Maralinga (14 page)

‘We certainly are,' Kenneth said proudly. ‘Just a pity I had to cop it so early. I would have continued to serve if they'd given me half a chance, but they don't when you've got a shattered hip.'

He made no attempt to disguise his resentment, but Elizabeth was not surprised. Daniel had warned her.

‘Dad was invalided out after Dunkirk,' he'd said. ‘He wanted to stay on and make a career of the army, but he had to go back to being a clerk like his old man. He's pretty bitter about that.'

‘No matter …' Kenneth, not wishing to seem self-indulgent, dismissed his mood with a shake of the head. ‘There are many who copped a great deal worse. Besides, I did the right thing. I was prepared to lay down my life for my country; a man can do no more than that.'

The brief six months' active service Kenneth Gardiner had experienced, together with the intense military training preceding his duty in France, had been the highlight of his life. At least that was the way he remembered it. The learning of new skills, the comradeship, the knowledge that they'd all served a great purpose had now, fourteen years down the track, obliterated even the mind-numbing fear and carnage that had been Dunkirk. These days, the camaraderie of his fellow veterans on a Friday
night elevated him from the rut of his existence and distracted him from the sense of uselessness that at times threatened to engulf him. The constant pain in his hip had worsened as arthritis had set in, and his workload had been reduced to three days a week by a company that valued his long-term commitment. He was grateful, but it didn't stop him feeling bitter. Much as he told himself his incapacity was noble proof of his service, it angered him to be a cripple at forty-four. Kenneth's greatest delight now lay in the knowledge that his boys would lead the military life he'd always yearned for.

‘There's no greater honour than to serve your country,' he announced to the table in general, ‘no greater honour on this earth. And that's what I've instilled in my sons, Elizabeth.'

The grin he flashed her was one of sheer joy, and in its very boyishness Elizabeth suddenly saw Daniel. She hadn't noticed the likeness between the two until that moment.

‘I'm proud,' Kenneth said, ‘so very, very proud that they chose such a path.'

But did they, Elizabeth asked herself as she stared back at him in a wonderment of incredulity. Were they given any
choice
? The man was a zealot; they'd been brainwashed, surely. As she glanced at Daniel, she realised her face must have been readable. Unable to contain himself, he let out a hoot of laughter.

‘No, we weren't brainwashed,' he said, and Elizabeth didn't know where to look. ‘At least, if we were I wasn't aware of it.'

‘Brainwashed?' Kenneth was confused. ‘Who said you were brainwashed?'

‘No-one, Dad. You're pontificating a bit, that's all.'

‘Oh. Am I?' He looked to his wife, and Prudence gave the gentlest of nods. ‘Well, well, fancy that.' Kenneth smiled, caught out but unembarrassed. ‘I tend to get a bit carried away at times, don't I?' He eased himself carefully from his chair, trying to disguise the pain as his frozen muscles screamed. ‘A superb meal as always, Mother,' he said.

Then – once again to Elizabeth's amazement – he started clearing the dishes from the table. The action itself was surprising enough, but so too was the fact that neither his wife nor his son intervened. The man seemed extremely unsteady on his feet.

‘Let me help, Mr Gardiner.' She sprang up and was about to take the plates from him, but he protested.

‘No, no, leave me,' he said sharply, and she backed off.

In a matter of seconds he'd regained his balance and, as he turned to her, his tone softened. ‘You can lend a hand if you wish, my dear, but I like to do my bit. It keeps me on the move, you see. I can't sit still for too long.'

‘I'll get the dessert,' Prudence said. ‘You bring the meat platter, Dan, it's heavy.'

Elizabeth didn't notice the look between mother and son as they rose from the table. Kenneth Gardiner never admitted to his limitations in front of strangers – it seemed his future daughter-in-law had made a favourable impression.

‘What are we having?' Daniel asked. ‘Apple crumble or jelly trifle?' His mother always prepared one of his favourites when he came home for the weekend.

‘You have a choice,' Prudence answered, ‘I made both.' And, gathering up the gravy boat and the bowl with its few remaining Brussels sprouts, she disappeared to the kitchen.

‘She spoils those boys rotten,' Kenneth said to Elizabeth. ‘Just as well the army's taking them in hand. They'd be fat as butter if they stayed here.'

 

Gideon Melbray gazed through the aircraft's window at the cloudless blue sky, and then down at the even bluer ocean below where not a speck of land was in sight. The whole world seemed blue. They'd left Indonesia, having refuelled at Djakarta, and were now on the penultimate leg of their arduous journey to the other side of the world. Next stop Darwin, the northern gateway to Australia.

Gideon had boarded the Hastings Mark IV at Lyneham RAF Base on February 20 and had now been travelling for almost a week. The four-engine aircraft, specifically designed for long-range transport, could carry up to fifty troops with full kit at a flying speed of 250 miles per hour, but on this trip there was little equipment and only twenty on board. Amongst the soldiers of various ranks, both officers and enlisted men, all from different regiments, the mood had been relaxed. They were not en route to a combat zone – the officers were on relief duty assignments and the enlisted men were additions to a general workforce – and from the outset a spirit of anticipation had prevailed. Gideon, the only man in mufti, had enjoyed the odd looks from the soldiers who'd wondered at the mystery of him.

‘Department of Supply.' He'd been quick to engage in conversation and had readily offered the information. ‘I'm taking over the post of senior requisitions officer. You chaps will be seeing quite a bit of me, I should think.'

‘What a handy chap to know,' a young captain had remarked with a wink to the others. It was a response generally acknowledged, and Gideon had rapidly become ‘one of the boys'.

He'd very much enjoyed the company of the soldiers and the mode of military transport. As diplomatic staff, he was accustomed to travelling on civilian aircraft and he'd found the change of atmosphere and camaraderie exhilarating. Even the draughty discomfort of the unpressurised cabin and the tasteless packaged meals acquired at their various stops along the way had failed to daunt his enthusiasm. He'd liked being surrounded by rowdy masculinity and the smell of sweat. But then he'd always liked ‘roughing it'.

The whole trip had been something of an experience, he now thought as he stared mindlessly out the window, particularly the enforced overnight stop in Istanbul. He glanced about the cabin. Some of the men were quietly chatting, others having a nap – they'd be landing in Darwin soon. The soldiers were a nice enough bunch, but he'd ascertained very early on that they were conservative to a man – he could sense no kindred spirit amongst them. It rather titillated him now to imagine their reaction if they knew what had taken place during the Istanbul stopover.

 

After take-off, the Hasting's intended destination had been the British RAF base on the island of Cyprus in
the Mediterranean, the first of several planned refuelling stops, but bad weather had forced a diversion. The pilot had landed the aircraft in Istanbul instead, where it had been grounded for twenty-four hours while a replacement engine cowling had been located and fitted.

Unlike the military personnel with whom he was travelling, Gideon had been free to choose accommodation to his personal liking and he'd immediately booked himself into the luxurious Hotel Istanbul. No stranger to the city, having at one time spent six weeks on temporary duty at the British embassy there, he'd whiled away the afternoon reacquainting himself with its breathtaking beauty.

He'd forgotten just what a seductive city it was, he'd thought as he'd mingled with the tourists in Eminonu, the heart of the ancient town, where the Topkapi Sarayi and the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque stood in a row, as if competing for awards in sheer magnificence. From one of the six towering minarets of the Blue Mosque a muezzin was calling the faithful to prayer, and he remembered how very stirring he'd found the relentless chants of the muezzins throughout the day. Stirring, sensual, visceral even, they'd aroused him in a way that was certainly not their intention.

Upon his return to the hotel, he'd showered and gone to the lounge for a pre-dinner Scotch, noticing immediately the attractive blonde seated near the main doors sipping a martini. He'd considered making an approach, but had decided against it. She was not only attractive, she was patently rich. Attractive, rich blondes did not travel alone. She was waiting for
her husband, he'd decided, or perhaps her lover, but either way, a man many years her senior – he'd put his money on it. He'd seated himself at a table near the bar and paid her no further attention.

‘Do you mind if I join you?'

Only minutes later, there she was, standing beside him, martini in hand.

He rose. ‘I'd be honoured,' he said. ‘Please,' and he gestured to the large leather armchair opposite his own.

‘My husband is keeping me waiting, as usual,' she said with a mixture of apology and embarrassment. ‘I do so hate being in hotel lounges on my own.' She sat. ‘I'm Caroline Hardinge. How do you do.'

They shook hands. ‘Gideon Melbray,' he said, and sat.

‘I heard you ordering your Scotch. You're English, of course.'

‘Yes. You too?' It was a joke.

‘Dear me, yes, can't you tell?'

‘I can rather.' And they shared a laugh.

‘This is my first time in Istanbul. Marcus has been here before, many years ago, with his first wife, but this is my very first visit. Isn't it the most divine place? Have you been here before yourself?'

‘Briefly, yes.'

‘We caught a taxi into the old part of town and then walked for hours all afternoon. I'm sure that's why Marcus is taking so long now. He said he'd only be five minutes, but he's probably soaking in a hot bath. It really is naughty of him.'

She seemed happy to conduct her own monologue and, for politeness's sake, Gideon more or less
listened, although he knew it wasn't necessary – eye contact was quite sufficient. She was out to seduce him, and he wondered why. An upper-class English callgirl in Istanbul? Hardly. Her elderly, impotent husband asleep in their suite upstairs was a far more likely scenario, he thought, and he bought her another martini. Then Marcus arrived.

Gideon congratulated himself on his initial deduction. Marcus, in his fifties, was indeed a good twenty years older than his wife. He was not, however, elderly, nor did he appear the impotent type. In fact Gideon found him stylish and rather good-looking,

‘Oh, darling, at last,' Caroline said with an attractive pout. ‘You've been frightfully rude. This is Gideon Melbray, my knight in shining armour. Gideon, this is my husband, Sir Marcus Hardinge.'

‘Sir Marcus.' Not a flicker showed on Gideon's face as he offered his hand, but old habits died hard – a title still impressed him.

‘Marcus, old man, please,' Hardinge said as they shook. ‘Thanks so much for looking after Caroline, most appreciated. I'd be in such trouble if you hadn't. Will you join us for dinner?'

This was a game, Gideon realised, a game which had suddenly become far more interesting than the simple bedding of Caroline Hardinge.

‘I'd be delighted.'

They had another drink and, as they rose from their chairs to adjourn to the dining room, Gideon offered his arm to Caroline.

‘Lady Hardinge?'

She smiled and, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow, shared a look with her husband. A look
not lost on Gideon; a look that said they were pleased with their find. Well, so was he. A ménage à trois? If so, what fun.

But as it eventuated, a ménage à trois was not the intention. Following dinner, when they adjourned to the Hardinges' suite, it turned out Marcus wanted no more than to watch his wife copulate with another man. Gideon was happy to oblige. It seemed the poor fellow was impotent after all, and the superb dinner and wine they'd shared certainly deserved a return of favours. Besides, he enjoyed being watched – almost as much as he enjoyed observing the watcher – and he manoeuvred Caroline into the perfect position where he could see Marcus in the mirror.

As Caroline's body started to heave, he focused on the mirror. Marcus's arousal at the sight of his wife's pleasure was obvious and Gideon willed their eyes to meet so they could share the eroticism of the moment, but Marcus's gaze remained focused on the act itself.

Gideon slowed his thrusts to a minimum, then stopped altogether and remained motionless, waiting for Caroline to get the message. She was altogether too receptive – she'd orgasm any minute and they'd only just started. Not that it mattered, she was the sort who'd orgasm all night, but the woman had no natural rhythm, no self-control. She was sexually indulgent.

When he sensed she'd calmed down a little, he withdrew, turning her over onto her knees to take her from behind, and, glancing once again in the mirror, he recognised the truth. Marcus was not aroused by the sight of his wife in sexual congress. Marcus was
aroused by the sight of a man rutting. Marcus Hardinge was not impotent at all. He was homosexual.

Gideon stood, a naked Adonis with a glistening erection, and smiled as he held out his hand. ‘Come and join us, Marcus,' he said.

Marcus did. Never before, in all the years of his voyeurism, had he taken part in the action. But such an offer from such a man was irresistible.