Back to Battle (16 page)

Somebody gave him a lift to the docks in a staff car. Tugs were moving ships whose crews were fast asleep, doing the whole job themselves because it was impossible to wake the exhausted men below, and there were rows of stretchers along the small boat stage which sweating helpers were hoisting into ambulances. Women bent over the wounded, fixing labels to their battle-dress blouses, and one of them was holding a mug of tea to a man whose head was swathed in bandages. For a while Kelly stared at her with red-rimmed eyes. I know this woman, he thought dazedly. I’ve known her all my life.

Despite his weariness, he felt a stab of pain at all the promise and pleasure he’d lost, and his thoughts scampered like frightened mice through his mind as he tried to make out how she came to be there when she should have been in America. Then, through a daze of exhaustion, he remembered meeting Mabel in London. She’d got off the Dover train, he recalled, and now he realised why.

He felt like a guilty schoolboy up before the headmaster as he stepped forward.

‘Hello, Charley,’ he said.

Charley straightened up, frowning. At first she didn’t recognise him because he was wearing a pair of borrowed shoes that were too big for him and someone else’s jacket, then recognition came and, for a moment, there was anguish in her face. Finally her expression changed again to one that was devoid of both pleasure and displeasure.

‘Hello, Kelly,’ she said quietly.

‘Where did you come from?’ he asked.

She guessed he hadn’t slept for a week. His face was grey and gaunt with fatigue, and he was stooping with weariness, but though her heart went out to him, she kept hold of herself and forced herself to answer calmly.

‘There was a war on. America was no place for me.’

He had expected nothing more, felt he deserved no more, and began to turn away, but she put a hand on his arm.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m looking for a naval officer. Name of Le Mesurier. Don’t suppose you’ve seen him, have you?’

In his weariness, his tongue stumbled over the words and her heart swelled with compassion. ‘I think you need some sleep,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I expect someone will find me a bed.’

She produced a key from her pocket and gave him an address. ‘Go to my place,’ she said. ‘There’s a bed there. If I hear of your officer, I’ll let you know.’

He wasn’t sure in his weariness how he found himself on the doorstep of her flat. The place was small with only a living-dining room, but it was neat and full of sunshine and chintz. On the window ledge was a silver frame containing the photograph of a man in an RAF wing commander’s uniform. It was a strong, intelligent good-looking face, but in his tiredness Kelly missed its significance.

Immediately opposite the door was a table bearing a whisky decanter and, in a daze, he sloshed half a tumbler of the spirit into a glass. Going to the bathroom, he splashed water into it from a tap and began to drink. Then, staring around him, he became aware of toothbrushes, face cloths and silk stockings hanging from a small clothesline. He gazed at them, only dimly aware that they belonged to Charley – his Charley – the Charley he’d wanted to marry all his life and who once had wanted to marry him. Then weariness swept over him. He couldn’t remember when he’d last closed his eyes and he went in search of a bed.

Stumbling through a doorway, he found a small room where there was a double bed spread with a flowered cover, and it looked incredibly comfortable. As he emptied his pockets, he found the telegram he’d been handed at the Castle and stared at it dully. So the old boy had gone at last, he thought. He’d begun to think of him as immortal. Then he realised that it meant that he’d inherited the title. Unexpectedly, when he’d forgotten all about it, he’d suddenly become Sir Kelly Maguire, Baronet.

He tried to think about what it meant but he was too tired and he thrust it from his mind without much effort. Then he realised that the bed he was about to climb into was Charley’s and, though he’d been in a few women’s beds in his time, he’d never been in hers, and it seemed so wrong he turned round and headed for the settee. He was just about to sit down when he realised he was filthy dirty and stank of sweat and smoke and blood, so he found a blanket in a cupboard and lay down on the floor instead.

When he came round, he was in the bed. How he’d got there he had no idea, but somebody had stripped his clothes off and he lay staring at the ceiling, trying to remember what had happened. As he tried to recover his wits, the door clicked and he saw Charley looking at him.

‘How did I get here?’ he asked.

‘I put you there.’

‘Dragged me?’

‘You walked. Sleep-walked would be a better description.’

She disappeared and returned, grave-faced and unsmiling, with a tray.

‘I expect you could do with a cup of tea.’

It was a trite sort of remark and, under the circumstances, terribly English, but somehow, it seemed to steady a world in danger of whirling off its axis into insanity. And, after all the salt water he’d swallowed, the vast swig he’d taken from Verschoyle’s flask and the enormous whisky that had followed his mouth felt as if he’d been weeks in the Sahara.

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I could.’

As she poured the tea, he studied her under drooping eyelids. She was a beautiful, dignified woman, not very different from when he’d last seen her, but with a clear wariness about her that made him feel wary in return, and he didn’t know what to say. It was seven years since he’d last seen her and thirteen since they’d ruined their lives by marrying the wrong partners.

He could see himself in the mirror opposite, gaunt with tiredness, his eyes circled by dark shadows, his chin blurred by a three-day-old beard. She didn’t seem to notice, however, and sat on the end of the bed. She was wearing a blue dress that matched her eyes and she looked so beautiful he wanted to weep for all the wasted years.

‘Your officer doesn’t appear to have turned up,’ she told him quietly. ‘I’m sorry.’

He shrugged. ‘He was a brave man.’

For a moment, they were silent, unable to find anything to say. It was as if they were strangers and it bothered him because once they’d shared all of each other’s secrets. He didn’t know a thing about her now, he realised, nothing beyond what he could see.

‘What are you doing in Dover, Charley?’ he asked quietly.

‘I live here.’ She answered his question but volunteered nothing further.

‘In this place?’

‘Yes.’

‘What happened to the American?’

‘He was killed. In an automobile accident. Six months after I arrived. We’d planned our wedding.’

There was nothing much he could say except that he was sorry.

Her shoulders moved in a slight shrug but there was still no expression on her face. Remembering the times she’d greeted him with delight, and the laughter he’d heard from her, he found her expressionlessness heart-breaking.

‘So why here?’ he asked.

‘When the war started, I came home and got a job with the Navy. They employ a lot of civilians.’

There was an uneasy silence and he felt he had to say something. ‘I saw Mabel at Victoria,’ he said.

She managed a small smile at last, a ghost of a smile that made him think that perhaps he was getting through to her.

‘She’s got fat but she seems very happy,’ she said. ‘George was in France, but he was one of the first out. She telephoned. He’s been sent to a depot near Cheltenham.’

‘I’m glad,’ Kelly said. ‘And I’m glad Mabel’s happy.’ He paused before he went on. ‘Did you marry again, Charley?’

‘No.’

He couldn’t believe that nobody had tried. ‘Is – is there a man?’

‘No,’ she said quietly.

‘Never?’

‘I’m not a nun,’ she said coldly. ‘There was one in the RAF but he was lost in a raid on Kiel last year.’

Oh, God, he thought, remembering the photograph he’d seen, what had she done to have to endure so much unhappiness?

‘I’m sorry.’

She shrugged again. ‘I’m over it now,’ she said. ‘I think there must be limits to a person’s comprehension of sadness.’

He found his mind was becoming hazy and, as the cup of tea tilted, he jumped and realised he’d been falling asleep.

‘I’m afraid I’ve spilt it on the cover,’ he said.

She said nothing but took it from him and pressed him down in the bed.

His eyelids drooped and when he wasn’t expecting it, she leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. Automatically he tried to grab her but she’d gone before he could get his hands free and he lay back, disappointed, a little sad, unutterably lonely and desperately depressed still by what he’d seen at the other side of the Channel.

But he was also too tired to care, and as his eyelids drooped again, he allowed himself to drift into sleep.

He remembered waking up and seeing the room flooded with sunshine, but he was quite indifferent and allowed himself to drift off again. When he came round once more, it was dark outside and the curtains were drawn against the blackout.

He lay for a while trying to remember what had happened, then he wondered where Rumbelo and Boyle had got to and remembered that Le Mesurier had not turned up. He’d have to get the man an award of some sort, he felt. He’d been a tower of strength, civilian or not, drunk or sober, and he deserved something. The thought of his dying when they’d almost made it jerked at his heartstrings and he remembered seeing Crested Eagle, Fenella, Grenade and Jaguar hit by bombs, and Crested Eagle on fire and sinking in the fairway with all the French and all the wounded on board that they’d just rescued from Fenella. Unexpectedly, he found there were tears in his eyes and, as he blinked them away, he found Charley watching him from the doorway. She was wearing a neat skirt and a blue and white-striped linen blouse.

‘Kelly! What is it?’

He tried to tell her but he choked over the words. She came to the bed and knelt beside it, with her hands on his.

‘Oh, Kelly!’

He put his arms round her and they clung together like sorrowing schoolgirls.

‘Don’t say anything now, Kelly,’ she said quietly. ‘Just go to sleep.’ She kissed him again and tried to draw away but he couldn’t bear to let her go and clung on to her, pulling her to him. For a moment they stayed like that, their faces only an inch or two apart. It was impossible to tell her that she represented all the things they’d lost across the other side of the Channel. She represented peace, England, his youth, his whole life even, in a way nobody else ever had.

Her head turned uncertainly as he kissed her throat but she didn’t resist, and as his hand came up to her breast he felt her tense and saw her eyes fill with tears.

She gave a little moan, still, after all the wasted years, crucified by her longing for him. ‘Oh, Kelly!’ she whispered again.

‘Why did you go away?’

She turned a lost face towards him. Love, he decided, was a sort of self-immolation that left you dizzy but with her in his arms again, he didn’t care. There had been many times in recent years when there’d been a loneliness it had seemed impossible to endure, but suddenly, now, he felt he was no longer on his own. They kissed with a painful intensity and then she was crying hard sobs with taut lips and clenched teeth, small and lost like a child, as if she were putty in his hands.

Their lovemaking was intense and left him shocked by its sheer carnality and passion. It was fierce and twice as powerful because it was a relief from the agony across the Channel, a relief from exhaustion and ugliness and misery. When he woke again it was daylight. There was a man’s dressing gown over the end of the bed and he wondered if she’d borrowed it for him or whether it belonged to someone who stayed with her, some man who’d slept in her bed as he had.

He found her in the tiny kitchen, listening to the news on the radio and making coffee on an electric cooker. She was quite different from the previous night. She’d regained control of herself and was cool and distant. He moved to her and put his arms round her, but she slipped away and placed a cup, saucer and plate on the table. Moving to her again, he tried once more but again she slipped away.

‘No,’ she said. ‘That was last night. It’s different now.’

‘Why?’

She turned angrily. ‘What am I supposed to be Kelly? Disappearing the way you did every time, you could hardly expect when we meet again that I should just hold the bedclothes back for you to slip in beside me. Just because it happens to suit you and the Navy says it’s all right. I was in love with you, Kelly. Always.’

He couldn’t believe his ears. Her tones were sharp when he’d expected gentleness.

‘You behaved last night as if you still were,’ he said.

She refused to meet his eyes. ‘I was carried away,’ she said. ‘It was all that agony at the docks. It seemed to demand some self-sacrifice. Call it my war effort.’

He watched her, baffled, his thoughts sad and splintered with pain, but she made no attempt to show any sign of warmth. He didn’t believe her, couldn’t believe her. Their behaviour the night before could never have been the result only of the sweeping emotion that had run through the country, proud, giving – but still impersonal. She’d held him to her, moaning softly, whispering and calling out his name in ecstasy.

He sat down, uncertain how to react. She filled his cup and he sat smoking a cigarette from a packet she pushed across. After a while he became aware of the radio and realised he was listening to Churchill’s words. They were from a speech he’d made and somehow they had more in them to stir the blood than he’d heard for years from the tradesmen of the thirties who’d masqueraded as diplomats and statesmen.

‘We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender–’

As the announcer faded, she switched off the radio. In the silence, Kelly’s voice sounded loud.

‘What day is it?’

‘Wednesday. You slept for two days.’