weakened by the diversion of reinforcements to the Far East following Japan’s aggression at Pearl Harbor, were unable to pursue and confirm their advantage.
Tobruk was relieved. Operation Crusader was publicized as a resounding success.
But Rommel was only taking a breather. During the week following 21 January, he scattered the British 1st Armoured Division, roared through Cyrenaica again, burst through our defences at Sirte and retook Benghazi.
The legend of the Desert Fox was freshly embellished.
* * *
‘It didn’t feel much like a victory,’ said James, ‘but they told us it was, so it must have been. To read Parade, you’d think we’d chased the Afrika Korps all the way back to Berlin, with their tails between their legs.’
But you survived, I thought, and you’re here. That makes it a victory.
We followed the sufragi, Ahmed, up dingy stairs, green below the dado, cream above, just like an English boarding-house, and waited while he unlocked a door. He led us into a dimly lit room.
‘Very nice room,’ he said.
‘Is it all right, darling?’ James asked anxiously. ‘Will you be able to stand it?’
I looked around the shadowy, over-furnished room. It had the mildewy, graveyard smell of space shut up for a long time. Louvred shutters painted stripes of light and dark across the floor. Dust motes whirled in the light and landed on huge, dark, polished pieces of furniture, ornately French – a mirrored wardrobe, a dressing table, a stuffed chair, a long cheval glass. An enormous bed, stripped and bare, took up the whole of one wall. I turned my face away from it – it was too naked, too obvious – but everywhere I looked it was reflected back. The room seemed to be full of beds.
The sufragi obligingly bounced the mattress up and down for us. A spring twanged. ‘Very good bed,’ Ahmed sniggered. ‘Very good bed for jig-a-jig.’
James’s face was scarlet. He busied himself with the shutter catches, making more noise than he needed to, catching his thumb in the latch. When he pushed the shutters outwards, they squealed. A flurry of dead leaves was pushed off the sill.
‘There’s a garden,’ he remarked, trying to sound more cheerful. ‘That’s a jolly useful thing to have when the hot weather comes again.’
I looked out to a sandy square. A cracked fountain stood in the middle, its basin stuffed with leaves. Creepers grew up the walls, long, long, bare bines with a tuft of growth at the top, resting for the winter or dead. The garden was full of a papery rustle.
Our landlady, Madame Bouvier, was laying out a line of saucers along the wall. From behind a bush, ears back, belly-crawling, came half a dozen mangy cats, only two still carrying a complete tail. The little woman in black, desiccated as her garden, crooned to them in Lebanese French. When she stood up, she noticed us watching. She straightened her red wig and smiled, a perky little smile, then waved, and the sun sparked coloured fire from her jewelled fingers.
There was an answering flash from the ring on my left hand – soft, pure, very yellow Arab gold, cushioning an opal, a rainbow trapped in a bubble. We’d wandered through the maze that was the bazaar of Khan el Khalili, lanes scarcely an arm’s stretch wide, dim as a cave, roofed by bright, white light. James was determined to find something worthy – as he put it – of me, if it meant he had to spend all he had. I was intent on finding something beautiful, but not outrageously expensive. In a cupboard-sized shop that smelt of mint tea and tobacco, we’d found what we were both looking for.
‘A ring for a queen,’ the seller had told us. ‘Queen Elizabeth herself has nothing more fine.’
Vee had drawn in her breath when she’d seen it. ‘Bad luck,’ she’d whispered.
‘Nonsense,’ I’d snapped, covering the opal with my other hand.
I think I will like Madame Bouvier. I don’t like her room, but I like her.
I turned to look at James. He
Tobruk was relieved. Operation Crusader was publicized as a resounding success.
But Rommel was only taking a breather. During the week following 21 January, he scattered the British 1st Armoured Division, roared through Cyrenaica again, burst through our defences at Sirte and retook Benghazi.
The legend of the Desert Fox was freshly embellished.
* * *
‘It didn’t feel much like a victory,’ said James, ‘but they told us it was, so it must have been. To read Parade, you’d think we’d chased the Afrika Korps all the way back to Berlin, with their tails between their legs.’
But you survived, I thought, and you’re here. That makes it a victory.
We followed the sufragi, Ahmed, up dingy stairs, green below the dado, cream above, just like an English boarding-house, and waited while he unlocked a door. He led us into a dimly lit room.
‘Very nice room,’ he said.
‘Is it all right, darling?’ James asked anxiously. ‘Will you be able to stand it?’
I looked around the shadowy, over-furnished room. It had the mildewy, graveyard smell of space shut up for a long time. Louvred shutters painted stripes of light and dark across the floor. Dust motes whirled in the light and landed on huge, dark, polished pieces of furniture, ornately French – a mirrored wardrobe, a dressing table, a stuffed chair, a long cheval glass. An enormous bed, stripped and bare, took up the whole of one wall. I turned my face away from it – it was too naked, too obvious – but everywhere I looked it was reflected back. The room seemed to be full of beds.
The sufragi obligingly bounced the mattress up and down for us. A spring twanged. ‘Very good bed,’ Ahmed sniggered. ‘Very good bed for jig-a-jig.’
James’s face was scarlet. He busied himself with the shutter catches, making more noise than he needed to, catching his thumb in the latch. When he pushed the shutters outwards, they squealed. A flurry of dead leaves was pushed off the sill.
‘There’s a garden,’ he remarked, trying to sound more cheerful. ‘That’s a jolly useful thing to have when the hot weather comes again.’
I looked out to a sandy square. A cracked fountain stood in the middle, its basin stuffed with leaves. Creepers grew up the walls, long, long, bare bines with a tuft of growth at the top, resting for the winter or dead. The garden was full of a papery rustle.
Our landlady, Madame Bouvier, was laying out a line of saucers along the wall. From behind a bush, ears back, belly-crawling, came half a dozen mangy cats, only two still carrying a complete tail. The little woman in black, desiccated as her garden, crooned to them in Lebanese French. When she stood up, she noticed us watching. She straightened her red wig and smiled, a perky little smile, then waved, and the sun sparked coloured fire from her jewelled fingers.
There was an answering flash from the ring on my left hand – soft, pure, very yellow Arab gold, cushioning an opal, a rainbow trapped in a bubble. We’d wandered through the maze that was the bazaar of Khan el Khalili, lanes scarcely an arm’s stretch wide, dim as a cave, roofed by bright, white light. James was determined to find something worthy – as he put it – of me, if it meant he had to spend all he had. I was intent on finding something beautiful, but not outrageously expensive. In a cupboard-sized shop that smelt of mint tea and tobacco, we’d found what we were both looking for.
‘A ring for a queen,’ the seller had told us. ‘Queen Elizabeth herself has nothing more fine.’
Vee had drawn in her breath when she’d seen it. ‘Bad luck,’ she’d whispered.
‘Nonsense,’ I’d snapped, covering the opal with my other hand.
I think I will like Madame Bouvier. I don’t like her room, but I like her.
I turned to look at James. He
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