Jasmine Nights Page 15

  ‘I didn’t want you to,’ he said quietly. ‘And I didn’t expect Max to be there either – so sorry about that. Did you say anything to him?’

  ‘You told me not to.’

  ‘Good,’ he said quietly. ‘Next time we ask you to do something, we’ll clear it with him, but don’t forget, as far as he’s concerned, I’m only the broadcast man.

  ‘You’re very special, young lady,’ he added randomly.

  She could see through the café window the NCO walking towards them.

  ‘You’ll be off to the Canal Zone soon, and then touring,’ Cleeve said quickly – he’d seen him too. ‘But I have a small job for you before you go.’

  ‘How do you know where we’re going? We haven’t been told.’

  ‘I know.’ He licked a smear of ice cream from his lips; drained the rest of his coffee. ‘I’ll be in contact again, maybe in a week.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ll do a broadcast. Some of the troops in Ismailia have been badly neglected. It won’t ruffle any feathers whatsoever.’

  The NCO got out of the car and folded his arms.

  ‘He’s waiting for me,’ Saba said.

  ‘Before you go,’ he said softly, ‘one last question.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Safer for everyone. If you get one, be careful what you write to him.’

  ‘I will.’ Her heart began to hammer in her chest, as if it knew something she didn’t.

  ‘And the best of British, out in the desert.’ Cleeve’s hand was moist with sweat as he shook hers. ‘It will be an experience you will never forget.’

  Willie was practising his fez routine in his room at the YMCA when he saw the first flutterings of charred black paper go past his window.

  A drunken soldier had warned him, two nights before, in the Delta Bar, that the burning of official papers at the British Embassy would be the first sign that the Germans were coming. And so, it had come. He felt both calm and brave as he took off his fez, sat on the bed and put his shoes on. His first thought was for Arleta – he’d loved her for so long, and now he must get his fat old carcass across town and rescue her and the other girls.

  It was hard to find a taxi, so he shuffled and wheezed the three blocks towards the girls’ digs. He toiled his way up the dark and narrow staircase, bent double near the bathroom on the first floor to get his breath back.

  Janine opened the door.

  ‘Are you gels all right?’ he gasped. Three buttons of his pyjama top had come undone, and the sweating mound of his stomach poked through.

  ‘Fine,’ Janine regarded him with some distaste, ‘but desperately busy. We’re all leaving tomorrow – Saba’s on her way back now.’

  He sat down heavily in a wicker chair.

  ‘I know,’ he said, ‘but take a look at this.’ He hauled himself out of the chair and opened their shutters. The air outside was smoky and full of charred bits of paper.

  ‘Oh good God.’ Janine’s shoulders had collapsed. ‘What on earth . . .?’ She started to cough delicately.

  Arleta appeared from the bathroom, damp and delicious in a silk nightie.

  ‘What’s up?’

  Willie led her by the hand to the window. The burned papers fluttered on down. Janine slammed the shutters. ‘Don’t let them see any light,’ she said.

  ‘What is it, pet?’ When Arleta squeezed the old man’s hand, his heart swelled with protective love for her.

  ‘The situation is as follows.’ Fear made Willie maddeningly slow and inarticulate. ‘I was having this drink the other night with a squaddie I met . . . not the Grenadier but the other one . . . Do you know the place on . . . Oh damn, what is it? . . . Oh yes, Soliman Pasha Square. Anyway, I was having a beer with this fellow from . . . it was either the Royal Scots Guards or the—’

  ‘Darling, could you put this in a slightly smaller nutshell?’ Arleta tugging at her turban. ‘We don’t need to know every little thing.’ When she stroked the back of his head he almost sank into her arms.

  ‘Well,’ Willie’s old eyes were milky and unfocused, ‘he said they was burning all the official papers at the Embassy; that all the other civilians left town last week and that it’s a bloody disgrace they’ve left us here. The three other groups have gone to Alexandria.’ The words at last came out in a spurt.

  ‘Oh blast it to buggeration!’ Arleta grabbed her turban and ran out of the room.

  ‘She’s taken it hard, love her,’ said Willie as the door slammed. ‘We can’t just crack up at the first thing. Our job,’ a sterner version of himself emerged out of the mists, ‘is to keep calm and carry on.’

  ‘She’s had trouble with her hair dye,’ said Janine. Muffled shouts from the bathroom from Arleta. ‘The first lot didn’t work.’

  ‘Oh God.’ Willie, who’d had a difficult wife, understood the significance of this. He hauled himself to his feet. ‘I’ll leave you ladies to it then.’ He said he was going home to pack, had been told that they were to stay put until transport was organised. ‘I don’t care what it is at the moment,’ he said with a wheezy laugh. ‘A sidecar across the desert would do me fine at the moment.’

  After he’d gone, Arleta appeared, her hair a pale green colour.

  ‘Well it’s a disaster,’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine what I was thinking about, doing it twice.’

  ‘The Germans coming, maybe.’ Janine’s voice was low and bitterly sarcastic. ‘I wonder if that felt slightly more important than your hair.’

  The shimmering silence in the room was like the still before an electrical storm, and then she added breezily, ‘Even if it does fall out, which of course, dear, I very much hope it doesn’t.’

  Arleta had warned them in advance about her terrible temper. Janine’s fake concern fell like a lit match on a well-laid fire.

  ‘I’m sorry? What did you say?’ Arleta’s green eyes widened and narrowed. She appeared to be listening very intently.

  ‘I said, I very much hope it doesn’t fall out,’ quavered Janine.

  Arleta stepped forward, and pointed her index finger squarely at Janine’s forehead. ‘You,’ she said, ‘are a stupid, stupid cow, and I’m sick of your whining, and all that splashing in the bathroom, and your twirly bits,’ she spun around on the floor, ‘and I’m sick of the bloody Germans too: they stopped me having a wonderful run in Southend in Puss in Boots, they completely buggered up my run with the Follies at the Palladium. They’re taking me away from Cairo, and they’re about to make me blasted well bald.’

  ‘I had a career too,’ Janine screeched. ‘I was learning ballet from the age of three, I practically bankrupted my family, I was about to join Sadler’s Wells, and anyway, don’t exaggerate, stupid woman yourself!’ Her face was contorted with malice. ‘It’s only gone a bit green.’

  When Saba burst into the room, their lips were furled, their colour high and Arleta was screaming. It was almost funny, except the palm of Arleta’s hand was open and she was balancing herself on the balls of her feet as if about to give Janine a perfectly timed forehand drive to the head.

  Saba stepped between them.

  ‘Hey! Hey, hey, hey! Stop! Stop, stop! Calm down. Your hair is fine, stop it!’

  ‘Don’t you dare say stop it.’ Janine’s pale face was a map of bulging veins. ‘The city is on fire, the Germans are coming.’

  ‘The city isn’t on fire,’ said Saba. ‘I’ve just driven through it, and I didn’t see any Germans. I’m sure it’s all right.’ When she went to the window and opened the shutters, it was a bit of a shock to see the sky full of floating grey paper, the light beyond it coppery and shimmering.

  They heard the boom, boom, boom of shoes on the stairs, stiffened in terror as the doorknob turned and sagged with relief as the door burst open. It was Bagley. He was agitated and had a piece of burned paper stuck to his forehead.

  ‘Panic over, girls,’ he said. ‘No Germans. There was an explo
sion at the paper factory near the Muski that frightened everyone to death, but our orders are the same. The Embassy are very jumpy, things are on the move, they want us out as quickly as possible. The truck will pick you up tomorrow afternoon.

  ‘And so, our work begins.’ Bagley seemed to be relishing his own Richard the Third moment. He looked at Arleta and Janine, who were sitting as far away from each other as possible. ‘The most important thing for us now is to work as a team.’ He looked searchingly at each one of them. ‘Pack your bags, girls, check your papers are in order, don’t leave any portable props behind, and the best of British luck to all of you. Knock ’em dead.’

  Chapter 14

  Telling his mother he was going to North Africa was awful. He’d kept the secret for days feeling ghost-like and fraudulent in his boyhood home, as if he was a bad understudy pretending to be a son. What made it worse was she’d been so very happy and lit up at having her boy, not only home but at a loose end for once. She’d cooked all his favourite meals, they’d gone through the family albums together. One night she’d even consented to play the piano for him: Joplin and Liszt and a faltering Chopin etude that had wrung his heart and made her wince with frustration. ‘I used to know this so well.’

  She was standing in the hall when he told her. She was wearing her dog-walking coat. Bonny, their old Labrador, was on a lead. He said the good news first, that there was the possibility that he would soon be promoted to flying officer, and then she listened quietly and obediently to the rest – that he was about to join a wing of the Desert Air Force in North Africa. Their camp was in the desert midway between Cairo and Alexandria. An amalgamated squadron full of Aussies and South Africans and Brits. They’d mostly be flying escort to medium bombers and attacking enemy airfields.

  ‘They’re very short out there at the moment, Ma,’ he told her. ‘And I’ll be learning to fly Kittyhawks. I’ve never done that before.’ All true; there was never any point in lying to her: she was an intelligent woman, an avid newspaper reader. ‘They’re quite busy there too.’ He saw her eyes widen. ‘There’s a push planned.’

  She bent down and stroked Bonny’s ears. ‘I thought you might be off soon,’ she said.

  She’d heard his complaints in the last few months about how quiet things were at his new station, an Operational Training Unit at Aston Down. They did nothing but training runs there now and putting your life in the hands of a windy or reckless new pilot was hair-raising – every bit as dangerous as being in combat. That’s what he said. It was partly true.

  Bonny started to whine. Time for his walk, she said. He watched from the window as she headed briskly towards the woods. She was thinner than he remembered her – almost childlike in the gumboots she’d worn in case the weather changed.

  She was gone longer than usual. Her eyes were red and swollen when she came back. She went upstairs to her bedroom and came out before supper with fresh lipstick on and in a pretty frock.

  They met on the stairs.

  ‘Such a lovely night,’ she said, as if nothing had passed between them. ‘I think we should eat on the terrace.’ Much to the relief of the local farmers, who were haymaking, the rain that had threatened all day had not fallen. The sky above the Severn estuary had burst into a recklessly beautiful sunset.

  ‘That sounds wonderful, Ma,’ he said. ‘Thank you,’ as if she had magically procured the night.

  ‘I can’t say it yet,’ he heard her throat click as she touched his face, ‘but I am proud of you.’ Her own father had died of a sudden heart-attack, aged thirty-six. ‘I really am. It may take a little while to show it.’

  ‘Nothing to be proud of,’ he muttered, and meant it.

  In the kitchen, he helped her mash the potatoes. She gave him a tray of cutlery and plates and told him to set the table on the terrace.

  ‘For two or for three?’ he asked out of habit, although he usually knew the answer.

  ‘Well, set for him but don’t expect him.’ She stood in a cloud of steam checking the spinach.

  It was warm out on the terrace, where she’d lit a candle. The air was full of the peanutty smell of cut grass. In the far field they could see the bobbing light of a tractor working its way up and down the field, anxious to get the hay in before the weather changed.

  They were eating her wonderful game stew when they heard the sound of his father’s little Austin spraying gravel in the drive. He’d put the bigger car, the Rover, up on blocks in the stable; it was too heavy on petrol.

  ‘He knows your news,’ his mother said quickly. ‘I told him earlier, but please don’t talk about it before we eat.’ Her face haggard in the candlelight, working against tears.

  His father stood for a moment under the porch light, gaunt in his dark hat and dark suit. There was a bulging briefcase in his hand.

  ‘Honestly, men.’ His mother stood up in a sudden fury. ‘Why do they always come late?’

  She went into the kitchen, leaving her own stew to go cold.

  ‘So, old chap.’ His father gave him an awkward pat on the shoulder. ‘Off again, I hear. North Africa, is it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Dom said. ‘I—’

  ‘Frank, what have you been up to? Let’s hear something about you for a change.’ His mother came charging back with the plates; the air volatile around her. Her old dog jumped as she banged the tray down, and glanced anxiously at his mistress and then at Frank.

  ‘I’m hungry, dear one,’ his father said in a strained voice. ‘So perhaps you’ll allow me to take my hat off and eat first? I’ve been operating since nine o’clock this morning.’

  His mother took a deep jagged breath; she sat on the edge of her chair, her meal untouched, her eyes staring. When Dom saw his father squeeze her hand under the table, he felt both relieved and guilty. The baton must be handed on. He’d taken on the role of her protector for too long, and there wasn’t enough left of him now, but still it was sad to see tears held in check all day roll down her cheeks, and to see her brush them away like an angry little girl.

  For dessert they had the stewed damsons she’d bottled the year before, followed by the real coffee his father had been given by a grateful patient. She’d gathered herself up again, and although it was a brittle performance, he admired the way she talked about the weather, about plums, about a lovely concert she’d heard on the radio, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. His father sat silently, picking his teeth discreetly with a toothpick. At ten o’clock, looking half dead with tiredness, he retired to bed.

  ‘He’s a good man, you know,’ she said when the light went on in the upstairs bathroom and they could hear the gurgling of water as he cleaned his teeth. ‘It was his single-mindedness I most admired when we first met.’ She lit a cigarette, and looked Dom squarely in the eyes. ‘I can hardly blame him for that now, can I?’

  The most she’d ever said to him about her marriage.

  They watched the tractor’s wavering light go down the track towards Simpson’s farm next door and stayed at the table on the terrace and talked until their clothes were damp with dew and the light had all but faded from the day.

  When the candle wavered and guttered, she pinched it between her fingers and it was then he felt the urge to confide in her. They hadn’t done well on this score before, both of them performing some semblance of what the other wanted, but not really laughing or talking or letting their hair down.

  ‘I have another reason for going to North Africa,’ he told her shyly. ‘Well . . . maybe. At least I hope I do. It’s partly ridiculous.’

  ‘Hang on.’

  She went inside and got a rug. She huddled inside it listening intently.

  ‘I’ve grown up an awful lot in the last two years, Ma,’ he told her, making her smile: as if she didn’t know! ‘I think I was a conceited ass before. I took so much for granted, you, this,’ he lifted his glass towards the house, dark now the light in the bathroom had gone out, ‘Cambridge, my friends.’ When he stopped suddenly, she grasped his hand.
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br />   ‘Tell me about it,’ she said. ‘If it would help. You must tell someone.’

  ‘No! No, no.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t want to. I’m not talking about that.’

  He felt the thumping in his heart, and wanted to stop already – why not accept the soul’s loneliness and get on with it. Why bother the poor woman?

  ‘Please, Dom. Sorry.’ She touched his hand tentatively and then took hers away.

  He downed his whisky.

  ‘I’m talking about someone else . . . I . . . Look, it’s not important.’

  He was about to tell her about Saba’s singing, but it suddenly felt ridiculous, because there was nothing now to tell – he would sound like a lovelorn loon.

  ‘What happened to Annabel?’ she said, in a brave spurt. ‘I thought she was such a darling girl.’ Her face was tense; she’d been steeling herself for this.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘But it can’t have been nothing – she was mad about you.’

  ‘I told you before, Mother – she didn’t like the hospital, she said it was nothing personal. I don’t blame her.’

  ‘Well I do.’ Her face tightened like a fist. ‘I think it was perfectly bloody of her. Darling, sorry, I know you hate this, but you look so good again.’ His poor mother, terrified of him, miserable and shrunken in the twilight, huddled in her rug. ‘Couldn’t you try again. Write to her or have her down for a few days?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I don’t want it.’

  A silence fell between them, rigid and dark with unsaid things, and he wondered, as he had many times in hospital, how much honesty it was kind to burden your parents with.

  ‘There was someone . . . a girl in hospital,’ he blurted out. ‘It will probably sound completely ridiculous . . . but I fell for her.’ As soon as he started he regretted it.

  ‘No!’ She turned to him, her eyes shining. ‘No! Not ridiculous at all.’ She took a tremulous breath. ‘Who was she?’

  ‘She came to sing for us.’

  ‘Any good?’ His mother had her sharp professional face on.