In the Eye of the Storm

  That wasn’t a question! It wasn’t! I was not going to ask!

  His dark eyes didn’t even glance at me. ‘You don’t need the contents yet, Mr Linton.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘You’ll need it only when we arrive.’

  ‘This… contents sounds mysterious, Sir.’

  I waited again.

  ‘Does it, Mr Linton?’

  Blast, blast, blast!

  ‘Well, even if I don’t need the contents, Sir…’

  I let the sentence trail off suggestively. There was nothing but silence in answer. Apparently, Mr Ambrose was immune to suggestively trailed-off sentences. So I started again.

  ‘Even if I don’t need the contents now, there is a possibility, you know, that a hypothetical person, who is most certainly not me, might be slightly interested in knowing what it is right away.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’ I turned my head away, trying to avoid his eyes. ‘You see, if this hypothetical person were trapped on a hypothetical ship, and had nothing to do all day but to think about the hypothetical contents of these hypothetical cases, this might result in a certain lack of indifference in this hypothetical person towards knowing what might be in these hypothetical cases.’

  ‘Mr Linton?’

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘Are you curious about what is in the cases in your cabin?’

  ‘What? Me? Oh, no, no, no, Sir!’

  ‘I see.’ His broad shoulders did another one of those almost imperceptible shrugs. ‘If that’s the case, I suppose I do not need to tell you.’

  ‘You could, if you wanted to,’ I quickly offered, with my usual awe-inspiring magnanimity. ‘I don’t mind listening to you. I mean, we haven’t got anything else to do, have we?’

  He shrugged again. ‘Of course we have. We can enjoy the beautiful weather and watch the nice-looking sea.’

  The bloody b-! Strangle him! Strangle him! Strangle him now!

  *~*~**~*~*

  ‘Tell me! Tell me now! I can’t stand it any longer! Just bloody hell tell me!’

  All right, as most of you will have guessed by my eloquent speech above, I finally broke down and, in a very polite and civilized manner (for me) enquired about the contents of the suitcases. It was a few days after we had watched the beautiful weather and the nice-looking sea together. Mr Ambrose was standing at the bow, and I approached him, posing my polite question.

  ‘Tell me, or I’ll shove you overboard!’

  Slowly, Mr Ambrose turned towards me, his chiselled head cocked to one side, and in this very cool and detached and perfectly genuine voice said: ‘Tell you what, pray?’

  Is he serious?

  Nonsensical question. This was Rikkard Ambrose. Of course he was being serious.

  ‘Those suitcases! What is in them?’

  He cocked his head the other way. In his sleek black tailcoat he looked like some great jungle cat contemplating the best way to slay and eat me.

  ‘Strange. I distinctly remember you mentioning that you were not curious about this.’

  ‘I lied!’

  ‘Indeed? I would never have guessed.’

  He is making fun of me! I know it! I just know it!

  So how come, if he was making fun of me, his face was still absolutely straight, looking as if it had been carved from the heart of a mountain?

  Because he’s a bastard, that’s why!

  Not able to find any counter-argument to this, I simply kept silent, inside and out, staring doggedly at Mr Ambrose. I was not going to beg! No, I was not!

  But he merely turned away and started watching the ocean again. I wondered what had ever given me the idea that it looked nice. It was grotesque! Hideous! Beastly!

  ‘Well?’ I demanded. ‘Are you going to answer or not?’

  He didn’t look at me. ‘That depends, Mr Linton. Will you ask?’

  ‘I did!’

  ‘I should perhaps have clarified: will you ask in a civilized, respectful manner?’

  Blast him! Why did he always have to pick the things that were most difficult to do? I swallowed, gulping down a goodly portion of my pride along with my saliva.

  ‘Sir, will you please tell me what is in those suitcases in my cabin, Sir?’

  All right, all right, I did beg, I know! I was shameless! A disgrace to feminism!

  ‘I will do better than that.’ Stepping back from the railing, he turned around and started striding away. ‘I will show you.’

  I was after him in a flash. Disgrace to feminism be dashed! I wanted to know what was in those cases right now, or even yesterday if possible! My overactive mind had already started conjuring up all sorts of things.

  Maybe it’s weapons! Guns and grenades and God knows what else…

  But why would he store them in my cabin? I highly doubted Mr Ambrose intended me to be the spearhead of our offence.

  Who knows? Even a man like him might turn sensible someday.

  Perhaps there was money in those cases. Money to bribe informants with, to find out where the bandits are.

  Come on, do you really believe that Mr Ambrose would waste money on that? He would just glare darkly at any informant, and they would spill their guts without him having to spend a penny! Besides, if it is money, it still doesn’t make sense for him to put it in your cabin, does it? It has to be something to do with you, specifically!

  But what exactly? What?

  We had reached the door to my cabin by now.

  ‘You-’ I began.

  He pushed the door open and marched inside.

  ‘-may go in,’ I finished with a sigh. Why did I even bother?

  Shrugging, I followed him in. It was a lot more difficult to fit into the miniature cabin now that, besides the giant stack of cases and me, there was also the tall figure of Rikkard Ambrose in there. I almost had no choice but to press myself up against him. I swear, it was completely incidental that I got squashed against his flat, hard front.

  ‘Well…’ I cleared my throat. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  Taking a key out of his pocket, he pulled one of the cases towards him. My eyes were drawn magically towards it.

  What is in there? Weapons? Money? Bearer bonds?

  As he leaned forward, he couldn’t help but press more tightly against me. I could feel the hard, lean muscles of his arm.

  Or are there maps in there? With secret, safe ways through the desert? Hm… by the way, his arm does feel rather nice…

  Hey! What the heck was that thought doing in my head?

  The lock snapped open. With a shove, Mr Ambrose pushed back the lid of the case and revealed the contents.

  No weapons. However, it wasn’t money, bearer bonds or maps, either. Oh no. It was something completely different. Nothing could have prepared me for the magnificent sight that actually met my eyes.

  The Female Man who is a Woman

  Clothes. That’s what was in the suitcases. Clothes, clothes, and more clothes. And not just any kind of clothes. Ladies’ clothes. And not just any kind of ladies’ clothes, either, but the kind of ladies’ clothes any girl would sell her soul for.

  Any girl except me, of course! I’m totally immune to such things, being a feminist and all. I would never sell my soul for something as shallow as piece of oppressive fashion dictated to us by chauvinistic men!

  Though, looking at those glamorous garments, I might decide to sell someone else’s soul, if I could get away with it. Not the soul of someone I really liked, of course, like my little sister Ella. But I wouldn’t really have minded handing my aunt over to the devil to get my hands on one of those dresses. If only…

  Only then did it come to me:

  These clothes were in my suitcases.

  Well, not exactly my suitcases, since they had come from Mr Ambrose, but he had put them into my cabin. Did that mean…?

  ‘Well?’ I heard his cool voice coming from right beside me, and yet, somehow, from very far away. ‘What do you think?’
r />   Oh my God, oh my God, yes, it did mean what I thought it did! Yes! Yes! But… how? Where? When? And most importantly, why?

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said slowly, not quite ready to believe it yet. ‘Why is there a case full of ladies’ clothes in my cabin?’

  ‘Not just clothes, Mr Linton.’ Taking down another, smaller, case from the pile, Mr Ambrose opened it. My eyes nearly popped out of my head as the lid lifted and revealed a dazzling array of jewellery in all sizes, shapes and colours. Pearls, diamonds, sapphires and rubies mounted on rings, set in necklaces of gold and silver. I stared at Mr Ambrose, wondering whether this really was the same man I knew. Maybe it wasn’t really him at all, but his generous twin brother. ‘A-are you feeling all right, Mr Ambrose?’

  ‘Of course! And if I let you touch those,’ he said, gesturing to the jewels, ‘be careful. They’re only on loan. If one is damaged, you’ll work the debt off till kingdom come.’

  Thank God! Thank God, he’s still himself!

  Which left the question of what the heck was happening here. I watched in amazement as Mr Ambrose opened more suitcases, revealing handbags, fans, make-up, hand mirrors, parasols - everything a lady of high society could wish for to go out in style. But what I found most astounding were the clothes - girls’ clothes!

  ‘Do I understand you correctly?’ My voice was weak. This had come as rather a shock. For weeks and weeks there had been tension crackling between Mr Ambrose and me because he did not want a female employee and had forced me to come to work dressed up as a man. And now this? I couldn’t believe it. I just couldn’t. ‘These clothes are for me? When we arrive in Egypt, you want me to put them on?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You can put them on now, if you wish, Mr Linton. You’ll have to, eventually, along with some of the rings and necklaces. But I would advise you to wait until we have reached coastal waters. The sea wind can be rather draughty in a skirt.’

  Under normal circumstances, I’d have wondered how Mr Ambrose would ever know anything about how draughty a skirt was. But right then and there, I didn’t care a penny. I was in shock - stunned by the sudden prospect of my approaching sex change. He would have to call me Miss! He couldn’t call me ‘Mr Linton’ once I was in a dress, could he?

  Don’t bet on it, said a nasty little voice in my head, but I ignored it.

  ‘You are serious? This isn’t some stupid joke?’

  He gave me a look. One of those looks. ‘The dresses alone cost me fifty pounds ten shillings and two pence.’

  Translation: It is not a joke.

  ‘But… why? You’ve argued with me about this for over a month, never giving me an inch! And now this?’ I gestured to the extravagance in front of me. ‘Why?’

  ‘For reasons of inconspicuousness, Mr Linton.’

  ‘Inconspicuousness?’ Tugging the embroidered lace hem of one of the dresses out of the suitcase, I snorted. ‘Don’t tell me this is inconspicuous!’

  ‘It is in a way. Think about it, Mr Linton. Two men leave London - and who arrives in Egypt? A man and a girl. If there is somebody watching, somebody hostile, it is less likely the two events will be connected and conclusions drawn.’

  I felt a sudden shiver go down my spine. ‘Somebody watching?’

  ‘Lord Dalgliesh,’ Mr Ambrose told me darkly, ‘has many eyes and ears.’

  ‘Oh.’

  That might well be true. And from what I had seen of His Lordship, it would be a very good idea to keep out of his line of sight. I still didn’t really think putting me in a dress would help a lot with that, but for the moment, I shoved the thought aside.

  ‘This is really going to happen?’ I could hardly believe it. There were a thousand sensible reasons whirling inside my head why trousers were actually more practical to wear, but I couldn’t ruin this with silly objections. Finally! He had caved in! Even if it was for some stupid reason, finally he was letting me be myself! ‘You really mean this? You want me to dress as a woman? You want me to stop pretending to be a man?’

  He stared at me, coolly, as if I had misplaced my sanity and he highly disapproved of my negligence. ‘Of course not! You will keep pretending to be a man. Only as long as we are in Egypt, you will pretend to be a man who is pretending to be a woman.’

  I blinked at him, not sure whether I was hearing right. ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘You… you are unbelievable!’

  He nodded. ‘I must admit, I have always thought myself that I am quite extraordinary.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant, blast you!’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No! You are a chauvinist son of a bachelor!’

  His eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch. ‘Show some respect, Mr Linton.’

  ‘You are a chauvinist son of a bachelor, Sir!’

  I don’t know how he did it - the tininess of the cabin should have precluded any such movement - but somehow he managed to take a threatening step towards me.

  ‘What is it you want, Mr Linton? Do you want to wear these dresses?’

  ‘I want for you to not call me ‘Mister’ all the time! I want to be myself!’

  ‘Does being yourself involve wearing women’s clothing?’

  ‘Yes, but-’

  ‘Then I suggest you hold your tongue before I change my mind and take these back,’ he told me, with a jerk of his hand towards the open cases. ‘Do you understand?’

  I opened my mouth to argue.

  ‘Do you understand, Mr Linton?’

  Slowly, agonizingly slowly, I forced my mouth shut again. ‘Yes, Sir!’ I managed to get out between clenched teeth.

  ‘Adequate. I shall see you at dinner.’

  And with that he whirled around - How does he manage to whirl in a place that isn’t big enough to scratch your nose in? - and stalked out of the room.

  I glared balefully after him. Then, deciding he was not worth my attention, I slammed the door shut and directed my baleful glare at the dresses instead. Dressing up as man who dressed up as a woman! Bah! How did he imagine that? Did he think I was going to walk around in the heat of the desert in women’s clothes with a complete set of men’s clothes underneath? Or did he just mean some sort of mindset, wherein I never forgot that although I was wearing girl’s clothing, while I was in his employ, I was still technically a man?

  Well, if that’s what he meant, he could jolly well stick his opinions about gender where the sun didn’t shine! I was a girl! Basta!

  Maybe it’s time to show him that.

  My gaze focused on one of the dresses in particular, and turned from baleful to thoughtful. Should I? Should I not? Should I? Should I not?

  I hesitated, gazing down at the fabulous dress. Then, suddenly, I dashed forward and grabbed it. Oh, to hell with Mr Ambrose and his breezy skirts! I was going to show him that a girl could fare just as well on a ship as a man could!

  I was just finished with dressing, and was gazing self-satisfactorily at myself in the mirror, when a knock came from the door.

  ‘Yes?’ I called. ‘Enter!’

  The door swung open, and a sailor stuck his head into the cabin. ‘Mr Linton, Sir, the captain just sent me to tell you that dinner is almost ready and that-’

  It was then that he noticed the lack of masculinity in the room. His eyes went wide. I turned towards him with a charming smile.

  ‘That dinner is almost ready and that…’ I encouraged him.

  ‘Um… excuse me, Miss, I… I was looking for Mr Linton.’

  ‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘So now that you’ve found me, what is it?’

  ‘Err… you are Mr Linton?’

  The sailor was clearly having trouble rearranging his world view.

  I shrugged and gave him another encouraging smile. ‘In a way. Though it would probably better if you called me “Miss Linton” from now on.’

  ‘Um, yes, Si- err, Miss.’

  ‘Now, what was it the captain sent you to tell me?’

  ‘The captain???
? The sailor blinked. He had apparently quite forgotten the existence of his superior officer, and needed a moment to retrieve his memories. ‘Ah. Of course. The captain. He wanted me to tell Mr Linton - you, that is - that dinner is almost ready, and he intends to open a box of his best Virginia Cigars today, if you would care to join him for one.’

  In his frazzled state of mind, it took the poor man a moment to realize he had just offered a lady in silk and satin the opportunity to smoke cigars. When it dawned on him, he clutched the doorframe, and almost fainted.

  ‘Oh my God, Miss, I… I’m so sorry, I… was supposed to tell Mr Linton, and you… well, and I… Oh God!’

  He shot me a pleading glance. I took pity on him.

  ‘Tell the captain I will be along directly,’ I told him, curtsying. ‘And tell him I will be only too happy to try one of his Virginia Cigars. I look forward to the experience.’

  *~*~**~*~*

  Have you ever seen the face of a sturdy, conservative ship captain watching a nineteen-year-old girl smoking cigars? No? And have you ever watched the twitching jaw muscles of a financial magnate sitting in the same room, staring so coldly at your cigar that by rights it should be extinguished and frozen? You haven’t done that either? Well, then you haven’t lived.

  It wasn’t just this evening that was quite amusing. The rest of the journey to Egypt in its entirety turned out to be rather entertaining, and all thanks to my new attire. True, the skirts were a bit draughty outside, but the sailors’ faces as they tried to puzzle out the mysterious transformation of Mr Victor Linton more than made up for it. As did the look on Mr Ambrose’s face whenever he caught his men staring at me.

  ‘Land ahoy!’

  The cry from the ship’s highest mast came out of the blue. I was down in my cabin, and only heard it by luck because the engines were, for once, running at low steam to allow the men a chance to sleep. It took me about four and a half seconds to race up on deck.

  ‘Where is it?’ I demanded, materializing beside Mr Ambrose at the bow. ‘Where is it, where is it?’

  ‘Not in sight yet, from down here,’ was his cool reply. ‘If you want to climb up the mast in that dress, be my guest.’

  ‘When will it be in sight? When?’