never been exposed to the direct rays of the sun and brings to mind rose petals strewn over Devonshire clotted cream.
'Oh! Let me take it!' Waterhouse blurts, and lunges forward with a jerkiness born of passion blended with hypothermia. While taking the tray from her hands, he inadvertently pulls off one of her mittens, which falls to the floor. 'Sorry!' he says, realizing he has never seen her hands before. She has red polish on the nails of the offended hand, which she cups over her mouth and blows on. Her large green eyes are looking at him, full of placid expectation.
'Beg pardon?' Waterhouse says.
'Is everything quite all right?' she repeats.
'Yes! Why shouldn't it be?'
'The antenna,' Margaret says. 'It hasn't moved in over an hour.'
Waterhouse is so flummoxed he can barely remain standing.
Margaret is still breathing through her lacquered fingertips, so that Waterhouse can only see her green eyes, which now angle and twinkle mischievously. She glances towards his hammock. 'Been napping on the job, have we?'
Waterhouse's first impulse is to deny it and to explain the truth, which is that he was thinking about sex and crypto and forgot to move the antenna. But then he realizes that Margaret has supplied him with a better excuse. 'Guilty as charged,' he says. 'Was up late last night.'
'That tea will keep you alert,' Margaret says. Then her eyes return to the hammock. She pulls her mitten back on. 'What is it like?'
'What is what like?'
'Sleeping in one of those. Is it comfortable?'
'Very comfortable.'
'Can I just see what it's like?'
'Ah. Well, it's very difficult to get in-at that height.'
'You manage it, though, don't you?' she says chidingly. Waterhouse feels himself blushing. Margaret walks over to the hammock and kicks off her heels. Waterhouse winces to see her bare feet on the stone floor, which has not been warm since the Barbary Corsairs burned the place down. Her toenails are also painted red. 'I don't mind it,' Margaret says, 'I'm a farmer's daughter. Come on, give me a leg up!'
Waterhouse has completely lost whatever control he might ever have had over the situation and himself. His tongue seems to be made of erectile tissue. So he lumbers over, bends down, and makes a stirrup of his hands. She puts her foot into it and launches herself into the hammock, disappearing with a whoop and a giggle into his bulky nest of grey wool blankets. The hammock swings back and forth across the center of the chapel, like a censer dispersing a faint lavender scent. It swings once, twice. It swings five times, ten times, twenty. Margaret is silent and motionless. Waterhouse stands as if his feet were planted in mortar. For the first time in weeks he does not know exactly what is going to happen next, and the loss of control leaves him stunned and helpless.
'It's dreamy,' she says. Dreamily. Then, finally, she shifts. Waterhouse sees her little face peeking out over the edge, shrouded in the grey cowl of a blanket. 'Ooh!' she screams, and flips flat on her back again. The sudden movement puts an eccentric jiggle into the rhythmic motion of the hammock.
'What's wrong?' Waterhouse says hopelessly.
'I'm afraid of heights!' she exclaims. 'I'm so sorry, Lawrence, I should have warned you. Is it all right if I call you Lawrence?' She sounds as if she would be terribly hurt if he said no. And how can Lawrence wound the feelings of a pretty, barefoot, acrophobic girl, helpless in a hammock?
'Please. By all means,' he says. But he knows perfectly well that the ball is still in his court. 'Can I be of any assistance?'
'I should be so obliged,' Margaret says.
'Well, would you like to climb down onto my shoulders, or some thing?' Waterhouse essays.
'I'm really far too terrified,' she says.
There is only one way out. 'Well. Would you take it the wrong way if I came up there to help?'
'It would be so heroic of you!' she says. 'I should be unspeakably grateful.'
'Well, then . . .'
'But I insist that you continue with your duties first!'
'Beg pardon?'
'Lawrence,' Margaret says, 'when I get down from this hammock I shall go to the kitchen and mop the floor-which is already quite clean enough, thank you. You, on the other hand, have important work to do-work that might save the lives of hundreds of men on some Atlantic convoy! And I know that you have been very naughty in sleeping on the job. I refuse to allow you up here until you have made amends.'
'Very well,' Waterhouse says, 'you leave me no alternative. Duty calls.' He squares his shoulders, spins on his heel, and marches back to his desk. Skerries have already made off with all of Margaret's scones, but he pours himself some tea. Then he resumes encrypting his instructions to Chattan: ONLY BRUTE FORCE APPROACH WILL BE SAFE PUT CODE BOOK ON SHIP INSERT SHIP IN MURMANSK CONVOY WAIT FOR FOG RAM NORWAY.
The one-time pad encryption takes a while. Lawrence can do mod 25 arithmetic in his sleep, but doing it with an erection is a different matter. 'Lawrence? What are you doing?' Margaret asks from her nest in the hammock, which, Lawrence imagines, is getting warmer and cozier by the minute. He glances surreptitiously at her discarded high heels.
'Preparing my report,' Lawrence says. 'Doesn't do me any good to make observations if I don't send them out.'
'Quite right,' Margaret says thoughtfully.
This is an excellent time to stoke the chapel's pathetic iron stove. He puts in a few scoops of precious coal, his worksheet, and the page from the one-time pad that he has just used to do the encryption. 'Should warm up now,' he says.
'Oh, lovely,' Margaret says, 'I'm all shivery.'
Lawrence recognizes this as his cue to initiate a rescue operation. About fifteen seconds later, he is up there in the hammock with Margaret. To the great surprise of neither one of them, the quarters are awkward and tight. There is some flopping around which ends with Lawrence on his back and Margaret on top of him, her thigh between his.
She is shocked to discover that he has an erection. Ashamed, apparently, that she did not anticipate his need. 'You poor dear!' she exclaims. 'Of course! How could I have been so dense! You must have been so lonely here.' She kisses his cheek, which is nice since he is too stunned to move. 'A brave warrior deserves all the support we civilians can possibly give him,' she says, reaching down with one hand to open his fly.
Then she pulls the grey wool over her head and burrows to a new position. Lawrence Pritchard Waterhouse is stunned by what happens next. He gazes up at the ceiling of the chapel through half-closed eyes and thanks God for having sent him what is obviously a German spy and an angel of mercy rolled into one adorable package.
When it's finished, he opens his eyes again and takes a deep breath of cold Atlantic air. He is seeing everything around him with newfound clarity. Clearly, Margaret is going to do wonders for his productivity on the cryptological front-if he can only keep her coming back.
Chapter 29 PAGES
It has been a long time since horses ran at the Ascot Racetrack in Brisbane. The infield's a commotion of stretched khaki. The grass has died from lack of sun and from the trampling feet of enlisted men. The field has been punctured with latrines, mess tents have been pitched. Three shifts a day, the residents trudge across the track, round back of the silent and empty stables. In the field where the horses used to stretch their legs, two dozen Quonset huts that have popped up like mushrooms. The men work in those huts, sitting before radios or typewriters or card files all day long, shirtless in the January heat.
It has been just as long since whores sunned themselves on the long veranda of the house on Henry Street, and passing gentlemen, on their way to or from the Ascot Racetrack, peered at their charms through the white
