Parsons sat down, as if a wire had been pulled. “Something like that. I’m seeing Colonel Souter again, day after tomorrow. Staff meeting. A couple of big noises from M.o.D. will be there, too.” He suppressed a yawn. “At least we might save Endurance. That would be a start.”
He was at the window again the next minute, the curtain turned back once more. This time the edge was grey, not black.
He turned and faced Ross.
“You haven’t said much. Didn’t give you much of an opportunity, did I? For or against, now’s the time to say. I care, but I’ll not hold it against you. Tell me, and it stops right here.”
Ross heard a faint scraping sound over the tannoy system. At any moment the morning bugle would wake the birds, and the people who lived nearby. Even though it was only a taped Reveille.
He thought of Souter’s despair. More cuts . . .
Their eyes met. Later, he might regret it. But then . . .
He said, “I’ll still be ready, sir.”
“Never doubted it.” Parsons patted his pockets as if he was searching for something. Or momentarily at a loss. “Probably all blow over.”
Long after the fake bugle call, his words seemed to hang in the air.
Sharon stood by the window and looked beyond the rooftops opposite to the power station chimneys on the other side of the Thames, sharp and clear in the sunlight. She had forgotten that the street here was so narrow; without curtains, it seemed she could reach out and touch the houses facing her.
She could hear Sue Blackwood slamming drawers in another room. A last look, to make sure she was leaving nothing behind.
Sharon had only been back from Paris for twenty-four hours. It felt as if she had been away for years. She half turned. The apartment had been stripped bare. Packing cases awaiting collection, a bin full of screwed-up papers, an old calendar tossed on the top. The whole place looked alien. Waiting for them to go . . .
They had had lunch at a small Italian restaurant Sue had suggested, just around the corner, as everything seemed to be in Chelsea. It had been a busy, noisy place, a good choice; it had given them both time. Sue, the sister of the man she loved, until now had been a stranger.
The apartment had been sold. Even the Focus letter rack had vanished. Sue had said, in the midst of packing another suitcase, “They say it’s going to be made into two flats. Property is like gold in this district.”
She came into the room, flicking dust from one sleeve. “That about wraps it up!” She suddenly seized Sharon’s hand and raised it to a shaft of sunlight, and held it so that the ring caught the light, as she had done in the restaurant, when she had lowered her head and kissed it. A few people had watched; one of the Italian waiters had beamed with pleasure and confusion.
“I’m so glad. For both of you.”
Sharon took her arm. Just for a moment, she had seen Ross in the smile.
“What will you do now?”
Sue tossed some hair out of her eyes, in a characteristic, extravagant little gesture.
“Oh, it was never mine, as well you know, but it’s gone, and my job’s gone too. Not much of a Christmas present, is it?”
“What did your mother have to say about that?”
Sue was gazing around the room. “Joanna? I think she’s quite glad.” She took some keys out of her pocket and smiled. Ross again . . . “At least the car’s paid for, that’s something!”
She had told Sharon about Howard Ford during lunch.
“He’s joined up with some other chap, or rather, his wife did. She’s the one who holds the purse-strings.”
“I heard about that when I got back to London.” Sharon had seen the surprise in her face. “You know what it’s like in our work – the old bush telegraph. Nothing’s a secret for long!” She had waited for a lull in the conversation and clatter of crockery. “Clive told me about it. He’s got a job for you, Sue, if you want it.”
Sue had tossed it off carelessly. “Ross knew a good thing when he found you!” But she had been close to tears, something Sharon suspected was very rare. And it meant something had changed between them, perhaps from that moment. Sue had tried to hide it, and had called abruptly to one of the waiters, “Luigi! More wine! Another celebration!”
That was then. They walked slowly through the empty apartment. And here, where a bed had stood, Sharon felt her hesitation. Memories. Regrets.
Sue said, “What will you do for Christmas? Will you and Ross . . .” She saw the quick shake of the head. “Come down to Hawks Hill, then. It will be good for both of us. All of us.”
“I spoke to Ross as soon as I got back. He’s tied up, but we’ll try to see each other.” She twisted the ring around her finger unconsciously.
She felt Sue squeeze her arm. “You’ll have to get used to that, now you’ve joined ranks with the Royals. You know what they call it. The family!”
Sharon said, “Take a last look around, Sue. Then we can go over to my place. Make a few arrangements.”
Ross’s sister had not heard her; she was looking at the room, and across into those adjoining, as if she were seeing something else. And there was the same door, where his uniform had been hanging. Suppose I had never come here that day?
She thought of his voice on the telephone. In England again, but so far away.
Sue said, “Ross nearly quit the Royal Marines, you know. You could almost feel the walls of Hawks Hill start to shake!”
“He told me. I was very touched that he could talk about it. We had only just met.”
They left the room together, and Sue locked the door behind them. The same worn carpet. This was how she would remember it.
Sue was saying over her shoulder, “Fixed up the wedding yet?”
She was glad she could not see her face. “Long way off yet, worse luck. Invitations and dates. My mother will want to come over for it. I called her, long distance.”
Sue did not turn.
“Come over?”
So much others did not know or share. But they would.
“Adelaide. She went to Australia a few years ago for a holiday and decided to stay. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you all about it some day.”
The front door now, where a workman was already putting up a builder’s notice board. So soon.
The garage was open, as she had seen it when the taxi had dropped her here. It was empty but for one car, a pale cream Mercedes 280SL. At least the car’s paid for.
And Clive had made the job offer. She wanted to stop, right now, and go back into the deserted apartment. Hold on to something . . . the past. But she kept hearing Clive’s voice. Perhaps she knew him too well, or believed she did. It had only been a casual remark, Clive just being himself. She should know . . .
But it would not go away.
Sue was putting the last bag into the boot. The car was very dusty, and some one had written with his finger on the side, WASH ME.
“Well, I’ll be damn glad to get away from the Smoke for a bit!” She looked back. “You coming, love?”
Sharon said, “Yes,” absently. It had been about the wedding. Clive had remarked, “Easter? Very romantic!” Then quickly, or looking back, it seemed so, “Could be a busy time for Ross’s commandos. Manoeuvres, and all that sort of thing.”
Her own voice. “Have you heard something?”
He was being vague now, the other Clive. Non-committal; smoothing it over.
“Just talk, darling. But it would be such a shame to do all that work and lay out all that cash, if you should have to postpone it.”
Was that all?
Sue had opened the passenger door for her. “You’ll have to show me the way!” She was laughing, glad to be out of it now, on the move.
Sharon slid in and reached for the seat belt.
Ross had told her about this car. She lowered her head to look up at the windows, the one where she had been standing.
Could be a busy time for Ross’s commandos.
Maybe it was only something to say. But Clive kn
ew a lot of people, and heard whispers and rumours that later made the headlines.
As if he was trying to prepare her. Warn her.
She felt Ross’s sister pat her thigh companionably.
“Don’t worry, Sharon, we all go through it. Life can be crappy sometimes.”
She watched the house backing away, the workman turning to watch the sports car drive off.
And suddenly, she was afraid.
Lieutenant Peter Hamlyn stood on the edge of a makeshift jetty and watched the working party of seamen and marines crowding around a tea fanny, the arrival of which had brought things to a halt. It was hard to tell how much had changed or been achieved since his last inspection: fresh grey paint gleaming in the hard sunlight, piles of wood shavings littering the deck or floating in puddles left by yesterday’s rain. Difficult to picture the final result, or even feel any excitement at the prospect.
This was one of three powerful-looking launches which had been berthed in Poole while a transformation was carried out. Many of the more senior men had been complaining about it, not directly to Hamlyn, but always loudly enough for him to overhear.
Small craft were being hired, commandeered or borrowed to ease the strain on naval building programmes, and this particular vessel had been intended for the protection of maritime oil rigs. In the near future, due to the threat of terrorist attacks, marine commandos would be required to carry out patrols alongside the drilling mechanics to ensure that possible targets were always under surveillance.
The government would do anything, it seemed, rather than provide funds for suitable, purpose-built vessels, designed and laid down by people who had been supplying the Royal Navy and marines since sail had given way to steam. Hamlyn had endured plenty of wry humour on the subject, particularly the one about the NAAFI manager who always locked and immobilized his canteen supply launch whenever he was called elsewhere, otherwise he feared he might find it painted grey and flying the White Ensign by the time he got back.
Once the greatest navy in the world, they said. Now it was reduced to anything that could be begged, commandeered or hired. Exaggerated, maybe, but privately Hamlyn was in full agreement.
He had seen several vessels similar to this one already in use in Northern Ireland, as well as the Middle East. But it took more than a lick of paint to turn it into a weapon of war. If only they could get away from the never-ending drills and stand bys. He could feel the men’s resentment and discontent for himself, but requests for transfer to other units, plus the growing list of names at the defaulters’ table, told the full story.
He heard some one shouting names, checking them against the inevitable list. Sergeant Ken Norris, nicknamed ‘Smiler’ because he never did. Always on the ball; one of the most reliable faces in the company. Marine Jock Marsh, the crack shot who had demonstrated his skills in Londonderry. Another voice: Sergeant Dick Harwood. Tough, popular, no-nonsense. Hamlyn had been surprised that Harwood had taken his third ‘tape’ rather than remain a corporal after he had married. That was another story. But his loyalty to Ross Blackwood was something else, personal and very private.
Harwood had a ready wit, and knew exactly how far he could go with it. Hamlyn had welcomed him to the company, and remarked how well and fit he was looking after his tour in Ulster.
Harwood had clasped his hands across his belt and grinned.
“Gave up drivin’ officers about every day, sir! I was gettin’ as porky as they were!”
He glanced at his watch. The afternoon was free, provided some senior officer did not drop in with another crackpot scheme to start everybody dripping. And Captain Toby Forester would be doing his rounds soon. He never seemed to get bored or impatient. But with Forester, how could you tell?
He stamped his feet; he had not noticed how cold he had become. So near the sea, the keen wind making a lie of the sunlight.
He had gone over it so many times, but it made no difference. It had happened before Christmas, with all the flap about stand bys and Operation Lazarus, if that wasn’t enough. Keep them on their toes. Drive them, if you have to. Remember, the first line in defence and the springboard for attack!
It was easy to say. Easier still to lay the blame.
He had even thought it was quite funny at the beginning. It wasn’t funny any more.
It had all started with a game of tennis. There were two large undercover courts just outside the temporary base. He could hear Forester saying it, as if it were yesterday.
“We’ll make up a foursome, what d’ you say? No time to get bored or browned off!”
Two young women. One was Forester’s sister, a tall, rather ungainly player, but deceptively fast on her feet. Hamlyn could not even remember her name. And the other one was Lois, slim, dark, vivacious. So full of life. The sort of girl . . . He tried to close his mind. Slam the door. But it was already too late. He had known it would happen, right from the first hint, the first touch and response. She was Forester’s wife.
Then why? He knew the score, and had been close enough once or twice. Mess parties, the aftermath. Maybe the risk had always been part of it; the temptation. If he stopped to think about it, he wondered if it was because he was a little older than most of his companions. Up through the ranks. More experienced. She had remarked on it once, asked him if he worried about it. That her husband was two years younger than his ‘lovely lieutenant’.
So easy to deny, to pretend. He should have stopped it there and then.
Next year, if everything continued in his favour, promotion was at the gate.
He had done well, and had learned a lot, not least that it didn’t come on a plate. When it came down to it, the Old Pals’ Act carried far more weight than Queen’s Regulations and Standing Orders put together.
I saw it coming, old boy. Or, what can you expect?
But he had wanted her. He still did.
He heard Harwood telling some one to get a move on. Get the bloody job over an’ done with.
He was here now, his eyes moving across the working party and the empty tea mugs.
“Nearly finished, sir.” Then, “Great news about Major Blackwood namin’ the day. Just right for each other. It comes to all of us in the end, the lucky ones, I mean!”
He strode away, already consulting his list and calling another name. Hamlyn breathed out slowly. A hint? A friendly warning? Even his mind was playing tricks on him.
“That looks more like it, Peter!” It was Forester, and he had not even seen him coming. “This boat and that other one in the moorings have got to be ready to move in two days’ time. Devonport, to await collection. All they’ve told me so far.” He covered a yawn with his fist. “I suppose we’ll be the last to know, as usual.”
“I’ll have them ready, sir.”
“Never doubted it. Seems a long time since Christmas . . . they’re already taking bets on Easter leave. Maybe we’ll draw the right straw this time.”
What would he do if he knew what had happened? Would happen again if she so much as crooked her little finger?
Like that time, sitting in the back of the car, when Forester had been at the wheel with the passenger seat full of Christmas gifts for the local hospital. She had pulled his hand on to her knee, held it there, and had even laughed about something that had happened that day. And all the time, watching him, moving his hand suggestively, nearer and nearer . . .
Forester swung round and said, “Lieutenant-Colonel Parsons. I can tell you, Peter. I’m not happy about him.” He hesitated, as if testing himself, or perhaps gauging Hamlyn’s silence. “He’s going to the top, and fast. Too fast for my liking. You have to tread on a lot of people to rise so quickly. Say what you like, it puts a nasty taste in the mouth.”
Hamlyn looked down at the launch alongside. The frank description of Parsons had taken him completely aback. Always correct where duty and routine were concerned, but Forester had never shown any concern or interest in personalities, not senior ones, anyway.
He said
cautiously, “He’s a go-getter. Not a bad thing at this stage of affairs in the armed forces, I’d have thought.” It gave him time to recover. “Major Blackwood seems to get along with him.”
“Hmm. You’re an admirer of Ross Blackwood, I can see that.”
Hamlyn thought of the girl in Derry, weeping for her man. The same girl outside the police station, cursing the marines as if they had killed him. Maybe we did. He heard himself answer, “I trust him, sir. It was why I came to this unit.”
“Good. Good show.” Forester turned away. “Come over for a drink this evening.” He waved to somebody, his driver, perhaps. “I’d like that. So would Lois.”
Hamlyn was still standing on the makeshift jetty when the car drove away.
Leave it. Walk away right now. While you can.
He thought he heard Sergeant Harwood blowing his whistle. It was time to dismiss, until tomorrow, and that damned launch which never seemed to be any different. He should have a quick word with Harwood, check what still needed doing. But he did not move.
She would be there. Ready to tease him, excite him, in Forester’s very presence. He was not naive enough to think that she had not done it before, and she would do it again with some one else after they were moved apart.
Even the thought of that aroused him.
He looked down at the launch. It was deserted.
Tomorrow could wait.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ross Blackwood nodded to the shadowy figure who had guided him to this place and indicated a chair by an empty table. He had lost count of the doors and stairways and, finally, a fast-moving lift, but remained conscious of urgency and privilege. No ‘what took you so long?’ this time. Even his identity had been only casually checked. As unreal as this place, a subterranean world beneath a busy street of double-decker buses and grid-locked, homebound traffic, people hurrying to Underground stations, and shops crammed with chocolate Easter eggs, rabbits and Disney-like, fluffy chickens.
He looked around the cellar, or vault; a ‘Tactical War Room’, some one had called it. The ceiling was curved to withstand blast from bomb or rocket, and perhaps was one of many, a relic from the war when London had known what it was like to live under bombardment.
Knife Edge (2004) Page 24
