All the while, Pedro was earnestly wrestling with the concept of boiled eggs and ‘soldiers’, thin strips of toasted bread which one dipped in the warm, runny yellow yoke, ideally without spreading bits of both liberally about one’s local environment.
He was still a long way from mastering this latter trick.
Henrietta looked at the boy, a dob of yellow yoke on the tip of his nose, and smiled proudly. She picked up a napkin and tenderly removed the spillage.
Melody arched an eyebrow.
“Did you?” She asked, pointedly, wanting to know if her friend had obeyed her ‘plan of action’ to the letter.
“Yes, I got into the bath with him.”
Melody waited patiently.
“And I took off my clothes first,” her friend confirmed.
“Good girl,” Melody said, smiling.
She knew how hard Henrietta would have found that, making herself weak, vulnerable. Although, on the other hand, she assumed Alonso must have been similarly… deliciously naked at the time.
Henrietta giggled like a schoolgirl.
A maid came in with fresh hot water for the teapot.
Shortly afterwards, Alonso entered the room.
He bowed and kissed Henrietta’s hand; Melody thought that was sweet and it allayed her guilt, a little, when the man gave her an apologetic grimace.
Poor man, this was all rather odd for them all.
Alonso poured himself a cup of black coffee and sat down to Henrietta’s right and Melody’s left at the small round table. In their discomfort the adults focused on Pedro, who, like any small child thrived on being the centre of attention.
“Well, here we all are,” Melody declared, gently restraining the boy on her lap, knowing it would not help the ambience of the moment if he tipped her cup of tea down her front.
“Yes,” Alonso agreed, pausing to sip his drink. “Melody,” he began, halted, and looked to Henrietta for help.
If Melody had learned anything in her – certainly by New England standards – eventful, sometimes fraught, unconventional and lately, overly dangerous life as she rapidly approached her forties, it was that for her at least, nothing stayed the same forever. She had been Alonso’s mistress for a few short weeks, with a civil war in between; and Henrietta’s friend and lover for less than a year. Those were ecstatic interludes and she had known as much. Real life was more complicated and she was not so good at that. Given that fate had decreed that there should be a sweet-natured, adorable four year old boy who called her ‘Mama Melody’ presently sitting contentedly on her lap – that was a thing she had never expected – and that both her lovers were only know embracing the change already turning their lives upside down, it was proof positive that one never really knew what life was going to throw up next.
She was also wise enough to know that notwithstanding her two lovers probably did not want to risk losing her, that it would be profoundly foolish to attempt to carry on as before. So, putting aside she was going to cry her eyes out later, and possibly in the days to come, the time had come to recognise that things were what they were.
“I expect to be this little rascal’s godmother,” she said, brushing her lips across Pedro’s mop of tousled still fair hair. “And for us all to stay friends. We can work out how that actually works in practice another time.”
Nobody broke the silence except Pedro, happily chuntering to himself as a youngster will, as Melody gently wiped his face. Having exhausted the possibilities of his boiled egg and soldiers, he was seeking new challenges. He began to squirm, soon he was standing on Melody’s lap, his hands transferring crumbs and tiny gobbets of congealing egg, to her hair.
Never mind, now my hair is so short it washes out easily…
She looked to Alonso.
“I won’t deny I completely loved being your mistress, Alonso. I wouldn’t have missed that for the world but,” she shrugged, “if I’d known the way Hen felt about you that would never have happened. I’ll go on feeling a little guilty about that for a while, most likely. So, staying as friends is good for me. And to be your kids’ favourite Aunt, obviously.”
Chapter 38
Monday 8th May
SMS Emden, 8 nautical miles NNE of San Juan
As the noon-day sun beat down on her scorched and torn up decks the cruiser was sinking. Slowly but surely the water was filling her battered, cruelly abused hull and the few remaining pumps were fighting a losing battle.
Peter Cowdrey-Singh and Kapitan-zur-See Claude Wallendorf stood together in the shadow of Caesar, the aft main batter turret jammed at an angle of forty degrees to port, its right-hand gun warped out of alignment by a direct hit.
The two men watched the last of the wounded being transferred to HMS Venom, which with the other two destroyers, the Electra and the Express, had taken off the last of the civilians and three-quarters of the Emden’s survivors. The only men on board now were volunteers manning the pumps, and acting as runners enabling Wallendorf and his officers to fight to keep the ship afloat as long as possible.
Had the waters not been very nearly a millpond, almost glassily calm the destroyers would have had no opportunity to come alongside, and many of the women and children, the sick and the injured, would have surely drowned in the oil-fouled sea.
Peter Cowdrey-Singh was ever-more grateful for mercies large and small.
During that last, slow-motion turn to the north the cruiser had been systematically dismantled by those shore batteries, perhaps a dozen 6-, 5-, and 4-inch guns smashing away at her over open sights, albeit poorly handled by guns crews who had probably not drilled in months, soon after the bombing and the shelling had begun. The cannonade had ceased within a minute of that torpedo exploding somewhere near the stern, possibly when it encountered a sand bank. That had seemed like the end of the world at the time. The detonation had opened up the packing around the starboard shaft, probably bent it out of true and within minutes flooded one of the machinery compartments.
Suddenly, the ship had been crawling, slewing sideways, drawn helplessly on the ebbing tide into the mouth of the anchorage. Once, twice she had touched bottom and then, capable of only making two or three knots under her own steam, she had been carried out to sea…
Anything and everything pale or white had been waved at the Gimlet amphibian, which they now knew was from the Indefatigable, which had come to investigate the sinking hulk, flying wide, slow concentric circuits of the dying ship.
And then the destroyers had come racing out of the haze with streaming white crescent bones in their teeth.
And miraculously, the rescue had begun.
The Emden sagged under the two men’s feet.
“Not long now,” Claus Wallendorf sighed. He turned to face Peter Cowdrey-Singh. “I hope my old friend Weitzman has been looking down on us these last few hours. Honour in the Kaiserliche Marine is not dead.”
“Indeed, it lives, Her Kapitan,” the Royal Navy man agreed.
The two men shook hands.
“We shall meet again on the other side, sir,” the Anglo-Indian promised, straightening to his best impression of attention, and crisply saluting the older man.
It was time to go.
For Peter Cowdrey-Singh life continued; Claude Wallendorf was travelling another road.
They would never meet again in this world.
EPILOGUE
Chapter 39
Saturday 13th May
Vera Cruz, México