75

The official reception was in a large, white room with high bay windows overlooking the horse show grounds. It featured drinks and a buffet, and was hosted by the Irish Horseman’s Association. The Governor General stayed away, but the tall, dark prime minister dropped in, acting like a president-in-waiting. The embassy crowd tended to split into the competing factions of the world stage, and they appraised one another while drinking from the same bottles. Lady Lemonton stood in a bay window, chatting with the consul from the German Embassy and a nervous-looking Italian ambassador.

“Go and speak to her,” said Brenda. “Get it over with. You’ve hardly said a word all afternoon.”

Patrick looked at Brenda. He felt a wave of pity for all of his fellow human beings who were helplessly caught in the web of life. The most powerful force in life seemed to be meaningless coincidence, and Brenda was fading into an undulating pastel background. She was Tennyson’s Lady of Shalott, slipping beneath the waves to vanish forever. Patrick walked across the floor and stopped near Lady Lemonton. She knew that he was there, but she purposely hesitated before looking at him.

“The belt is the German symbol of knighthood,” said the consul to Lady Lemonton. Herr Mueller walked up and tugged the consul’s sleeve and whispered in his ear.

“Forgive me,” said the consul. “The imperial ambassador is arriving and I must greet our ally.” He clicked his heels and hurried away. The Italian ambassador glumly turned to the windows…and Lady Lemonton turned towards Patrick.

“I think we’ve met before,” said Lady Lemonton with that triumphant little smile. Patrick vibrated like a harp; he could not resist it, even if the harpist was Lucifer. “I hope that you and Brenda are having a nice time. I thought your taste ran to Jewish ladies?”

“I don’t know what to say,” said Patrick. “I am glad to see you again….”

“That’s nice,” said Lady Lemonton. She didn’t laugh. “Light me a cigarette, would you Patrick? Where are you staying?”

Patrick nervously lit two cigarettes and passed her one. “I’m at the Royal Hibernian,” he said.

“I will call you there,” said Lady Lemonton. The consul was escorting the Japanese ambassador towards her. “Tonight.”

“I think we had better leave,” said Brenda when Patrick returned to her side. “That was an intimate little scene, I must say. Do you have any more tricks up your sleeve, Patrick?”

They left, and Brenda drove the Rolls Royce to the Royal Hibernian Hotel. “My train leaves in the morning,” said Patrick. They had not spoken a word, and their silence was made more unbearable by the ruminations of the Chevalier and the chatter of his sister in the back seat.

Brenda looked at him coldly. He was leaning at the window, and she felt that he was imploring her. She sensed his frustration and his inner rage, and she hoped that he wouldn’t destroy himself. But she knew that he had to face it alone, whatever it was, and no one could help him.

“I’ll be here at eight in the morning,” said Brenda. “Please be careful.”

He opened the back door of the car and shook the Chevalier’s hand. “Jolly good dinner last night,” said the Chevalier Bohomund de Lallythrope. “Thanks mightily, and let us know when you’re back in town.”

“Bring your togs and we’ll have a ride,” said the Honourable Kathy Leinster. She offered her leathery cheek, and Patrick planted a kiss on it.

“That’s more than I get,” said Brenda sourly. She shifted gears and the Rolls Royce disappeared down Dawson Street towards St. Stephen’s Green. Patrick bought a copy of The Irish Times, walked downstairs to the Buttery, and drank a double Irish whisky, then went to his room to wait. He decided to have a bath, and he almost drowned in the great tub when he fell asleep in it. He steamed his uniform and hung it in the cupboard. He polished his Half Wellingtons then shaved for the second time and nicked his chin. His blood showed bright crimson on the hand towel—just one drop in the oceans that were being shed in Europe. He lay on the bed, and he couldn’t bear to think of his ship, or his comrades, or his mother far away. He thought of the rough sands of the beach against his back, and the seagulls swooping overhead, and the cypresses bowing in the coral sky. The palm trees rustled like the stiff robe of death, and he knew that he was doomed.

Patrick sprang to his feet before he realized that the telephone was ringing. He had fallen asleep, and it was dark. He grappled for the telephone and raised it to his ear.

“I am coming to fetch you,” said Lady Lemonton evenly. “Meet me in front of the hotel.” She hung up.

Patrick found the bedside lamp and switched it on. He was naked and cold, and the window blind was up. He pulled this down and hurriedly dressed, knotting Sir John’s Balliol House tie and tightening it into the stiff white collar. He pulled on the Half Wellington boots and quickly donned the baggy flannel suit. He automatically ran his hands over the jacket to check for his wallet, cigarettes, and pocket comb, then doused some cologne into a handkerchief and stuck it in the breast pocket. He pocketed the key and walked down the stairs and out the front door of the hotel. The door of a large black limousine swung open, and Patrick climbed in beside Lady Freda Lemonton. A dark glass partition was raised between them and the front seat. A busboy slammed the door, and the car edged from the curb, into silent Dawson Street, then headed towards the Park at St. Stephen’s Green. There was no traffic, and the street lamps glowed through a light fog.

“Are you kidnapping me?” asked Patrick. The seat of the limousine was wide and smooth, and Lady Lemonton sat in one corner with a mocking smile on her lips. The windows were tinted, and two little lights glowed by the sides of the rear window. Jump seats were folded into the back of the front seat, and an open drawer above them contained two miniature decanters and six small glasses. One yellow rose was placed in each tiny silver vase fixed on each side. Freda wore a small ermine jacket and a white evening gown, like a bride. A tiara sparkled on her head, and she had an emerald bracelet clasped over her white pearl-buttoned gloves. She smelled of Givenchy, and of female, and of power.

“I only want volunteers,” she said. Her laugh sounded like bells in an empty pyramid. Beneath the finery she was naked, and Patrick knew it well. Who would not volunteer for this?

She led him out of the car, which sat purring like a great black cat, through a high gate in a hedge, up a stone stairway, and through two glass doors. They passed through a hallway with marble pillars, and under an arch into a panelled room lined with leather volumes. A fire flickered in the grate. She opened two more doors and they walked past a drawing room and into a large bedroom. It smelled of cedar, and had a sand-coloured rug; potted palm trees stood along one wall, and a Chinese throne of black teak stood in the middle of the floor. The walls were white, and the bed was covered in black with scarlet cushions. It looked like an opium couch.

“I remember your house in Bermuda,” said Lady Lemonton. “These are just a few things I threw together to make you feel at home.”

Patrick could hardly believe it. Could it be possible that this woman really cared enough to furnish a room for him? She had seduced him and scorned him when he was hardly eighteen years old; what had happened to melt this beautiful glacier’s heart?

“The drinks are over there,” she said, pointing a gloved finger. “I’m going to get out of this outfit and we’ll play some games.”

She returned in a long white cloak, with bare feet and her straight pale hair tumbling around her shoulders. Patrick swallowed a strong drink of Barbados rum and it burned in his stomach. “Take that ridiculous suit off,” said Lady Lemonton. “And throw a log on the fire. I’m fed up with embassies and ridiculous little men strutting about. Let’s get reacquainted, you and I, from the bottom-up. We’ll see if your Jew lady taught you any tricks.”

Brenda was forgotten and Patrick faced his dragon. He dropped his clothes and she enveloped him in her white robe. Time spiralled into eternity as the fire crackled and this primeval woman commanded every portion of his being. The flood ebbed and surged and broke over the rocks, and the gale uprooted the trees as the gods roared and the world shattered into vanishing fragments. The battles and the bombings and the roaring seas joined them, and they spun upwards together like a great tornado, only to crash back to earth again. In this revelry, they fought with battle-axes and clubs and flails; their blood flowed together and they finally lay facing one another on the green rug with only the strength to clasp hands. The fog filtered through the window and the fire went out. There was nothing left.

“We have to stop,” said Freda in exhaustion. She was lying prostrate on the floor with her eyes closed. Her skin was puckering in brown goosebumps and the windows were turning grey.

“I have to leave in a few hours,” said Patrick.

“Come with me,” said Freda. “Forget the war. I will show you how to really live.” She rose wearily and wrapped the cloak around her shoulders. “I have to get dressed—you can wash in there.”

Patrick had a shower in a fully equipped little bathroom, then he reassembled himself in the flannel suit. He wasn’t sure if he had been drunk or sober, but he poured a glass of rum and drank it down. He righted the Chinese throne, which had been knocked over during their passions, and then he sat on it. He felt lonely and strangely abused. It was cold, and Freda had resumed her distant attitude, like a pillaging Northman withdrawing to his distant island lair. He had forgotten to wind his watch and distrusted its little hands. The rum seemed to have no effect, so he poured another. He had no idea where they were, or whose house they were in.

She came into the room carrying two small, heavy blue handbags. She was dressed in a brownish-mauve woollen suit, and she wore black Oxfords, like Brenda’s. She had on a large beret, pulled to one side like a Scottish laird, and she carried a camel hair polo coat. She wore one string of pearls and a silk blouse.

“These are my jewellery and my makeup,” said Freda Lemonton. She had a large leather bag on a strap over one shoulder. “My money and some cigarettes are in here, and there is more in Switzerland.” She patted the bag. “That is all I’m taking. It’s seven o’clock,” Freda confirmed. “Come with me. I won’t kidnap you. You won’t need anything, we’ll get you some decent clothes.” She sat the bag on the carpet.

“Freda!” exclaimed Patrick. “This isn’t fair. I have to rejoin my ship, in case you don’t realize it. I can’t go anywhere, they’d court-martial me. I’m not even supposed to be in Ireland!”

Freda walked to the door and looked back at the bewildered Patrick. “Your destiny is calling,” she said. “Don’t quibble to me about Canadian court martials! Who gives a damn? Pick up the bags and let’s get out of here.” She opened the door and walked out.

Patrick felt he had no choice. He gulped the drink, picked up the heavy little bags, and raced through the empty library. He followed her through the hall, down the steps, and through the hedge into the car. He slammed the door and the car moved forward, dumping him into the seat.

“Christ, Freda, what are you doing to me?” asked Patrick angrily. “I’ve got to catch a train!”

“Light me a cigarette,” said Lady Freda Lemonton. “I’m going on a great adventure. Prove that you’re a man and come with me.”

Patrick fumbled with the cigarette package and lit two crumpled Lucky Strikes. He passed one to her.

“Have a drink,” she said.

The car sped onwards as though it was a magic carpet. Patrick could discern two figures in the front seat, through the dark glass. He nervously spilt some brandy and offered her the glass. She shook her head and he bolted it down his throat. The car stopped.

“We get out here,” said Freda. “Bring the bags.” She opened the door and stepped out. Patrick followed her and placed the bags on the sidewalk. It looked like a residential street, with brick walls around substantial dwellings. It was lined with trees that poked into the grey mist. One car was parked across the road, and four men were watching them. Patrick looked up, and his heart sank. He saw a wide-spread eagle clutching a swastika in its claws.

“Freda!” he shouted. “This is the German Embassy! You can’t go in there! They are the enemy!”

Freda Lemonton looked at him with a contemptuous curl of her beautiful lips. “Bring the bags, Patrick,” she said. She turned and walked through the gate. There was a flight of stone steps leading to a door, which swung open.

“Freda!” screamed Patrick. The men across the street started to climb out of their car. He grabbed the bags and raced through the gate. She was walking up the stairs. “Freda!” he called again. “For God’s sake, you can’t go in there!”

The German consul was standing in the doorway with a wide smile on his face, wearing a cutaway tailcoat and striped trousers. Herr Mueller descended halfway down the steps to assist Freda, then he looked sharply at the four men crossing the street. “This is sovereign territory,” he shouted to them. His right hand disappeared under the left lapel of his suit coat.

Patrick knocked him off balance and climbed to the landing, holding the two bags. He put them down and faced the consul. “You are abducting a British subject,” he roared at the consul.

“You are in the Irish Free State, my dear fellow,” said the consul, calmly. “People can do what they wish here.”

“Get out of my way,” shouted Patrick. He blundered into the hall of the German Embassy and saw a travel poster on the wall. It was of a house and some trees against a mountain backdrop. VISIT THE BEAUTIFUL BAVARIAN FORESTS it said in red letters. Freda was standing at the foot of a long wooden stairway. A slim, ascetic-looking man was halfway up the stairs.

“Patrick, I want you to meet Herr Huepnel, the ambassador,” said Freda.

The door closed behind him, and the consul stood between it and Patrick. Herr Mueller could be seen through a plate glass panel in the door, gesturing at the men outside the gate.

“Freda, come out of here,” said Patrick in desperation. “Come with me.”

“You are playing my hand, Patrick,” said Freda Lemonton. “Why don’t we go to Berlin? Then you can join the Waffen-SS and prove to me that you are a man on the Eastern Front. You would be defending Europe rather than destroying it. In the Eastland, we will found a legionnaire state. We will be our own fatherland. Patrick, draw the sword from the stone. Come with me and be a soldier king!”

Patrick set the bags on the floor, and he suddenly felt so weary that he wanted to drop. The consul shuffled past him in the hall. “The Third Reich knows how to reward heroes,” said the consul. The ambassador had not moved a muscle, with his hand on the banister and one leg bent onto the step above. He wore a beautifully tailored suit and he looked like a slim, aging Junker.

“Those that betray themselves always get their rewards,” said Patrick. “I am leaving you, Freda. I am going back. Don’t go to hell with these people, come with me.”

“The Herr Lieutenant will find that Grand Admiral Doenitz plans to put a torpedo right up the lieutenant’s ass,” said the consul.

Freda stood with the reproachful expression of an ice goddess. Patrick turned, opened the door, and pushed Herr Mueller off the steps, into the shrubbery. He walked down the steps and out of the gate, where he was immediately surrounded by Irish detectives. Two of them remained, Patrick climbed into the back seat of the detective’s car, and they sped away. Freda’s limousine was nowhere to be seen.