To Risks Unknown (21 page)

‘I'd like that very much.'

She stood up lightly and crossed to his chair. ‘You really have had a bad time, haven't you? When did you last eat or sleep?'

Crespin said vaguely, ‘I forget.' He tried to push the dragging weariness aside. ‘It's not just that. I've just been to a house. To fetch a deserter.'

She nodded slowly. ‘I heard that you were being told about him.'

He shook his head. ‘I thought I'd met him before somewhere. I suppose if I hadn't been so clapped out I'd have sent someone else. In any case I was too late. He was dead. He'd blown his head off.' His tone was unnecessarily brutal, and he knew it was to cover a lie.

‘I see. I'm sorry.' She poured another drink into his glass. ‘I know I should care more than that.' She shrugged. ‘But I am so glad you're safe that I can't think very clearly myself.'

He reached out and took her hand. He did not remember actually doing it. It just seemed to happen. She made as if to pull it away but changed her mind, standing very close, so that he could feel the warmth of her body.

He said, ‘I've missed
you
very much, as it happens.' He half expected her to laugh it off, or change the subject for all time.

For a moment she said nothing. Then she replied quietly, ‘You're in no shape to take me out to dinner, are you?' She did not allow him to protest. ‘If you like we can have something here. There's a bath adjoining this room, so why not take advantage of it?' She smiled. ‘You'll find a razor in there, too. I use it for my legs, but beggars can't be choosers!'

He squeezed her fingers. ‘I'd like that very much. If you're sure?'

‘I'm quite sure. I wasn't until I saw you again. But I am now.'

He stood up still holding on to her hand. ‘When you go to Malta …'

But she put her other hand across his mouth. ‘That's tomorrow. This is now.'

The next instant she was in his arms and he was pulling her against him, feeling her mouth against his, the desperate longing flooding through him like fire.

Then she pushed him gently away. ‘Go and have that bath. That's an order,
sir
!' But this time she could not look at him. ‘When you're a bit more presentable I'll ring down for some food, maybe even a bottle of wine.'

He could see her breasts rising and falling under the shirt, could almost feel the tension in the room like a living force.

He tried to smile. ‘I'll be as quick as I can.'

But they did not eat, nor did she ring for any wine.

When he left the bathroom the room was deep in shadows, and although the windows were wide open there was not a breath of wind to break the stillness.

She was lying on the bed, the silk cover pulled tight against her chin, her eyes watching him without expression. In the half-light she looked like a child, he thought. He sat on the edge of the bed and touched her hair. It was no longer restricted but lay loose across the pillow and felt very thick and soft.

Her voice was husky and less controlled. ‘I have to go to Malta tomorrow …'

He touched her mouth very gently. ‘You said we were not to talk about tomorrow.'

‘There's so little time. I just wanted you to know …' She reached out and gripped his shoulder. ‘You
do
understand?'

He felt her fingers digging into his shoulders as if she was in pain as he pulled the cover from beneath her chin and threw it on to the floor.

Against the sheet her body was very tanned, except for her breasts which protected from the sun looked very white beneath his fingers.

She closed her eyes and gave a small cry. ‘I don't want it to end!'

Then he was down and felt her mouth pressing into his, her tongue like a trapped animal. She reached round his shoulders, her nails biting into his flesh, pulling him down and down as her body arched to encircle and hold him.

When it was over he lay for a long time with his face in her hair, feeling her mouth moving against his throat in small, soundless words. Then he slipped on to his side, and as she cradled his face between her breasts he fell into a deep sleep. For once there was no dream to reawake the old memories. Just darkness, and an overwhelming sense of fulfilment.

As the window changed to a rectangle of bright stars the girl stayed very still, holding him to her, watching him as he slept until she, too, could watch no more.

CRESPIN'S ESTIMATION OF
the ship's damage and the time required to effect minimum repairs proved far more accurate than Scarlett's cursory verdict. Apart from the mauling sustained to the hull and superstructure there was extensive damage to electrical circuits, and Moriarty's frantic demands for spares were either ignored or delayed by far-off staff officers who obviously considered the needs of the armada in and around Sicily to have first claim on everything.

Perhaps like everyone else they had been more surprised than excited by the successes which had marked the whole campaign. There had been so many reverses and bloody setbacks in the Mediterranean war that the firm Allied advances from the beach-heads and the quick succession of victories had left the planners breathless. Only the Germans fought back with the same tenacity and vigour, while their Italian counterparts surrendered and deserted in such vast numbers that the American and British troops were hard put to accommodate them.

To set an edge on the enemy's reverses Rome Radio had announced that the King of Italy had demanded and received Mussolini's resignation, and had even gone so far as to dissolve the Fascist party. The knot which had tied the Italians and Germans together for nearly four years of war was slipping, and once the Allies were able to land on the Italian mainland it would be finally broken.

Surprisingly, Scarlett received Crespin's weekly reports on progress without comment or complaint. He had no doubt been anticipating another raid behind the enemy's lines, but the swift Allied advance, the capture of ports and aerodromes, made any such effort unnecessary.

So week followed week, with the ship's company and Moriarty's mechanics working as best they could to put right the damage. Crespin tried unsuccessfully to obtain permission to dock the ship and carry out a fuller inspection of the lower hull. It seemed that as far as the Navy was concerned the
Thistle
was too small a unit to receive any sort of priority. Thirty-eight days after she had backed away from the shell-scarred pier and the blazing German tanks the
Thistle
was as ready for sea again as she could be under the circumstances. Her many wounds were covered, if not completely hidden, and from stem to stern she gleamed with fresh paint and newly acquired fittings which Moriarty had begged or wheedled from a dozen dubious sources.

The delay of her return to duty had other, more beneficial effects. The new men who had come from England to replace the dead and badly wounded had time to settle down in their fresh surroundings, while the rest took every opportunity to enjoy the freedom of Sousse. Chasing women or drinking, hunting for that indefinable something which all shorebound sailors hope to find, yet would not recognize if they did, passed away the time and helped to drive the old uncertainties and fears well into the background.

No one ever spoke of the dead deserter any more, and most could hardly remember what he looked like.

Even in the wardroom there had been one change. An additional officer had joined the ship during the second week, and his arrival was greeted with pleasure, although for different reasons. Sub-Lieutenant Jocelyn Defries was slim and extremely fair, with almost Grecian good looks. For the previous nine months he had been in the submarine service, his boat operating in the North Sea and Baltic, until after being pinned on the sea bottom by enemy destroyers and depth-charged for nearly twelve hours his nerve had given way.

It had been nothing dramatic, and outwardly it had not even shown, but in that élite service the symptoms were as recognizable as they were dangerous. He had been informed he was no longer suitable for submarines. It was just one of those things. Not that he needed to be told.

Defries was hard to draw out and seemed remote to a point of controlled detachment. But Porteous took to him from the start, and was doubly pleased to be able to unload some of the ship's paperwork, which as junior officer he had previously carried alone. The additional officer would also be a blessing as far as watchkeeping was concerned, and the duties could be more evenly divided.

Shannon on the other hand welcomed the young officer as one more junior upon whom he could use his newly acquired seniority. It was amazing how Shannon had changed since his promotion. He seemed to have grown in size, and aired his knowledge in a manner which was fast becoming both pompous and unbearably condescending.

Wemyss watched them all with amusement and tolerant good humour, for with Moriarty living as a temporary resident in the ship during the repairs he was able to leave the others to their own devices.

The day the last enemy resistance in Sicily ceased and the bulk of the German rearguard crossed the three miles of water to the Italian mainland, Crespin received his sailing orders. He did not really know what he had been expecting, for while the overhaul had been under way he had felt that his ship and her role were fast becoming redundant. If the Italian invasion, when it came, was as swift as the Sicilian one, it seemed unlikely that there would be anything worthwhile for Scarlett's Circus to perform. The
Thistle
might even be sent back to the Atlantic to serve out her time in the one battle which never seemed to flag.

But it was not to be, nor was he to go to one of the newly occupied ports in Sicily. His orders merely told him to sail forthwith for Malta and await instructions.

During the past weeks Crespin's thoughts had returned again and again to that one night he had spent with Penelope Forbes. Sometimes, after a bad day, he had imagined her with someone else, had tortured himself with a hundred possibilities and doubts. On other occasions it was hard to believe it had ever happened. And now, with the arrival of the coded signal, she was right back in the forefront of his mind. She would be there in Malta. With Scarlett. The realization acted both as a tonic and a warning.

They slipped their moorings at dawn and by midday were some sixty miles to the north-east. Sousse lay astern, hidden below the horizon, and Crespin doubted if they would ever see it again.

The ship seemed pleased to be at sea again and thrust through the clear blue water with the indifference of one who has seen it all before. For unlike those she carried within her hull she had neither fears nor hopes, and her destiny lay in the hands of those who controlled her. That was the way of ships, and had always been so.

As Crespin sat on his steel chair on the bridge and watched the shimmering horizon swaying gently across the bows he wondered what Scarlett would find for them to do. A man of his energy and ambition needed action. It was to be hoped that his needs would not blunt his judgement. He heard Shannon muttering something down the voice-pipes to the helmsman and smiled to himself. Shannon's second stripe was a visible reward of that last raid. Scarlett's vague promises had otherwise amounted to very little as far as the ship's company were concerned. Crespin had received a bar to his D.S.C., but only one other decoration had been allotted for the rest. After some heart-searching he had decided to award the medal to Lennox, the S.B.A., for his work before and after the final evacuation of the raiding party. With only limited skill and few pieces of medical equipment at his disposal Lennox had more than proved himself. He accepted the award with more embarrassment than pleasure, but the rest of the ship greeted the choice with popular agreement.

Perhaps if Scarlett had taken part in the operation everyone aboard would have got a medal. Such things were not unknown. He knew he was being unfair, just as he knew the reason for it. Someone had once said to him that envy and jealousy always walked hand in hand with extreme joy. But he was not envious of Scarlett. If anything, a man with so much personal ambition was to be pitied. But he was in Malta, and so was the girl. He stirred uneasily on the chair. And there was no doubt in his mind that she admired Scarlett, perhaps even more than that. He could not find it in his heart to blame her. Scarlett was a man of influence and charm, and after the war he would have much to offer any woman. Whereas he … he glanced round the bridge. A peacetime Navy, pared down to the bones, with a nation so grateful to be at peace again it would soon forget the lessons of weakness and unpreparedness. He had often heard older officers speak of the bad times which followed the First World War, when even experienced and senior ones were thrown on the beach jobless, with no trade to help them face the new world which had rejected them and had forgotten the part they had played to save the nation from defeat.

He shook himself angrily. They had to win the bloody war first, and from where he sat it still looked as if there was a long way to go.

The long low room overlooking Valletta harbour was pleasantly cool after the sunlight outside, and as he sat in a cane chair listening to Scarlett's voice Crespin felt suddenly drowsy. Through an open window and between a gap in the sandbagged barriers he could see a triangle of blue water, the anchored warships and transports swinging above their reflections like scale models. For once it appeared safe from the constant and pitiless air raids which had been Malta's lot for so long.

Scarlett always seemed to be able to find himself comfortable headquarters, he thought, no matter where he chose to settle. What with the amount of bomb damaged buildings, the overcrowding of naval and military staffs on the island, it must have taken a good deal of influence to obtain this place.

The corvette had anchored just an hour earlier, and a curt message had brought him ashore almost before he had time to arrange for further fuel supplies to be delivered.