in France coming back out of the line to go into reserve, and his shoulders went back and his step quickened and became springy and elastic once more. He was out of the line, and he had survived, that was as far as he could think at that moment.
Dicky Lancome's polished elastic-sided boots were propped on the desk in front of him and fastidiously crossed at the ankles. He looked up from his newspaper, a tea cup held in the other hand with little finger extended delicately. Hail the conquering hero comes, his weary weapon slung over his shoulder. Oh come on, Dicky! weak at the knees, bloodshot eye and fevered brow Any calls? Mark asked seriously. Ah, the giant mind now turns to the more mundane aspects of life. Play the game, Dicky. Mark riffled quickly through a small pile of messages that awaited him. A surfeit of love, a plethora of passion, an overdose of crumpet, a genital hangover. What's this? I can't read your scrawl. Mark averted his eyes, concentrating on his reading. Mark my words, Mark, that young lady has got the brood lust. If you turn your back on her for ten minutes, she will be up the nearest tree building a nest, Cut it out, Dicky. That's precisely what you should do, old boy, unless you can face the prospect of her dropping your whelps all over the scenery. Dicky shuddered theatrically. Never ride in a saloon if you can drive a sports model, old chap, which reminds me, he dropped the newspaper, checked the watch from his waistcoat pocket, I have this important client. He inspected his glossy boots a moment, flicked them lightly with the handkerchief from his breast pocket, stood up and adjusted the strawbasher on his head and winked at Mark. Her husband's gone up country for a week. Hold the fort, old boy, it's my turn now He disappeared through the office door into the showroom, and then reappeared instantly, an expression of horror on his face. Oh God, customers! Get after them, Mark my boy, I'm taking the back door, and he was gone, leaving only the faint perfume of brilliantine lingering on the air.
Mark checked his tie in the sliver of broken mirror wedged in the frame of the window, and adjusted his welcoming smile as he hurried to the door, but at the threshold he stopped as though coming up at the end of a chain.
He was listening with the stillness and concentration of a wild gazelle, listening with every fibre and every quivering nerve end to a sound of such aching and penetrating beauty that it seemed to freeze his heart. It lasted only a few seconds, but the sound of it shimmered and thrilled in the air for long seconds afterwards, and only then did Mark's heart beat again, surging heavily against his rib cage.
The sound was the laughter of a girl. it was as though the air around Mark had thickened to honey, for it dragged heavily at his legs as he started forward, and it required a physical effort to draw it down into his lungs.
From the doorway he looked into the showroom. In the centre of the wide floor stood the latest demonstration model Cadillac, and beside it stood a couple.
The man had his back to Mark, and left only the impression of massive size, a towering figure dressed in dark cloth. Beside him, the girl was dainty, almost ethereal, she seemed to float, light and lovely as a hummingbird on invisible wings.
The earth tilted beneath Mark's feet as he gazed at her.
Her head was thrown back to look up at the man. Her throat was long and smooth, balancing the small head with its huge dark eyes and the laughing mouth, small white regular teeth beyond pink lips, a fine bold brow, pale and wide above those haunting eyes, and all of it crowned by a heart-stopping tumble of thick lustrous hair, hair so black that its waves and falls seemed to be sculptured from freshly oiled ebony.
She laughed again, a lovely joyous ripple of sound, and she reached up to touch the man's face. Her hand was narrow, with long tapered fingers, strong capable-looking hands, so that Mark realized that his first impression had been wrong.
The girl was small only in comparison to the man, and her poise heightened the illusion. However, Mark saw now that she was tall, but graceful as a papyrus stem in the wind, supple and slim, with tiny waist and long legs beneath the light floating material of her skirt.
With her fingertips, she traced the jawline of the man; tilting her head on its long swanlike neck, her beauty was almost unbearable, as her huge eyes shone now with love, and the line of the lips was soft with love. Oh Daddy, you are an old-fashioned, grumpy old bear. She spun away from him, lightly as a ballerina, and struck an exaggerated pose beside the huge glistening machine, putting on a comic French accent. Regarde! Mon cher papa, c'est tres chic -The man growled. I don't trust these fancy new machines. Give me a Rolls. Rolls? cried the girl, pouting dramatically, they're so staid! So biblical! Darling Daddy, this is the twentieth century, remember? Then she drooped like a dying rose in a vase. How could I hold my head up among my friends if you force me to ride in one of those great sombre coffins? At that instant she noticed Mark standing in the doorway of the sales office, and her entire mien changed, the carriage of head and body, the expression of mouth and eye flowing instantly from clown to lady.
Pater, she said softly, the voice cultivated and the eye cool as it flicked over Mark, a steady encompassing sweep from his head to his feet. I think the sales person is here. She turned away, and Mark felt his heart convulse again at the way her hip swung and pushed beneath the skirt and he saw for the first time the cheeky, challenging roll of her small rounded backside as she walked slowly around the Cadillac, calm and aloof, not glancing in his direction again.
Mark stared at her, with fascination, all his emotions in upheaval. He had never seen anything so beautiful, so completely captivating in all his life.
The man had turned and was glaring at him angrily. He seemed, as the girl had teased him, to be biblical. A gaunt and towering figure with shoulders wide as the gallows tree and the big fierce head exaggerated in size by the slightly twisted hooked nose and the dark thick bush of beard, shot through with grey. I know you, dammit! he growled. The face had been burned almost black by twenty thousand suns, but there were deep white creases in the corners of his eyes and the skin in a line below the thick curls of his silvering hair was white also, protected by the band of a hunter's hat or a uniform cap.
Mark roused himself, tearing his eyes off the girl, for the fresh shock of recognition. At the time he could only believe it was some monstrous coincidence, but in the years that followed he would know differently. The threads of their lives were plaited, and intertwined. But in this instant the shock, coming so close on the other, unsettled him and his voice croaked. Yes, General Courtney, I am, Don't tell me, goddammit, the General cut in, his voice like the crack of a Mauser shooting from cover, and Mark felt his spirit quail before the expression on his face; it was the most formidable he had ever confronted.
I know, the name is right there! he glowered at Mark. I never forget a face. The tremendous force and presence of the man threatened to swamp him. It's a sign of old age, Pater, said the girl coolly, glancing over her shoulder without smile or expression. Don't you say that, girl, the man rumbled like an active volcano. Don't you, dare say that. He took a threatening step towards Mark, the dark brow corrugated and the blue eyes cutting into his soul like a surgeon's knives. It's the eyes! Those eyes. Mark retreated a hurried step before the limping, mountainous advance, not quite sure what to expect, but ready to believe that Sean Courtney might at any moment lunge at him with the heavy ebony cane he carried, so murderous seemed his anger. General, Yes! Sean Courtney snapped his fingers with a crack like a breaking oak branch, and the scowl smoothed away, the blue eyes crinkling
