‘What do you mean the club’s to be closed?’ Seated opposite the major in the provost marshal’s office, Samuel couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
‘Just that,’ Hank Henry replied. ‘The troops of the 96th are to remain barred from town and there is to be no club outside the city limits. It’s back to scratch, I’m afraid.’
There was just the vaguest hint of apology in Hank’s tone, or at least of regret. Hank Henry was not given to apologies of any kind, and certainly not for circumstances that were beyond his control.
‘But why,’ Samuel demanded, ‘tell me why? For God’s sake, what possible reason could there be?’ The normally implacable Samuel Robinson was having trouble controlling his anger, which was steadily on the rise. ‘The club was run in an orderly fashion as stipulated,’ he emphasised, ‘there were no brawls, no disturbances, just as we’d agreed. Give me one good reason for its closure.’
Hank heaved a sigh that seemed to say here we go. ‘There have been complaints,’ he said with a touch of world-weariness.
‘From whom?’
‘From local farmers in the vicinity.’
‘Complaints about what?’
‘Noise for one thing …’ He shrugged as if aware the explanation was a lame one.
‘Of course there was noise,’ Samuel said, exasperated, ‘there was always going to be noise. It’s a club, there’s a band, there’s singing and dancing. The farmers were told about that, weren’t they? And besides, their properties are miles away, it’s hardly as if they’re cheek-by-jowl neighbours.’
‘It’s the wives rather than the farmers themselves,’ Hank admitted, aware he’d have to get to the point. He might as well have come out with it right from the start, he thought. ‘You’re right, the farmers were told there was to be a servicemen’s club set up at the old Parslow property, but the wives say they weren’t told exactly what sort of servicemen’s club.’
‘Ah,’ Samuel said slowly, the truth dawning, ‘I see.’ And he did. ‘A Negro servicemen’s club, you mean.’
‘Exactly. They’ve lodged a formal complaint with the US military. They feel their children are not safe with so many soldiers nearby, particularly on premises where alcohol is available —’
‘So many black soldiers, you mean,’ Samuel interrupted with uncharacteristic force, ‘they’d have felt perfectly safe if the soldiers had been white.’
‘Exactly.’ Hank decided to stop pussyfooting around. Robinson had every right to be riled up; he’d stuck to the rules and done a damn good job with the club. ‘That’s it in a nutshell,’ he admitted. ‘The farmers had been quite happy to have a servicemen’s club a few miles down the track. Hell, one of them even asked if there’d be girls there,’ Hank’s smile was sardonic, ‘maybe he liked the idea of popping in for a quick poke.’
Samuel didn’t return the smile, which didn’t matter, Hank had not intended to be humorous.
‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘seems around dusk a few of the local kids were out riding their bikes when a load of army trucks passed by. The kids followed the trucks and watched them pull up at the Parslow place. Said they saw blacks, hundreds and hundreds of blacks, exaggerating, you know, the way kids do.’ Hank shook his head dolefully. ‘Well, the wives didn’t like the sound of that at all. Told their husbands they wouldn’t stand for it. The safety of their children is threatened, they say, and they won’t have a bar of the club. So the farmers have lodged a formal complaint.’
Hank Henry went on to sum up the situation in his customary blunt manner. ‘It’s a complaint we can’t ignore, Samuel, we need to take immediate action. The club will be closed as of today. We can’t afford to offend the locals.’
‘But what’s wrong with these people,’ Samuel protested, ‘why this over-reaction to the presence of Negroes? Surely they know there’s a huge labour force of black soldiers camped five to ten miles down the road from wherever their farms happen to be.’
‘That’s precisely why we must be seen to take immediate action,’ Hank explained. ‘The Australian Government was reluctant to accept Negro soldiers from the outset. MacArthur himself vowed to respect this country’s racial views, and our own military has been ordered under no circumstances to offend the locals. A complaint like this has to be taken very seriously.’
Recognising defeat, Samuel felt himself slump a little, despair engulfing him. The Negro Servicemen’s Club had been the perfect answer to the troop’s justifiable frustration at being banned from town. Now the club was to close its doors, and after just one night. How was he to face his men? What was he to tell them? That they were too black for this country? They’d felt so welcomed in Townsville.
‘So it seems racism is as alive and well here as it is back home,’ he said drily. He expected no response. In fact, he’d made the remark more to himself than Hank Henry. But the reply that came back surprised him.
‘It would appear so, yes,’ Hank said, not without the strangest element of something that could have been interpreted as sympathy, one would never know.
The meeting was over.
After leaving the military barracks, Samuel headed straight for The Brown’s. It was nearly two o’clock in the afternoon; Val and Baz needed to be told the news as soon as possible.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ Val said disbelievingly, ‘they want to close us after just one night! What’s the problem? Baz here said everything went smooth as clockwork.’
‘It did,’ Baz declared. ‘It did, I swear it did.’
‘So why?’ she demanded aggressively, hands planted on buxom hips, steel-grey eyes smouldering with righteous anger. ‘You tell me bloody well why.’
Samuel stared her down for a moment. ‘There were complaints from some of the locals,’ he said meaningfully.
‘Oh?’ Val held his look, aware he was signalling something.
‘The soldiers weren’t the right colour.’
‘Oh.’ A nod. ‘Gotcha,’ she said. ‘Fucking shame.’
Samuel left only minutes later. Conveying the news to his men wouldn’t be quite so simple.
At The Brown’s, Val and Baz discussed the situation. The girls would be disappointed of course, particularly Betty – ‘she’ll be bloody ropeable,’ Val said – but the principal topic was what to do with the premises after all the expense and hard work that had been put in. Baz, as was to be expected, came up with the perfect answer.
‘We’ll get all our dough back from the US military,’ he said. ‘Given time, we’ll end up making a damn good profit.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Val knew better than to sound overly sceptical, more often than not Baz’s ideas were spot on. ‘And how do you propose we do that?’
‘We shove all the furniture back into the farmhouse and hire the place out to them as an officers’ billet – the Yanks are just begging for accommodation. Come to think of it, we can hire the barn out to them, too. Excellent storage space.’ Baz was not in the least unhappy with the situation.
‘And the liquor,’ Val said, ‘we spent a good deal on heavy-duty hooch. I can’t sell it here at the pub.’
‘Don’t give the hooch a second thought, Boss,’ Baz assured her, ‘no worries there.’
This was the part of least concern to Baz. The considerable supply of illicit liquor he’d laid in would actually fetch a higher price on the black market than it would have at the club. Hell, his first clients would be the deprived troops at Kelso, where he had the perfect contact in Sergeant Strut Stowers. A simple phone call would suffice. Val didn’t need to know about that part though.
‘I’ll get a good price for it, I promise you.’
Yeah, I’ll just bet you will, Val thought, and I can guess from where, too – those poor bastards out at Kelso. But she made no comment. There were some things it was best she didn’t know about.
‘Not sure what we can do with the stables,’ he concluded, ‘but give me time, I’ll come up with something.’
‘Rightio.’ Val nodded. She had no doubt he would. He’s a right prick, she thought, but Christ he’s good.
Samuel briefly considered paying a visit to Amelia Sanderson to tell her about the tragic accident that had led to the death of young Anthony Hill. She would be devastated by the news, he was sure. He’d promised he’d see her this weekend, too. But of course he wouldn’t call upon her. He knew he was only seeking a means to delay the inevitable. He must get back to camp and inform the men of the club’s closure, and as soon as possible. The mere thought of what lay ahead left a bitter taste in his mouth, as bitter as the way in which his news would be received, no doubt.
The men’s reaction was varied. At first they were shocked, then mystification quickly followed. Why, they all asked. Why in God’s name was the club to be closed? What had gone wrong? There’d been no trouble the previous night. Not at the club anyway. The only trouble had occurred back at the camp with the sad death of poor young Ant, a subject that was currently on the lips of many. They’d been told nothing more than the fact that, due to complaints from locals, the military had ordered the instant closure of their club. What complaints?
Samuel had wisely opted to provide no further detail. It was not his job to do so, after all. These were his orders. Due to complaints the club was to be closed, simple as that. The men would no doubt work things out for themselves.
They did. Gathered in groups, first voicing their bewilderment, then repeating their questions, some among them insisting upon answers. They’d form a group, they said, and they’d demand from their commanding officers an honest explanation for the closure.
But there were those others among them who quickly came to the obvious conclusion.
‘It’s because we’re black,’ they said. ‘You remember when the Santa Clara was docked in Brisbane …?’
‘Yeah, we wasn’t allowed into the city …’
‘That’s right, we stayed on board that ship …’
‘… And all because we was black …’
‘… They don’t want black folk in this country …’ The word quickly spread. It was only then that the bitterness set in. And it set in with a vengeance.
The only person who appeared unmoved by the closure of the Negro Servicemen’s Club was Captain Charles ‘Chuck’ Maxwell, who had positively gloated when Samuel had informed him of their orders.
‘Told you no good would come from a social club for niggers,’ he’d said smugly.
To which Samuel had retorted sharply, ‘We must inform the men, Maxwell,’ he said, ‘no further comment is necessary.’
Chuck had informed the men as briefly and succinctly as Samuel had, but he hadn’t bothered to disguise his satisfaction in communicating the news.
Apart from personal malice, Chuck Maxwell had further reason to welcome the closure of the club. Here was the perfect distraction. The men would now be talking of nothing but this, the death of their young friend bound to take a back seat conversationally. Not that Chuck didn’t feel safe from the threat of last night. The ever-reliable Stowers had carried out his orders unobserved, the body had been discovered and a case of accidental death had gone unquestioned. He could now put the whole episode behind him. The boy was just another dead nigger about whom no questions would be asked.
But Chuck was wrong.
‘The guys who shared Anthony Hill’s tent brought this to me this morning,’ Rupe said, handing the mutilated book to Samuel.
It was well after the evening meal break and Rupe had been careful to seek out the captain alone in his tent. He’d deliberately chosen not to approach him at the officers’ tent for fear of bumping into Maxwell, and he’d also taken care to carry the book concealed in his kit bag. As far as Rupert Barrett was concerned, the destruction of this book was positive evidence of foul play.
Samuel felt much the same way. Simply seeing the copy of Just So Stories savagely ripped in half, and knowing how valuable it had been to Anthony Hill, Samuel knew in an instant that something was wrong.
‘I feel it’s my duty to tell you, sir,’ Rupe said, ‘that Captain Maxwell had been bullying young Ant something terrible. Same way he was Kasey Davis a while back.’
The two men’s eyes locked. Both understood exactly what was being implied.
‘Kasey himself told me about the bullying,’ Rupe went on, ‘said he’d witnessed an incident and felt that the captain had found another whipping boy in young Ant. I asked Anthony if he’d like me to intervene on his behalf. I was prepared to come to you, sir, just like I did with Kasey. But Private Hill didn’t want me to do that. In fact, he was very much against it. He didn’t want to cause any trouble.’ Rupe’s eyes flickered away and he stared at the ground, feeling wretched. ‘I wish to God now I hadn’t listened to him,’ he said, ‘I wish to God I’d come to see you instead.’
Samuel felt sorry for Rupert Barrett. A big man, a strong man, yet he looked so helpless, so vulnerable. It was clear he felt guilty, but he had no cause. He was a good soldier who cared for his men.
‘This whole tragic affair is not your fault, Corporal,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself, you’re hardly the guilty party.’ Samuel stopped short, not prepared to name out loud who they both believed was. ‘Besides, you’ve come to me now and I’m glad you have. We must get to the bottom of this.’ He gazed down at the book in his hands. ‘That is if it’s at all humanly possible,’ he added. ‘I’m afraid this discovery of yours is hardly solid evidence.’
‘Yes, sir, I’m aware of that.’
‘Perhaps some discreet enquiries around the camp,’ Samuel suggested, ‘and perhaps with the help of Private Davis?’
‘Oh yes, sir,’ Rupe instantly responded, ‘Kase is right with me on this. He feels as strongly as I do that Ant’s death was no accident.’
‘Good. Well, let’s see what the two of you can come up with. Maybe someone witnessed something unusual, perhaps you can discover some sort of link.’ He didn’t mention a link to whom. Once again, his fellow officer’s name went unmentioned.
Samuel knew what he was doing was highly unethical according to the military code of allegiance among officers, but he didn’t care. The customary bond shared by white commanding officers meant nothing when one was dealing with a man like Chuck Maxwell.
He hefted his kit bag onto his bunk. ‘Leave this with me,’ he said, tucking the book well inside, ‘and keep me posted, Corporal.’
‘I will, sir, yes.’
Rupe was fully aware of Samuel Robinson’s powerlessness to offer any practical assistance at this stage, but that didn’t bother him. He felt buoyed by the knowledge that he had an ally, and a powerful one at that if he and Kasey could come up with some form of evidence against Maxwell.
Over the next several days, the two of them set about sleuthing, and they did so with the greatest of care. It was important they arouse no hint of suspicion that might reach Maxwell’s ears, thereby giving him warning to further cover his tracks. As it turned out, they met with no problem. The troops openly answered any query put to them, with no responding query of their own as to why they were being asked. Everyone was too busy talking about the closure of the club.
One of the search-party members who had discovered Ant’s body told Rupe of the exact whereabouts, and he and Kasey examined the scene. Nothing untoward to report there. The narrow track that led from the road to the river’s edge was steep; perfectly believable a man could trip and fall down the embankment, breaking his neck. There were numerous vehicle tyre tracks along the dirt road, but these too signified nothing. The road had been created by the military and was one of many such roads linking the camp to various work sites.
They asked around among the men whose tents were in the same section as Ant’s, but those troops housed nearby had all been at the club that night. Ant was the only one who had chosen not to go.
Questions asked of men who’d remained in camp, however, proved far more revealing. The two troops on guard at the armoury had seen Captain Maxwell and Sergeant Stowers on patrol that night. Others who’d been gathered at the mess tent playing cards or just talking were of even greater interest, articulating their opinion in no uncertain terms.
‘Maxwell, he was on the prowl, I tell you,’ one said, ‘couldn’t believe why we was so quiet when our buddies were at the club.’
‘Yeah,’ another agreed, ‘that fucker was aching to find trouble so as he could lay into one of us. The son of a bitch just hated that we had a club of our own.’
This confirmed their suspicions. Maxwell had killed Anthony Hill. But such talk was useless, no more than conjecture; it offered no proof. They’d reached a stalemate. In typical fashion, Kasey was quick to give vent to his fury.
‘I’m gonna kill that no good piece of white shit,’ he said, pacing about the clearing well away from the camp where they’d retired to discuss their findings. ‘And I’m gonna kill that no good piece of nigger shit, too. Stowers is covering for the prick like he always does. I’ll just bet it was Strut-fucking-Stowers who dumped the body.’
Rupe agreed entirely with the theory, but he didn’t dare fuel Kase’s rage. Kasey Davis was a ticking time bomb. Frustrated and angered beyond belief that he was now to be separated from Betty, Kase was prepared to stop at nothing. If Maxwell became the full focus of his fury, Rupe feared the outcome.
‘Take it easy, Kase,’ he warned, ‘going off half-cocked won’t serve our cause. You know I’m right, buddy, so you just calm right down. That’s an order now, you hear me?’
Kasey had stopped his pacing. ‘Yeah, I hear you,’ he said, ‘I hear you loud and clear.’ Rupe’s authority and plain common sense had its usual pacifying effect, but this time only to a certain degree. Anger still burned in young Kasey Davis.
Rupe reported their findings, or rather their lack of findings, to Samuel Robinson, recounting the men’s very words.
‘Nothing concrete to go on I’m afraid, sir,’ he said, ‘although what the guys say seems to confirm our suspicions.’
‘Yes,’ Samuel agreed, ‘no direct link, though, nothing that provides us with proof.’
Again so much was left unsaid. But they were both speaking exactly the same language. And they were both feeling equally thwarted, equally powerless.
‘Leave things with me for now, Corporal,’ Samuel said, ‘I’ll make a couple of enquiries of my own.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ Rupe was intrigued. Enquiries, he thought. Enquiries about what and of whom? The captain surely wasn’t going to confront Maxwell.
But Samuel was, and did. In an indirect way. Early the following morning, he took the mutilated book with him to the officers’ tent, where he placed it beneath the papers on his desk and sat awaiting the arrival of Chuck Maxwell.
‘Morning, sir.’
Young Percy Owen, punctilious in his duties, was surprised to find Captain Robinson had preceded him. Percy always arrived well before his commanding officers to ensure the work rosters were neatly drawn up and waiting, despite the fact he’d addressed all the necessary detail the previous day.
‘Morning, Private.’ Samuel gave a brief smile and returned to the pretence of work. He wasn’t bothered that Percy would be present during his questioning of Maxwell. Indeed, should there be any particular reaction of note, he rather hoped the boy would be paying attention.
Chuck arrived fifteen minutes later. Offering no more than a perfunctory nod by way of acknowledgement to Samuel, he was about to proceed to Percy’s desk in the corner, but Samuel rose to greet him.
‘Morning, Chuck,’ he said pleasantly enough. ‘Just before you head off, there’s something I’d like to run by you, if you wouldn’t mind.’
Chuck made no reply, but halted and stood waiting with an expression that clearly said, All right, get on with it.
‘You and Sergeant Stowers carried out a patrol of the camp on Friday night, did you not?’
‘You know damn well I did,’ Chuck sneered, ‘I was doing my job while you were partying on with your nigger friends at their fancy club.’
‘And that was the same night Private Anthony Hill met with his accidental death.’
‘Correct. But, like everyone else, I didn’t see or hear anything.’
‘Yes, so you’ve said, and so has Sergeant Stowers, but something has come up since then and I wondered if you knew anything about it.’
‘Oh yeah, and what would that be?’ Chuck’s tone was impatient more than anything. He had no fear, no anxiety. It was Tuesday, four days since the boy’s death, the body had been taken away for burial or shipment God only knew where, all the necessary questions had been asked and adequately answered; he was quite safe.
‘The men who shared Private Hill’s tent found this the day after his death.’ Sweeping the papers on his desk to one side, Samuel picked up the two halves of the book. As he held them out for Chuck Maxwell’s inspection, he studied the man closely. ‘This book was of great value to Private Hill,’ he went on, ‘but as you can see it’s been destroyed. The men who shared his tent wondered whether perhaps there might have been a fight of some kind.’
Chuck didn’t miss a beat. ‘Not to the best of my knowledge,’ he said, ‘but I can tell you who ripped that thing in half.’ He looked Samuel directly in the eyes. ‘I did.’
‘Why? Why would you want to do a thing like that?’
‘Lazy nigger didn’t jump to attention when I entered his tent, just sat there looking at his goddamned book. Niggers like that got to be taught a lesson, Robinson, so I tore up that there book. Then I got on with doing the rest of my rounds.’
‘Yes,’ Samuel said with weary loathing, ‘of course you tore up the book. It’s just the sort of thing you would do, Maxwell.’ He dumped the book back on his desk, feeling utterly helpless. The confrontation had gone nowhere.
‘Got to teach these boys respect, you know, got to teach them their place,’ Chuck said smugly. ‘Now is there anything else I can help you with, Captain?’ Chuck was congratulating himself on his quick thinking. He felt more than smug, he felt positively triumphant. Why would he deny destroying the book? If in the unlikely event it proved to be an object of importance and they chose to run tests, his fingerprints would be all over it.
Samuel couldn’t bring himself to look at the man. ‘No,’ he said, ‘nothing else you can help me with. Not yet anyway,’ he added in an attempt to sound ominous, but the words were empty and he knew it.
So did Chuck, who smiled as he crossed to the clerk’s desk to collect his paperwork.
That night after the evening meal, Samuel went into town, intending to stay at his billet, despite the fact it would mean a very early start the next morning, returning to camp to report for duty. He felt guilty escaping as he was, guilty for exercising the freedom not allowed his men, but he simply had to get away from the camp, which was now seething with an undercurrent of resentment he was powerless to control. He had to escape the presence of Maxwell, too, and the numbing sense of his own inadequacy. He couldn’t bring himself to face Rupert Barrett with the news that, in confronting Chuck Maxwell, he’d only succeeded in shoring up the man’s alibi. Rupert Barrett had been convinced the destruction of Anthony’s book might somehow prove as evidence of foul play, but Maxwell had outsmarted them both.
It was after dark when he pulled the jeep up outside Amelia Sanderson’s house. He let himself in with the key she’d provided, and very quietly made his way down the passage towards the kitchen. The light was on in her quarters, but the rest of the house was in darkness, so he took care not to disturb her in case she’d retired early for the night. He would make himself a cup of tea and retire early himself, he decided, although his head teeming with thoughts as it was, with self-recrimination and guilt and blame, he was sure sleep would be impossible.
But he’d barely finished filling the kettle before she materialised.
‘Hello, Samuel,’ came her voice from the door, ‘I thought I heard you arrive.’
‘Hello, Amelia,’ he said as she entered the kitchen, ‘I’m sorry if I disturbed you, I tried very hard to be quiet.’
‘You didn’t disturb me at all,’ she replied with a smile, ‘I was reading. Good heavens above,’ she said, joining him at the sink, ‘you look terrible. What’s happened?’
‘Nothing.’ He attempted a reassuring smile. ‘Just a bit of pressure out at camp, some recent happenings, nothing that need concern you. Would you like a cup of tea?’
She was not in the least reassured. ‘I’m sure you could do with something a little stronger than tea,’ she said briskly. ‘I have only sherry, I’m afraid, will that do?’
‘That’ll do perfectly, thank you.’
She lifted a near-full bottle from the pantry. ‘It’s for cooking, I’m afraid, so I’m not sure of the quality,’ she said, pouring him a healthy measure in a tumbler.
‘I wouldn’t know a good sherry from a bad one.’
She handed him the glass and they sat opposite each other at the four-seater table.
‘I missed you at the weekend,’ she said, ‘we were going to have tea, remember? And I made a batch of scones.’ There was no recrimination in her tone. She was merely making light conversation as she studied his face, wondering what on earth could be wrong. He looked so worried and drawn.
He took a huge swig of the sherry, which rasped his throat, yet felt extremely gratifying. ‘I’m sorry, Amelia, really I am, but so many things have happened, and —’
‘I can see that. You need to eat.’ She wanted very much to do something practical. ‘Let me get you —’
‘No thank you,’ he said, ‘I had a meal back at camp.’
‘Not even some scones?’ she asked hopefully.
‘No. Sorry, not even that.’ He took another swig of the sherry.
‘What is it, Samuel? Please tell me. It might do you good to talk.’
Fuelled by the sherry and grateful for her company, he decided to break the news to her, the news about Ant. She had a right to know.
‘I’m afraid I wasn’t altogether truthful when I said the happenings at camp were nothing that need concern you. There is some news that I know will affect you …’
‘Oh yes?’ she said encouragingly as he halted.
‘It’s about Anthony Hill.’
‘Young Ant, yes, has something happened?’ She was immediately anxious. ‘He’s not got himself into trouble, surely? The poor boy’s so shy he could never cause a problem.’
‘No, no, nothing like that,’ he said. She wasn’t helping at all, he probably should have just blurted it out. ‘There was an accident, you see …’
‘Oh dear,’ a hand fluttered to her throat, ‘he’s hurt.’
‘No. Worse. He’s dead.’ The words came out far more brutally than he’d intended.
There was no reply apart from a sharp intake of breath. Eyes wide, she stared at him in shock. The hand that had fluttered to her throat was joined by her other hand, the fingers of both now tightly laced, knuckles rapidly whitening as if she was praying she’d heard incorrectly.
‘Several nights ago, he went for a walk on his own apparently, a track that led down to the river,’ Samuel explained. ‘It was dark, the track was steep and he fell. His body was discovered the following morning.’
Her breath was coming in a series of barely audible little gasps now. Rather like the panting of a distressed puppy, he thought, feeling oddly detached. And her eyes, still focused upon his, were welling with tears. He didn’t like to see her so distraught.
‘I don’t believe he would have suffered throughout the night, Amelia,’ he assured her, trying to ease her torment. ‘His neck was broken. Death would have been instantaneous.’
At which point Amelia gave in to her shock and anguish. Tears flowing freely, she buried her head in her hands. ‘Oh that poor boy,’ she wept, ‘that poor, poor, dear, sweet boy.’
He stood and, circling the table, sat beside her intent upon offering comfort. He put his arms around her and she accepted the embrace, her cheek resting damply against his, her hands on his chest, clinging to the cloth of his uniform as if she daren’t let go.
‘There, there,’ he whispered, ‘there, there now. Young Anthony would have felt no pain, you mustn’t distress yourself.’
Gradually her sobs subsided, but she remained clinging gratefully to him, as if his support were some sort of lifeline.
‘That dear boy,’ she whispered, ‘why him? Why him?’
Why him indeed, Samuel thought.
As she clung to him, he found himself equally grateful for her support, as if somehow she were also a lifeline to him. And indeed she was. They both needed a friend.
Very gently he took her face in his hands, and very gently he kissed her. A comforting kiss, a kiss shared between friends, no more than that. Or at least that’s what he intended. But as he was about to break from the kiss, something happened. The hands that, in her grief, had been innocently and desperately clutching the cloth of his uniform, were now linked behind his neck, drawing him closer. Her lips were opening, demanding his do likewise. He could taste the saltiness of her tears. She was offering herself to him.
He drew away, shocked. Had she misread his intentions? Was it he who was at fault? Had he misguidedly signalled an interest that was sexual?
He stood. ‘I must leave, Amelia,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she replied in barely a whisper, ‘yes, of course you must.’
She remained sitting, staring down unseeingly at the wooden surface of the table, unable even to apologise. She wanted to beg his forgiveness. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ she wanted to say, ‘I don’t know what came over me.’ But she was too humiliated, too mortified, too altogether horrified to say anything at all.
She remained as she was, hearing the sound of his boots as he walked down the hall, hearing the sound of the front door closing behind him. What had she done!
Amelia had never before experienced any form of sexual desire. She had presumed she was one of those women medical experts referred to as ‘frigid’. She had sought no advice, naturally, and had discussed her suspicions with no-one, but she had heard of this term and had presumed it must apply to her.
She had had sexual relations with her husband, although admittedly not often, but she had never experienced personal pleasure in their coupling. She’d always had the feeling that Martin, too, despite achieving his release, had not found the act particularly pleasurable. But this she’d put down to the fact they were living in her parents’ house, making love furtively and silently in the dark as if it were something shameful.
Amelia blamed herself for everything, including her infertility, but most of all she blamed herself for that night. That night when she’d realised that her sexual inadequacy had, in effect, ruined her husband’s life.
And now here she was behaving like a bitch on heat, offering herself to a man she barely knew. What had aroused in her this terrible lust? Little wonder Samuel Robinson had fled into the night.
What in heaven’s name is wrong with me, she agonised.
On the drive back to camp, Samuel was feeling equally mortified. His behaviour had been shockingly inappropriate.
Inappropriate? What a very kind word, he chastised himself, disgraceful would be more fitting. Amelia Sanderson is a married woman. She’s lonely, she’s vulnerable. She must surely feel betrayed, preyed upon by a man she’d presumed was a friend.
But she misunderstood me, he told himself desperately, I wasn’t preying upon her at all, I wasn’t trying to seduce her …
His self-justification didn’t quite ring true, however. He did find Amelia Sanderson attractive, and the comfort he’d offered could most certainly have been interpreted as a sexual invitation, particularly to a lonely and vulnerable woman. He wondered how he’d ever be able to make amends.
Samuel didn’t much like himself at that moment. Tonight, a night when he’d simply wanted to escape the hideousness that surrounded him, had become a night that was only serving to compound his woes.