Oriental Hotel (22 page)

Her eyes were full of tears but she saw six men step forward, three each side, the galley table tipped and the duncoloured bundle slid out from beneath the Union Jack. The weighted body broke the surface with a soft, unmistakable splash. A bugle sounded the haunting notes of the Last Post which shot the still air with piercing sweetness; the Army officers mustered on deck saluted, and she clamped her lips over the sob that was rising from the numbness of her throat.

She didn't want to cry, not here, yet oddly she felt that someone should. It wasn't right to have a burial with no tears spilled.

But as she stood, blurred with unexpected grief, the tableau on deck dispersed; the ship was under way again. For a short time they had slowed to bury their dead, now it was time to make haste out of the dangerous seas for the sake of the living.

‘Are you going to the party tonight?'

Elise looked up in surprise from her latest excursion into
Gone With The Wind
.

Since the day when they had worked together to help the survivors of the raider attack, the Wrens had stopped their barrage of unpleasantness towards her, with only Ruth unable to resist the odd, spiteful remark. But the peace had been a guarded one for all that, and for her part Elise found it difficult to forget the venom they had directed at her in those early days when a friendly word would have meant so much.

Now she said, ‘ Party? What party?'

‘Son of farewell binge, I suppose, before we all go our separate ways in Bombay.' Joyce Lindsell was doing her hair at the cabin mirror and not looking at Elise. It was the way they had conducted all conversations since that evening in the hospital galley – tentative, not unfriendly but too conscious of what had gone before to be comfortable – yet today Elise had the feeling that there was something more behind this: an olive branch, perhaps.

‘I didn't know anything about it,' she said. ‘I hardly think I'd be invited, anyway.'

‘Why not? You're on the ship, just like us.'

Elise almost smiled. What a turn-about!'Where is it?' she asked.

‘In the main ballroom where, believe it or not, we're actually being allowed to mix with the men, though I expect there will be plenty of MPs responsible for making sure we don't fraternise outside. Not that they'd stop
you
, anyway, would they?'

‘Maybe not. But I don't expect I shall be going.'

Elise returned to her book. There was a silence, then Joyce said, ‘Wish I had something decent to wear, though. You don't know how lucky you are!'

‘Don't you have to be in uniform?'

‘Not tonight. We can dress up – cheer our brave lads on their way, I suppose that's the idea. The trouble is I have nothing but a Utility dress and that's hardly going to set the world on fire.'

There was something in her voice, something about the sly way her eyes slid to Elise's trunk and away again that awakened the first hint of suspicion.

She wants to borrow something! thought Elise in surprise. That's why she's being so very friendly all of a sudden. For the first time on this whole damn voyage I've actually got the upper hand.

The knowledge gave her a kick and with it an imp of mischief took hold of her.

‘Oh, it is a trial, I know. This war is doing dreadful things to the fashion industry,' she said drily. ‘My favourite designer, Schiaparelli, has closed her house and so has Chanel.'

She saw Joyce's jaw drop and swallowing at the bubble of laughter in her throat, went on, ‘ Molyneux has gone back to England and Mainbocher to America. I honestly don't know what I'd do if it wasn't for the fact that high fashion's just been frozen into the 1939 look …'

Joyce's face was an absolute picture now – a mixture of disbelief, envy and scorn – the look of a girl who, even unrestricted by clothing coupons, would probably never have had a dress that hadn't come from a high street store or a club catalogue, and suddenly, inexplicably, Elise was ashamed. Things came so easily to her that she tended to take them for granted.

‘Would you like me to lend you something?' she asked, taking pity on Joyce.

The green eyes sharpened – it was obviously what she had been angling for; now it had happened she could hardly believe it.

‘Something of yours?'

‘Well, of course something of mine. We're about the same size, aren't we?' Elise got up, reaching into the storage rack for the small trunk she had been allowed to bring into the cabin. ‘What about this one? Shocking pink. It would look good with your fair hair …'

She had kept the dresses hidden away throughout the voyage so as not to arouse the Wrens' jealousy; now, something in the girl's face as she looked at the raw silk Schiap with its swathed bodice, full skirt, and matching jacket embroidered with tiny seed pearls, told Elise it was not the first time she had seen it.

So they've been poking in my trunk when I wasn't here! she thought. But even then the initial rush of anger and sense of violation was tempered by the realisation that she owned and took for granted things these girls had probably never even seen before.

I have my opportunity for revenge now, Elise thought. I've dangled this dress before her, but now I could snatch it away. At one fell swoop I could return all the heartache she caused by encouraging the others to make an outcast of me. I could say to her, ‘Right, Cinderella, see what you could have had if you'd been nicer to me! Now – back to your utility dress.'

But all the while she knew she wouldn't do it. Quite apart from the feeling, almost superstitious in its intensity, that she should share her good fortune, there was another motive – one she could barely understand. After all they had said and done, perversely she still wanted them to like her – wanted, even now, to be one of them.

‘Try it on,' she said.

‘Can I?'

‘I said so, didn't I?' She leaned back against the bunk and saw Joyce's shiver of delight as the raw silk caressed her skin.

‘God, this is even better than taffeta!'

‘It's silk. The creases will drop out by the time you want to wear it.'

‘Jeepers, it's beautiful. Wait till the others see this!'

‘You'd better have the things that go with it.' Surprising even herself, Elise dived into the trunk again. ‘ There's a pearl choker and stud ear-rings …' She found the box, unlocked it and showed it to Joyce – a perfect set of creamy pearls, graduated in size.

This time, however, Joyce's face took on a closed look.

‘Oh no – I couldn't!'

‘It's all right. You needn't worry about them. They were restrung just before I left Hong Kong and they're well insured.'

‘No. Not pearls! Thanks all the same.'

‘Why not?'

‘Pearls for tears, they say, don't they?'

‘But that's ridiculous!'

‘Maybe. But you know about my fiancé, don't you? I'm still waiting for news as to whether or not he's going to be all right – so I don't want to tempt fate. And besides him, there's my sister who lives in London and refuses to be evacuated in spite of the blitz, and my parents living slap-bang alongside the dockyard at Pompey. No thanks! Laugh at me if you like, but it's a good luck charm I could do with just now, I can tell you, not pearls for tears.'

‘All right.' It was sobering, thought Elise, to see such a rough and ready character as Joyce sheltering behind superstition. ‘Well, enjoy wearing the dress anyway.'

The pert, pretty face brightened, her serious moment forgotten.

‘Don't worry – I intend to! A dress by Schia – whatever the hell it was you said – oh Lordy, I intend to!'

If discipline for the members of the armed forces had been strict until now, on that last night before docking in Bombay all rules and regulations were temporarily forgotten.

For many Bombay would be journey's end, for others merely a staging post. The detachment of Wrens was going on to the naval base at Trincomalee in Ceylon, a regiment of soldiers was bound for Burma.

But it would certainly be the last night on board the
Stranraer
for all of them – their last night together and possibly their last night of freedom, and the ballroom of the one-time passenger liner reverberated with a rowdier party than any Elise had ever seen in her cruising days.

At eight, only the sound of the piano, rather out of tune from being moved too many times from mess room to mess room, and the rhythmic thumping of drums could be heard in the cabins and companion ways; by nine there were gales of laughter too, and by nine-thirty, when Elise left the officers' dining room, it sounded as if the whole place was jumping.

On the companion way she hesitated. Several of the officers had invited her to a small private party they were having in one of the bars, but she had declined, explaining she was still feeling the effects of her long day's nursing but not divulging the real reason: that she could not face seeing them drinking and laughing while knowing that John Grimly, whom she had known better than any of them, would not be there and would never drink or laugh again.

Another day had passed and still she could not forget him. His eager young face, rosy and beaming, with only his eyes sometimes betraying his uncertainty, rose to attract her attention a dozen times a day, and even now it was hard to realise that his body had slipped into the sea yesterday, hidden by the impersonal canvas shroud. But what her conscious mind refused to accept, her unconscious mind told her was true, and she felt too leaden with sadness to be able to face the determinedly cheerful company of the other officers.

There was a perverse attraction, however, about the frenzied gaiety being generated in the ballroom, though Elise was not sure what it was.

Not the free-flowing booze – she drank little herself. Not the laughter – there was something almost frightening about that. No, if anything it was the sense of comradeship and sharing that seemed to spill out on the waves of noise.

As she stood there undecided, the doors opened and two young soldiers came out, whooping and catching her between them in a movement reminiscent of a childhood game of ‘Oranges and Lemons'.

‘What do you think you're doing?' she demanded, half amused and half annoyed.

‘With any luck – you!' They laughed loudly and her quick temper rose.

‘How dare you! Let me go at once!'

‘Not until you give us a kiss.'

‘Both of us!'

‘Let me go! You're drunk, the pair of you!'

‘And you're beautiful. She's beautiful, isn't she?'

‘Oh, she's classy, this one!'

‘Let me go!'

‘Having trouble?' The voice was low and faintly amused, yet it contained a note of indisputable authority. Without even turning to look, Elise knew who it was! Gerald Brittain – Brit.

‘Have a heart, sir! We were only joking!' one of the men said. They automatically loosened their hold and Elise was able to free herself.

‘Thank you very much,' she flared at them with heavy sarcasm. ‘And next time, pick on someone who wants to play.'

But as they rolled off together, slapping one another's backs and casting curled-lip glances at her over their shoulders, she felt a flush of embarrassment rush in to replace the anger.

It was the first time she had seen Brit since the night John Grimly died, and these were not the circumstances she would have chosen. But that was nothing new – if there was an awkward situation, it seemed he found it; if there was a moment when more than anything she would choose to be alone, that was the very moment he could be trusted to put in an appearance.

He must think me a complete and utter fool, Elise thought, briefly tasting the bitter pill John Grimly had been forced to swallow time and again.

His eyes moved over her now and the slight downward twist of his mouth evoked the impression of mockery once more.

‘Going to the party, were you?'

Her chin rose a shade. ‘I was thinking about it.'

‘I wouldn't advise it, unless you want a repeat performance! There are a lot of men there who have drunk more than is wise, and not many women. Someone who looks like you is bound to be in demand.'

She could feel her pulses hammering – a result of her encounter with the two tipsy soldiers, she assumed; as the teasing hazel eyes met hers, she flushed.

Apparently oblivious of her discomfort, he went on, ‘I was looking for you, actually.'

‘For me?'

‘Yes.' The sound of voices counting loudly in unison rang out from the ballroom, then a storm of laughter and cheering was followed by the crash of breaking glass. ‘Drinking contests,' Brit said amiably. ‘It's beginning to sound like a Bavarian bierkeller. Are you sure you want to go in there?'

‘Perhaps not.' But there was a regretful look on her face that made him throw back his head and laugh.

‘So you'd like to go slumming, eh? Come on, then!'

He pushed open the door and the heat and the smoke haze and the wild, charged atmosphere met them like a wall. On a table a young man stood with head back, beer spilling over his chin and neck and bare chest as he literally poured it down his throat to the frenzied counting of a six-deep circle of supporters. Around them the floor was packed; men were sitting on chairs, tables and with their backs against the wall, while gales of laughter rose from others standing in large groups. Elise caught a glimpse of Linda Preece sitting on the lap of a rather handsome soldier but of Joyce there was no sign, and she knew a moment's sharp anxiety for her dress.

‘I don't suppose you've ever been to a party quite like this before?' Brit said above the hubbub.

‘No.' It was certainly a world away from the stately dinner dances in the Rose Room at the Peninsula Hotel. Occasionally, of course, someone had too much to drink and disgraced themselves, much to the disgust of the very proper colonial matrons and the amusement of the young set, but she had never seen merrymaking on this scale before and, intense though her curiosity had been on the other side of the door, now that she was here she wasn't sure she cared for it.