They stood with their backs to the taffrail until the band struck up again, then she threw away her half-smoked cigarette and turned to him.
“We’re off again. Put some feeling into it. Imagine you’ve just picked me up on the prom at Blackpool and we’ve really clicked.”
“Good Lord,” he grinned. “That’s not my line at all.”
“That’s why you’re so nice,” she murmured, pressing a little closer to him. “But try all the same.”
They danced the next three dances and with each he could feel his improvement. This was a new experience, and exciting that he could pick the steps up so quickly. But with an eye to the proprieties he felt that it must not be overdone. As they approached her mother he drew up.
“Thank you so much, Doris. It’s been simply grand, and now,” he looked at his new watch, “I must say goodnight.”
“Goodnight nothing, it’s quite early and we’re only beginning to have fun.”
“No, really, Doris, I have to go below.”
She stared at him, her slate-blue eyes clouding with anger and disappointment.
“How stupid can you be? Wasting everything, with this moon and when we’re just getting in the mood. We’ll sit out for a bit if you’re tired.”
“I’m not tired. But I do think it’s time we both turned in.”
Mrs Holbrook, who, awakening from her nap, had been watching them indulgently, seemed to think so too. She rose and came towards them.
“Time for bed,” she announced. “We’ve all had a busy day.”
“You’ve certainly made mine a pleasant one,” Moray said gracefully.
“You’ll be sorry you let me down like this,” Doris said in his ear, not moving her lips, as he passed her. “You just wait!”
She’s joking, he thought—can’t really mean it. Goodnights were exchanged, Doris’s a violently sulky one; she looked really put out. Then, with the last bars of “Desiree” still ringing in his ears, he went below to his cabin, switched on the light, and there, on his locker, confronting him like a reproach, were the letters from home.
Instantly his mood changed. Shocked at his own forgetfulness, he undressed quickly, climbed into his bunk and, swept by compunction, settled himself to read. There were in all half a dozen sheets to Mary’s letters filled with her large round careful handwriting. She began by acknowledging his letter from Marseilles, expressing her joy at his improved health. Yet she begged him to be careful still, especially of the night air, and she hoped that his duties were not proving too severe. As for herself, she was well, though missing him badly, marking off the days on her calendar until he would be back. But she was keeping herself busy, with lots of sewing and crochet work. She had bought material for curtains for their house, and also some remnants with which she had begun a patchwork quilt. There was the chance of a nice second-hand parlour suite, very good value, at Grant’s just off the Esplanade. She only wished that he might see it, but he would soon, they had promised to reserve it. Unfortunately her father had been somewhat poorly lately, but she had been able to help by doing a bit with Donaldson, the foreman, in the bakery. She signed herself simply: your own Mary.
He finished reading with a worried frown and an odd constriction of his heart. Did he not detect a note of anxiety, an undercurrent of despondency even, in her words? She wrote naively, always from an open heart, yet it might be that she had not told all. Hastily, he turned to Willie’s letter.
Dear Davie,
I hope you are well and having a good voyage. I wish I was with you. I would like to see all these foreign countries, especially Africa. Things have not been doing too well here since you left. The weather has been cold and wet and Father had a bad turn with his heart, it was after a man came to see him one day. I think he is bothered about the business. I heard Aunt Millie say that the Stoddarts have fairly got their knife in us. Mary is doing the scones now in the bakehouse. I am sure she is missing you an awful lot. I am too. So tell the captain to get a move on and hurry back.
Affectionately yours, Willie.
He put down the letter in concern, recognising from the brief and boyish phrases that Mary was having her troubles at home, and missing him too, so badly. His heart melted anew with love and longing, and with contrition, too, when he thought of the comfort, yes, the luxury, of his own pleasant life here. He wished suddenly that he had never taken this voyage. If only he could be beside her now to console and caress her. He must do something something. The need of swift response, of immediate action, grew upon him. He thought for a few moments with knitted brow, then took up the officers’ intercommunication phone. He asked for the wireless room. Saving though he was for their future, he must mortgage a little of his pay to reach Mary at once.
“Sparks, I want to send this radiogram.” He gave the address. “Letters just received Port Said. Don’t worry. Everything all right when I return. All my love David.”
When Sparks had repeated this, word by word, he thanked him and hung up, smiling faintly. How thrilled and delighted she would be to get his message soaring to her across the ocean, and how comforted too! His mind now more at ease, filled with loving thoughts, he switched off the light and settled himself to sleep.
Chapter Twelve
They were in the narrows of the Gulf of Suez, the peaks of Sinai shimmering above in a humid haze. For three days it had been hot, a harsh, insufferable heat. In the Red Sea the sun blazed down upon the Pindari; the rocks of Aden, grilled to a torrid ochre, cracked and fissured by the heat, were truly barren, and the port itself looked so uninviting that few passengers went ashore. The Holbrooks were amongst those who remained on board. Doris, indeed, since the night of the expedition at Suez, had not appeared on deck, being confined to her cabin with a slight indisposition, Mrs Holbrook explained to Moray. He was on the point of offering his services when a certain reserve in her manner, perhaps a hint that this was a delicate subject, deterred him. He decided it must be some mild monthly upset, a conelusion strengthened when Mrs Holbrook murmured intimately: “Dorrie occasionally gets these turns, doctor.” So he merely sent his regards adding that the inhuman heat was enough to knock out anyone.
The weather had suddenly made him extremely busy. Apart from a rush of surgery patients suffering from the usual complaints of dhobie itch, prickly heat and over-zealous endeavours to acquire a tan, he had several quite serious cases. He was particularly worried over the two Kindersley children, who had both gone down with acute colitis. Following on the Suez scare of amoebic dysentery, Mrs Kindersley was in a state of near panic, and as the twins were at one point critically ill he had himself begun to fear the worst. But after being in almost constant attendance for forty-eight hours, there was a sharp improvement just before dawn on the third day, and with an inward sigh of relief he was able to relieve the distracted mother. Red-eyed from weariness, collar undone, hair dishevelled, he straightened stiffly, read his clinical thermometer at the light.
“They’ll be up and around . . . making a nuisance of themselves . . .” he smiled and put his arm round her shoulders, “the beginning of next week.”
She broke down. She was a reserved, self-contained woman but, like Moray, she had barely slept for two nights.
“You’ve been so completely wonderful, doctor. How can I ever thank you?”
“By turning in and getting some rest. You’ve got to get fit for our tournament finals.”
“Yes.” She dried her eyes, trying to answer his smile. “I should like that nice tea-service for our bungalow. But isn’t your partner ill?”