Love For An Enemy

by Love For An Enemy (retail) (epub)

  ‘Evening, sir!’

  ‘Evening, pilot…’

  Lucia had asked him as they’d got inside, ‘He is a pilot, that one?’ and he’d had to explain in his still rather halting French that ‘pilot’ was naval slang for navigator.

  ‘Sorry, Chief—’ he came back to earth, out of his thoughts – ‘what did you say?’

  ‘These two-man torpedoes.’ A puff of smoke from the short-stemmed, large-bowled pipe… ‘Carried on a transport submarine’s casing, are they?’

  Mitcheson nodded. ‘In cylinders built on to the casing for’ard and aft.’ He tipped his chair back, reached across the passage-way to the chart-table for a signal-pad and a pencil. Sketching, then: a typical submarine profile, then the superimposed containers. ‘Like this - roughly.’

  ‘Conspicuous enough.’

  ‘Easy to recognize, certainly.’

  ‘Do they launch ’em on the surface?’

  ‘Suppose so. Trimmed right down, I’d guess. But I’d imagine you could lie on the bottom and do it, in reasonable depths. As there would be - you’d be close inshore, obviously.’

  ‘Operators exiting via the guntower hatch – or a specially built chamber, perhaps. In diving gear of some kind – D.S.E.A.-type breathing gear I suppose.’

  He nodded. ‘Masks and rubber suits anyway. I don’t know about exit chambers.’

  D.S.E.A. stood for Davis Submarine Escape Apparatus, the oxygen-breathing equipment used for escaping from sunken submarines. There were sets on board for all hands, although obviously one hoped never to have to make use of them. All submarine personnel were trained in the escape procedures.

  ‘Excuse me, sir—’

  Control Room messenger. In fact it was the three-inch gun trainer. Mitcheson glanced up at him: ‘Yes, Gilbey?’

  ‘Shake the Subby, sir?’

  ‘By all means.’ Chief did it, since he was in reach of McKendrick’s bunk – leaning over to grab one shoulder and rock him to and fro. ‘Wakey wakey…’ Ten minutes to midnight: time for him to get ready to go up and take over the watch from Forbes. The watchkeeping routine was two hours on, four off.

  Mitcheson stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Don’t know about you, Chief, but I’m for shuteye.’

  For thinking about Lucia, anyway. Which was about as good a way of falling asleep as there could be.

  At sea, that was. Ashore – well, that was something else. Something like heaven. In his arms, her body half across his under a damp and tangled sheet, her head on his shoulder and her breath fanning across his chest, her hair a soft, dark cloud… How it had been this morning, when the alarm had rung and he’d opened his eyes to see dawn’s light in the window and known he had to move at once, and fast. That bloody awful hunt for a gharry to get him back on board in time for breakfast – it had become familiar, by this time, a small price one paid – and shut one’s mind to the night before, knowing damn well it would be like this but telling oneself: The hell with it – there’ll be one…

  There never was – until it was damn near too late. And then no boat: that was par for the course, from the quay at No. 6 one hired a felucca, who invariably at that hour tried to hold one to ransom… But the empty, dusty, sand-swept street stinking of gharry-horses’ droppings – amongst other things – although there was never a gharry in sight or sound. Her flat was miles out, too – on the Ramleh Road and just about the only part of it that wasn’t near any tram station. Not that trams would have been running at that hour anyway.

  He’d met her at a wedding, through a man whom at that stage he’d hardly known, by name of Currie. It had been Lucia’s own mother’s wedding, strangely enough; and Mitcheson had walked in feeling like a gatecrasher, although Currie had assured him that any friend of his would be welcomed. Currie had been emphatic, and persuasive, and Mitcheson who in any case had had a drink or two by that time had thought: Well, when in Rome…

  Early August, this had been; before Spartan’s first patrol from Alexandria. She’d sunk her deep-laden freighter off Benghazi all right, after the call at Malta, then after being hunted and depthcharged until dark that evening had spent three or four days without sighting anything worth wasting her other six torpedoes on; the recall when it came had been welcome, and Mitcheson had berthed her alongside Medway on 4 August. So it must have been on the 6th that he’d met Currie. He’d gone ashore that afternoon and taken the tram from its terminus out to the Sporting Club, where he’d arranged to meet an old friend – former Dartmouth term-mate, now in a cruiser – for a game of squash. An hour or more after the agreed time he still hadn’t shown up, and this stocky little R.N.V.R. lieutenant-commander had also been looking for a game. He was about Mitcheson’s own age – thirty-ish – and short-legged, sturdy, with a dark, rather film star-ish look about him. Mitcheson remembered thinking that the little man’s Latin looks and easy manner would surely make him a smash-hit with women – if they weren’t put off by his lack of height – and also, until the moment they began to knock the ball around, that he’d make mincemeat of him.

  Currie was in QE, he said – ‘for his sins…’ QE meaning the flagship, Queen Elizabeth. Actually he was on the C.-in-C.’s staff, more or less, but Mitcheson was only to learn this later. There and then, what he learnt was that this was a hell of a man on a squash court; he beat Mitcheson hollow, game after game, and at the end of it wasn’t even breathing very hard. He’d commented, kindly, ‘Unfair advantage, I’m afraid. Cooped up since God knows when in your submarine, eh?’ Then a couple of hours later, after they’d showered and had a swim and feasted their eyes on the houris around the club pool, then taken the tram back into town where Currie led the way to a bar-restaurant called Simone’s – it was in an alley off the Rue des Soeurs, and he seemed very much at home in it – he came up with this invitation.

  ‘Tell you what… If you’ve nothing better to do tomorrow, how about swilling some champers at what’s likely to be rather a smart wedding?’

  ‘So who’s getting spliced?’

  His own voice: a memory-echo from that evening six or seven weeks ago – his last pre-Lucia evening… And with the audial recollection, a visual one, close-up of Currie’s blue-jawed profile and flashing smile as he turned to wave across the room to a woman who’d materialized at the bar: honey-blonde with a complexion too dark for that blondeness – but still creating a strikingly attractive contrast – and almond-shaped eyes darkly shadowed. She was talking to the barman – lecturing him, by the look of it – and glancing this way as Currie waved and Mitcheson, turning back, murmured, ‘Wow…’

  ‘Fair comment, old boy.’ Currie laughed. ‘Very fair. As it happens, though, that’s our hostess.’

  ‘Simone?’

  ‘The one and only.’ He was still gazing over in that direction, and as Mitcheson looked back again she was blowing him – Currie, of course – a kiss. Rings – rather a lot of them, as far as one could see from that distance – flashing in the lights from the canopy above the bar. Crimson canopy, and the girl’s – well, woman’s – dress a rich, vibrant green with a high neck but sleeveless, leaving her shoulders bare. Currie was saying ‘I expect she’ll join us, by and by. But – you were asking, who’s getting spliced—’

  Taking a drink; glancing at her again over the glass, and she’d met his glance, studied him too for a few seconds – perhaps trying to decide whether she’d seen him before or not – before turning back to the barman, who was bald, fat, with eyes like dagger-points in folds of sand-coloured skin. Skin on a boiled chicken… His looks and his obsequious, shifty manner had given Mitcheson a bad first impression of this place; he’d asked Currie as they’d left the bar and crossed the marble dance-floor en route to this table: ‘Cast him as a eunuch in a Turkish harem scene, wouldn’t they?’ Stealing another look at Simone now, recalling Currie’s laughing agreement: ‘Spot on! Might be closer to the mark than you’d guess…’

  ‘So—’

  ‘Yes – this wedding.’ He put his glass down. They were
drinking John Collinses, in long frosted glasses with sugared rims. ‘I’ll tell you. The bride is a very charming woman by name of Huguette Caracciolo. Older than we are – she’s a widow, second marriage. French, despite that name, and it’s a Frenchman she’s marrying. Caracciolo, her first husband, died in ’38.’

  ‘Italian?’

  ‘Very much so. That’s to say, he was a prominent anti-Fascist. I said “died”, might better have put it that he was murdered, in ’38. In one of Mussolini’s internment camps. They used to force-feed their political prisoners with castor- oil, you know. As well as beating them and so forth. They had these penal establishments on islands here and there – the one he was in was on Lampedusa, I think Huguette told me. And he wasn’t very strong physically even before they started on him, probably didn’t take much to finish him off. He was a newspaper editor, thorn in Musso’s flesh, printed the truth as he saw it, despite years of threats, intimidation, etcetera.’

  ‘Brave man, then.’

  ‘Oh, God, yes. But sticking to the point – Huguette’s his widow. French-born, and marrying a Free French colonel – nice fellow – name of Jules de Gavres. He’s based in Cairo, one of de Gaulle’s leading lights out here. And the wedding’s at Huguette’s brother’s house – vast stone pile with views over the Nuzha Gardens and Lake Hadra – if you know where they are.’

  ‘What does the brother do?’

  ‘Oh, he’s a merchant. One of the local Nabobs. And in Alexandria, believe me, that means rich. His name’s Maurice Seydoux. D’you talk French, by the way?’

  ‘Well, I – you know, get along.’

  ‘Schoolboy French? The Dartmouth patois?’

  ‘A bit more than that.’

  ‘It’ll stand you in good stead, if you want to socialize around here… Maurice Seydoux is about – oh, fifty-ish. Older than Huguette anyway. Greek wife, two very pretty daughters and a son who’s rather a pill. At least, I find him so. But—’

  ‘How d’you know all these people?’

  ‘Through my job, initially.’ He put his glass down again, and licked sugar off his lips. Glancing round, before saying any more; but none of the tables near them were in use. ‘It’s a bit peculiar, I suppose, but I started out as a plain ordinary salt-horse watchkeeper and so forth, and I’ve gradually been shunted into staff work. Sort of appended to C.-in-C.’s staff, that is. Happened largely through the fact that I talk a couple of languages – French pretty fluent, German not far short of it. Smattering of Italian. Darned little Italian, actually – my lords and masters don’t realize how little.’ Sipping at his drink again… ‘But also I was in the Foreign Office, between Oxford and this current fracas, and that impresses ’em. God knows why. Had a job getting myself released, in September ’39; F.O. aren’t keen on their minions going to war, you know. Managed it largely because I was in the R.N.V.R. right from Oxford days – I’d sailed a bit, that sort of thing… Anyway – in QE I was helping out in this Y-Scheme business, which—’

  Glancing around again. Then very quietly: ‘Know what that is, do you?’

  Mitcheson shrugged. ‘Vaguely. Go on, anyway.’

  ‘In its application with us – well, Malta convoy operation, say—’ Currie was talking so quietly it was more or less a whisper – ‘when a crowd of Junkers 88s are coming over, these lads in thick glasses twiddle their dials and by and by you hear the Kraut squadron leader telling Hans to take his flight to attack the carrier, Helmut to go for the convoy – and so on. So we know which way they’re coming and we’re ready for them before they actually deploy – eh?’

  ‘Terrific.’

  ‘Well – it would be if the bloody guns could shoot straight. In my personal observation that’s a rarity, more or less pure chance. However – I got lured into it through my German. Which brought me to the attention of A.B.C. and his top brass as a so-called linguist, with the result that I’m now a full-time interpreter, translator, etcetera. Paperwork mostly, but also conferences and social functions. And a certain amount of liaison between the staff and Central Intelligence – which is based at Ras el-Tin. I spend quite a lot of time over there. Oh, and the Frog squadron, I help out with them too, when necessary. And – that’s about it. But one’s social contacts do tend to snowball, you know?’

  ‘If you’re sociably inclined, I suppose—’

  ‘Simone! At last!’ Currie was starting to his feet: Mitcheson aware of a cloud of musky scent and a ringed hand on his shoulder pressing him down on his chair, and the girl’s voice close to his ear cutting in with: ‘Sociable – why, Josh is the most sociable man in Alexandria!’ Her hand slid off his shoulder as she swung her hips towards the chair Currie had pulled out for her: ‘Oh, please don’t move…’ Fantastic smile, heady perfume, and her really quite lovely face only inches from his… The barman had followed her with a tray, was setting down fresh drinks – two more Collinses pale-pink with Angostura, and for herself a Crème de Menthe frappée. She’d asked Mitcheson, ‘You don’t mind, I sit with you a little while?’

  ‘A little while? Simone, we want you for ever!’

  ‘Delighted.’ To himself and especially in contrast with Currie, Mitcheson sounded stuffy. ‘Really. But—’ indicating the drinks – ‘you shouldn’t have—’

  ‘His name’s Mitcheson, Simone. Simone Chodron.’

  ‘Ned Mitcheson.’

  ‘Enchantée, Commander.’ Her slim fingers were mostly covered in rings. Nails lacquered so darkly red that they were almost black. ‘Your first visit here?’

  ‘Here-yes.’

  ‘I meant, to Alexandria?’

  He’d nodded. ‘Arrived a couple of days ago.’

  ‘Bringing us – what, another battleship, or—’

  ‘Several.’ He smiled. ‘My first day ashore here, though, and—’ looking into her slanted eyes – ‘it augurs pretty well, so far.’

  ‘I don’t know that word.’ She asked Currie, ‘What is “augurs”?’

  ‘He means he thinks you’re the bee’s knees.’ Currie added, ‘Which of course is undeniable, but I’m not translating any more comments of that sort. Do a man a good turn, next thing you know he’s trying to cut you out.’

  ‘Nobody will cut you out, my darling.’ Her hand, heavy with its rings, slid over his on the marble table-top. Dark eyes slewing to Mitcheson’s again, though. ‘Are you old friends, you two?’

  He shook his head. ‘Met this afternoon. At the Sporting Club.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I go to swim there, sometimes. When Josh invites me.’ Arching her hand so that the long, dark nails threatened the back of Currie’s. ‘Lately, I must say, he has not done so. He has so many girls that run after him, you know. Well, I suppose it’s not surprising. When he takes his clothes off—’

  ‘Simone—’

  ‘At the swimming pool, I’m saying. Why, he’s like – Adonis, you know? Not so tall, of course, but—’

  ‘Simone, the subject of my physiology—’

  ‘Ha! He’s got some physiology, I tell you!’

  ‘Are you – er—’ Mitcheson came to Currie’s rescue – ‘are you French, Simone, or—’

  ‘It’s about the biggest in Alexandria, I’d guess. And my God—’

  ‘She’s Lebanese.’ Currie, flushing through his dark tan, told Mitcheson, ‘And her husband is Franco-Syrian. Correct, Madame Chodron?’

  ‘Well.’ A shrug – a hollowing of her bare, café-au-lait shoulders… ‘In so far as it can be of interest.’

  ‘Up there now, isn’t he? Beirut, or somewhere? Working for us British – right, Simone?’

  ‘For himself, I guess. Perhaps your people pay him – I don’t know.’ Sipping at her Crème de Menthe. ‘Always for himself… So I work for myself – uh?’

  * * *

  Emerging from reverie: finding himself still at the wardroom table, and Barney Forbes behind him in the passage-way shedding the waterproof ‘Ursula’ jacket that had been keeping him warm and dry on watch, and slinging his glasses on one of the hooks behi
nd the latched-back watertight door, asking Mitcheson, ‘Kye, sir?’

  ‘No thanks.’ Kye meant cocoa; the messenger of the watch would be making some. ‘What’s it like up there?’

  ‘No change, sir. The vis isn’t too bad, considering.’

  He’d be entering a weather report in the log now, before he turned in. Wind, sea, sky, visibility. He’d also be putting a dead-reckoning position for midnight on the chart. Mitcheson uncapped his pen, changed the time for his morning shake from 0530 to 0500. To be on the safe side. By first light they’d be only about a hundred miles short of the line running roughly south from Sollum where the 8th Army and the Afrika Korps faced each other – where all hell would break loose, when General Auchinleck blew the whistle – and from there westward the desert airfields were all German.

  Bennett, Mitcheson noticed, had turned in – as he’d been about to do himself, five or ten minutes ago. He got up, pulled off the old cricket sweater that had R.N. colours round its neck. They were all in patrol rig now – ancient flannels, fraying sweaters, threadbare khaki, any old gear. And one didn’t undress much, to turn in; Mitcheson even kept his ancient plimsolls on. Needing to be ready for the sudden yell of ‘Captain on the bridge!’ that could come at any moment, to scoot up there like a scolded cat straight out of sleep.