He had knocked around in every kind of unit, both ashore and afloat. Good men, bad men, cheats and liars, they all fell into line in the Corps, or they went under.
And the same went for the officers. He lifted his hand casually to the woman with the pram. Especially the officers.
That was what Lieutenant Hamlyn was trying to say now, in the back of the car. He glanced at the driving mirror and his grin was even wider. In the canteen he would never hear the last of it. What? Give up your chance of a sergeant’s tapes, for a bloody officer?
Ross turned to look across at a police box, two soldiers chatting with the occupants. He thought he recognized the street. It seemed so long ago. Like the sky and the weather, dull and overcast. All changed. A momentary panic flickered through him, and then, once more, acceptance. Like the face he had seen at the moment of the explosion, the features he had studied in the mug shots. A lifetime ago. Or the terrified girl who had lost everything, and might never know why.
He reached over and gripped Hamlyn’s wrist roughly, and released it.
“I’ll not forget, Peter.”
Or that you just helped keep me sane.
The car had stopped.
Harwood opened his door. “Fort Amazon, sir.” The grin had gone. “I’ll get the porter.”
They stood side by side on the front steps. The hardest moment: there was suddenly nothing left to say.
Hamlyn said, “I’m on my way tomorrow, sir. Steady and slow. No first class air travel this time!”
The bags had disappeared. Harwood was standing beside the car. More handshakes.
Hamlyn said brightly, “We’ll meet again.” Like the song.
Some one spoke behind them. The moment was past.
“Welcome to the Amazon, sir. Proud to have you with us.” The manager, it had to be, in a smart grey suit, almost bowing as an unseen hand opened one of the tall, polished doors. “Your room is ready for you. Anything you need . . .”
Ross half turned, the warmth of the hotel foyer on his cheek, the damp air of the street clinging like a reminder.
The staff car had already merged with the other traffic.
There were a few people in the foyer; one man was waving a piece of paper at a member of the desk staff, probably his bill, but he seemed to be making little impression. A newspaper lay on a chair by a rack of greeting and postcards, the headline in bold print. BOMB DISCOVERED AT AIRPORT. SUSPECT ARRESTED. It did not seem to reach him; it was something that could have happened anywhere, on any day of the week.
The manager was saying, “Difficult times to be sure, sir, and that’s the truth!”
Ross did not hear him. She was standing by some lift doors, as if she had just come down. Motionless, like that moment in the boatshed, as if there was nobody else here. Her hair, shining in the overhead lights, her lips slightly parted and one hand to her throat, like a glove.
Afterwards he could not remember who had moved first. She was standing, holding his arms, at a distance, as if she could not believe it had really happened.
Then she was pressed against him, her voice so close that it was like that last time, on the telephone, before he had gone to that near-fatal rendezvous.
“Ross. Hold me.” Her eyes were closed. “Hold me!”
The manager stood aside, smiling. His carefully prepared little speech could wait. This was more important, a far cry from the headlines; and it was good to see.
A man sitting in a comfortable armchair by some phone booths closed the book which had been lying open in his lap. He was a big, ruddy individual in a creased tweed suit, who could have been a farmer up from the country. Or a policeman. He reached inside his coat and switched on a tiny radio, and murmured, “He’s here, sir.” And then, “Yes, all correct.” He watched the two figures opposite him and switched off the radio. Lucky sod. In more ways than one.
They walked slowly toward the lifts. One was open, a page-boy guarding it, his eye on the manager.
One of the hotel porters stepped from behind a desk and sketched a salute with his fingers to his forehead. He smiled faintly, and Ross recognized the medal ribbons, from his father’s war, among them the Atlantic Star. Like another hand reaching out.
He had not released her arm. It was real. She was here.
She said, “I wanted to see you walk in.” She hesitated. “I should have told you. Clive is here, too. He wants to have a word. I’m sorry . . .”
He said, “You’re here. That’s all I care about now.”
And it was true. Only the shadows remained.
Clive Tobin poured more champagne and waited for the froth to settle.
“As you know, Ross, I’m off back to London tomorrow. The programme, such as it is, is finished.” He looked over at Sharon, who was sitting in one of the matching chairs. “In spite of my P.A. being here in Derry just when I needed her, eh, Sharon?”
She said quietly, “I wanted to be here, Clive. You know that.”
He smiled. “Insisted, wouldn’t you say?”
Ross took one of the glasses. Tobin had not refilled his own. Off to another function to complete his tour. He was wearing a dress shirt, and Ross had noticed the dinner jacket and bow tie tossed carelessly over a chair by the desk. Always so casual and at ease, but he could not resist the little waspish comment about Sharon’s determination to remain here. In case she could help, she had said. She would never know how much she had done just that.
“I must say, Ross, you came through your ordeal remarkably well. I’ll make sure that certain boffins at home take some note of it.” He shook his head, and the famous smile was gone. “There has to be a political solution in the end to settle all this violence in the province. Expunging the hatred will take rather longer, I think.” The smile flashed again. “Until that day, my friend, men like you must and will maintain the rule of law. I shall take that as my lead line.”
A telephone rang somewhere. “Be back in a second.” He went to another door and closed it behind him.
Ross said, “Did he give you a hard time?”
She smiled, and it was like a cloud lifting. “His bark is usually worse than his bite. But to Clive, the job comes first. I could live with that, until . . .” She looked down at her hands. “You know what I mean. I never thought I would ever feel that way again.” She raised her head, and her eyes were clear, direct. “Your mother was wonderful. We didn’t talk very much, but she made me feel as if I belonged, d’you know what I mean?”
“Joanna went through bad times when the Colonel was killed. She’s strong. You must get her to tell you her own story some time. During the war . . . Wonder what Clive would make of that?”
She said, “I love the way you laugh. I kept thinking of it, hearing it . . . Now you’re here. I’m so happy.”
Tobin came back from the other room. “That was our pal Shylock, calling from Paris. Reversed the charges, cheeky devil.” He looked from one to the other. “Slight change of plans. Earlier flight tomorrow. Makes sense.” As if he were ticking off the points on his fingers. “Two days in London, then across the Channel. The NATO squabble has come up again. They want me to do some interviews.” Then to Sharon, “You’ll need some warm clothes. You know how these things can drag on. ‘At last the story can be told etcetera, etcetera’.”
She said, “How early?” Like stones dropping in a pool.
“Ten a.m.” He picked up the bow tie. “Better get cracking!”
She stood up, turning her back on Ross. “I’ll talk to the front desk. The car . . .”
Tobin said, “She never forgets a thing.” He was regarding his reflection in one of the windows, pulling and knotting the bow without effort. “Can’t stand these newfangled made-up ties, can you? Like a lot of . . .” He swung round and stared at him. “I’m pleased for you. Both of you, if it comes off. But I need her until the job is wrapped up. Same as you, in some ways, eh?” He was very calm, contained; and it was not an act. “Just don’t fool about, Ross. She’s been through en
ough.” Abruptly, he seemed to relax. “Christ knows how I’ll get another P.A. as good as Sharon.”
Ross recalled the hospital room. The flowers, which were always fresh. And all that time she had been waiting, either here, dealing with Tobin’s backlog of enquiries, or at the hospital, as close as she could be.
He said, “I hope I was some use during the tour. I’ll be watching out for the end product on TV.”
Tobin said, very seriously, “More than you’ll ever know, my friend. I learned a lot. I’d never admit that to any one, of course.”
Ross stood and touched his chest, suddenly aware of the dressings. There were three, to minimize any irritation.
Sharon would be landing in London while he was on his way to Plymouth. The aftermath. More interviews and statements. Some leave ‘to get over it’, and then what?
He would write to her, call her whenever he could. Maybe see her before too long. I can’t go on without her.
Tobin had put on his dinner jacket and had turned to face him again, and for an instant Ross thought he had spoken aloud.
But he said simply, “See you around.” Another handshake. Perhaps the first genuine emotion he had shown. “Keep the flag flying, Ross. Some one’s got to!”
She came into the room, but looked only at Ross, like a question.
“Car’s here, Clive. The driver’s name is Patrick.”
He said lightly, “Well, it would be, wouldn’t it, dear?” and flashed the famous smile again. In control. “On with the show!”
The door closed and she crossed the room to put her arms around his neck. There were no words. It was like coming back to life. On the far side of the room the television was still switched on, but the sound was off. Athletics, football, it could have been anything.
Somewhere, outside, Ross heard some one putting down a tray, tapping discreetly on a door.
The windows were already dark. He shivered, and felt her tense.
“Did I hurt you?” He touched her hair, pulled her closer, and shook his head. “I was so scared.” Then she looked at him, with the expression he had never forgotten. “Oh, Ross, we’re here!”
“Is your room as grand as this one?”
She moved away, but did not lose contact with her eyes as she reached out to switch off the television.
Then she gripped his hand, her voice soft, determined.
“Come on. I’ll show you.”
The aircraft touched down at Plymouth airport exactly at noon. There were only four other passengers, two army officers and a couple of dockyard officials who had been on some exchange visit to Ulster. The plane was small, twinengined, and noisy, for which Ross had been grateful. He did not feel like talking to any one, let alone shouting over the engines.
He would go to Stonehouse Barracks and make his report, and from there to Hawks Hill for a few days, or until he received fresh instructions. He could not even force himself to consider what those might be: the possibility of dismissal was like the ground falling from under his feet.
Captain Seabrook had collected him from the hotel, his appearance timed to the minute. Probably eager to discharge another responsibility. He had even waited to see him on to the plane, in case something delayed his departure.
Ross knew he was being unfair, but knowing it did not help.
He kept seeing her, hearing her voice even above the monotonous drone of the engines.
Don’t watch me leave, Ross. Promise me. I’d crack up.
But he did. Peering down into the street, waiting while a car had pulled up, a military police truck in close company. A few flash bulbs, Tobin in an unbuttoned camelhair coat, a bright scarf draped flamboyantly around his neck. Smiling and waving, although there was no audience. But it would look good in the photos.
Then Sharon, in dark green, her hair so pale against the dull pavement. The hair he had felt against his face, and his skin. Her mouth, and her hands. He could feel the pain in his chest and shoulder now. But then, when all caution and all doubt had melted away, he had known only passion, and fulfilment.
She must have sensed it. Had sensed it. Even as she had released some one’s hand she had turned and looked up at the hotel windows. At me.
On the aircraft he had closed his eyes and tried to hold on, to relive it. Her concern that he might be injured, perhaps her own fear of what she was doing. It all faded, passed away, like a squall at sea. And memories, like photographs. The curve of her back, the skin silver in some light from the street; the feel of her suddenly pressing against him, holding him, wanting him.
And dawn. The parting. So much to say. No time, even for tears.
Somebody said, “Lady waitin’ for you, sir.”
The other hurrying figures fell away. It was Joanna. They hugged, and he heard himself say, “I didn’t know. I didn’t expect . . .”
“That I’d be here?” She shook him gently. “You are a nut, if you thought I’d let you arrive like some rookie on his first leave!”
She touched his cheek with her fingers. Like part of a dream. “There now. I’ve left tears on your face!” She was serious suddenly. “I know what you said on the phone. Stonehouse Barracks, then down to Hawks Hill for as long as they’ll allow. I’ve booked a couple of rooms at the Post House on the Hoe, so you can take a breather before we drive down.” She was smiling now, tears forgotten. Radiant. “And I want you to tell me all about Sharon.”
“You got on well.”
“Better than that . . . You love her, don’t you, Ross?” Then she frowned. “Hell. Here comes the regiment!”
It was in fact a young Royal Marine, smartly turned out and carrying some car keys.
“Major Blackwood, sir?” He almost saluted. “I’m the Commandant’s driver. I’m to take you to Stonehouse.” There were two more marines by the barrier, standing beside a baggage trolley. He sensed that it was not all straightforward, and added hesitantly, “The lady can ride with you, sir.”
Ross looked at her. “I wasn’t expecting this. Will you come?”
She glanced at the marines, but did not seem to see them.
“For old times’ sake, Ross?”
He took her arm and squeezed it. She was wearing the familiar diamond brooch, fashioned like the badge on his green beret.
“No, Joanna. For me, if you like.”
She touched the brooch, and the gesture seemed both unconscious and reminiscent.
“For him, too.” She seemed to come to a decision. “I don’t suppose the old place has changed much.” It said everything.
Then, with something very like relief, the young marine led the way to his car.
She climbed in, and was looking at the crest on the windscreen.
Ross said, “How’s John?”
She looked at him, and took his hand.
“You don’t mind too much, do you?”
He smiled. “I’m glad. For both of you.”
He touched his chest, and she said quietly, “Does it hurt?”
“Only when I laugh!”
“Very funny. You’ve had a long day, Ross. When we get to the hotel you can put your feet up and . . .” She leaned forward. “What’s the hold-up? We’re almost there, too.”
Ross felt her fingers tighten. She remembered. The wall, the tower . . .
He said, “Oh, shit. There’s some sort of ceremony going on. Can you get round it, driver?”
The marine said, “Won’t take long, sir.” He revved the engine slightly to show that he was unconcerned.
Ross saw another car, already parked, the driver standing beside it. Like Harwood, he thought. What would he do next?
He tensed, seeing a full guard of Royal Marines, white helmets, fixed bayonets, a lieutenant with sword drawn. The regular tramp of boots. Like other times, especially here. What we are. What we do.
The other car mounted a senior officer’s plate. He tried to calm down, release the tension. What a time to choose.
“Sorry about this, Joanna.”
The
guard had halted, clicked round to face the road. Some spectators had gathered, although ceremony was common enough here, in Drake’s seaport.
But there were always cameras ready and waiting.
Joanna said quietly, “Here he is, Ross. The great man himself.”
It was Colonel Souter. Away from that bare office in Whitehall, with its paperweight on a polished desk. Straight-backed, the gaunt features he remembered so well. When he had met Tobin. He clenched his fist. And Sharon . . .
The driver was getting out, standing beside the door. At attention.
She said, “He’s coming over to us, Ross.”
Ross climbed out on to the road, and held her hand to assist her.
As if from another world, a voice was calling, “Guard of honour! Pre-sent arms!”
Pale sunlight touched the bayonets, boots stamped down as one.
Colonel Souter saluted, with a faint smile, like something shared.
“It’s for you, Major Blackwood. Welcome back.”
1982
DARING
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“If you’ll take a seat, Major Blackwood, Sir Aubrey knows you’re here. He’s been expecting you.” He did not glance at the clock on the wall, but he might as well have done so. Even his voice implied, what took you so long?
Ross looked around. There was no chair, except for one which was piled with large envelopes awaiting collection.
He walked to a window and stood staring down at the street. Number Thirty-One: the same entrance, identity check and telephone calls. All that time ago. Months . . . He ran his hand over his hair. It felt like yesterday.
He caught sight of his reflection in the glass. He had not even had time to change into a more presentable rig. Scruffy.
Poole, in Dorset, was at a rough guess about a hundred and twenty miles from this building; and he had felt every yard of it.
It was almost noon. He saw a taxi waiting by the curb, perhaps hoping for a fare, then a policeman gliding out of a doorway and moving him on. Security . . . that word. At least nothing here had changed.
But I have.
He had made a couple of phone calls en route to London. It had been hard to get much sense out of anybody, but bad news always made a fast passage. They had driven through some market town and he had seen it chalked on the blackboard beside a news-stand. TOP ROYAL MARINE MURDERED BY TERRORISTS. Not in one of the trouble spots in the Middle East, or even in Northern Ireland; it had happened here in London. The newspapers had been mistaken about one thing: the senior officer, Lieutenant-General Sir Steuart Pringle, had survived. But he had been seriously injured.
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