Indians. The whole thing's a dead loss, in my opinion. But there, I'm only nineteen. Plenty of time to ripen up.'
'I wouldn't count on it. Nineteen is getting on a bit. It's later than you think.' He rose from the locker, strolled over to his helmsman's seat and switched on the engine. 'It gives me enormous satisfaction,' he added, 'to think of all those heads you've scalped, and the groaning that goes on in Fleet Street. I must warn my friends amongst the press that they had better watch out.'
She looked up at him, startled. 'What friends?'
He smiled. 'I have my contacts.' He turned the launch back in the direction of Lamb Island, and it's only a matter of time, she told herself, before he checks my press credentials, discovers they don't exist. As for Jennifer Blair, he'd have to contact a fair number of theatre managers before one of them said, 'You mean that brilliant young actress the Stratford people have been trying to get hold of for next season?'
Too soon by far he was bringing the launch alongside the landing-stage-cum-boathouse of his domain, cunningly masked by the thickly planted trees, Michael there to receive them, and she remembered her fright of the morning, the partly uncovered megalithic cairn in the heart of the wooded island.
'I've spoilt your day,' she said to Nick. 'You were all of you working on that site, and would have gone on with it but for me.'
'Not necessarily. Relaxation takes various forms. The digging can wait. Any news, Michael?'
'Some signals received, sir, up at the house. Everything in order.'
Metamorphosis was complete by the time they reached the house. The companion had become brusque, alert, intent upon matters other than herself. Even the little dog who leapt into his arms as soon as she heard her master's voice was swiftly put down again.
'Everyone in the control-room for briefing in five minutes, Bob,' he said.
'Sir.'
Nick turned to Shelagh. 'You must amuse yourself, if you don't mind. Books, radio, T.V., records, all in the room we were in last night. I shall be busy for several hours.'
Several hours… It was only just after six. Would his business, whatever it was, take him until nine or ten? She had hoped for something different, a long intimate evening stretched out in front of the fire when anything might happen.
'O.K.,' she said with a shrug. 'I'm in your hands. I'd like to know, by the way, how long you intend to keep me here. I have certain commitments back in London.'
'I bet you have. But the scalping will have to wait. Bob, see that Miss Blair has some tea.'
He disappeared along the corridor, the dog at his heels. She flung herself down on the settee, sulking. What a bore! Especially when the day had gone so well. She had no desire to read or listen to records. His taste would be like her father's, old Peter Cheyneys and John Buchans, he used to read them over and over again. And music of the lighter sort, probably South Pacific.
The steward brought in her tea, and this time there were cherry jam and scones, freshly baked, what's more. She wolfed the lot. Then she pottered around the room, inspecting the shelves. No Peter Cheyney, no John Buchan, endless books on Ireland, which she expected anyway, Yeats forever, Synge, A.E., a volume on the Abbey Theatre. That might be interesting, but, 'I'm not in the vein,' she thought, 'I'm not in the vein.' The records were mostly classical, Mozart, Haydn, Bach, stacks of the damn things. All right if he'd been in the room and they could have listened together. The photograph on the desk she ignored. Even to glance at it produced intense irritation. How could he? What had he seen in her? Indeed, what had her father seen, for that matter? But for Nick, obviously more intellectual than her father had ever been, to go round the bend about somebody like her mother, granting she had been pretty in her day, passed all comprehension.
'I know what I'll do,' thought Shelagh, 'I'll go and wash my hair.'
It was frequently a remedy when all else failed. She walked along the corridor, passing the door with the words Control Room upon it. She could hear the murmur of voices from within. Then Nick laughed, and she hurried past in case the door opened and she was caught trying to eavesdrop. The door did open, when she was safely on her way, and glancing back over her shoulder she saw a boy come out, one of those who had been helping to uncover the cairn that morning. She remembered his mop of light hair. He couldn't be more than eighteen. They were all young, now she came to think of it. All except Nick himself, and Bob. She passed through the swing-door to her own room and sat down on her bed, stunned by a new idea that had suddenly come to her.
Nick was a homo. They were all homos. That was why Nick had been sacked from the Navy. Her father had found out, couldn't pass him for promotion, and Nick had borne a grudge ever afterwards. Perhaps, even, the dates she had copied from the list referred to times when Nick had got into trouble. The photograph was a blind-homos often tried to cover themselves by pretending they were married. Oh, not Nick… It was the end. She couldn't bear it. Why must the only attractive man she had ever met in her life have to be like it? God damn and blast them all, stripped to the waist there down by that megalithic tomb. They were probably doing the same in the Control Room now. There was no point in anything any more. No sense in her mission. The sooner she left the island and flew back home the better.
She turned the taps in her wash-basin, and plunged her head into the water furiously. Even the soap-Aegean Blue-was far too exotic for a normal man to have under his roof. She dried her hair, twisting the towel round it turban fashion, tore off her jeans and put on another pair. They didn't look right. She dragged on her travelling skirt instead. 'That will show him I've no desire to go around apeing boys.'
There was a tap at her door.
'Come in,' she said savagely.
It was Bob. 'Excuse me, miss, the Commander would like to see you in the Control Room.'
'I'm sorry, he'll have to wait. I've just washed my hair.'
The steward coughed. 'I wouldn't advise you, miss, to keep the Commander waiting.'
He could not have been more courteous, and yet… There was something implacable about his square, stocky frame.
'Very well,' said Shelagh. 'The Commander must put up with my appearance, that's all.'
She stalked along the corridor after him, the twisted turban giving her the appearance of a Bedouin sheik.
'Beg pardon,' murmured the steward, and tapped on the door of the Control Room. 'Miss Blair to see you, sir,' he announced.
She was ready for anything. Young men sprawling in the nude on bunks. Joss sticks burning. Nick, as Master of Ceremonies, directing unspeakable operations. Instead, she saw the seven young men seated round a table, Nick at the head of it. An eighth man was sitting in the corner with headphones over his ears. The seven at the table stared at her, then averted their gaze. Nick raised his eyebrows briefly, then picked up a piece of paper. She recognised it as the list with the dates upon it that had been missing from her tourist guide.
'I apologise for interrupting the haute coiffure,' he said, 'but these gentlemen and I would like to know the significance of these dates that you were carrying in your tourist guide.'
Obey the well-tried maxim. Attack is the best form of defence.
'That is exactly what I would have asked you, Commander Barry, had you granted me an interview. But I dare say you would have avoided the question. They obviously have great significance for you, otherwise your gentlemen friends would never have pinched them in the first place.'
'Fair enough,' he said. 'Who gave you the list?'
'It was with the other papers which the office gave me when I was put on to this job. They were just part of the briefing.'
'You mean the editorial office of Searchlight?'
'Yes.'
'Your assignment was to write an article about a retired naval officer-myself-and describe how he filled his time, hobbies, etc?'
'That's right.'
'And other members of the staff were to write similar articles about other ex-Service officers?'
'Yes. It sounded a bright idea. Something new.'
'Well, I'm sorry to spoil your story, but we've checked with the editor of Searchlight, and not only have they no intention of publishing such a series of articles, but they don't possess a Miss Jennifer Blair even amongst the most junior members of their staff.'
