He glanced at her covertly, thought of his own homely mother compared with Blanche, and wondered if people of Liz’s class were more free in their lovemaking. There had always been stories of the antics of the wealthy leaked by the disgraced maid or sacked man-servant.
Not that he was sure the Hammonds were quite in that class, but he wondered if he could handle this situation, this place. At the same time he was aware that he had pushed into his pocket the rubber sheaths the army supplied before jungle patrols as a protection against the ever invasive leeches.
‘Of course, it wants cleaning up.’ She kicked a few dry fern fronds away to the side of the room.
He saw her disappointment at his negative reaction to this place she had brought him to.
‘We’re not exactly going to set up house here,’ he said gently.
‘No, but if we’re to meet here just ... ’
‘For a day to two.’ He propped his rifle against the wall and went nearer to her.
‘It might not be just for a day or two. Just because John Sturgess is coming, doesn’t mean you’ll go immediately.’
‘It means ... ’ he paused, reaching for her to ease the sudden desolation in her face. She came to him quickly, clinging around his waist.
‘It means — ’ he began again.
‘Sssh! Don’t think about meanings.’
‘But ... I ... I ’ He was quite unable to express either meanings or feelings as she held him so close he felt moulded to her delightful curves. He had a vague feeling that he might be drowning for a million thoughts were trying to crowd in before he was utterly lost.
‘People don’t do this kind of thing,’ he heard himself say. ‘It should all take time.’ He had a picture of village courtship as he knew it, the self-conscious separate stroll beyond the houses, the first holding of hands, touching of arms, the kiss, the attempt of the hand towards a budding breast. Even students had intellectual discussions as they eyed each other. ‘Not so quickly,’ he added, throwing the words out like a last lifeline, and was glad none of his peers could overhear such a lame remark.
‘Things do happen like this, love at first sight. In wartime and on the films all the time.’
‘The films!’ He gave a humph of indulgent laughter, then was very serious. ‘This is real life.’
‘Very real,’ she said just as solemnly. ‘I know — and neither of us knows how long it will last.’
‘I feel as if you’re saying my lines.’ Every throb of his heart, every pulse pressure, every nerve ending, was urging him to make love to this girl.
‘If I’m sure ... ’ she said.
‘Why should a man hold back, but … ’
‘I’ve never done it before,’ she said quickly, ‘not gone the whole hog — but I know what to expect.’
He slid a hand up under her breast and saw her lips part as if in shock. He pulled her to him as he felt her nipple respond tight and hard under his gentle fingers.
He looked at her face, her eyes closed slowly in a kind of gentle acquiescence. He wanted to say something frivolous, like ‘This might be the last stop this side of heaven’, but it was already too late.
In what afterwards seemed like a frantic rush he pulled off his shirt and laid it on the floor, sweeping the branches, everything, aside like some kind of sex maniac. He nearly ejaculated into the sheath as he put it on, and was amazed that she looked at him with such adoration afterwards.
‘I love you,’ he whispered, seeking reassurance.
‘And I love you,’ she replied, her voice so full of an emotion that went beyond the soon accomplished act, that he leaned down to kiss her neck, hiding his face, and fought the mundane words he understood were said at these times, ‘It’ll be better next time.’
After they had lain a time together, it was.
‘We must go back,’ he said at length but made no move as they lay close, her head cradled near his shoulder.
She sighed deeply. ‘“What needest with thy tribe’s black tents, Who hast the red pavilion of my heart?”’
‘The red pavilion,’ he breathed.
‘I remember it because,’ she paused to swallow, ‘I was hiding behind the lilacs at Pearling and overheard my father quote it to my mother. Later I looked it up. Francis Thompson 1859-1907.’
She sat up suddenly. ‘I must have been an awful pest, always around when they wanted to be alone! You don’t realise when you’re a child.’
He rose and pulled her to her feet, held her tenderly as grief at the loss of her father threatened to engulf her again.
‘It says a lot about my mother really, because she did follow her heart rather than stay with her people in England.’
He wanted to ask if she were like her mother, would she follow her heart? Instead he said gently, ‘Come on pest, I’d better take you back before we’re missed.’
‘I shall think of this as the love tunnel now,’ he told her as holding hands they made their way back to the main bungalow.
She paused to laugh and again put out the torch.
‘My Lord!’ he exclaimed and his voice thrown back to him by the walls he thought sounded just like his father’s. ‘No wonder rabbits breed like they do,’ he murmured as he found himself close behind her stooped form with his free hand on her buttock.
‘Promise,’ she whispered, ‘that you will always make me laugh. In the worst, worst ever circumstances we ever find ourselves in.’
‘You promise to be there and I’ll always be able to raise a cheerful word.’
‘Promise to write to me when you’re away.’
‘I promise.’
‘And always to come back.’
‘Always. And I never break a promise made in a dark tunnel.’
She put on the torch and slowly raised it so she could see his face.
‘Or in torchlight.’
‘What about tomorrow morning at the same time — and I’ll wait for you at the love end?’ He was silent blinking as she raised the light higher. ‘Alan?’ she prompted.
‘Yes.’ Her final words had quite taken all rational speech from him. ‘Yes,’ he repeated, while somewhere in his brain there was a question he never asked about why they shouldn’t meet at the beginning of the tunnel.
She was already making plans as they parted. Convention still had a role to play as she went back towards the bungalow first.
She turned to look at Alan once more. He was leaning in the hut doorway watching her go. She stopped, stood quite still looking back at him and it was as if a great, almost biblical sense of contentment came over her. He was the subject of her eye, the object of all her love. In response to her regard he straightened in the doorway, tall, filling the space. She would make a sketch of him standing so, in jungle-green issue holding his rifle — but in the doorway of an empty room, the light coming from a window framed with banana leaves.
There was no need for any hand lift or nod of the head, the feeling was between them, a sense of completeness, of knowing that they had each found their perfect partner. She walked on out of his sight, but already she was planning their return.
In her bedroom were loose cushions she could take from her chairs and a rug from the bedside; those would probably take two trips through the tunnel.
She was surprised at her own deviousness when, in order to move the soft furnishings on their way towards the other bungalow, she took them first to the front porch and established herself with a kind of office: plantation books on the table, the rug and a large string bag folded under the cushions.
There was much paperwork to be done, new rubber yield and payroll books to be drawn up. During the late morning and early afternoon she worked there fairly solidly, and if anyone later saw her carrying away the cushions, no one ever said anything.