ‘There’s someone asking for you, in the lounge bar,’ he said.

  ‘For me?’

  The publican winked. ‘I’d find out about it, if I were you, Bert.’

  Bert hesitated. He had never been in a lounge bar in his life. But he was a sergeant-major, now. ‘Can I take this through with me?’

  ‘Of course. It’s my beer.’

  ‘Excuse me, gents, I’ll be right back,’ Bert said. He picked up his foaming tankard and stepped into the corridor, then cautiously opened the end door into the smartly furnished lounge bar, and checked. The room was empty, save for Annaliese Mackinder.

  She smiled at him. ‘Why, Bert. I only discovered last night that you were home.’

  She wore loose trousers, an even looser blouse, and sandals; her hair was tied up in a bandanna, and only a few yellow wisps were exposed. Her face was thus isolated, and more beautiful even than he remembered it. She was sipping a port and lemon.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say hello?’ she asked.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Mackinder,’ he said, acutely aware that the publican could probably hear them through the hatchway to the public bar.

  Annaliese was apparently aware of that too. She held out her hand, and Bert took her fingers. ‘It is so good to see you looking so well,’ she said. ‘Colonel Mackinder told me you had been wounded again.’