The Levant Trilogy (47 page)

The German rearguards fought a delaying action
outside Gazala and Dawson said, 'I think we've got him now.' The British
infantry broke through but Rommel had already gone.

Simon, sent forward to check fuel supplies,
drove into the refuse of war, seeing among the seaside rocks upturned rusting
vehicles. On the other side of the road, where the desert ran towards
Knightsbridge and Sidi Rezegh, the abandoned hardware dotted the sand like
herds of grazing cattle. Except for an old Lysander that chugged, slow and
harmless, like a big daddy-longlegs, in the sky, the whole field of past
battles was silent

Simon was content as he drove with Crosbie who,
sitting beside him, had for him the wordless but companionable presence of a
cat or dog. The familiar ordinariness of Crosbie was a comfort as the camp
moved again and again, following the action as it went westwards into country
Simon did not know.

On this quiet coast, with the sea lapping at
their elbow, it seemed the war was as good as over. He said, 'We might be home
for Christmas. D'you want to go back to fishmongering?'

'Don't know that I do,' Crosbie said.

Thinking of his return to a wife he had almost
forgotten, Simon wondered how he would fit into a world without war. He would
have to begin again, decide on an occupation, accept responsibility for his own
actions. What on earth would he do for a living? He had been trained for
nothing but war.

Outside Gazala, near the remains of a walled
house, a tall palm marked the site of a water-tank. The palm attracted him,
though he did not know why. Then he remembered the single palm he had seen and
pitied in Cairo. This similar palm, swaying in the wind, was like something
known and loved.

'A good place to eat our grub,' he said.

'Stop here, sir?'

'Yes. Get into the shade.'

As Crosbie ran the jeep under the palm, the
ground rose about them and he rose with it. Simon, watching Crosbie's grotesque
ascent, scarcely heard the explosion. He shouted, 'Bloody booby trap!'
expecting Crosbie to shout back, then he was struck himself. Part of the mine's
metal casing cut across his side and he was hung from the jeep.

This, he thought, was death, but it was not his
death. Dragging himself round the jeep, seeing Crosbie sprawled a dozen yards away,
he called to him: 'Crosbie. Hey, Crosbie!' but the man's loose straggle of
limbs remained inert,

Simon tried to lift himself, with some idea of
dragging Crosbie into the shade, but the lower part of his body would not move.
And there was no shade. The palm, cracked through the stem, had broken in half
and its fine head of plumes hung like a dead chicken. The jeep, too, was
smashed and Simon's first thought was, 'How are we going to get back?' Oddly
detached from his condition, he put his hand to his side and felt the wet
warmth of blood. He said to himself, as though to another person: 'You were
afraid to die like Hugo, and now this is it!' For some minutes death seemed
like a fantasy then he realized it could be a reality. The action had moved so
far forward, he was very likely to bleed to death before help came.

Putting his head in his hands, waiting for
unconsciousness, he heard the sound of a vehicle and looked up. A Bren was
lumbering and swaying out of the rubble, having collected the Gazala wounded,
and he watched with little more than curiosity as it stopped beside Crosbie.
Closing his eyes again, he heard a voice coming as from the other side of
sleep: 'Let's take a shufti at that one over there.'

As they were lifting him into the Bren, Simon
whispered, 'Never thought you'd come in time.'

The driver laughed good humouredly: 'Oh, we like
to be in time, sir. That's our job.'

Inside the Bren with the wounded, Simon called
out: 'What about my driver?'

'That chap over there? Mungaree for the kites,
that one.'

'Can't we take him?'

'No, sir, can't take him. Got to get you and the
others back to

the dressing station.'

The Bren started up. Propped on his elbow, Simon
stared out through the open flap at Crosbie's body till it became no more than
a spot on the sand and then was lost to sight.

Only the English language papers reported the
murder of Pinkrose. The
Egyptian Mail,
reputedly pro-British, published
a leader entitled 'A Mystery'. Who, the editor asked, would wish to kill this
great and good lord who was giving his lecture' free and for no payment but
love of his
confrères?'

'Who, indeed?' asked Dobson when he read the
article at the breakfast table, and he turned on Guy with an expression of
ironical enquiry.

Everyone knew that Hertz and Allain had left the
Opera House immediately after the shooting and had not been seen since.

Guy, seldom confused, was confused now. He could
not believe that Hertz and Allain were guilty; he could not believe that anyone
was guilty, yet he could not deny that someone had killed Pinkrose. He could
only say that Hertz and Allain were the two best teachers he had ever employed.

'And, anyway, it was a mistake,' Harriet said:
'The students were talking about a British minister with a similar name.'

Dobson sniffed, trying to contain his laughter:
'Is there a minister with a similar name? I don't think so. But a fellow did
pass through Cairo a few days ago, on his way to Palestine. He was called
Pinkerton.'

'Yes, the students mentioned Pinkerton. Who was
he?'

'I can't say. Something very hush-hush,
apparently. He said he was an official in the Ministry of Food. The only thing
the British have to eat in Palestine are sausages, made by an English grocery
shop called Spinney's. Very good they are. But this chap has been sent out to
teach Mr Spinney how to make them out of bread instead of meat. To think of it!
Poor old gourmandizing Pinkers bumped off in place of a sausage-maker.'

Disliking Dobson's jocosity, Guy asked: 'Why
should anyone want to murder a sausage-maker?'

'Who knows? Perhaps he wasn't a sausage-maker.
He may have been an MI6 man in disguise'.

'This is all nonsense. I don't believe Pinkrose was
mistaken for anyone. He was on the platform, a target, and some fellow with a
gun couldn't resist taking a pot at him.'

Dobson, becoming serious, nodded agreement:
'That's possible. Now the heat's off here, all the killers will be coming out
of their holes.'

Guy and Major Cookson were the only people to
follow Pinkrose's coffin to the English cemetery and neither could be described
as a mourner. Guy went from a sense of duty and Cookson because he had known
Pinkrose in better days. For Cookson even the dull ride into the desert outside
Mahdi was a diversion. Coming back together into Cairo, Guy, who could not
maintain enmity for long, decided that the major was not, after all, a bad
fellow and stood him several drinks.

Harriet, thinking she might have died herself,
asked what the English cemetery was like.

Guy said, 'A dreary place behind a heap of
rubble. Poor old Pinkrose, with all his pretensions, would have demanded
something better.'

In mid-December, the prospective passengers were
informed that the ship - it was still known merely as 'the ship' - would sail
early in January. English women and children from neighbouring countries began
to congregate in Cairo, awaiting the exact date which would be announced
twenty-four hours before the sailing.

A diplomat called Dixon wrote from Baghdad,
asking Dobson to put his wife up during this waiting period. The flat being an
Embassy flat, Dobson felt bound to comply and it so happened that a room was
temporarily vacant. Its occupant, Percy Gibbon, had been sent on loan to the 'secret'
radio station at Sharq al Adna, so Dobson wrote back saying he would welcome
Mrs Dixon as his guest.

Without further notice, Mrs Dixon arrived as
Hassan was setting the breakfast table. Six months pregnant, with a yearold son,
a folding perambulator, a high chair, a tricycle, a rocking-horse and ten
pieces of luggage, she stumbled into the living-room, exhausted by a long train
journey, and sank on to the sofa. Dobson, called to attend her, went to look at
Percy's room. It was only then that he realized it was locked and there was no
spare key. He was ordering Hassan to go out and find a locksmith when Percy
Gibbon let himself in through the front door. Percy stopped in the living-room
to stare at the strange woman and her impedimenta then, sniffing his disgust,
went to his room, unlocked it and shut himself inside it. Dobson said, 'Good
God, who was that?' Guy, who had seated himself beside Mrs Dixon in an attempt
to cheer and comfort her, told him: 'It was Percy Gibbon.'

Dobson stood for a moment in helpless
perplexity, then beckoned Guy into the bedroom. He whispered, 'You know, this
is very awkward for me. I agreed to put her up, but where can I put her? Her
husband's a colleague, so I can't tell her to go, but you, my dear chap, with
your charm - you could, in the nicest possible way, of course, explain things
to her. Tell her she'll have to find a room in an hotel.'

Guy was aghast at this request: 'I couldn't
possibly. I've been talking to her, saying how pleased we all are to have her
here. It would be such a shock for her if I told her to go. You see, everyone
likes me. I'm not the person to do it. Ask Harriet, She's better at things like
that.'

Harriet, appealed to, came from her room,
thinking she could deal with the situation. Then she saw Mrs Dixon. Limp and
near tears, trying to soothe her fretful child, she was a frail, little woman,
her thin arms and legs incongruously burdened with her heavy belly, her fair
prettiness fading, her apprehensions heightened by the awful appearance of
Percy Gibbon.

She gazed at Harriet with anxious eyes and
Harriet, saying 'Don't worry. We'll manage somehow,' went to speak to Dobson.
'Someone has to be sacrificed and it must be Percy Gibbon. Your room is big
enough for two. You'll have to get a camp-bed in here and share with him,'

'Oh, dear God, no! I couldn't bear it. And how
could I persuade him to give up his room?'

'It's your flat. Don't persuade him, order him.'

Dobson again appealed to Guy: 'Come with me and
help me deal with Percy,' but Guy was in a hurry to get away. Agitatedly
rubbing his soft puffs of hair, Dobson went to speak to Percy.

Hearing uproar from the bedroom passage, Mrs
Dixon sat up in alarm then turned piteously to Harriet: 'Oh, this is my fault.
I must go. We're not so poor we can't afford a room at Shepherd's.' She began
gathering up the child and its belongings and Harriet had to explain that it
was not a question of what one could afford. In Cairo, the few main hotels were
so full that even senior officers had to share rooms and sometimes share beds.
As for inferior hotels, she would find them intolerable.

Mrs Dixon remained on the sofa, watching
fearfully as Percy passed through, carrying his belongings to Dobson's room. He
looked blackly at her, muttering his rage as he went. His room vacated, Harriet
went to look at it. It was the only one on the right of the corridor and it
faced the blank wall of a neighbouring house. She now understood why Dobson had
allowed Percy to remain in it. Who else would want it?

She said to Mrs Dixon, 'I'm afraid it's not much
of a room.'

Lifting a hand, Mrs Dixon said, 'What does it
matter? Anything will do.'

After Harriet had helped her unpack her
immediate necessities, she dropped on to the bed and cried, 'Oh, to be safely
on board ship.'

'Well, we will be soon, Mrs Dixon. But,
meanwhile, you'll find the flat isn't so bad.' Mrs Dixon smiled weakly: 'My
name's Marion,' she said.

Marion Dixon, though grateful for Harriet's
support, was chiefly admiring of Angela. Of the three women, united by the
prospect of their long sea voyage, Angela was the most expectant of pleasure.
Her hopes animated Marion and persuaded her that they were in for what Angela
called 'a rattling good time'.

Angela, herself, having heard that many things
in England were in short supply, spent much of the day shopping, coming back
with parcels that she opened to amuse Marion. Marion had few interests, apart
from the boy Richard, but she loved clothes and fingering Angela's silks and
new dresses, she said, 'I long to get my figure back so I can wear things like
that.'

While Edwina and the men were leaving for work,
the three women lingered on at the breakfast table, suspended in the nullity of
the present but promised a future of stimulating newness.

Angela often said, '
Bokra fil mish-mish.'

First hearing it, Marion, who spoke a different
Arabic, asked: 'What does that mean?'

'Apricots tomorrow: good times to come.'

Marion smiled her wan smile: 'I was so
frightened but I'm not any more,' and she told her new friends that if, by some
mischance, her baby was born at sea, their presence would console her.

Dobson laughed at them: 'You three, really!
You're like a .cluster of schoolgirls discovering sex.'

Edwina, feeling left-out, said, 'I wish I could
go with you. But, of course, I can't. There's the show and I couldn't let Guy
down,'

Harriet, putting her on trust, said, 'You'll
look after Guy for me, won't you?'

'Oh, darling, you know I will. I'll see he
doesn't get into mischief. You can rely on me.'

When the others had gone, the three sat in the
darkened living-room where, even in winter, the shutters were put up against
the sun that splintered in through the cracks. Some previous resident had had a
fireplace built into a corner, a very inadequate fireplace. The only fuel to be
found was cow-cake, which gave off more smoke than heat. The curious, bland
smell of the smoke filled the flat and seemed to Harriet a part of the futility
of her life in Cairo. She told herself she was thankful to be leaving it and
yet, at times, she was furious because she had agreed to go. It had all been
decided too quickly. She should have dwelt upon it. She should have taken time
to think. And now it was too late and she thought, 'At least, I'm getting away
from this bloody show. I needn't care whether it fails or not,'

In her bleakest moods, she wondered what would
happen to her in London. Angela talked as though their friendship would survive
the displacement but Harriet realized, if Angela did not, that their social
spheres were very different, Angela, who was wealthy, had wealthy friends. She
jokingly spoke of them as the 'Q and G', the Quality and Gentry, and said they
were brilliantly entertaining. 'You'll love them,' she told Harriet, but
Harriet would have to work, not only as a reason for living. She would need the
money. Guy could make her only a small allowance.

When she mentioned this to Angela, Angela said,
'I intend to work, too. I shall start painting again. You know, when he was
killed, I was painting. That's why I didn't see what he had picked up. I
thought I would never paint again, but it will be different in England. A new
life, a fresh start. We'll find a flat with a studio. I'm told everyone's left
London so you can get flats and studios for the asking.'

Harriet, sharing Marion's faith in Angela, said,
'Then well both work. Something to do: that's the most important thing in
life.'

Flaunting her emotional independence, Angela
said one evening, 'Let's go to the Union.'

'But Bill and Mona will probably be there.'

'What if they are? All that's in the past now.
I'm indifferent to Bill Let's go and say goodbye to the Union and thanks for
the fun we had there.'

Marion refused an invitation to accompany them.
Guy and Edwina were at a rehearsal. Dobson was out and having heard stories of
children being raped by frustrated servants, she would not leave Richard alone
with the safragis.

At the Union, Angela gave her usual order for a
bottle of whisky and several glasses. Smiling mischievously, she said to
Harriet, 'Let's see who we can pick up.'

They were soon joined by Jackman who seated
himself as a right: 'Haven't seen you for ages. Not surprised. That rhinoceros,
Bill's wife, would drive anyone away.'

'I don't see her here tonight.'

'No, Guy's talked her into that show of his.
She's rehearsing, I believe.'

'And Bill? What's he up to?'

'Oh, he's around. I'm inclined to keep clear
when he has Mrs C in tow.'

Hearing that Castlebar was alone in the club,
Angela became silent and did not move till some instinct told her he was
nearby. He came with his usual tentative, wavering walk and paused a few yards
away. She slid her eyes to one side, observed him, then gave her whole
attention to Jackman. He had been telling the women that in his opinion the 'Alamein
business' had been a 'put up job': 'The order was "stretch them to
breaking point" and they stretched them.'

Angela laughed flirtatiously at him: 'Come off
it, Jake. You're a terrible liar. I never believe a word you say.'

Jackman, who had not noticed Castlebar, went on protesting
his 'inside information' while Castlebar stood twitching and shivering like a
hungry pariah dog that longs for sustenance but dares not approach too near.
Angela, pretending to be absorbed by Jackman, again gave him an oblique glance
and aware she was aware, he edged nearer and put his long, yellow hands
together as though in prayer. Angela spoke sternly to him: 'Bill, come here at
once.'