‘Probably Deversoir, down on the Great Bitter Lake. But some of the time you’ll be not far from here, at Abu Sueir . . . it depends which direction I’m sending you in.’ I didn’t respond, just raised an eyebrow. He waved a hand to show it didn’t matter. ‘Out into the blue, old boy, out into the blue – just up your street; you’ll love it!’
Then he leaned over, and poked a nice flat quarter-bottle into my KD jacket pocket. I liked the old soak really.
He asked, ‘This really is a cushy number: any worries?’
‘Yes, sir. I have one. I’m wondering if I’m allergic to anything else. I don’t know exactly what happened a few days ago, but I think it could have killed me.’
‘I asked them that too: I thought you’d want to know.’
‘What did they say?’
‘That they’d think about it. Rum bunch these doctors. Cheers.’ He’d pulled another quarter-bottle from another pocket. Neither of the bottles had a label on it. He took a swig, and then offered me one. Over-proof rum. God bless the Navy!
I know you’ll find this difficult to believe, but I know what you’re thinking now . . . and it simply didn’t happen. I brassed myself up for my afternoon tea. Haye checked me out before I left, looked me up and down and gave me a small nod of approval. Going over to the semi-detached bungalows on the Married Lines was the furthest I’d walked since I’d moved in to the hospital, and it was no problem. Jill Paul wasn’t a problem either: dressed as I’d seen her the day before, maybe a bit more relaxed and smiley. Barefoot too. She handed me a clear drink in one of those flat cocktail glasses. A few bubbles drifted up to the surface.
She said, ‘I should wear shoes in here, but I can’t bear to. So I have to watch out for the scorpions.’
No one had told me about the scorpions, ‘I didn’t know there were any.’
‘One rule of Wives’ Club: anything with more than four legs is likely to be a scorpion, and anything that looks like a boot lace or piece of rope is more likely to be a snake. Another rule of Wives’ Club: avoid both because they’re poisonous.’
‘Really. What’s Wives’ Club?’
‘It’s really the Lost Wives’ Club. It’s what we women do to avoid being driven round the bend by life in a prison cage on the edge of a desert.’
‘Does it work?’
‘No, not really.’ She took the glass from me before I had a chance to try it. ‘Would you like to dance?’ She turned on a big old Bakelite box radio. Billie Holiday came from the speaker. She was doing ‘Am I blue?’ I’ve had the record for years: Grant Clarke and Harry Akst. Do they still write them like that? We danced slowly, and very close . . . for about a minute. Her back was cool against my hand. Then she stopped abruptly – there might have been the real thing glistening in the corners of her eyes – and said, ‘This isn’t going to work, is it?’
I understood her completely, although I wouldn’t have had that sort of courage, ‘No. Sorry . . . I don’t know why.’
She walked away from me, turned the radio off, and gave me my drink back.
I said, ‘Thanks. What is it?’
‘Absolute alcohol from the hospital, with tonic and a slice of lime. It’s a make-believe gin-and-tonic. Ethanol and tonic: the old expats call it E and T. Don’t worry – we dilute the alcohol before we pour it.’ Then she smiled the first genuine smile I had seen from her. Perhaps it was from relief. ‘What shall we do now?’
‘Seeing as I haven’t been in here long enough to misbehave, why don’t we sit on your veranda and sip our drinks in full view of your neighbours. That way they’ll know you haven’t anything to hide. You never know; the curtains may even stop twitching, they’ll get curious, come over and join us.’
We sat out in the shade. I wondered if it ever rained on this caustic earth.
She said, ‘I get the feeling you’ve done this before.’
‘Mmm.’
‘But I haven’t. I don’t know why I came on like that.’
‘I realized that. We’re all a bit crazy when our lives get too dull to bear – it’s the most endearing and stupid thing about people. Tell me about Mr Paul.’
‘Neville, you mean.’
‘Neville Holroyd?’
‘Yes.’
‘You told me . . .’
‘Jill Paul: my maiden name . . . sorry. I suddenly didn’t feel very married. I never know when he’s coming back.’
‘In that case you’ve entertained me just as you promised him, and nothing bad happened . . . although it was a close-run thing.’
Then she grinned at me, and I rather began to like her. She said, ‘No; it wasn’t.’ When a woman looks you in the eye and tells you that you never stood a chance, it can actually be quite a liberating experience.
Twenty minutes later one of her neighbours crossed the street to give me the once-over, and then Haye dropped in on her way off-duty. We drank their pretend gin, and the stories they told me of the other wives in the compound made the place sound like a Shanghai cat-house. I don’t think now that one hundredth of it was true; just desperate people and wishful thinking. In return I told them everything that had happened to me since my call-up, making it sound as silly as possible. We laughed a lot.
Before I left them I asked, ‘My boss told me he’ll send me up here from time to time to work out of Abu-somewhere-or-other. Would you mind if I dropped in?’
‘I’d like that, Charlie,’ Mrs Holroyd said.
‘We all would,’ Haye said firmly. I think she was marking my card.
The third woman was named Evelyn, and the others deferred to her. I’d
