Jasmine Nights Page 20

  They drank a couple of beers each outside their tent, and then Barney, not known for his sensitivity, glanced at Dom and said:

  ‘You look different. You all right?’

  Dom said never better.

  Barney said he’d spent the morning flying with the air reconnaissance boys, having a snoop at the German aerodrome at Sidi Nisr, trying to locate exactly where their runways were. All their boys got home safe and sound. They’d spent the afternoon in Cairo, swimming at the Gezirah Club, had a meal and come home. That was the way of their confusing lives now: war in the morning and fun in the afternoon.

  ‘So how was your trip, old cock?’

  ‘Not bad. Rather fun actually.’

  He couldn’t tell Barney about Saba, not yet. He wanted to keep the shining feeling for a little while longer; couldn’t bear the thought of the inevitable ribbing that would follow – ‘An ENSA singer, oh for God’s sake, we all fall in love with them.’

  Their tent stank of curry and Barney’s old socks. It was lit by a gas torch. It was boiling, boiling hot.

  ‘Gotcha, little bastard.’ Barney walloped a cockroach on the wall with his grimy pillow. ‘Well, glad it was fun, because there’s a rumour that all leave is going to be cancelled for the next ten days,’ he said.

  Dom slung his kitbag on the floor and sprawled on the camp bed, exhausted.

  ‘They’re sending us off to some deep desert place for extensive training. We had a briefing this morning from Davies. The rumour is that there’s a push planned in the next ten days.’

  ‘When will we hear?’

  ‘Don’t know; when they feel like telling us, as per.’

  Barney said this in a humorous drawl, a look of concealed excitement in his eyes. Dom felt it too: a surge of pure adrenalin that stopped him sleeping for an hour or two even though his body was worn out. He was half waiting for the jangling telephone call that could wrench him and the rest of the squadron from their beds in the early hours of the night and have them sprinting towards the already shuddering planes. He was half listening to fragmented parts of ‘All the Things You Are’, playing underneath him now. It was new to him, this jumbled, jazzed-up feeling. It felt like falling off the edge of his known world.

  When sleep finally came, he dreamt that he and Saba were lying in each other’s arms on warm sand somewhere. A motorboat with sails like a felucca was chug-chug-chugging across a calm blue bay. She loved him; he could feel it like a transfusion of light in his veins. They were floating together in some warm and womb-like state. It was so simple.

  He’d gone to sleep without undressing; his head was resting on his kitbag. The motorboat with sails, which was a Junkers Ju 88, rumbled above them and disappeared into cloud.

  Chapter 19

  The day after the concert, Saba was driven back to Ismailia and to a grimy apartment block where Dermot Cleeve was staying. They sat on rattan chairs drinking bottled lime juice in a dismal little room with cracks on the ceiling and a naked bulb overhead. Cleeve, his face pink and freshly shaven, wore new-looking linen trousers. Before he sat down, he folded a tea towel and placed it carefully on his chair with the air of a man decidedly not in his natural habitat. He said he’d being driving around all week trying to put together a programme for the troops. No more ENSA artistes were allowed into Cairo until the situation improved there, and the difficulties of getting actual shows to remote desert areas had become so great, he said, they were relying more and more on broadcasts.

  ‘But enough dreary shop talk.’ He stretched out his legs, and put his hands behind his head. ‘Because I now know two or three things about last night. First that the concert went well, which is splendid, and also that you were out rather late,’ he added playfully. ‘May one ask who the lucky young man was?’

  She felt a childish urge to say none of your business.

  ‘He’s a friend.’

  ‘Quite a pretty friend, I hear,’ he said archly. ‘And if by chance he becomes more than a friend, may I warn you not to tell him about our conversations.’

  She jumped. ‘Did you follow us?’

  He took a silver cigarette case out of his top pocket. ‘May I?’ He lit up and took a sip of his juice, looking disdainfully at the thick glass it came in.

  ‘No. But you do remember what I said to you in Cairo?’ he said in a low voice. ‘Not a word to anyone, and get a pass next time, or ask permission. I can sometimes swing it if you want to ask me.’

  ‘We’re allowed out,’ she whispered back. ‘I haven’t taken Holy Orders and no one said we needed a pass to have a drink after the show.’

  ‘Oh, fiery girl!’ He pursed his lips. ‘Of course you’re allowed out, of course you are, you’d go mad without it, it’s just that I have two exciting bits of news for you, and I’d prefer that you didn’t get court-martialled before it happens.’

  He’d found out that for the next two weeks the company would be travelling west, more or less in the footsteps of the Eighth Army. In early August they would join up with a large company, The Fearsome Follies, and then God and the British army willing, do one week in Alexandria at the Gaiety. A darling little theatre, although appalling acoustics. Did she know it?

  She didn’t.

  Cleeve arranged the crease in his trousers and looked around him.

  ‘If that happens, you’ll do two shows with the company, and then we have another job for you – the one I mentioned.’ He looked at her significantly. ‘Quite important, actually, if it comes off. Zafer Ozan wants to book you for a short engagement at the Cheval D’Or in Alexandria for two nights in the middle of August.’ She’d surely heard of that?

  ‘Yes,’ she said. Arleta had mentioned it.

  ‘Well, it’s an incredible honour. I can’t remember another ENSA entertainer on tour ever being asked to do it.’

  The club, he explained, was on a plum spot on the Corniche, close to the Cecil Hotel. Some wonderful artistes had played there before the war: Django Reinhardt, Maurice Chevalier, Tina Roje, Asmahan. Had she heard of Tina Roje? No, she hadn’t heard of her either, but her heart was beating with excitement.

  ‘Who do I have to get permission from?’

  ‘No one,’ he said softly. ‘You can leave that to us. It’s all arranged. But at some point, if things go as we hope, you’ll be asked to go to a party at Ozan’s house. He’s a great party man, and he’ll want to show you off. The house, I hear, is heaven, like something out of One Thousand and One Nights. He has some important friends coming for supper and you’ll sing a couple of songs.’

  ‘A couple of songs?’ she asked. Her stomach was churning. ‘Will anyone else be there? From the company, I mean.’ They felt like family now.

  ‘No, but Madame Eloise – the wardrobe woman from Cairo – is living there temporarily. I think she has, or had, a small shop near the Corniche. I’ve arranged for you to stay with some friends of hers. She’s a delightful person. She knows Ozan, not well, but she’ll look after you.’

  ‘Does she know? About me, I mean.’

  ‘No. Your cover story is that you’ve been given a couple of weeks’ leave to do some broadcast work and that you’ve been asked to sing for Mr Ozan. I’ve told her how talented you are.’ He gave her a quick sincere smile; he seemed as excited as she was.

  ‘Thank you.’ She hardly heard him. ‘So I just have to sing at the club and this party?’

  ‘That’s all.’ He drained his glass and put it down on the table. ‘For the time being the party is the most important thing – some businessmen, politicians, relatives of the royal family, movers and shakers will be there. Your job is to throw your teeth around and sing.’

  ‘Throw my teeth around?’

  ‘Charm them, get to know them. Men love to boast to pretty girls. We’re not asking you to be Mata Hari, but if anyone should drop information helpful to us . . . Asmahan, for example, is a gorgeous Syrian singer, rumoured to have liaisons with two high-ranking German officers. She may not be there, of course.’

/>   ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘For the time being.’ He started to put papers away in his briefcase. ‘There might be another, much bigger job later. I don’t want to talk about it now, so . . .’ The quick bright smile was switched on again. ‘Anything else you’d like to ask me before we wrap it up?’

  ‘Yes. Couldn’t Arleta come too? She’s hard-working, she’s loyal; wouldn’t it seem more natural, particularly as she knows him?’

  A shadow passed over his face, whether of irritation or impatience she couldn’t tell.

  ‘We’ve been through this,’ he reminded her. ‘Arleta can’t sing in Turkish, can she? That was the thing that melted Ozan’s heart about you, actually,’ he whispered roguishly. ‘To be perfectly frank, I don’t think she can sing at all.’

  ‘I don’t agree,’ Saba said loyally – it pained her to understand what he meant. ‘The men love her.’

  ‘A little too much,’ he replied tartly. ‘A bit of a reputation, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘For what?’

  He gazed at her steadily.

  ‘You must know by now.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Don’t look so cross – it’s a fact of life that gorgeous girls like you get more offers, the same way as powerful men do. It doesn’t mean they’re depraved, just luckier; some can resist, some can’t, but this . . .’ his larky look disappeared, his voice dropped, ‘is too important to take risks.’

  He grimaced as a bomber flew low over their heads, drowning out his next sentence.

  ‘I think it would be polite to reply to Ozan soon.’ Some dusty birds flew in a cloud past the window. ‘They’re a kind of kite,’ Cleeve said. ‘Disgusting creatures, God knows what they’re doing around here.

  ‘Oh, and by the way, Madame Eloise has agreed to lend dresses again, and Bagley will rehearse your tunes. He was thrilled to hear about your possible booking at the Cheval D’Or. In the quaint little sphere we inhabit, this kind of thing doesn’t happen very often.’

  ‘Was he?’ She felt a surge of triumph – maybe, not so bad after all? ‘So, is everything arranged?’

  ‘It has. Am I to assume your answer is yes?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. One of the birds let out a jarring shriek at the very moment she was trying to look calm and collected. ‘So, when will I see you again?’

  ‘In August, in Alexandria, inshallah.’

  He said goodbye to her with a courteous touch of his panama hat. He was going to spend the rest of his day, he said, recording a marvellous composer and oud player, Mohamed El Qasabgi, for posterity. That wasn’t the kind of thing, he noted regretfully, one could play for the troops, who, of course, adored sentimental music, but it kept one sane.

  Later, back at the camp, and walking towards her tent, she wondered if it was possible to die of excitement. Cleeve had insinuated that she was about to join some exclusive club, and that her singing could, just possibly, help change the way the war went. What a thought! She imagined her mother rolling around with laughter at it, her father apologising with tears in his eyes – yet who would not feel proud?

  And Dom. He was close to Alexandria too. Her mind had locked on to this while Cleeve had been talking. She had to think of a way they could meet that would not be too dangerous for both of them.

  She was deep in thought and almost at the tent when she saw another kite streaking across the sky with a stolen sausage link in its mouth.

  And then the bothering bit crept into her mind again.

  At the end of their meeting, Cleeve had warned her to keep her mouth shut about why she was in Alexandria, so what to tell Dom? She was not someone who enjoyed or was good at lying – her Mum had once pointed out that she always signalled a whopper on the way by putting her right hand over her right eye, like one of those see no evil monkeys. But she had given her word, and she would try.

  Chapter 20

  When Saba walked into the tent, Arleta was washing her blue silk nightdress in a canvas basin.

  ‘Darling,’ she wrapped Saba in a soapy embrace, ‘where have you been, you wicked creature? I’ve been having kittens!’

  ‘Not many kittens,’ Saba teased, kissing the top of her head. After she’d said goodbye to Dom she’d gone back to the tent and found it empty. About three in the morning, Arleta’s head had poked through the canvas flap and Saba had listened to the sparkling crackle of her hair being tended, her teeth being brushed, the delicate jasmine and rose puff of Guerlain’s Shalimar – without which Arleta claimed she couldn’t sleep a wink, silly as that sounded – the click of the torch going out, and finally the luxurious sigh that signalled that Arleta had had rather a good night of her own.

  ‘So! Last night.’ Arleta abandoned her laundry. ‘What on earth was going on?’

  ‘Well, the show seemed to go well.’ Saba felt wary – the rule in the company was tell one tell all.

  ‘Oh don’t be ridiculous. The beautiful man, who was he?’

  ‘Well . . . he came unexpectedly to see me.’

  ‘I saw that, stupid.’

  ‘And he’s . . .’ Saba closed her eyes. ‘Look, I don’t know, I don’t know . . . oh.’ Her happiness spilled out; it was very hard to keep things from Arleta, it felt like meanness. ‘I met him before in London, and before that in hospital – and yes, he’s a fighter pilot!’ She curled her fingers into a pair of devil horns. ‘And please don’t tell me what you think about them, because I already know.’ She tickled Arleta under the arm.

  ‘If you have beans to spill,’ Arleta’s eyes were glowing, ‘spill them now. It’s only fair.’

  Saba couldn’t resist. As she sketched out briefly how Dom had come to the audition, how they’d walked the streets of London that evening, how he’d driven her across the desert last night, she felt a rising elation.

  ‘I mean, he’s just so beautiful, and we have such interesting conversations together already, and he makes me laugh and . . . oh bugger, in a way it feels so simple and uncomplicated, as if he’s been there waiting . . . Does that sound daft?’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.’ Arleta dried her hands properly and sat down on the bed. She pulled Saba into the camp chair beside it. ‘She’s got it bad. And, by the way, it’s never simple and uncomplicated. Did you sleep together?’

  ‘No, but last night, I wanted to so badly. I’ve never felt so . . .’ she gazed around her wildly, ‘completely out of control.’

  ‘Gosh.’ Even Arleta was impressed. She did a stage fall on to her camp bed and then sat up and hugged Saba. ‘Oh little lamb,’ she murmured into her hair. ‘Do be careful. It’s so exciting, but he is a fighter pilot, enough said, or should be.’

  ‘But all of our lives are dangerous here,’ Saba said passionately. ‘And I know I’m definitely going to see him again.’ Oh God, she thought, what a hopeless spy she was going to be; she’d already said more about him than Cleeve would probably approve of.

  ‘Of course they are and of course you will.’ Arleta patted her on the knee. ‘Of course you will.’

  She blew out air and jumped to her feet. She tied a piece of string across the tent and pegged out the blue silk nightdress and a pair of frothy matching knickers.

  ‘And your night?’ Saba poked her in the side.

  Arleta narrowed her cat’s eyes.

  ‘Well . . . I was doing my bit for the Anglo-American alliance,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you all about him later.’

  ‘Sounds interesting.’

  ‘It was, and a little bit alarming too. I’m too tired to give it full throttle now, I’ll tell you later.’

  Lunch was bully-beef sandwiches and prunes. After it, Saba, Arleta, Janine, Willie and the acrobats were rounded up and put into what Willie called a wog wagon, a small converted lorry with scalding metal seats shaped like bedpans arranged one behind the other.

  They were followed by another truck carrying rolled scenery, the stage, their kitbags, and Willie’s fez, chicken feet and Hitler moustache, accompanied by Max
Bagley, Captain Crowley and two soldiers with pistols in their holsters. The only information they’d been given was they were bound for a field hospital approximately fifty miles into the Western Desert.

  The sun shrank their eyeballs as it swept across the cloudless sky, and the desert was so full of glassy mirages that it looked like a flat sea. The temperature rose to 125 degrees in the non-existent shade, and everyone in the lorry felt ratty and disinclined to talk.

  After two hours’ travelling they stopped at a settlement where the only visible signs of life were a scattering of flat-roofed houses and a rust-coloured watering hole by the side of the road. A house made of red mud was open to the street and a few wooden tables were scattered outside. A barefoot man served them flatbread, a tiny piece of white chewy cheese and hot, sweet mint tea which Willie told them in a cheerful whisper tasted like camel’s pee. This annoyed Janine, who hated coarseness. ‘Oh touchy, touchy,’ he said as she removed herself to another table and fell asleep, her delicate head like a drooping flower in her hands.

  Their host was refilling their glasses when shouts came from outside: some trouble with the chassis of their lorry, parts of which now hung down like sheep udders. Crowley, who liked to show off about all the countries he had served in, was shouting at two bewildered-looking men in oily robes in the language they had all started to imitate and call Lingo Bingo. ‘Come on, you bastards, jaldi jow, chop, chop. Under lorry bang bang.’

  ‘God, what a rude sod he is,’ Arleta murmured. ‘One day he’s going to get himself shot.’

  But the men smiled. They lay down under the lorry with their spanners while the cast rested. They had two performances ahead of them that night.