He had driven George Harfield, Anna and her grandson back to Rinsey in the mine owner’s jeep, while the rest of the units had been taken straight back to base camp near Ipoh. He had no illusions that had there been another signaller the major would not have sent him back to the plantation. When the order was given, and Alan was helping the Malayan woman into the jeep, he had been able to sense the major’s personal irritation with him. He had half thought he might order him to show what he had put back into his breast pocket.
But now, with the bucket angled to release the last of the water and gently wash the lather from his body, he felt wonderful. He ran his hands over his chest, his shoulders, his thighs, revelling in that rare moment in the close tropical heat when he was wet all over but clean, smelling good.
He tied the towel around his middle and stepped across the path to his hut. Completely enervated, he did not attempt to rub himself dry but lay down on his bed letting the wetness evaporate slowly from his skin.
Rest after labour, peace after aches and pains, he thought. His mind wandered and wondered over legions of soldiers over the ages who had learned not only how to fight and perhaps even die, as he had seen the young communist boys die that day, but also to live, to value every minute granted to them.
With his hands under his head he lay contemplating this bonus of time he had been granted at Liz Hammond’s home. He turned his head to see the photograph he had propped open against the wireless. He vowed he would take his opportunities now he knew how she felt. He sensed he would not have long, that there was more action to come very soon, and wondered how she felt about having an affair with a man who might die in battle. The way the major had said they were not finished with the blond escaping man had sounded more like ready conceived plans than vague threats.
There had been nothing vague in the reception Mrs Hammond and Liz had given to Anna and the grandson. They had been hugged and comforted. Liz had given Alan a look of intense gratitude when Anna had told some of his part in the rescue, and as he left to radio in that he was on the network again, she had invited him back in a couple of hours so they could eat the evening meal all together.
He left Liz settling Anna and the boy in a room and Blanche tending George Harfield’s wound. He closed his eyes with the sheer happiness of his present state. If only they could have found Liz’s father unharmed so the family had no cause for grief! If only it had been just the old nurse’s hut that had been lost ...
He awoke to a sensation of touch below his ribs; he woke but did not stir. He calculated that his rifle was within arm’s reach. He would never make it if this was the gun barrel he had half expected in his belly ever since he had landed in Singapore — but the touch was too warm. Although fully awake, he did not move a muscle. The touch was also too gentle — a finger touch, no more, tracing the line of his bottom ribs as he lay with his hands still under his head just as he had fallen asleep.
Very cautiously he raised his eyelids a fraction, just as Liz, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, turned her eyes again to his face. She pulled her finger away from his chest like a concert pianist releasing the sound cleanly from a note.
‘I didn’t want you to stop,’ he said, finding it difficult to unlock his arms from their crooked position. His instinct was to grab her and hold her tight; his reason said he’d better not. ‘You may make free with my body any time,’ he said instead. He realised that it was quite dark outside and she had put on the light.
‘I wanted to wake you gently. You were so deeply asleep.’ Her colour rose, delightfully blushing her cheeks, replacing the pale, drawn look that had been so much part of her appearance since he had known her. It made him wonder what other tactics she had used to try to wake him. ‘I didn’t want to make you jump,’ she added.
‘What time is it?’ he asked.
‘We’re about to sit down to eat,’ she told him, glancing at the towel around his waist. ‘Shall I tell them you’re coming?’
‘Five minutes.’ He sat up so he was very near to her, and when she remained sitting he leaned over and kissed her cheek, gently, tentatively, alert for the least fraction of withdrawal on her part. ‘Thank you for the photograph.’ The lightness of tone he tried to affect was betrayed by a sudden huskiness as she leaned towards him.
‘It worked, didn’t it? I mean, you soon came back.’
‘I’ll keep it always, wherever I go.’ The gruffness sounded like an affliction now.
‘Don’t talk of going.’ She stood up quickly as if to escape the idea — or not trusting herself.
‘Well, not before dinner, anyway.’ The words were flippant to dispel her distress, but the tone confirmed that he would never go willingly.
In clean shirt and shorts he hurried to the front door, smoothing his hair with his hand as he knocked and entered. George Harfield offered a beer as he saw him standing in the doorway of the dining room. Alan hesitated and Liz asked, ‘Iced tea?’
‘Please.’ He nodded. ‘Not sure about beer on a stomach as empty as mine feels.’ He smiled an apology towards Blanche as if he had committed some social gaffe.
‘There’s plenty to eat,’ Blanche said, going towards the table. Alan stepped forward and pulled out her chair. ‘I was surprised,’ she said, ‘that Major Sturgess did not come back with you.’
He felt, rightly or wrongly, put in his place. If Major Sturgess had been at this dinner table, Alan wondered, would he have been eating outside? He glanced across at Liz and his heart leaped — no, he thought, she would have made sure of his presence.
‘Robbo,’ George said, as the rest of them took their places, ‘is likely to be a very busy man for the next few days, questioning those prisoners, collating information.’
And planning our next trip up the ulu, Alan thought but did not voice the army slang for the jungle aloud. How useful, he thought, were the restraints of customs and manners! He marvelled at Blanche Hammond and Liz playing hostesses, controlled and dignified when their world was seemingly falling apart.
What a disparate looking pair were their guests. He tall laying claim to a few muscles perhaps but no spare flesh while George, with his arm freshly bandaged, plus a fresh nick on his chin from shaving, looked as if he had just come from the boxing ring or the rugby field — a veterans’ game maybe, but still solid.
Alan grinned as George caught him looking. ‘You enjoying that?’ he asked, nodding to the piled plate of meat Li Kim had roasted, served with rice and a tropical selection of colourful vegetables.
‘Everything tastes wonderful after a few days of army rationing, but this is excellent.’
‘Prefer beef with two veg and a Yorkshire pudding, though,’ George persisted.
‘I’ve never been out of England before, but it seems to me one has to try the local fare,’ he answered. ‘Their ways are more suited to their climate, I suppose.’
‘Of course,’ Liz supported.
‘When in Rome ... ’ George began.
‘We won’t trot out the old clichés,’ Blanche said, raising her eyebrows at him.
George laughed good-naturedly. ‘We can’t all be originals.’
Alan looked from one to the other. They were such opposites, yet they appeared to be at ease in each other’s company, one might even say there was a kind of understood repartee between them. He felt George Harfield was not a man easily offended or roused to anger, and Blanche Hammond would not be easily diverted or suppressed. Alan found himself glancing uneasily in her direction at the idea of trying.
He turned to Liz and asked after the amah and her grandson.
‘Anna won’t come and eat with us, but they’ve eaten and a short time ago they were both asleep — like you,’ she added.