“Good God, no!” said Smith, startled at the thought. “To tell you the truth I hadn’t thought about you doing anything — although everybody seems to have a job now.”
She drove him out of London in the Foy Steele and they explored the lanes of Surrey, lunched at a pub and walked in Oxshott woods. In the end she persuaded him to try to drive and it took little persuasion. He was eager. Only the certainty that he would make a fool of himself in front of a girl caused him to hesitate. Then he thought that it didn’t matter if he did look a fool in front of this girl. She explained the workings of the clutch, gears and brakes and how to start and to adjust the mixture and he made a terrible bash of it. But finally he got something of the hang of it and took it careering for two or three miles until a near-collision with a farm cart decided Eleanor that it was enough for one day.
They drove back to London and left the car in its garage, ate dinner at a quiet restaurant and walked back to the little house.
That night she was afraid but did not tell him, clung to him.
They woke muzzily to the rumble and clank of the ironwheeled milk cart with its churns and heard the boy come running to take their can, fill it and replace it on the front-door step. Between sleeping and waking he stared through half-open eyes at the ceiling and thought that today he had to go back to the flotilla. He thought about Sparrow and Marshall Marmont, and the U-boat commander, and young Morris, the airman…He hoped Naval Intelligence would make some sense of his report. He could not. But it haunted him. Schwertträger…Hinterrücks anfallen…Springtau…He mumbled, “Damn silly. Skipping-rope!”
“What?” She turned and rolled into his arms.
“A word. German. Springtau, springtie, something like that. Sanders said it meant skipping-rope.”
“Springtij isn’t German. I’d have thought you knew that one, being a salty sailor.” She snuggled into him.
“Not German?”
“No. It’s Flemish.”
He stared down at her. “How do you know?”
“Because my grandmother was Belgian and I’ve lived there a lot. I speak Flemish like I speak English. I said so that night at the Savoy but I don’t suppose you heard me with that woman bawling in your ear. Springtij is the extra high tide you get once or twice a month.”
“Twice.” He was wide awake now. Flemish. Springtij. Spring tide. The exceptionally high twice-monthly tide. He rolled away from her and out of her bed, pulled on his bath-robe over his nakedness and made for the door.
She sat up in the bed. “Where are you going?”
“To make a cup of tea! Breakfast! I’ve thought of something I must tell the Admiralty!” His voice came up from the stairs.
“What have you thought of?”
“Can’t tell you!” Flemish! Of course! The U-boat was out of a Flanders port and her commander had picked up the local term.
Eleanor Hurst said, “Oh!” He was leaving her today but she had known he would. She huddled down in the bed, shivering.
He told Intelligence about the spring tide because they had asked him to tell them anything he remembered but it did not help. A spring tide — but where? Flanders? Maybe. But then what? They were no nearer solving the puzzle. He left the Admiralty and ran to catch a passing cab. He had to return to Dunkerque — but first he must go to Eleanor Hurst’s house. He was ready to go back to sea but reluctant to say farewell to Eleanor Hurst. He worried at it as the cab rolled eastwards. How deep was her feeling towards him? He did not want to hurt her — and then he told himself coldly that he should have thought of that before. If he’d hurt her, then he was sorry. He had wanted her and taken her but — love? He was not sure, wary of the word.
“Wot ship, Cap’n?”
“Free cheers for the Nivy.”
He was jerked out of his abstraction. The cab had slowed to round a corner and a group of urchins, ragged and dirty and mostly bare-foot ran alongside. He grinned, lifted a hand in salute and they cheered. A tiny girl shrieked, “Touch your collar for luck!” But Smith was no bluejacket with a collar to touch and the cab was trotting on now, leaving them behind.
And his thoughts turned not to Eleanor Hurst but to Marshall Marmont and Sparrow. His mind was busy with them when the cab pulled up at the door of the little house and he jumped down and threw at the cabbie: “Wait!” He dug into his pocket for the key and opened the door. The house was still, the sitting-room and the kitchen beyond were empty. “Eleanor?” He called her name again as he ran up the stairs, tapped at the bedroom door and went in. She was where he had left her in the bed, curled small, her face turned towards the window.
He said tentatively, “Eleanor? Don’t you feel well?”
“I’m not ill.” The answer was flat and she did not look at him.
He went to sit on the edge of the bed and said awkwardly, “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”
“All right.” Her voice came muffled.
He was lost for words, knew vaguely what he wanted to say but not how to say it. He was sorry and grateful, fond of her. He picked up the leather case that held his razor, lather-brush and tooth-brush and glanced around but there wasn’t anything else. He looked at her and then down at the case and finally he said inadequately, “Thank you.” He tried again: “I won’t be far away and if I get leave I could come and —”
She said harshly, “No! You’re off to the bloody war and you won’t come back to me. Go away!”
There was a hammering at the door and the hoarse voice of the cabman called, “How long are you goin’ to be, guv? ‘Cos I’m booked for one o’ my regulars an’ I can’t ’ang abaht!”
“Coming!” Smith shouted it. He turned back to the girl but she neither moved nor spoke. He stared at her helplessly. She had known what he was and that he would have to leave her. What had changed her? Only a few short hours ago…He burst out, “What the hell’s the matter? What did you expect?”
She twisted in the bed and flung at him, “This! This is what I expected and I asked for it! Now get out!”
He shook his head, bewildered, and as the cabman banged again on the door said unhappily, “Well. Goodbye.”
He walked down the stairs, jammed the leather case into his valise and opened the door to the cabman. “Take the bag out, will you?” The cabman heaved the valise into the cab. Smith put the key on the hall-stand, picked up his cap and closed the door behind him.
He said, “Victoria, please,” and climbed into the cab. It lurched away as the horse broke into a weary trot. Smith ran his hand through his hair and jammed on his cap. He was sorry, and angry because he did not see what he had to be sorry for. It was a hell of a way to part. He glanced at his watch. There was a train he could just catch. If he went back to her now he would miss it. But for Eleanor, though, he would have spent the last two days wandering the city and making polite conversation with strangers because he would not impose on Sanders or the one or two like him. And there was more to it than that.
He shouted up at the driver, “Stop!”
The cabbie hauled on the reins, grumbling.
Smith looked out of the rear window and saw another cab leaving the house. A man stood at the door of the house, an Army officer, cap in hand. The door was opened and he stepped inside and out of sight.
Smith faced his front, staring blankly ahead. He could not believe it. She would not acquire another man, another lover so soon. It had to be coincidence…though she had known when Smith would leave because he had told her.