The Commandant-General of the Royal Marines, at his own home. How could it have been allowed to happen?
Many civilians believed the bombings and shootings were on the wane. Would they never get the true picture?
“If you will come this way, sir.” The young man in the crumpled suit was back. Ross followed him past yet more doors, flickering screens, telephones, and somebody dictating, or rehearsing what he was going to say. They were passing that same door now, and in his mind he saw Clive Tobin, pausing with the famous smile. It was sometimes difficult to believe that it had ever happened. Tobin had been back and forth to France, and apparently Germany as well, several times since their last meeting in Londonderry: Sharon had told him as much as she could during their conversations. Distance, always distance. Testing both of them. But if anything . . .
“Here, sir.”
The office was exactly as he remembered it. Bare, as if nobody ever stopped here for long.
Colonel Sir Aubrey Souter was on his feet behind the desk, erect, and facing the door. A button of his tunic was unfastened and his tie was loose, as if he had been pulling at it. He looked, uncharacteristically, worn out. Without effort, Ross could recall him at the entrance to Stonehouse Barracks, the genuine pleasure he had not tried to hide when he had been parading his guard of honour to welcome him back. This was like seeing some one else.
“Sit you down, Ross. Sorry to drag you up here like this.” He gave a shrug; even that seemed an effort. “Place is a madhouse at the moment.”
The same U.S.M.C. paperweight, and one loose file of papers.
“I hear you’ve been doing well at Poole with the Special Boat Squadron. Knew you’d fit in after your stop-and-search experiences in Hong Kong.” He scowled. “To say nothing of Ulster!”
Ross sat upright in the hard chair. Even after all these months, it could still catch him unaware. The scars were always ready to remind him. Warn him.
“All been said before – don’t need to hash it all over again. But we’re being called on more and more to provide cover – protection, if you like – when we’re still being cut down at every opportunity. The boat sections you’ve been putting through their paces will most likely be used to watch over the new oil rigs, stuck out in the North Sea or some other godforsaken place.” He banged his fist on the table. “Instead of doing the job they joined for!”
A telephone rang noisily. Souter ignored it. Moments later it rang again in an adjoining office.
He said, “I’ll need you up here for a bit. There’s a new face joining the A.C.H.Q. team. Parsons, Roger Parsons. Know him?”
“I think so. Way back . . . he was a captain when I last bumped into him.”
“Well, don’t bump into him next time. He’s a half-colonel now.” He paused. “On the way up the ladder, right?”
Ross smiled. “Right.” No stronger warning was needed. And it mattered. Souter trusted him.
“Small, hard-hitting units, men well trained and capable of working alongside bigger and more conventional forces.” He flicked the papers on his desk. “Or going it entirely alone, like the team sent over to Londonderry to stamp on that explosives run.” He looked up sharply. “The lieutenant, Peter Hamlyn. Good choice?” He did not wait for a reply. “Thought as much,” and he smiled unexpectedly, like some one else looking out of the gaunt features. “Wants to serve with you again, if he gets the offer!”
The smile vanished as abruptly as it had appeared: some one was rapping on the door. This time it was a uniform, a colour sergeant with a rugged face and brush-like moustache.
“I thought I told you . . .” Then he relaxed a little, and said, “This is Sergeant Pike. He really runs this place when I’m not around!”
The man grinned. “Good to see you again, Major Blackwood.”
Ross remembered the face. The one who had reminded him of the time he had ridden a horse into the mess for a bet, or as part of a celebration. How could he forget? Trafalgar Day, and also his birthday, something he had never been allowed to ignore since the day he had first donned a uniform.
The sergeant said cheerfully, “Thought you might ’ave forgotten, sir.” He thrust out his watch without looking at it. “Sun’s well over the yardarm, sir.”
Souter seemed to unwind, as if a burden had slipped from his shoulders.
“Right you are, Pike,” and to Ross, “Horse’s Neck suit you?” As usual, he did not expect an answer. Pike strode to a cupboard and was soon busy with some glasses.
Souter said suddenly, “I think I have to congratulate you, Ross. I’m told you might be getting married after all this time. No escape, you see!” He watched the sergeant topping up the brandy with ginger ale. “Easy, man – don’t drown it.”
Then he said, “Good luck to you, anyway. Tobin let it out of the bag. I met the girl myself a couple of times . . . too good for you, if you ask me. Doesn’t know what she’s in for!”
Ross sipped the drink slowly. Souter was merely passing the time of day before telling him the real reason for this summons. He would never guess how near the truth he had come. Phone calls, often interrupted because Tobin needed her for something urgent. It was always that. Hanging on to each precious moment while the world passed them by, or so it seemed. One night together, and two brief meetings at airports. And always saying good-bye. Doesn’t know what she’s in for. Did any of them? He could still remember Houston, the broken-nosed major who had died on a beach in Malaysia he had known only as a map reference. And Blondie Piggott, Souter’s nephew, more afraid of showing fear than of fear itself, who had died at the hands of an enemy most people had long forgotten. And Fisher, who had been killed in error. It should have been me. He could feel the scars on his body, but knew if he touched them Souter would see, and perhaps have doubts about him.
The door closed and the faithful Pike had gone.
Outside, the sky was heavy, and it was raining; he could see drops falling from the eaves opposite. And in three days’ time it would be Trafalgar Day.
He thought of the scrawled announcement by the news-stand; he had not even noticed the name of the town through which they were driving. The Commandant-General had perhaps been considering that date, too; some ceremony or speech would have been scheduled. He was lucky to be alive. Luckier than many others.
Souter was saying, “Want you back here for a week or two, Ross. I’ve fixed it with Poole. That chap . . . forget his name . . . he can cope without you breathing down his neck for a bit.” He tapped his empty glass on the desk. “Forester, that’s it. Like that writer I used to read.”
Ross waited. Souter never forgot names; he never seemed to forget anything.
“I want you to put Parsons in the picture. He’s new to this side of things. Might get the wrong idea about Special Operations. You’re the one to lead him into it. You’ve done it – you know it, right? I don’t want some clever bastard giving him wrong ideas, some desk-warrior, if you get my drift.” He leaned right back in his chair and regarded him steadily. “Watch your step.” He laughed, but it did not reach his eyes. “For all our sakes, eh?”
He looked briefly at his watch. “Sorry I’ve gone on about it, but it’s important. And so is what I’m trying to do in this establishment.” Feet moved noisily beyond the door and Souter got to his feet.
“Be here Thursday. My staff will fix you up with a place to stay.” He grimaced. “Hide, rather!”
The door was open; somebody handed Souter his cap, another picked up the paperweight. The room would soon be bare again.
Souter paused and looked at the window. “What a day. I hope our Nel had better weather before Trafalgar!” Then he turned back. “Set the date yet, Ross?”
“We’re getting there, sir.”
“Do it. Don’t wait. Send me an invitation, if you can stand it!”
Doors slammed, and some one called, “Car’s here, Sir Aubrey!”
Pike, the colour sergeant, probably one of the few people who had Souter’s complete trus
t, was back.
Ross tugged at his tunic. There was a lot to do, his gear to be sent for . . . He could no more face another drive back to Dorset, with more explanations, than he could understand why Souter had insisted on his coming here for this conversation. It was as if he had needed to know something, be convinced of something.
“I’m just leaving.”
Pike touched the back of a chair. “Thought you might be wantin’ to call some one, sir.” It could almost be said that he winked. “Privately.”
“From here?”
Pike pulled a drawer open in the lower part of the desk. “’Ere, sir. Special line.” He pressed a button. “The Colonel likes to keep ’imself to ’imself sometimes.”
Ross sat down once more. He was wasting his time. Or hers.
Pike was closing the door.
“Call me when you leave, sir.”
Ross pulled out his pocket book. There was no sound, not even of voices. The traffic seemed to have stopped, too.
The same group of numbers. He knew them by heart; there was no need to go through them again. He confronted it, suddenly nervous, almost shy. Afraid he might tarnish something, or ruin it altogether.
He dialled slowly, his free hand clenched into a fist on the desk. He saw that Souter had left his papers behind, and that he had pencilled something next to several vague jottings, the sketch of a sailing vessel and the words, England Expects!
He realized that she had answered, and he said, “Sharon, it’s me.”
“I was just going out. I heard the phone ringing.” A pause, and he thought he could hear her breathing. “Are you all right, Ross? You don’t usually call me at this time of day. Tell me.”
“I’m here, in London. At Number Thirty-One.” He watched the drawer and the secret instrument, expecting the metallic click, or the voice. This is a restricted line. It is forbidden . . .
Her voice, closer. Anxious. “Ross, are you sure everything’s all right?”
“I’m here for a few days, I think. I’m sorry. I’m a bit mixed up.” He was speaking too fast, but he could not help it. “I’ve got to send for some things. I didn’t know, you see.” He unclenched his fist very slowly, watching it, as if it belonged to some one else.
She said quietly, “I know what you mean. I understand.” She might have stifled a cough, or a sob. “Just write this down. Then call a taxi.” She repeated the address more slowly. “We can arrange things from here. I’ll be waiting, Ross. It’s about twenty minutes away by taxi. Oh, this is wonderful.”
She was crying now, and he said, “Are you sure, Sharon?” A tiny red light had started to flicker by the telephone rest, Souter’s private warning, perhaps. “I love you!”
The line went dead; even the traffic beyond the window had started again.
He stared at the address scribbled in his pocket book. Twenty minutes away. It could have been on the moon.
He looked around the empty room, and knew it was a moment he would never forget. Or want to.
He called, “I’m leaving now. Thank you!”
But the colour sergeant named Pike was already downstairs at the main entrance, and so was a taxi.
“Thought you was in a ’urry, sir.” He was trying to hide a grin now. “Otherwise I’d ’ave found you an ’orse!”
Ross touched his arm. “No wonder the Colonel leaves you to run this place!”
One of the doormen sauntered across to watch Ross climb into the taxi.
“What’s so special about him, then?”
Pike glanced at him. An ex-soldier, with a few medal ribbons on his uniform to show for it. But what would a pongo understand about the Corps?
“I’d watch yer step, mate.” He tapped the side of his nose. “I’ve ’eard ’e’s on the way to th’ top!”
He turned to see the taxi drive off, and smiled to himself.
One of us, he thought.
The taxi pulled up and stopped, the engine ticking over with that indescribable sound only London cabs seemed to make. He had taken taxis almost everywhere else in the world, but only here was that familiar sound, part of memory.
It was a quiet street, and the houses were large, probably Victorian, most of them converted into flats or large apartments. As the cabby summed it up, “For them what can scrape up the asking price!”
South of the Thames, and twenty minutes from Whitehall. Exactly.
The cabby was saying, “Number Two – that’ll be upstairs, left ’and side.” He watched Ross take out his wallet. “Tough luck about that officer who nearly caught it yesterday. Dropped a few fares around that address in me time, I can tell you. One of your lot, too.” He peered at the uniform. “Don’t know what the bloody world is comin’ to!” The notes disappeared into his gloved hand. “Thanks, squire. You’re a sport!”
Ross waved an acknowledgment and turned toward the building. The taxi was already out of sight, and he felt suddenly at a loss. Dazed. Yesterday . . . Was it only that? And this morning he had been down in Dorset, handing over to his second-incommand, Captain Forester. Like that writer I used to read. He gripped his small case more firmly. It was Souter’s fault: brandy and not much ginger ale. He had not eaten today, except the half bar of chocolate he had shared with his marine driver. I should have waited. Done something.
He heard a window open and looked up.
“I’m here! Come straight up!” She was waving, her hair shining against the old bricks. “This is lovely!”
A man walking his dog turned to look up, and smiled at them. Somebody else called, “Very nice, too!”
Ross saw and heard neither of them.
He was standing there, looking up, a few drops of rain touching his face, and then the next moment, or so it seemed, he was in the doorway, holding her away from him, his hands on her shoulders, long enough to see her, to look and only look, unable to find the words.
Then she was pressed against him, and somewhere a door was closing behind them.
“I’m such a mess . . .” He was vaguely aware of the room, some letters on an antique table waiting to be opened or posted. Music coming from somewhere; the smell of coffee.
She was holding him, very tightly. “When I heard the phone I was outside. I nearly kept going.” She was kissing him, her hair against his eyes, his mouth. “I could have missed you!”
He said again, “I’m such a mess.”
She was trying not to laugh. Or cry. “I’ve got a nice ironing board, darling!”
She looked down, and he could not see her expression.
“How long, Ross?”
“Three days.” He felt her trembling as he touched her. “I want you.”
Then she raised her head, and her eyes were filling her face.
“And I want you. Let’s not waste a minute of it!”
A whistle shrilled yet again. Most of the marines had lost count of the times it had urged them on to yet another first-degree exercise. Fit though they were, some of them were ready to drop. And it was raining heavily, the trampled ground more like a bog than ever.
One of the warrant officers yelled, “Stand easy, sir?” He swore under his breath. He already knew the response.
Lieutenant-Colonel Roger Parsons waved his hand. “Once again, Mr. Todd! They’re like a lot of old men this morning! Move it!”
Ross Blackwood wiped his face with a sodden handkerchief, and looked at the crude pontoon bridge which had been thrown together across a fast-moving stream, faster than ever now in the torrential downpour. He heard Parsons calling out to one of the ‘umpires’ in his quiet, curt voice. He was not even out of breath, although he had kept pace with everybody else. Ross was impressed by the miles they had travelled, days of it at first, then weeks. Boatwork and field exercises, from Portland Bill to Lympstone, from Dartmoor to Poole; communications, a must with Parsons, and weapon handling under all conditions, at any time of day and in every sort of weather.
Roger F. Parsons . . . Ross had checked him out in the List. The ‘F’ stood fo
r Francis, but he guessed that almost every marine in this commando unit had a very different suggestion.
Souter had been emphatic. “He’ll want to see every aspect of Special Operations. So show him. Keep with him all the way.” He had added forcefully, “And that’s an order, from the top.”
Did that mean that Souter was looking over his own shoulder? Maybe his own place on the ladder was no longer secure.
All this time, living almost shoulder to shoulder, and still Ross did not know him. Parsons was slim, neat, and obviously very fit, with a watchful, intelligent face and deepset, questioning eyes. Ross had felt himself under scrutiny from the beginning, and had tried not to resent it. If Parsons mentioned some incident from his past service, in Northern Ireland for instance, Ross had the feeling that his response was being recorded somewhere, as if he were being tested. Parsons had a free hand at the moment; that was all there was to it. He felt the rain exploring his neck. But you did not have to like it.
He should be used to it, more so than most of the marines around him. He was thirty-seven years old, as of Trafalgar Day. It had been their last day together. He had reported to A.C.H.Q. as ordered, and Sharon had left for Paris on some errand for Clive Tobin. She had been holding him in a tight embrace, with a car waiting to take her to Heathrow. Again.
“I’ll be free after this job, Ross.”
Three days together. And then, suddenly, there was no time left, even to find the right words. Was there ever any time?
They had been up to the West End, and together they had chosen the ring. She had let him put it on her finger before that last night together.
Ross heard one of the marines guffaw. Wet, mud-stained and bedraggled, and they could still manage a laugh. What had somebody said about his service in Ulster? More laughs than tears. That said it all.
Knife Edge (2004) Page 22
