Leon Uris (76 page)

Squire Liam Larkin stepped outside the Prince of Wales Hotel facing the lush, semitropic, splendiferous greenery of Albert Park over the way.

Jaysus, he thought, the fecking heat here could fecking melt fecking rocks. To a man acclimatized by the all-pervading dampness of Ireland and even greater wetness of the South Island, Brisbane held the furnaces of hell. It was easy to envision exiled convicts busting rock in this place.

He made to the taxi rank and showed the driver a slip of paper.

“Eh, let’s see here now, 32 Kangaroo Lane…32 Kangaroo Lane.” He scratched his jaw. “Aha, the new estate of houses near the Royal Australian Army Rehabilitation Center.”

Liam chose to sit in the front, not particularly comfortable in the back seat of an automobile.

“Where you from, cobber?” the driver asked.

“New Zealand. South Islander.”

“How’ as the war treated you?”

“Son in Gallipoli. He got out with some wounds.”

“My lad is in the trenches in France,” the driver said.

“I’ll pray for him.”

Over Victoria Bridge, the taxi made toward the sea and the budding Gold Coast.

All Anzac conversation these days got around to won
dering how they ever got caught up in such a war. When it had first begun, the enthusiasm was for King, Empire, and all that was bombastic. Gallipoli had tarnished all visions of glory. The long haul was agonizing.

A large sign designated the hospital. It was a hot and sunny day. One could smell the ocean close by. A huge lawn was filled with patients mostly in pajamas or robes, many in wheelchairs, being tended by nurses and orderlies, others on crutches with missing limbs.

“These are the worst cases,” the taxi driver said, “the ones they couldn’t recycle back to combat in France.”

Liam asked the driver to slow down, as though he were expecting to find Rory among them. All those lads like that…hard go…terrible.

They turned off into a cozy street of palm trees and wooden two-story homes where many of the staff were housed.

“Here we are, cobber, 32 Kangaroo Lane. Would you like me to wait for you?”

Liam pondered. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Well, there’s a taxi rank at the main entrance to the hospital. The number is 2-2-2-2.”

“I think I can remember that.”

“Good luck to you, Kiwi.”

The taxi drove off. Liam felt parched and sweaty and a little shaky. He knocked on the door. No reply. He spotted an outside garden spigot, drank, and splashed his face. A porch swing in the shade lured him and he eased into it and set it into motion, soon picking up the sound of the swish-boom of the surf and letting his face go blank. He sat stone-still, like a shepherd, until the heels of a woman’s shoe tapped out a rhythm in quick step down the lane.

Liam, immobile, latched on to Georgia Norman as she came into view. She was pretty enough but her movement and pride of gender in her walk said
woman
.

Georgia came on the porch, made for the front door, dove into her bottomless purse as
women
are apt to do,
then sensed another being there and looked over to Liam.

She was startled, but wordless.

“I’m here in peace,” Liam said softly.

“Rory!” she cried, “Rory!”

Georgia came close to fainting, grabbing the porch post and starting to slip when Liam steadied her and led her to a wicker chair.

“Is he all right?”

“He was wounded at Gallipoli. I don’t have too much information. Some loss of use in his right hand and a clouded vision that comes and goes.”

She thanked God several times as a bit of color returned to her cheeks.

“He’s in Ireland and under his enlistment name, so contact isn’t too easy. He’s a captain, you know, won the Victoria Cross.”

Georgia bit her lip, then used Liam’s shoulder for a short, sweet sob. “I’ll get you a cool drink,” she said quickly. “Hard or soft?”

“A beer would be the end of the earth.”

She returned. “No need to ask how you ran me down?” she asked.

“I’m a sheepman. I’ve a lot of experience in finding stray lambs, although you did give me quite a runaround.”

“Actually this rehabilitation center was on the planning boards before the war started,” she said. “Even back in New Zealand I felt I’d be coming here once my husband left. I’m the Head Matron of one of the departments. I deal with the shell-shocked lads.”

“Oh God,” Liam whispered. “Where do you find the strength?”

“Don’t make me cry again, Liam. It’s hard enough in there.”

“Rory always wrote to his mother and brother and sisters until he left Gallipoli. After that, only a few letters, written by nurse’s aides. I always knew he’d find his way to Ireland so I wrote to my brother, Father Dary—he’s a priest.”

“I know.”

“I wrote it months ago. I wanted it waiting when Rory got there. I couldn’t live any longer with what I’d done to him. He got the letter,” Liam said shakily, “and he wrote me back.”

“What did he say?”

“He forgave me. And don’t you know he asked me to forgive him as well.”

“I’m so glad.”

“Thank God he misses New Zealand. He’s coming back one of these days. We’re going to make it now….”

“You’ve suffered, haven’t you, man?” she asked.

“Aye. Rory asked one favor, to find you. He met your husband on Gallipoli and holds him in great esteem. He also knows that the two of you were divorced long before the war and only stayed together for the sake of his career.”

“Calvin has a good wife and a chance for recovery, although he still occasionally plunges into despair.”

“Father Dary wrote me how great Rory thought he was. Georgia, Rory pleaded with you from Gallipoli. He said he knew why you sent him off empty, so as not to saddle him with something he’d be sorry for after the war. He loves you more than ever, lass, like it would take half of forever to get over you….”

“Rory was equally unfair,” Georgia said. “We both knew he’d get mixed up in Ireland. He had every right to ask me to wait till the end of the war. He had no right to ask me to wait forever, without contact, only to wake up one morning and get a letter from Father Dary saying he’d been shot by a firing squad or hanged. So, I made the break clean for both of us, he not burdened by me and me the same.”

“But you are burdened by him,” Liam said. “You bore his child. I want to see my granddaughter.”

Georgia walked away.

“I want to see my granddaughter,” he repeated. He handed her his great handkerchief to dry and blow, dry and blow. “You loved him that much.”

“Ah Squire, don’t you know that after Rory Larkin gets his hands on you, you’re not much good for anyone else. It started as a lark, but by the time he went off to war I knew there’d never be the likes of him again, and I had to have something of his, forever.”

“You love him that much,” Liam repeated.

“Wars and deaths and boys enlisting under false names and divorced husbands who may or may not be divorced, you can be certain that the record offices are in a shambles, so many dead, so many unidentified. So, coming to Brisbane as a pregnant war widow was no trick at all. I’m entirely accepted here, and as for our child, it was the most beautiful decision of my life.”

Liam caught sight of a pram being rolled up Kangaroo Lane by a nanny, with a wee head sprouting over the top. Liam stumbled off the porch. He picked up the wane with a tenderness sometimes needed in his profession, like holding a stray lamb.

“Her grandda,” Georgia said to the nanny.

“What did you name her, now?” Liam asked.

“Rory,” Georgia said.

“Rory? But that’s a boy’s name.”

“Not anymore, Squire. The boys will have to share it.”

“Well, come to think of it, Rory O’Moore was a great Celtic King. The Chieftain of the Chiefs. Rory. That’s grand…Rory.” He edged his cheek to his granddaughter’s cheek as he held off the tears. The wee lass approved of him, and he breathed air from a sweet-scented place beyond all altars, all sky, beyond all mortal pleasure.

Sir Llewelyn checked the gear in at the rear of the utility lorry used for hauling and odd jobs at Brodhead Abbey. Fishing poles, boots, creel, fishing box, extra flies, lantern, stove, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

“Everything appears to be here,” he said to his caretaker, Mr. Mufflin.

“My missus packed the refreshments in this case.”

“Jolly good.”

“In the event of an emergency, may I say where the General has gone?”

Sir Llewelyn thought about it. Part of the game was taking the small risk that an emergency doesn’t come up. “Actually I’m driving south near Carrick-on-Shannon,” he said giving the opposite direction of where he was going. “I’ve a retired pal with a very secluded cabin—and Mufflin, I’m in desperate need of absolute quiet.”

“I quite understand, sir.”

“Brigadier Cushman has things well in hand at Dublin Castle. If someone calls, Mr. Mufflin, I will be here at Brodhead Abbey Sunday late afternoon and will be at Dublin Castle for Monday parade. Now crank me up.”

The van engine clug-clugged alive and in a moment he drove through the gates of Brodhead Abbey on down to the main road, where he turned north for the short trip up Inishowen Peninsula.

An hour later Brodhead turned onto a dirt road before
Carrowkeel, satisfied he had not been spotted or followed wearing fishing clothing in an old utility lorry. He came to a half before the pillars of the big iron north gate of the Earldom of Foyle.

As he emerged from the vehicle, Sir Llewelyn stiffened himself for the possibility of rejection, walking gingerly to the gate. Cheers! The lock was open and the chain down.

He shut the gate behind him and drove with the daylight to make it in before it grew dark, his mind now opened to a delirium of flesh-borne illusions. He pressed the throttle down, glimpsing occasionally about and behind him to see if anyone else were around. Clear, all clear. Clear sailing. There? The hillock and stand of birches. Yes! Yes! There was her automobile.

Brodhead parked next to her vehicle, just as the sun dipped behind the hill shading the surroundings. He walked briskly up the path still scanning for the unwelcome watcher.

“Hello!”

By George! There she was, waving and coming to him at a run. Powerful sighs of relief as they embraced hard. The magnificent smell of the peat smoke wisped to them as they made up the pathway, arms about the other’s waists.

Inside the main lodge room he set down his kit and they embraced and kissed. “I was beginning to get into a snit,” she said, “I was afraid you’d decided not to come.”

As she left to make herself comfortable, his eyes played over the rafters, he quickly opened and shut closet doors, poked back curtains, and otherwise looked for any sign of another person. There had been no shoe tracks on the path outside, and thus far, the place seemed alone to the two of them.

She came out as sheer and open as could be considered decent and seemed totally comfortable in a dressing gown that fell to and fro, just so.

Brodhead had peeked at some of her famous nudes at Rathweed Hall, although they were now out of public eye.

Brodhead wrestled with the top of a champagne bottle, and its blast spilled on him. Caroline assured him there was plenty more and suggested he, too, make himself comfortable. He returned in a silk brocade bathrobe of Asian design. Between mentally undressing her and continuing his suspicions, his unease became apparent.

“How did you manage to get all the supplies in?” he asked.

“There’s a large-wheeled pushcart in the barn for just that purpose.”

“Of course, how stupid of me.”

“I don’t blame you for being suspicious—” she began.

“Blast,” he interrupted. “This is all a bit new to me. It doesn’t feel quite natural without a platoon of guards.”

“I quite understand. Cheers, this will help settle things.”

About three-quarters through the bottle, a second one was uncorked and Llewelyn promenaded before the fire, hands clasped behind him, up on his toes, down and up on his toes again. On the sofa nearby, Caroline played her cleavage and bared leg to perfection and his attention became riveted.

If there was one thing Caroline Hubble was the master of, it was making her company feel at home. Comfortable he became. Two and a half decades of wondering about her would soon be realized.

The meal was exquisite.

He made a grope or two and she countered with an ethereal quality to touch in a way that he never had felt before or knew existed.

“I’m a dullard, Caroline, a bit unsure of myself.”

“You won’t be when we’re through, General, we’re on my battlefield now,” she said, “and stopping time slowly is what we’re going to do.”

“Woman, you are magnificent. Why me, or is that not to ask?”

“It wouldn’t have been proper of me to let my years of affection be known to you. I’ve always been amazed by your strength and single purpose, and you’re straightforward, as a British officer should be. I’ve always loved those things about you. Alas, dear Roger, along with his decent side, was a very devious human being. And alas, Gorman is certainly not all that much of a man beside you.”

“Why do you keep him around?”

“There aren’t many men I care to be with. And those I might want, I can’t have. Gorman is soft and entertaining, knows a lot of mutual jolly people.”

“I want to do this job here in Ireland with such finality, the War Council must give me a command in France,” he said suddenly. “I am going to return a field marshal.” He caught his breath. “I want to be able to come to you on an equal basis, and as the strongest and most gallant man you’ve ever met.”

“Maybe I can help, quietly, of course.”

“Would You?”

“Llewelyn, what do you want me to say? I don’t give myself easily. I am very taken by the thought of the power we could share.”

“May I sit beside you, Caroline?”

“First, pour us a little Irish, something with a bit more snap to it.”

Much of her lovemaking with Roger depended on her ability to fantasize, mostly to herself. Toward the end of their relation ship, she found him disgusting but played a role of feigning enjoyment. Can’t take that away from a man. It is his basis of his existence. Brodhead believed his uniform was the basis of his existence. Nonsense, he was no different. All of them were the same…except…Conor Larkin.

The slug of Irish whiskey helped a bit. Her revulsion toward Llewelyn Brodhead turned to hatred. You son of a bitch, she said to herself as she smiled and looked lovingly, while he reached inside her robe and grabbed a breast.

She slowed him down with sweet kisses and whispers
and he was awed into understanding that the game had a rhythm. Thank God, Caroline knew what was on his platter soon. The thought of it allowed her to translate his nauseating touches into an ecstasy. She ran her fingers through his hair and repeated, “Slowly, darling, softly,” as his lips searched her neck and shoulders like a hungry hyena.

Another grand jolt of Irish whiskey. Rory was right. Sir Llewelyn could not hold his booze. It was difficult to keep him in a gentle manner when his basic existence was heading for explosion.

Better not let him make a mistake now, she thought. It would probably humiliate him into impotence. Lovely thought, but she had to play the game this night to the letter…and she played him like a Stradivarius, quitting at just the proper instant.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment, my darling,” he said, breaking and calling on himself not to muck it up in front of her.

“Why don’t you slip under the sheets,” she said. “I’ll bring the refreshments in.”

Sir Llewelyn’s relief came just as he closed the bathroom door behind him. He gasped, arrayed himself, now dizzy with expectation and a lot more controlled.

He got into the bed. There was a fire and uh…well…mirrors about and the place was filled with incense and there she came….

He sat up, his eyes nearly flying off his face as she slowly disrobed at the foot of the bed. All that could be heard was the heaviness of his breathing.

“Hello, there,” she said, coming over the bed to him.

The rest of it was like a magnificent cavalry charge in slow motion…her words always reassuring as her hands played Chopin and Mozart over his body, including a theme or two from
The Magic Flute
. Distrust was gone now.

Caroline mastered him, bringing him alive, over and again until his collapse made him nigh onto immovable.

“Where are you going?” he rasped.

“A lady has to do her thing,” she said. “I won’t be long, darling, and darling, you are beyond wonderful….”

The pistol was in her purse, in a hidden compartment. Over there, by the dresser. Now? Think, Caroline. Don’t take him too lightly. He is a trained beast. Too easy to foul up now. She was queasy and felt ravaged…violated…but to keep her head, that’s what counted.

She got from the bedroom into a tub that had been heating and poured in a few buckets of water to get it right, then immersed herself and let the water’s curative powers take over. From there she went to the rear porch and vomited over the railing, then under an icy shower.

She made just enough noise closing the bedroom door to find out his state. Sure enough, the bastard was not full asleep. She cuddled up alongside him and kissed him and played with him until he groaned himself asleep. Not tonight, Caroline, not tonight. Each time she turned, he seemed alert to awaken, as though he were a wolf sleeping with one eye open. Play it smart, Caroline, play it smart.

The smell of bacon drifted into the bedroom. Llewelyn popped an eye open, remembered, and groaned with a sudden, new happiness.

“There’s my warrior.”

He lifted his head off the pillow…slowly. Caroline, looking fresh as the morning smiled in the doorway and entered with a tray in her hands, set it on the nightstand and sat beside him. He made it to a sitting position and she kissed him.

“Caroline,” he whispered.

“Here,” she said, handing him the tumbler with cognac and bitters. “Take this for the tummy wobbles.”

He emoted an “Ahhh,” then she handed him the second glass, “A little hair that bit the dog,” and she cuddled up next to him.

“Gin and tonic. Oh my. Good thing we don’t have a
twenty-mile forced march today.” He held her strongly with one hand and held the glass with the other. “Caroline, was I, you know, all right?”

“You don’t have to worry about a thing, Llewelyn,” she said.

“I’ve never had an experience approaching this,” he said.

“You’re quite a man,” she whispered, and touched him to see if things were alive and well. They were. “I’d like to slip into the sheets with you, but I think I’d better attend to the kitchen.”

“Do I have time to shower and shave?”

“Yes,” she said, “I lit the boiler. There should be plenty of hot water. Take your time, darling.”

As she stood, he took her hand, and his eyes misted up. He kissed her fingers. “Can we become lovers?” he asked.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” she said. “If you get out of Ireland and back to England, there’s a lot more maneuvering room.”

He watched her leave, a smitten man. Getting his legs under him took a bit of doing. He laughed and in a state of euphoria gloried in a singing shower, then lathered up to shave admiring the good-looking, virile chap in the mirror. He sipped his gin and tonic and groped around for a cigarette.

He found his smokes in the bedroom. Damned. No matches. Caroline’s purse. He called but caught a glimpse of her standing outside getting a breath of air.

Oh, what the devil. The purse was double normal size and he fished about, running his fingers over the bottom. As though magnetized, his hand felt something hard through the cloth. He traced it with his fingers.

Brodhead quickly closed the door and dumped the contents of the purse on the bed. The hard object was still there but not to be seen. He turned the purse over, studying its stiff bottom. There, a secret compartment.

Llewelyn quickly solved its riddle and stared at the Lenetti pistol.

*  *  *

“Well, it’s certainly good for one’s appetite,” he said, devouring a hunter’s breakfast.

“Beautiful day out,” she said.

“Well then, maybe we can take a little stroll?”

“I don’t want to get you too tired, too early,” she replied. “Ready for tea?”

“Yes, thank you.” He topped his breakfast with a pastry and a second cup. “You know, Caroline,” he said, rapping his fist impatiently on the table. “When we sadly have to part, I’m having it out with London. I say we resume the executions of the Easter Rising people. What do you think?”

“Oh, I think we’d better make a rule about politics.”

“In our class, isn’t it rather traditional to share a similar view?” he said.

“Freddie and Roger got along quite well with our differences.”

“So you think we should stop it.”

“It’s not making us look very good to the rest of the world, in that we’ve stated some very noble purposes for being in this war,” she said.

“To hell with what the world thinks! Did we care about world opinion when we went into India…or South Africa? Now the Turks, my late honorable enemy, there’s a crowd who knows how to keep traitors in their place. Armenia sided with Russia against the Turks, and by God, they’ve lived to regret it.”

Caroline was confused at his sudden turn. Word was just filtering out that the Turks had all but razed Armenia to the ground, killed all men of fighting age, and took old people, women, and children onto a death march all the way to Syria, guarded by the Turkish Kurds.

“The rumors of the death march are true?” she asked.

“Indeed. Those who survived the hunger, heat, rape, and beatings and got there alive were sent into huge
caves in the mountainsides, hundreds of thousands of them, and the Turks sealed the openings.”

“Llewelyn, what has gotten you so irritated?”

“Traitors,” he answered. “Let me tell you something, Caroline. In Gallipoli, when I ordered the Australian Brigades over the Nek and the slaughter started, I had but one regret. I regretted that it was not Irish troops I was sending over. We’d have that fewer to contend with after the war.”