warrant and a taxi from Bedford station. He'd tried to kiss her when he'd dumped his bag down – no bloody chance.
Explanations were what she'd demanded, but all she'd had was the whimper that he didn't know what had happened, like that was supposed to be enough for her.
The bloody bell kept ringing.
It had all been explained to her in the secretariat, while he'd been on the train and coming home. Resignation would be best, and then a quiet departure – no future. The papers would be sent round. God, there were some hateful bitches in Alamein Drive! So she'd entertained a couple of guys – what was the big deal? Just Jerry and Algy, and maybe they'd stayed till late, or was it early? Didn't half the bitches entertain a friend when the husband was away? If he'd fought, Roz could have believed him. All that last evening, she had followed him round the house and demanded to know if it were true: was he, her husband, a
'gutless bastard'? Doors slamming behind him, he'd retreated, but she'd followed. Through the kitchen, the dining room, the sitting room, out into the garden where the whole bloody world of Alamein Drive would hear her yelled question, but not the answer. She'd slept in her bed; he'd used the sitting-room sofa. She'd shopped that morning, every curtain in Alamein Drive twitching as she'd gone to the car, and twitching again when she'd come back and offloaded the plastic bags – like it was she who had done it.
'Right bloody entertaining for me, my husband called a coward. I don't suppose you thought of that.'
Maybe if he'd hit her it would have been better. He was slumped at the kitchen table and he winced each time she attacked. She spun.
She crossed the hall. Roz's dad, retired sergeant – a man who had spent the best part of his service in ditches in Ireland knowing that if a farmer's dog located him it was down to a Browning 9mm automatic to stop him being bloody tortured, then slotted, by the Provos – her dad had said on the phone that her room was all shipshape at home for her, that she should ditch the useless bastard.
The padre, who doubled as the welfare officer – and wanted everyone to call him Luke – was at the door.
She said curtly, 'Yes, Luke, good to see you. Before you ask, is it convenient? No.'
The old fart had papers in his hands, shuffled them in his fingers. 7 brought these round, and I wanted to know how he was.'
She did it mock-brightly, a little flutter in her voice. 'He's fine. Nothing wrong with him. Quite himself- why shouldn't he be? Sort of everyday thing, isn't it, being labelled as a runner, a cop-out, a coward? He's in good shape.'
'I'm very sorry.'
'I doubt you're half as sorry as me.'
'He'll have to go. No choice but to resign his commission.
It's not something you can come back from. I wish it were.'
'Marked with it, yes.'
'It could be said, Mrs Kitchen, that a little too much revelry went on here in his absence. Frankly, that's what I heard from Major Arnold. He was quite distressed but thought he ought to tell me. If Mal had heard about them, your visitors, then that might account for a poor performance in a combat situation.'
'He would only have heard such lies, Luke, if bloody nosy sods had passed them on. Is that right?'
Only over her dead body was the padre entering her home. Roz stood square in the doorway. A woman, nearly opposite, had found a reason to visit her wheelie dustbin.
Another woman, down the drive, had come out of her home with a brush and started sweeping her path. Be a bloody shame when their entertainment ended, but she'd be gone before the next day broke. He was flushed and had a twitch at the side of his chin. He rubbed a mole there with the hand holding the papers.
'I have to say, Mrs Kitchen, that I was monumentally disappointed to hear of this. I thought Mai a first-class officer – but, we are all subject to errors of judgement when assessing colleagues. Actually, I appreciate your dis- comfort. It's not easy for any of us when a man falls short of expected standards. Wearing my welfare hat, I've brought his resignation form, which has already been counter-signed by the colonel, so he'll need to do that. There's an AFO 1700 that I am formally delivering – it requires this married-quarter to be vacated within ninety-three days, but better sooner rather than up to the deadline. It's a wretched shame, Mrs Kitchen – trouble is that you cannot go back on life and patch up mistakes. It goes without saying that it would be better for all concerned if Mai stayed away from the mess.'
She snatched the papers from him. 'I'll tell him.'
'Excuse me, Mrs Kitchen. What I've said to you has been one-on-one – not for repeating. I wouldn't want-'
'Wouldn't want to join the back-s tabbers,' she spat at him savagely. 'No, there's enough of them already. You'd have to be in the queue. Don't lose sleep over it, Luke, because you'd be behind me in the line.'
Roz turned away.
The padre's parting shot had a worried whine in it: 'He'll need a deal of love, and some care.'
'He won't get that from me.' She kicked the door shut behind her.
He was standing three paces from her in the sitting-room doorway. So, he had learned what she thought of him. So, he had heard what was his future. Not her fault. None of it was Roz Kitchen's fault. He took the papers from her, not a word, and scrawled his signature, and she slumped, buried her head and wept. She heard the stamp of those damn great heavy shoes on the stairs, then the sounds of him moving in the bedroom. She heard him call for a taxi to be at the main gate in an hour. She felt no love, and doubted he would find it anywhere.
She had written her signal, interminably long but everything that she had been told, and had transmitted it. Then she had flopped on to the camp-bed.
Polly Wilkins slept, dreamless.
She was curled on the top blanket and below her the sounds of the consulate and its business went unheard.
The phone woke her. She started up, did not know where she was. Darkness had gathered in the room, the wind heaved at the tiles and the rain pounded against the one small window. She groped towards the phone, banged her shin on the desk edge and swore.
'Yes – who is it?'
'Polly?' She heard Gaunt's voice sharp in her ear.
'Yes, me.'
'Polly, I sing your praises. To that venal idiot aloft upstairs, I said this morning I had complete faith in you. He wanted Berlin on the road to Hamburg double damn fast. I declined that offer. Were you asleep?'
'Yes, afraid I was.'
'Would you say, Polly, that I was always honest with you?'
She sighed deep. 'Spit it out, Mr Gaunt.'
There was a pause. She heard the silence on the line.
She wondered if he was tilted back in his chair, if he had straightened his tie first, and she waited to be punched.
'I'd say, Polly, that you fucked up… A bit harsh? I don't think so. Yes, that's being honest.'
'In what way did I fuck up, Mr Gaunt?' she asked, control in her voice, which suppressed her winded fury.
'Simple enough, my dear. Put with greater politeness, there's a boring old saying, 'Can't see the wood for the trees.' You heard a story, an extraordinary one, and then you rejected its relevance. You were told about drugs importation and said to yourself, 'That's off my bailiwick,' and discarded it. You could not see, in my humble opinion, the wood for the trees. Your man's laudable, but useless, obsession with the narcotics trade is the trees but you missed a sight of the wood. Hear me. A boat, a remote shoreline, a collection… It was laid in your lap. It was the information that I was confident enough you'd find. It was why I backed you.'
She let the air seep from her lungs and hiss between her teeth. 'Yes, Mr Gaunt, I fucked up.'
'Get there.'
'Do I have the cavalry?'
'I rather think not – better to keep it close… Oh, yes. What's he like, the Crusader?'
'Rather sweet.' For a moment, to the intimacy of the phone, she giggled – then cut it. 'But damaged, quite
