She threw herself on the bed and watched him. ‘I should be in pure silk, not army issue, for a moment like this.’ She giggled.
Boyes sat beside her and touched her skin, then her breasts. She moved to make it easy for him, until she lay quite naked, surprised that she could feel shy while he finished undressing.
She rolled down the sheet. ‘Slip in beside me. It’s bloody cold in here.’
But still Boyes waited, without knowing why. A girl all of his own, her curly hair in disarray against the pillows, her breasts full and pink-tipped, as he had known they would be. He tortured his dazed mind a little longer, then climbed into the bed.
At any second someone might come banging at the door, no matter what she believed, but nothing save this moment mattered, nothing but his Connie.
She lay back and felt his hands exploring her breasts, then down into her hair and her smooth thighs.
If he kept this up, neither of them would hold out for long. She reached out and gripped him, felt his body quiver as if he had received a shock.
‘Come, Gerry!’ She murmured against his skin but retained her hold of him. It was his first time, she had always known it would be, but there was no hesitation or disappointment after all.
Lieutenant Hargrave walked quickly across the hotel lobby and looked around at all the uniforms. It was the first time he had returned to the Savoy Hotel since his father had given a dinner party here when he had got his first ring. God, how long ago that felt.
Hargrave had come from their home in Hampshire, the same place he had known all his life. In fact, he had been born there. Old, comfortable and dependable – even with the grounds dug into vegetable gardens, with pigsheds kept as far away from the house as possible, it did not seem to have changed.
The hardest thing to stomach had been the gardeners who joined in the country’s craze to Dig for Victory, even to be self-supporting in some cases. All the gardeners were Italian prisoners-of-war, with a foreman who was apparently a conscientious objector.
When he thought of the ships he had watched go down, men wearing the same uniforms as Rob Roy’s company, choking out their lives while they drowned in fuel, it seemed unrealistic and unfair.
His mother had explained that the vice-admiral was staying in London again now that his headquarters had shifted back to England. To be ready for instant briefings, to advise Churchill, to send ships and men wherever they might be needed. He wondered if his mother really believed all of it.
At the Admiralty he had been politely informed that the vice-admiral was on tour, after his return from the West Country where he had witnessed Sherwood’s success with the mine.
‘You can leave your number, sir.’ Which meant that they firmly believed that if Vice-Admiral Hargrave had intended anyone to know the address of his private billet, he would have told them himself.
But an old messenger had whispered, ‘Your father often drops into the Savoy for a drink after he’s finished here, sir.’ His watery eyes had lit up as Hargrave had put a pound note in his fist. ‘Why, bless you, sir.’
Unknown to Hargrave he often sold tit-bits of information to junior officers in this way.
‘May I help you, sir?’
The concierge regarded him gravely. He probably thought this was no place for a mere lieutenant, a regular or not.
i was looking for my father.’ He felt some of the others in the lobby watching him. He was suddenly angry with them and himself. His father would feel at home amongst them, he thought, there seemed to be no one less than a brigadier in the place. He continued, ‘Vice-Admiral Hargrave.’
The concierge’s eyes did not even flicker, i think not, sir. But I shall enquire right away.’
A small page marched through the throng of uniforms carrying a card on a stick. It read Air-Raid Warning in progress. Nobody took any notice. It could just as easily have been an announcement about a telephone call.
‘Well, this is a surprise, Lieutenant.’
He turned, still angry, then caught aback by the girl who was watching him, her lips slightly parted in an amused smile.
Second Officer Ross Pearce looked anything but an admiral’s flag-lieutenant. She wore a long dress of dark blue silk, and there was a diamond clip below one shoulder which must have cost a fortune.
‘I hope it is a pleasant one?’ She pouted, and although she was obviously well aware of the watching, envious glances, she was equally able to ignore them.
Hargrave began, ‘I came looking for my father.’
‘Oh dear. Well, I’m afraid he’s not here.’ She touched her lip with her tongue. ‘I am not permitted to tell you where he is.’
Hargrave said, ‘Well, I thought you would know!’
Her smile faded. ‘I can understand your feelings, I think, but I do not have to tolerate your rudeness!’
Hargrave stepped closer. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to behave like a ten-year-old schoolboy, really. Could we begin again?’
He expected another rebuff and was surprised at his own surrender.
She was tall, cool, and extremely beautiful.
He added, ‘It was just that I was expecting—’
She nodded slowly, her eyes examining him without curiosity.
‘As I said, he’s not here.’ She gave a small shrug. ‘But join me, if you like. You can tell me about Husky.’ She mentioned it so casually she might have been on the beach in Sicily. ‘I’d like that. All the reports, the despatches coming every hour to our H.Q. in Malta – well, it’s not like the real thing, is it?’
A waiter hovered near her elbow, ‘Shall I lay the table for two then, m’lady?’
She smiled at him. ‘Please.’
Hargrave was floundering. My lady. ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t told.’
‘Does it make any difference? Anyway, the vice-admiral probably thought it less irksome this way. He likes to feel dominant – but I expect you know that?’
Hargrave did not know what to say. Her direct, challenging manner was like nothing he had experienced. He was in awe of her after just a few minutes, and yet strangely stimulated, as if the reason for his being here no longer counted.
She eyed the menu and said, ‘Afterwards we can talk about you, and the command you hope to get. How does that suit?’
Hargrave had the feeling he was getting into something which was already out of control.
Ransome sat on the well-padded arm of a familiar chair and felt the warmth, and yet the unreality of his homecoming. His father, back to the blazing log fire, was in his favourite old sports jacket with the leather patches on the sleeves; Jack Weese held a pewter tankard of cider in his fist while he listened to the conversation, the reunion of a family he loved like his own. His wife was in the kitchen helping to prepare the Sunday lunch, which from what Ransome had glimpsed through the door threatened to be a gargantuan one.
Occasionally he let his hand stray close to Eve’s shoulder. She was sitting below him in the deep chair, and whenever she felt or sensed his hand close to her she would move slightly against it, or turn to glance up at him.
Ransome looked at his brother and wondered. Even after the months of treatment, and two operations to repair the damage left by a wound which had gone bad on him, he looked thin and very pale.
He was finished with M.T.Bs, he had already been told that. His first disappointment seemed to be behind him; now he was more concerned that the navy might find him unfit for any service at all. It seemed unlikely, but Tony had had plenty of time to brood about it, and what had done this to him.
He seemed as irrepressible as ever. He said, i mean, I’m fit enough – everything still works, as the bishop said to the actress!’ He shot Eve an a apologetic grin. ‘Sorry!’