Georgina Spence, Rosemary’s younger and vivacious sister, was down from the London School of Economics and Political Science for Christmas, but careful not to let Peter Zeldman think for a moment her visit had anything to do with his presence in the house. It was this haughty indifference to him that attracted Zeldman to her. He was sure that behind the sophisticated leftist chitchat and learned allusions, there was a woman waiting to be let out. And he was sure that she couldn’t be so naive as not to think how downright sexual she appeared in front of men. The fact that she disdained makeup as a “bourgeois affectation,” as he’d overheard her telling her mother, only highlighted her natural beauty, the kind of woman, Zeldman believed, who would look as good first thing in the morning as she had the night before.
After six tension-filled months without a woman, the mere sight of her was a feast — and every time he saw her move, he was tantalized by wondering whether or not she wore a bra. Still, he refused to play a game. There was “no time for dancing,” as his Uncle Saul would say. “You want — you ask — you get or you don’t get. That’s all.” Some enjoyed the chase. He enjoyed the sex — all the maneuvering he wanted to do was in bed. He decided he’d give her the weekend to show some interest in him, or rather admit her interest in him, or he was off up to London to take in a few shows and wait for his orders there. Brentwood had told him what a sharp mind Rosemary’s sister had. That was nice, but he didn’t care. He wanted her body. He’d had enough of her mind. Students at LSE, she’d announced, were going to prepare a “pretty deadly broadside” in a petition to the government on the wartime limits on individual freedom. He said nothing. He’d seen good men the so that she could sign petitions, and the only broadside he had in mind was a chance to get her in bed and “fire all tubes.” What bugged him was she knew they were mutually attracted — sexually anyhow. He’d admitted it every time their eyes had met. She couldn’t — or wouldn’t.
“Close the curtains, will you?” he heard Richard Spence asking her in the living room. “Been a bit overcast tonight, I’m afraid.” Spence was referring to the fact that Russian rocket attacks launched from the Baltic usually came over on stormy, cloudy nights when the fighters scrambling from East Anglia had more difficulty seeing them. The problem was that in bad cloud conditions, if the IDD, or identification friend or foe, signals sometimes got jammed, pilots had to go to infrared for air-to-air missile launch, which had caused a number of them to shoot down missiles sent up by their own AA batteries. On occasion, in the split-second world of the dogfight, they’d even shot down friendly fighters in the darkness whose exhaust they’d mistaken for that of an enemy rocket.
Zeldman heard Georgina drawing the drapes shut, and saw her mother, the heavy lines in Mrs. Spence’s face belying the determined charm with which she had tried to hide the pain of her son’s death.
“We’ll be late, dear,” she called out to Richard, who still hadn’t solved the Telegraph’s crossword. Mrs. Spence smiled at Zeldman. “Sure you don’t want to come, Commander? Being a submariner, you might have some very practical suggestions about recycling. I imagine you—”
“Leave him alone, Mother,” said Richard, folding the paper and at last making a move to haul himself out of the lounge chair. “I’m sure Commander Zeldman has far better things to do than turn his energies to the Oxshott Recycling Society. Tell you the truth, I’m not sure I want to.”
“Very well. The commander must do as he likes, of course.” It made Zeldman feel uncomfortable and old, being referred to as “commander,” but despite his telling them to call him “Pete,” English reserve carried the day.
“Oh, do get a move on, Richard,” said Anne impatiently.
“Yes, yes,” he said irritably, reaching for his jacket. “Suppose I must.”
“Don’t come if you’re going to be cross.” She turned to Zeldman. “Last time he came, he just sat there and harrumphed at the professor.” As Richard slipped off his bifocals, popping them into his jacket pocket, he explained to Zeldman, “Professor Knowlton. A bag of wind. Apparently he’s got some mad scheme now for the local councils to recycle shoes. Can you imagine? Last thing I’d want to wear is another man’s shoes.”
“Here,” said Anne, holding his scarf out to him. “Don’t be so negative. You thought he was crazy about everyone handing in their hair dryers.” Helping him on with his coat, she turned to Peter Zeldman. “When they make those jump-up planes—”
“Jump jets, Anne. For Heaven’s sake. Vertical takeoff and landing, to be precise.”
“Well, whatever. I’m sure the commander would like to know,” she added, turning back to Zeldman. “Did you know that the Harriers — those jets were made from layers and layers of material that had to be hand-dried? Presto! The hair dryers. It was very original. I think they’ll give him an OBE.”
Zeldman looked perplexed.
“Order of the British Empire,” Anne explained.
“OPE, more like it,” said Richard, doubling his scarf about his neck. “Order of Pompous Eccentrics. Honestly, the man’s so inflated with his own importance, it’s a wonder he doesn’t take off.”
“Well,” said his wife as they went out the door, glancing back at Peter Zeldman and Georgina, “enjoy yourselves.”
Outside, Richard turned to Anne. “I hardly thought that was necessary, Anne.”
“What?”
“Telling them to enjoy themselves. Sounds like you’re— well — matchmaking.”
“I wouldn’t mind.”
“Good grief, woman, we’ve just got over Rosemary’s wedding. Have you seen our bank account?”
“Oh, stop fretting. It’s like chalk and cheese with those two. He’s interested, I think, but not Georgina. I’m afraid she considers him ‘unsuitable.’ “
“She’s probably right. Don’t mind putting the chap up. Nice enough, and it’s our duty really, as the government says. If it wasn’t for the American submariners, we’d be starving. Everyone knows that. No, I don’t mind billeting the chap at all. Pleasant enough. But we’re not obliged to open a marriage bureau. In any case, Georgina’s far too young.”
“She’s twenty-five, Richard.”
“Yes, and he’s what?”
“Late twenties, that’s all.”
“I’m not talking number of years,” Richard replied. “It’s a matter of maturity. She’s not ready—”
“Oh, stop fretting so. I told you, she has no interest in him whatsoever. Tell you the truth, she’s been rather rude to him. Goes about the house as if he’s not there.”
“Well, she’s studying. Her Michaelmas term paper—”
“Oh, you know what I mean. Or perhaps you don’t. Every time I see you, you’ve got your head stuck in the paper.”
“Leave off, old girl.” It was said politely but firmly— the danger signal that they were close to reliving the terrible time when they’d heard young William had been killed, Richard retreating for days at a time, saying nothing, reading, burying his grief in his own silence, and the two of them quite apart at the very time they both knew they should have been closest.
They were approaching the parish hall. “A big crowd to hear Professor Knowlton. Now, don’t worry, Richard. He’s not Georgina’s type. Nothing’s going to happen.”
“My God!” said Richard. “Look at Knowlton. Old fool. Looks like a recycled coat he’s wearing.”