It was October when Commander Jeremy Brooke, Royal Navy, returned to Hong Kong. As he walked unhurriedly to Kai Tak’s reception area to await the arrival of his luggage he glanced around, not surprised but depressed by the apparent lack of security.
He saw two of the Royal Air Force fighter planes revving up noisily, watched as usual through the wire fence by a cluster of local children. He thought of the dog-fights in the clear skies above Dover and the Channel. Aircraft like these would not last ten minutes in England.
There was a staff car outside the baggage area and he automatically smoothed the creases from his uniform. England, Australia and New Zealand, by sea and in hedge-hopping planes little bigger than the two on the runway. He made a point of never showing tiredness, just as he rarely hurried. It might be mistaken for urgency or strain.
Now he was back in Hong Kong. The humid air, the smells he had come to know so well on other visits, the perpetual movement of people, were like a welcome.
His admiral had briefed him on what he had to do. Like the grim posters in England. If the Invader comes. Jeremy’s mouth turned down. He was not going to be popular, not with the top brass anyway.
He crossed to a window and stood directly beneath a revolving fan. Perhaps Serpent was in harbour? He examined his feelings about meeting his brother again as he might skim through a despatch or signal. It annoyed him to realise that there was only envy, where by rights there should be none. It was even more irritating to realise that Esmond did not feel the same way about him. Even before he had been given the old Serpent he had been just the same. Not content; he was always too driven for that luxury.
He saw a porter carrying his bags and said, ‘Staff car. Outside.’ He clenched his fists and waited for his temper to settle.
Even Sarah was different since the arrival of their son: a tiny, wrinkled thing which either slept or cried the house down. Sarah was an intelligent, charming girl, with looks to turn any man’s head, but since the child she had gone through a complete change, cooing and gloating at every sound and function her child performed. The other officers’ wives were much the same, although Jeremy had never believed it could happen to her.
‘Commander Brooke, sir?’
He swung round, knocked off-balance by the girl’s voice.
‘Er, yes.’ He stared at the small Wren third officer. ‘You were expecting me?’
She smiled. ‘A signal, sir.’ But her eyes suggested of course we were.
He waited for her to climb into the car. She was pretty. A nice figure too, what he could see of it through her shirt. She tapped on the seat and the driver let in the clutch.
She could almost feel his eyes exploring her. She asked lightly, ‘How was Sydney?’
‘Getting hotter.’ He looked across the anchorage. Still many ships here, but not many grey hulls.
He said, ‘Didn’t know there were any Wrens in H.K.’ It came out like an accusation.
She smiled. ‘There aren’t. Just me. Here on sufferance. I’m with Brigadier Sexton.’
‘Oh. Of course.’
She glanced at his profile. Not all that much like Toby’s commanding officer in looks, and not at all in manner.
He asked abruptly, ‘Is Serpent alongside?’
It was her turn to be startled, but he was too engrossed in his thoughts to notice.
‘Er – no, sir. She’s been on escort duty.’ She remembered her dismay when Toby had telephoned her.
She had exclaimed, ‘I might not be here when you come in again!’
He had been silent on the other end of the line. Her outburst had revealed her feelings better than any private letter.
Then he had said quietly, ‘I need to see you again.’ Such a small voice, she had afterwards thought. A man with the Victoria Cross, whose exploits her father had pasted in his war book. If only she had been with him after it happened. She would have held him, given him comfort . . .
The next morning she had been up at dawn, some borrowed binoculars close to hand, but she had not needed them to see that the old destroyer’s berth was empty.
Jeremy said, ‘I’d like to see the brigadier as soon as I’ve changed.’
‘I can fix a meeting for this afternoon, sir.’
Jeremy relaxed slightly. An obstacle. It always made him feel better. He could recall a line in a play they had performed at Dartmouth Royal Naval College. He had been a Cavalier, in long boots and a plumed hat.
When challenged by a smaller walk-on part he had swirled his hat in the air and proclaimed, ‘It will not wait. I am on the King’s business!’
He said calmly, ‘It will have to be sooner than that, I’m afraid. What’s your name, by the way?’
She was just beginning to wonder where the brigadier might be, or whether he had yet set off for the golf course.
The commander’s attitude was beginning to annoy her. ‘Third Officer Yorke, sir.’
He smiled. Another challenge.
‘Am I booked into the Pen?’
‘Yes, sir. I can ring up H.Q. from there while you’re . . .’
He said, ‘No. Take the car yourself.’ He looked at her directly. ‘This is top secret, Third Officer Yorke. Even a whisper would go right across the New Territories and Victoria in minutes. I know – I used to spread news I wanted people to hear in that very bar!’
She faced him and asked simply, ‘Is it very bad, sir?’
He felt a new excitement. She was worried about something. Somebody more likely, with her looks.
‘Don’t worry. Whatever happens it won’t affect you.’
She stared out of the opposite window. When Toby got back she might not be here to comfort him. To help him break the curse that was destroying him.
It won’t affect you. Patronising and arrogant. She had seen him looking at her legs, and at the way her damp shirt was clinging to her breasts. Well, let him look, damn him! She recalled the new confidence which Sister Ruth Shelley’s massage had given her. No blushing or confusion. When she had been in training she had been appalled by the way some of her classmates had strolled about their quarters quite nude without any sort of embarrassment. Sure of themselves? Or had it really been some kind of defiance?
Jeremy asked casually, ‘Have you met Charles Yeung while you’ve been here?’
‘Yes. I was at the reception given for my boss at Repulse Bay.’ She glanced at him. Toby had mentioned that this man had married his C.O.’s fiancée, and there was some rumour about him and that Chinese girl as well.
She thought of Ruth Shelley’s comment, which had shocked her. A bit on the side. Was that what Commander Brooke was after? Handsome, mysterious, conceited. Used to having his own way.
She said, ‘Here we are, sir. The Pen.’
It was not lost on him. ‘I’ll see you in an hour, right?’
She leaned back and waited for the porters to remove his luggage.
She smiled. ‘Right!’
Commodore Cedric Stallybrass glanced around his flagship’s wardroom and said heavily, ‘I think we are ready to begin.’ He looked questioningly at his secretary. ‘Yes?’
The secretary responded hastily, ‘All personnel cleared from aft, sir. Sentries mounted.’
Stallybrass grunted. ‘A bit over the top maybe, but . . .’
He turned towards Commander Jeremy Brooke, who was tapping a cigarette on a slim gold case while he waited for permission to smoke.
It was hot and oppressive in the wardroom, the only place large enough to accommodate this gathering. Members of the dockyard’s senior staff, the commanding officers of the remaining ships in harbour, including the flotilla leader Islip’s bearded captain, Ralph Tufnell, the S.N.O. of the motor torpedo boats, and some old China hands who skippered the elderly force of Yangtze and East River gunboats.
The door opened silently and the Chief-of-Staff, Captain Albert Granville, made a quietly apologetic entrance.
The commodore beamed at him. ‘Now we are all here, eh, Bertie?’
Several of them laughed, but most were watching the elegant commander from the Department of Naval Intelligence.
Jeremy did not stand up. ‘I am not going to make a speech, gentlemen.’ He smiled briefly at Stallybrass. ‘We have heard or read more than enough of those lately. I am not even going to offer any opinions.’
Someone said, ‘Good show!’
Jeremy’s glance passed over the offender as if he were a stain on the carpet.
‘The fact is that, whatever the outcome of what lies immediately ahead of us, Hong Kong, and Kowloon to a lesser extent, will be a fortress, closed to all comers. There are, however, precautions to be taken, and without delay. In the unlikely event of an attack on Hong Kong by an enemy, who for the purpose of this review must remain nameless, all unmilitary personnel will be evacuated. Measures are in hand as I sit here . . .’
Stallybrass exclaimed, ‘I say, Bertie, did you know about this?’
The Chief-of-Staff shook his actor’s mane of hair and replied, ‘Up to a point. But as the possibility of such an action coming to pass is, as Commander Brooke has been quick to point out, unlikely, I think we should take it one step at a time.’
Jeremy contained a smile. Bertie’s reply was meaningless.
He cleared his throat. ‘As I was saying, gentlemen, evacuated. Wives and families, dependants, will be escorted by sea to Australia.’ He had their full attention now. ‘Heavy casualties would otherwise be inevitable. My admiral has stated that the Prime Minister intends the Colony to stand firm and to await reinforcements. Major units of the fleet are already being sent to Singapore, where they will be better placed for our mutual defence and for any future offensive.’ He was aware of their intent expressions. ‘Top Secret, gentlemen!’
Stallybrass snapped, ‘They do not have to be told!’
He fell silent as Jeremy turned cold eyes upon him. ‘There will be a bloodbath if there is any hint of retreat!’
It was easy to deflate Stallybrass. He recalled his admiral looking down from his window in Whitehall. Air-raid shelters, policemen in steel helmets, sandbags outside the Admiralty. At least they were doing something, or trying to. There had been flowers in the park, too.
His admiral had said, ‘Stallybrass will go down with his flag flying if so ordered. You will have to tread carefully. He is a very stupid man.’
Jeremy said, ‘Most of our troops here were envied when they were sent to Hong Kong. Some have, apart from basic training, performed only guard duty. If we are attacked they will not be envied for long.’ He looked sharply at Commander Tufnell. ‘Yes?’
Tufnell did not flinch. ‘Why should this “enemy” attack us? We’ve taken pains to keep out of their war.’
‘Why, indeed? If we knew all the answers . . .’ He became business-like again. ‘The fact is, we must prepare. Be ready.’ He judged the right moment. You could have heard a pin drop. ‘There is another possibility. That the defences could not hold out.’
There were gasps of astonishment and anger, as he knew there would be.
He continued unhurriedly, ‘In which case, all vessels that could be used by an enemy must be destroyed or rendered useless. Dockyard facilities, stores, ammunition. It would be a final act before . . .’
Tufnell stood up, his eyes blazing. ‘Surrender? Is that what you’re preparing for? If so . . .’
Jeremy turned to the commodore. ‘I said at the start, it is not a suggestion. But decisions have to be made. It is, I appreciate, a great responsibility for you, sir.’
Stallybrass puffed out his cheeks. ‘I am ready to accept it, and more. It will not come to this, but I must agree that the safety of our people is of paramount importance!’
Jeremy nodded. ‘Quite so, sir.’ The thought of offending somebody in high places had been enough to change Stallybrass’s mind. Jeremy asked casually, ‘When is Serpent due back?’
‘Two days’ time.’ The commodore was very preoccupied.
‘I see.’ It would be interesting to gauge his brother’s reactions.
He looked around at their grim, hostile faces. Most of them had been in Hong Kong for a long time, at least since the outbreak of war.
And not one of them had noticed anything, or at least, if they had, thought it important enough to pass on. And yet, to the Intelligence people in Whitehall even the tiniest fragment fitted into the overall picture. An increase in Japanese fleet movements in the Pacific, and the biggest build-up of troops on the Chinese mainland just across the border from the New Territories. And much smaller pieces. Japanese residents of Hong Kong were suddenly leaving the Colony, the hairdressing salons and massage parlours, the bars which were regularly used by British officers were being left abandoned. Nobody, it seemed, had thought it unusual. If only one Japanese in twenty was a spy, they would have enough information to open the gates from within.
Jeremy glanced at Islip’s angry captain.
If something wasn’t done soon, they would not even have time to surrender.
Lieutenant-Commander Esmond Brooke stood as high as possible on the starboard side of the bridge to watch the dwindling strip of choppy water between Serpent and Islip as the final wires were passed across and made fast. Then there was no water at all, and the two steel hulls squeaked against the rope fenders like old friends.
Brooke wiped his forehead with his wrist. It was very hot and there was a chance of heavy rain according to the Met reports.
It felt like months since they had been ordered once again to Singapore to act as additional escort for a fast convoy bound for Australia. They had been forced to refuel at sea, at other times good experience in teamwork and seamanship, but Brooke was well aware of the unsettled atmosphere that pervaded his ship.
Everything they did seemed to lack purpose; even escort work could have been carried out by the Australians themselves. It was as if someone simply wanted to keep Serpent employed in case there was a real emergency.
How long this time, he wondered. The Chief had been complaining about a bearing running hot in the starboard shaft gland. Once in the hands of the dockyard again, it might take ages to repair. There was no queue of damaged and battle-scarred ships here, each desperately needing a dock or basin, as there was in Britain, but in Hong Kong the dockyard seemed to begin work when Colours were sounded, and stop when they were lowered.
‘All secure fore and aft, sir!’
‘Very well. Ring off main engines.’
The ship shuddered while the duty part of the watch hurried to make the upper deck presentable for any important visitors. Lieutenant Calvert was fastening down the cover on the chart table. Even he had been unsettled lately.
Brooke picked up his pipe and tobacco pouch. We are all on edge because of uncertainty, and feelings we dare not reveal.
He shaded his eyes to stare up at the Peak. Was she watching the harbour to see them come alongside?
What of Calvert? Had he recovered from his moment of terror in Charles Yeung’s seaplane?
Brock, the petty officer telegraphist, lingered on the top of the bridge ladder.
Kerr, who had come up from the forecastle, his station for entering and leaving harbour, looked at him warily. ‘Well?’
Brock glanced towards the captain. ‘Restricted, sir.’
Kerr took it. Oh God. Another one. Who is it this time?
He saw Brooke’s tawny eyes flicker just once as he read the signal, then he said quietly, ‘The Cox’n, Number One, and a seaman named Robert Dalton.’
Kerr watched him, his face like stone. ‘Quarterdeck division, sir. From Liverpool.’
‘That’s where it happened. His home was wiped out in an air raid. Big family. Only his father survived, apparently.’ But neither of them was really thinking of the young sailor. It was something that happened, to others usually.
But not to the Coxswain, the core in any small warship. Friend, policeman, adviser, he filled all those roles and many more.
Brooke glanced up and saw Onslow, the yeoman of signals, watching him. He immediately looked away. He had already guessed, most likely. It had happened to him.
Brooke said, ‘I’ll see them now in my quarters.’
Pike might know, too: they often did. It would soon run through the ship. This was no great carrier or battleship. This was family.
He went down the ladder and walked aft towards the quarterdeck, feeling the oily metal under his shoes where the wire springs and breast-ropes had been laid out only an hour ago.
His day cabin greeted him like a stranger. After the incident with the submarine he had been unable to leave his hutch when they were at sea. It had been a hard habit to break even before that.
Petty Officer Kingsmill was opening scuttles but did not look at him.
‘Will you need drinks, sir?’ He turned then, his face genuinely sad. ‘Just ’eard, sir.’
How could they know already? But there was no point in questioning it.
‘Yes.’ Brooke sat down, suddenly weary. Then with great care he removed the silver frame from the waterproof bag and stood it on the desk. As he had thought of her on the long night watches. How he always remembered her. Her eyes sparkling in the lights, her head partly turned to look across one bare shoulder. What would her father have thought of that?
There was a tap at the door. ‘Able Seaman Dalton, sir.’
‘Sit down, Dalton.’ He watched the youth stare round the cabin, where he had never been before. An ordinary English face you would not even notice in some dockyard or seaport.
Dalton’s eyes settled suddenly on the photograph, but when they moved on again they were filled with tears.
‘It’s me mum, ain’t it, sir?’
The same Liverpool twang you got so used to in Western Approaches. That battered city, which had given its heart to the escort vessels and their men.
Brooke said, ‘The signal says that apart from your father . . .’ He got no further. The young seaman was staring past him, his wet eyes filled with despair.
‘Why them? They never done nuthin’ to hurt anyone, sir!’
‘I know.’ What was the point? There was no explanation to take away Dalton’s grief. ‘Would you like a drink?’ He watched emotions churning through the sailor’s mind, then the fixed realisation that his family had gone. Love them, like them, or hate them, there was nothing left to look forward to.
‘Ta, thanks, sir.’ He wiped his face with a surprisingly clean handkerchief. It was not easy to dhobi clothing in the crowded messdecks. But they managed.
Brooke said, ‘I can send you home. Get a replacement from the base here, I shouldn’t wonder.’ Home – where was that? In some barracks or hostel until he got another ship. Certainly not the pile of debris that was probably all that remained.
Dalton shook his head. Like Onslow, in some respects anyway. ‘No, sir. I was never close to me dad.’ He stared at the glass that Kingsmill had placed by his hand. ‘I’ll stay with me mates.’
Brooke poured himself a full glass and could feel the boy’s eyes watching every movement.
‘I’m glad you said that. I think I’m going to need every good hand shortly.’ He coughed: the Scotch was neat, and he guessed that Dalton had probably never had it in his young life. He added, ‘I shall write to your dad in any case.’
Dalton peered at him as if he had misheard. ‘You, sir?’
‘I’m your commanding officer. You are my responsibility, youand all the people in this ship who don’t know what it’s all about . . .’
Words, only words. Someone like Dalton could not possibly know about all those other letters, to friends who had lost someone, to mothers who wanted to know how it had happened. Just as well they did not know. Better to leave it to the films and all the comforting lies.
And what am I to these same men? Do they really trust me? Am I merely the authority across the defaulters’ table, or the unconcerned captain who refused their request for promotion or transfer?
He thought of her words. They like you. Had that ever been enough?
‘If you need any help, Dalton, please ask the first lieutenant. We’re all on the same side.’
Kingsmill refilled the seaman’s glass, then gently took his elbow.
‘This way, my son. In the pantry. Nobody’ll bother you there.’ Over his shoulder he added, ‘Cox’n’s here, sir.’
The young seaman stared at them. ‘Not ’im too?’
The pantry door swung shut.
Not him too. It hung in the cabin like an epitaph.
Pike took the vacated chair and looked at a point above Brooke’s left shoulder.
‘Bad news, Swain.’
‘I see.’ Pike turned his cap through his fingers, as if he was at the wheel again. After a moment he said, ‘I knew I made a mistake about shiftin’ from London to the coast. Southsea, was it?’
Brooke felt drained. ‘Big raid. Lot of casualties. It says it was instantaneous.’ Did they always say that?
Pike stood up, his boots creaking on the carpet. ‘I won’t ’ave a drink just now, sir. I’ve some watch bills to check on.’
‘I see.’ The Iron Man, but with every good reason.
‘Later, if you asks me, that’ll be different.’
Brooke had never noticed how blue the coxwain’s eyes were, like the ocean they had just left astern.
‘I will ask you, Swain. You can tell me some more about my father.’
The coxswain left the cabin and could soon be heard tearing a strip off a defaulter who was swabbing out the officers’ heads.
If any ship had a living backbone, he was it.
Kerr was in the wardroom looking at the empty letter rack when a messman told him the captain was outside.
‘Sir?’ But he knew what was wrong. The strain, the same tension was back again.
Kerr had seen the red-eyed sailor leave the pantry, while the ramrod coxswain had marched past him without a word.
Brooke asked, ‘Can you take the weight, Dick? If there’s no word from the base to the contrary you can send all but the duty part of the watch ashore . . .’
He saw the concern in Kerr’s eyes. ‘I’ll be all right. I’ve left a number in case you need me. Won’t be long.’
Kerr could smell the neat Scotch, but knew it was not that.
Brooke said, ‘It’s just that I’m sick of taking it, not being able to hit back, and having to tell good men that their wives and lovers are gone. Killed. And for what? I keep asking myself!’
Kerr said, ‘I think you know the answer, sir.’ He turned angrily as the quartermaster’s legs appeared on the companion ladder. ‘What?’
The man peered at him resentfully. ‘Car at the dockyard gates, sir.’ He looked at Brooke. ‘For you, sir.’
They followed Brooke on deck and into the noon sunlight. Kerr saw Islip’s O.O.D. and quartermaster salute him as he crossed the big destroyer’s deck, their eyes following while he walked down the brow to the wall.
Brooke knew they were staring at him. Kerr probably thought him round the bend.
He was still in his faded sea-going jacket and the white cap-cover had a smear of paint on it. He had been wearing the same shirt for twenty-four hours, and the Scotch was making his brain throb without mercy.
All he knew was that she was waiting for him. Had known he was back in Hong Kong.
He recalled the words of a famous admiral when questioned about his ability to perform some great deed.
The impossible we do at once. Miracles take a little longer.
As he saw the great car waiting beyond the dockyard sentry he suddenly broke into a run. He was no longer the captain, the Old Man: all that he had left behind, if only for a while. It was surely a miracle.
The army stores van threw up a wave of muddy water and jerked to a halt outside the little apartment block.
Two white-clad figures jumped into the teeming rain and were drenched to the skin even before they reached the gate. Calvert waved to the young soldier who had taken pity on them when they had left the restaurant and the heavens had opened.
‘We’d have drowned without you! Thanks a lot!’
The soldier was a Canadian, one of the replacements in Operation Boomerang. This was his first proper posting: it must all be a great adventure for him.
Holding the girl’s wet hand in his Calvert ran up the short path to the front door where they huddled together, laughing despite, or because of, the mess they were in.
A security man unlocked the door and sat down again at his desk. What residents and ‘passers-through’ got up to was none of his concern.
She turned on the stairs, her shirt and skirt black with rain.
‘That was a wonderful meal, Toby! I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed myself so much!’
He watched her; like a happy child, he thought. As she must have been.
It had been a nice restaurant, small and very Chinese, just off Nathan Road. A street of lanterns and garish shops, of eating-houses and dark cafés, with hardly a serviceman to be seen: like Aladdin’s Cave and treasure trove rolled into one, with street hawkers and a few hopeful rickshaws hovering.
Calvert had bought her a silk kimono at one of the stalls. The women who had taken his money had corrected him politely but firmly. ‘Happy Coat. Not kimono, Captain!’
At the restaurant, which Islip’s gunnery officer had told him about, there had been no surprise or curiosity when they had walked in. It had even been funny to discover that few people in the restaurant spoke English, a far cry from the island.
They had managed. Beautiful duck, rice and noodles and a dozen other dishes which they enjoyed without knowing what they were. The proprietor even produced some beer which Calvert fortified with a measure of brandy from his flask.
The time had gone so fast. Watching each other across the small table, discovering, understanding.
He had given her a little jade-inlaid box, which he had bought in the shop the day he had felt close to tears. When they had met in the street. How long ago was that?
Also some jade earrings. He had apologised when she had told him that she would get her ears pierced as soon as possible, and had brushed aside his offer to change them.
She had been looking down at the little box, her eyes hidden by her lashes.
‘I shall treasure them. Always.’
He had moved some empty dishes and reached across the table to hold her hand. With one another, they were alone, although they sat in a crowded restaurant.
She had been admiring the little box again when he had said, ‘I’ll have to check up on the Star Ferry. They probably stop running at night.’
Then she looked up at him. Very directly, her expression strangely determined if a little frightened.
‘If you don’t have to get back to the ship, Toby . . .’ He had felt her fingers tighten around his as she had finished, ‘You can stay with me. If you like.’
They had gone out of the restaurant, saying nothing, but with so much to say.
Now, outside her apartment, Calvert hesitated. ‘I don’t want you to think . . .’
She turned and had to rise on tip-toe to kiss his cheek. ‘I don’t.’
She switched on the lights and wondered if Ruth Shelley was next door, listening.
The room was barely furnished, a place without a personality of its own. There was a framed print of a tall pagoda on one wall, and another of English Shire horses ploughing a field. A room which had had no time to glean anything from the steady stream of occupants. But, as in the restaurant, she saw only the man who had come to it with her, someone she had met on a train.
‘I – I got some whisky, Toby.’
‘Did you?’
‘I think it might have come off the Brigadier’s mess bill.’ She covered her mouth and giggled. ‘I’m soaked. I’ll have a rub down and then I’ll put on my Happy Coat.’ She smiled fondly. ‘That woman made me feel like a tourist!’
He made to hold her but she stepped away. He said, ‘You know that I love you, Sue.’
She reached for the door. ‘That’s a lovely thing to say. You’ve never said it before.’
He tried to laugh it off. ‘I did, you know. You can read it in my letter when you get home.’
She was still staring at him as she backed into the other room, her eyes filling her face.
He heard her singing softly in the bathroom, and after a brief exploration he opened a low sideboard where a bottle of Johnny Walker stood in solitary splendour. It was unobtainable in England. For lowly lieutenants, anyway.
He called, ‘There’s only one glass in the place, Sue!’
‘I’ve got another one in here.’
The door opened and she stood there in the silk robe he had bought for her in Nathan Road. Short and black, with scarlet flowers on the pockets.
She saluted smartly. ‘Excuse my rig, sir!’ Then she turned and displayed the gold dragon etched down her spine. ‘Dragons are lucky, the Chinese say.’
She held up a fresh towel. ‘Take off your shirt, Toby.’
He held the chair while she dried his back, her face hidden from view.
She did not resist when he held her in his arms, her damp hair pressing against his chest. Calvert noticed that she had removed the wedding ring and its chain, which he had seen through her wet shirt.
He said quietly, ‘I should have taken you to a hotel.’
She shook her head. ‘You know what people would say.’
‘Do you care?’ He felt the desire for her like something beyond his control, a real need for this young girl he barely knew. The touch of her face, the pressure of their bodies had aroused something which neither of them could contain.
She jerked round in his arms and gasped as fireworks and rockets exploded above the black water of the harbour. It was like cleaning an old painting. Shapes appeared in bright and colourful flashes, tall junks, motionless or moving it was impossible to say, huddles of smaller craft, and dark, resting lighters waiting for a new day.
‘What is it?’ She turned and gripped the veranda rail, her eyes lighting up in the display.
He reached around to hold the same rail, enfolding her, very aware of her nearness, her touch against his body.
He replied, ‘Aftermath of a wedding, or a funeral maybe. I can never tell the difference.’
Her voice was low and husky. ‘Hold me.’
He pulled at the sash around the Happy Coat and felt her body go rigid as he opened the front of it.
She said nothing.
Calvert slipped his hands inside the coat and realised she was quite naked. He cupped each breast in turn, imprisoning it firmly until the nipples were hard under his grip. She retained her hold on the rail until he dropped the coat around her shoulders and kissed her on the neck. Then she came round into his arms, the robe falling to the floor so that he saw her body like a perfect statue against the dark water and the fireworks.
He laid her on the bed with great care, feeling her eyes on him as he explored her body, her throat, her breasts and further still until his fingers were caressing her hair, so that she cried out as if to match his own pain of desire.
‘If you hurt me . . .’
‘I won’t.’ He knelt over her, feeling the warm harbour breeze across his nakedness.
‘Just love me. Love me.’
She grasped him with both arms, and he knew she was tensed, ready for the pain, for the ultimate.
But there was none. So very slowly. Down and down, and the exquisite embrace as he entered her until they were linked together, their bodies as one.
She whispered, ‘Now. Make it now.’
Afterwards, the moonlight flooded the room and touched the bed where they lay entangled.
Tossed aside on the floor their two wet uniforms seemed to mime their embrace. The moment of destiny.