womanhood, and he thought himself a lucky man.
The contrast with Elene Fontana could not have been more striking. He drove to the Union on his motorcycle. The bike, a BSA 350, was very practical in Cairo. He could use it all the year round, for the weather was almost always good enough; and he could snake through the traffic jam that kept cars and taxis waiting. But it was a rather quick machine, and it gave him a secret Will, a throwback to his adolescence, when he had coveted such bikes but had not been able to buy one. Angela had loathed it-like the Union, it was plebby-but for once Vandam had resolutely defied her.
The day was cooling when he parked at the Union. Passing the clubhouse, he looked through a window and saw a snooker game in full swing. He resisted the temptation and walked on to the lawn.
He accepted a glass of Cyprus sherry and moved into the crowd, nodding and smiling, exchanging pleasantries with people he knew. There was tea for the teetotal Muslim guests, but not many had turned up. Vandam tasted the sherry and wondered whether the barman could be taught to make a martini.
He looked across the grass to the neighboring Egyptian Officers' Club, and wished he could eavesdrop on conversations there. Someone spoke his name, and he turned to see the woman doctor. Once again he had to think before he could remember her name. 'Dr. Abuthnot.'
'We might be informal here,' she said. 'My name is Joan.'
'William. Is your husband here?'
'I'm not married.'
'Pardon me.' Now he saw her in a new light. She was single and he was a widower, and they had been seen talking together in public three times in a week: by now the English colony in Cairo would have them practically engaged. 'You're a surgeon?' he said.
She smiled. 'All I do these days is sew people up and patch them-but yes, before the war I was a surgeon.'
'How did you manage that? It's not easy for a woman.'
'I fought tooth and nail.' She was still smiling, but Vandam detected an undertone of remembered resentment 'You're a little unconventional yourself, I'm told.'
Vandam thought himself to be utterly conventional. 'How so?' he said with surprise.
'Bringing up your child yourself.'
'No choice. If I had wanted to send him back to England, I wouldn't have been able to: you can't get a passage unless you're disabled or a general.'
'But you didn't want to.'
'No.'
'That's what I mean.'
'He's my son,' Vandam said. 'I don't want anyone else to bring him up-nor does he.'
'I understand. It's just that some fathers would think it ... unmanly.'
He raised his eyebrows at her, and to his surprise she blushed. He said:
'You're right, I suppose. I'd never thought of it that way.'
'I'm ashamed of myself, I've been prying. Would you like another drink?'
Vandam looked into his glass. 'I think I shall have to go inside in search of a real drink.'
'I wish you luck.' She smiled and turned away.
Vandam walked across the lawn to the clubhouse. She was an attractive woman, courageous and intelligent, and she had made it clear she wanted to know him better. He thought: Why the devil do I feel so indifferent to her? All these people are thinking how well matched we are-and they're right. He went inside and spoke to the bartender. 'Gin. Ice. One olive. And a few drops of very dry vermouth.'
The martini when it came was quite good, and he had two more. He thought again of the woman Elene. There were a thousand like her in Cairo-Greek, Jewish, Syrian and Palestinian as well as Egyptian. They were dancers for just as long as it took to catch the eye of some wealthy rube. Most of them probably entertained fantasies of getting married and being taken back to a large house in Alexandria or Paris or Surrey, and they would be disappointed.
They all had delicate brown faces and feline bodies with slender fees and pert breasts, but Vandam was tempted to think that Elene stood out from the crowd. Her smile was devastating. The idea of her going to Palestine to work on a farm was, at first sight, ridiculous; but she had tried, and when that failed she had agreed to work for Vandam On the other band, retailing street gossip was easy money, like being a kept woman. She was probably the same as all the other dancers: Vandam was not interested in that kind of woman, either.
The martinis were beginning to take effect, and he was afraid he might not be as polite as he should to the ladies when they came in, so he paid his bill and went out.
He drove to GHQ to get the latest news. It seemed the day had ended in a standoff after heavy casualties on both sides-rather more on the British side. It was just bloody demoralizing, Vandam thought: we had a secure base, good supplies, superior weapons and greater numbers; we planned thoughtfully and we fought carefully, and we never damn well won anything.
He went home.
Gaafar had prepared lamb and rice. Vandam had another drink with his dinner. Billy talked to him while he ate. Today's geography lesson had been about wheat farming in Canada. Vandam would have liked the school to teach the boy something about the country in which he lived.
After Billy went to bed Vandam sat alone in the drawing room, smoking, thinking about Joan Abuthnot and Alex Wolff and Erwin Rommel. In their different ways they all threatened him. As night fell outside, the room came to seem claustrophobic. Vandam filled his cigarette case and went out.
