“Dreaming of home, eh?”
Shaw smiled fleetingly. “Well, not exactly.” Then he looked curiously at James. “You’ve been in London… what does it mean to you?”
James laughed, took up his drink and said lazily: “Why, I dunno… reckon it means, well, drizzle in Tilbury first of all, then rain in St James’s Park… crowds in the rush hour, traffic jams around Piccadilly Circus and in Regent Street. That sort of thing.”
“Exactly.” Shaw’s eyes were very far away. “That’s what it means. Rain in St James’s Park, traffic jams, crowds… and do you know something? I rather like it.” What he’d wanted to say, but for the sake of politeness hadn’t said, was. And deep down I just can’t wait to see it again.
Three weeks later, still heavily bandaged, Shaw was driven in to Kingsford Smith and went aboard the Qantas for London.
Judith, for whom he’d wangled a passage home, was with him. His report had gone to Latymer in departmental cypher some time before and he had also had a chat with the Old Man on the long-distance closed line from a certain office in Canberra. They’d talked about quite a number of things during that call, but, as the stratocruiser circled over Heathrow at the end of its trip from Sydney and Shaw picked out the broad white ribbon of the Great West Road and the traffic crawling along it, he had only three things in his mind. One was that the Government was going to see to it that some recognition of Donovan’s sacrifice in tipping them off was given to the man’s daughter, which was partly why Judith was now bound for London. The second was that he’d soon be seeing Debonnair again.
And the third thing had to do with Debonnair as welclass="underline" Latymer had promised to see to it that he got that interrupted leave, and he meant to go right back to Paris again. For some time before that landing Shaw was silent and preoccupied; Judith kept giving him reserved little glances.
But, of course, she understood.