‘Nay, he’s some prat one-pipper from the Hussars. Looks as if she’s using him to fire up our master gasman — to say nothing of Jimmy Robertson.’
Looking around the crowded room, they found their anaesthetist standing with Peter Bright against the opposite wall, an untouched beer in his hand, scowling at the pair on the dance floor. As they watched, a handsome redhead in a white dress rose from a nearby table where she was sitting with several more nurses and a couple of young men. Going up to Peter Bright, she said something, but he smiled and shook his head.
‘That’s another factor in the equation, Tom,’ said Alec, who seemed to be a mine of information on the scandals and intrigues of Tanah Timah.
‘Who’s she?’ Tom asked, as he watched the auburn-haired girl talk animatedly to the surgeon.
‘That’s our Joanie. . Joan Parnell, QA sister on Medical One. She’s like a rash!’
‘What d’you mean — like a rash?’
‘She’s all over you! Especially if you’re Peter Bright, she’s got the hots for him even though everyone knows he’s after Diane Robertson.’
Joan had now wrestled the glass from Peter’s hand and putting it down on a shelf, was dragging him to the dance floor, leaving David Meredith alone and even more darkly morose.
‘I’m getting confused over all this,’ muttered the pathologist. ‘It’s like one of these Whitehall farces, with people popping in and out of bedroom doors.’
‘You won’t get that, at least not on hospital premises,’ said young Watson. ‘Both the Matron and our Old Man keep their beady eyes firmly on the bedroom doors in BMH.’
Just then, Alec spotted a couple of members leaving the bar and they quickly slid on to their vacated stools. ‘That’s better, we can see the action in comfort now,’ he said smugly.
The nubile Joan Parnell was wrapping herself enthusiastically around their surgeon on the dance floor and Peter Bright, though enjoying the feel of a lithe body in his arms, was casting wary glances around the room as they revolved slowly to the music.
‘Pete’s on the lookout for the evil eye from Memsahib Robertson,’ explained Watson, his boyish face alive with interest at the goings-on around him. ‘Though I haven’t seen her here yet, maybe the shooting has given her the vapours.’
Tom was still doggedly working out the romantic permutations. ‘Her husband’s here, anyway. You reckon he’s having a fling with this Lena woman, the one that our gasman is keen on?’
‘That’s it — and rumour has it that for years he’s been playing away with Rosa, until just recently.’
‘Who the hell’s Rosa?’
‘The wife of his manager, Douglas Mackay. They’re here somewhere, I’ve seen them.’
‘Bloody hell, this is like something out of Somerset Maugham!’
Tom buried his face in his Tiger while he sorted out the machinations in his mind. ‘Any more shenanigans I should know about, while you’re at it?’ he asked, when he surfaced.
‘Not that I know of,’ admitted Alec regretfully. Then he brightened a little, ‘Apart from our dear Commanding Officer, of course!’
‘Jesus, don’t say he’s been rogering someone too? I thought he was married?’
‘He is — that’s the point! His missus was out here with him until two months ago, then she suddenly ups and goes home to UK. She was a right old battleaxe and the whisper is that she got fed up with him. But no one knows why?’
‘Where does he live, then?’
‘He’s still in his married quarter in Garrison, thank God. By rights, he should quit and come to live in the Mess, now that he’s on his own. That would be bloody awful, having the old bastard amongst us, but I think he’s got some pull with the Brigadier, who’s letting him stay on in his house. He’s only got three months to go before RHE, so perhaps we’ll escape a fate worse than death!’
Howden looked along the bar to where James Robertson was regaling another relay of listeners with his tale of derring-do.
‘Doesn’t he know his wife’s having it away with Peter Bright?’ he murmured.
Watson shrugged. ‘Dunno — but it’s difficult to keep any secrets in an incestuous place like TT. If the padre farts, everyone knows within ten minutes, so even though Jimmy Robertson is as thick as two short planks, he must surely have his suspicions.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t want to know, especially if he’s at it himself.’
Alec nodded over his glass. ‘Quite possible — he’s had plenty of practice, I hear. The delicious Diane is said to have been putting it about for years. Not much else to do around here,’ he added cynically.
Their scandalmongering was interrupted when a beckoning hand waved at them from one of the tables. It was Major Hawkins, the Matron, resplendent in a pink dress that looked like a floral bell-tent. She was sitting with four other girls who Tom assumed were QAs.
‘Come and meet some of the staff, doctor,’ she said kindly. Tom was warmed by her words, as he hadn’t been called ‘doctor’ since he left Tyneside — it was either ‘Captain’ or ‘Howden’. The two men perched on the arms of the girl’s chairs and Alec helped the Matron to introduce them. Tom caught a couple of names, but remembered only one afterwards as Lynette, a slightly chubby brunette with a pretty round face and a Yorkshire accent.
They all launched into the usual polite babble of ‘Where do you come from. . was it cold at home when you left. . d’you play tennis. . what d’you think of it so far,’ until Tom was in a haze of pleasant disorientation, but temporarily cured of his homesickness.
Of course, Alec knew them all — and probably all their business — and after a while, went off to dance with one, so Tom recklessly asked Lynette if she would like to take the floor. He was an indifferent dancer, but in the confines of the tiny space, now filled with shuffling couples, there was little harm that he could do to her feet. He acquitted himself fairly well and thoroughly enjoyed it.
The ice broken, he danced with a couple of the others and even offered himself to Doris Hawkins, who tactfully declined on the grounds that she had a bunion. At that moment, a gong was hammered by one of the club servants to announce that the buffet was served and everyone began streaming towards the dining room next door. Standing back to let the ladies through first, Tom found Alfred Morris behind him.
‘Fast workers, you Geordies!’ he chaffed. ‘A nice little girl, that Lynette.’
‘I suppose I’ll be the target for gossip tomorrow,’ grinned Tom.
‘Tomorrow? It’ll already have started, lad.’ The Admin Officer suddenly stopped and Tom noticed his head jerk round, then swing back.
‘We’ve got company, son.’ As they shuffled towards the dining room, they were overtaken by a lean figure shepherding a spectacular blonde. The men stood aside to let Diane Robertson through, Desmond O’Neill following closely behind, a fixed grin on his saturnine face.
‘Where the hell did he find her?’ muttered Alec Watson.
‘Maybe that’s why his wife went home in a huff!’ hazarded Tom.
The young Scot glared at him pityingly. ‘Come off it, he’s old enough to be her father. Even the fabulous Diane wouldn’t touch old Death’s Head.’
When they got inside the other room, they saw that their Commanding Officer had ushered the blonde over to her husband, who was vigorously attacking the sandwiches, chicken thighs and curry puffs. James did not seem to be particularly excited at the delivery, giving his dearly beloved a grunt as he handed her an empty plate and serviette.
‘Does the colonel come here a lot?’ Tom asked Alf Morris, who he found alongside him as their turn came to pile their plates with food.
‘Plays bridge quite a bit and uses the pool, but he only started coming to the dance night since his wife went home.’
The pathologist looked across at where their lord and master was picking at his food. Though almost all the other men just wore shirt and tie, O’Neill had a rather old-fashioned cream linen jacket over his, contrasting strongly with the wide red, blue and gold stripes of the Medical Corps tie that hung down from his collar. It reminded Tom of his grandad, who used to wear a similar jacket with a straw hat when he went to play bowls in Gateshead Park.