She went in through the gate, and the young sentry gave her an appreciative grin and crack of his head. She saw the lorry parked on the gravel, the able seaman behind the wheel deep in an old copy of Titbits. She went up shallow steps, under the shade of an impressive porch and into the lofty hall, which now did duty as a Regulating Office. There were desks, and pigeon-holes for mail, and a number of Wrens already there, standing about, and waiting to be told what to do. A young Third Officer seemed to be in charge, with a Leading Wren at her elbow for moral support. She was having some difficulty with names and numbers.
‘There are meant to be fourteen Wrens. How many have we got…?’ With a pencil in her hand, she endeavoured to count heads. ‘One. Two…’
‘Twelve, ma'm.’ The Leading Wren was clearly the more efficient of the two.
‘Two more to come, then.’ She caught sight of Judith, hovering on the edge of the little group. ‘Who are you?’
‘Dunbar, ma'm.’
‘Where from?’
‘HMS Adelaide, Trincomalee. I'm on leave.’
‘Dunbar.’ The Third Officer scanned her list. ‘Oh yes, here you are. Tick you off. But we're still missing one.’ She looked anxiously at her watch. All this responsibility was clearly getting her down. ‘She's late…’
‘No, I'm not.’ The final volunteer, bursting through the open door, reporting for duty. ‘It's only five to nine.’ A small, sturdy girl, brown as a berry, with bright, amused blue eyes and short dark hair which curled around the tally-band of her hat.
‘Oh. Good. Well done.’ Her confident manner had knocked the young Third Officer a bit off course. ‘Er…are you Sudlow?’
‘That's right. HMS Lanka. I got the morning off.’
Finally, it was decided that they were all mustered and ready to go. Orders were given. The lorry would take them to the Fort, where the ex-prisoners would disembark from tenders.
Why not the dockside? asked one girl.
‘We'd have to arrange buses to transport the men to the Fort. This way, they can walk to Gordon's Green, it's only a short distance. There's a slipway there and jetty. Then, when they're ashore, you meet them and talk to them, and escort them to where the tents have been put up, and refreshments will be served.’
‘Beer?’ Wren Sudlow inquired hopefully.
‘No,’ she was told dismissively. ‘Tea and buns, and sandwiches and such. Any more questions?’
‘How long do we have to stay?’
‘As long as you feel you're being of use. Make sure they're enjoying themselves, being fed. Put them at ease.’
‘Is it just us, ma'm?’ another girl asked, sounding a bit dismayed.
‘No, of course not. There'll be nurses from the hospital, and a contingent from the Garrison. And I believe a band to play music. And then, at the reception in the tent, senior officers from all three services and one or two local ministers and dignitaries. So you won't be alone.’ She looked about her. ‘Everybody understand? Right. Off you go.’
‘And the best of British luck,’ Wren Sudlow finished for her, which made everybody laugh except the Third Officer, who pretended that she hadn't heard.
The fourteen girls duly trooped out into the hot sunshine, and the able seaman, hearing their chatter, jumped down out of the cab and came around to the back of the lorry to let down the tail-gate, and give a helpful heave to any person who happened to need one. Boarded, they settled themselves on the wooden benches that ran fore and aft on either side. When all were loaded, like so many cattle, the tail-gate was slammed shut and secured. A moment later, the engine started up and they were off, bouncing and lurching through the gate and up the Galle Road.
It was fairly breezy, because the flaps of the canvas cover had been rolled up and the truck was open on all sides. Judith and Wren Sudlow, being the last to board, sat side by side at the back.
‘What a carry-on,’ said Sudlow. ‘I didn't think I was going to make it. Tried to get a lift, but I couldn't, so I had to take a rickshaw. That's why I was nearly late.’ She looked at Judith. ‘I don't know you, do I? Are you Colombo?’
‘No. Trincomalee. I'm on leave.’
‘Thought I didn't know your face. What's your name?’
‘Judith Dunbar.’
‘I'm Sarah Sudlow.’
‘Hi.’
‘Wasn't that Third Officer pathetic? Wet as a scrubber. I'm not much looking forward to this, are you? Tea and buns in an Army tent doesn't sound like much of a reception after what those poor chaps have been through.’
‘I don't suppose they're up to dealing with too much excitement.’
Behind them the Galle Road, wide and busy with traffic, streamed dustily away between the avenues of tall palm trees. Judith watched it go, and thought of her father, living in Colombo, driving this way day after day, to and from the offices of Wilson-McKinnon. She thought of him dying in the filth and hopeless misery that had been Changi, and tried to remember exactly how he had looked, and the sound of his voice, but it wasn't possible. It was all too long ago. Which was a shame, because right now, this morning, she could have done with a bit of fatherly support, a stiffening of the spine. Dad, if you're there. I'm sort of doing this for you. Don't let me be too useless.
Beside her, Sarah Sudlow shifted on the hard bench. ‘God, what I wouldn't give for a fag.’ Clearly, she felt just as apprehensive as Judith did. ‘It's a bit of a facer, isn't it? I mean, drumming up things to say. Cocktail party chat is scarcely appropriate, and I dread pregnant pauses.’ She considered the problem and then came up with a bright idea. ‘Tell you what, much easier if we do it in pairs. And then if one of us runs out of chat, the other can chip in. What do you say? Shall we stick together?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Judith instantly, and at once felt much better. Sarah Sudlow. She could not imagine a stauncher partner in time of stress.
Familiar landmarks wheeled by. The Galle Face Hotel, the Galle Face Green. The lorry rumbled across a bridge, and so along the road that ran by the eastern shore of the Fort. The sea was a shout of blue, stretching to the horizon; and the wind from the south-west, driving in a steady procession of breakers to crash on the rocks. They reached the point, with the lighthouse at its end forming a natural harbour, sheltered from the weather, and where the water lay still. Here were a jetty and a slipway, and, in position nearby, immaculately ranked and standing to attention, the impressive spectacle of a Sikh pipe band in full ceremonial fig: khaki shorts and tunics, and magnificent turbans. Their drum major was a man of majestic height and stature, carrying a huge silver mace, and with a sash of scarlet silk, lavishly fringed, worn over one shoulder and across his chest.
‘I didn't know Sikhs played the bagpipes,’ said Sarah. ‘I thought they played sitars and strange flutes for charming snakes.’
‘They look fairly good, though, don't they?’
‘I'll reserve my opinion until I hear the sort of noise they make.’
The lorry drew to a halt, the tail-gate was opened, and they all climbed down. Others were there before them. The official reception committee: officers from the Garrison and Naval Headquarters, two ambulances and some naval nursing sisters, their white veils and aprons snapping in the breeze.
Inland stood the Clock Tower, the Government buildings, the Queen's House, and various banks and ministries. On the grassy expanse of Gordon's Green (venue for ceremonial occasions such as Beating Retreat or garden parties for visiting Crowned Heads) could be seen the khaki tents erected by the Army. These had been strung with bunting, and overall, at the head of a tall flagpole, flew the Union Jack.
Orion lay at anchor, about a mile offshore.
‘Looks a bit like a pre-war liner on a pleasure cruise, doesn't she?’ Sarah observed. ‘Ironic to know that she's really a hospital ship, and most of her passengers are probably too sick or debilitated even to make the trip ashore. Oh goodness, they're actually coming…’
Judith looked, and saw, approaching around the lighthouse point, three tenders in l
ine astern, headed for the jetty. Each was packed with men, rendered, by distance and the dazzling sunlight, into a blur of khaki and pale faces.
‘There seem to be quite a lot of them, don't there?’ Her chatter, Judith knew, was probably nervous, the flow of words unstoppable. ‘I must say, I find it all a bit bizarre. I mean, trying to relate the ghastly facts to all this en fête business. I mean, flags and bands and everything. I just hope they won't be…Heavens!’
She was silenced, appropriately enough, by the voice of the drum major screaming out his first order, and causing Sarah nearly to jump out of her skin. He had clearly been well primed as to timing. The sunlight flashed on his mace, the side-drums rolled, and, as one man, the pipers hoisted their instruments shoulder-high. After that came an eerie, spine-tingling dirge as they filled their bags, pumping air into the reeds. Then they began to play. Not martial marches, but an old Scottish air.
Speed bonny boat like a bird on the wing,
Onward the sailors cry…
‘Oh God,’ said Sarah, ‘I hope I'm not going to blub.’
The tenders grew closer, their passengers crammed shoulder to shoulder. Now it was possible to make out the features of the men aboard.
Carry the lad who was born to be King
Over the sea to Skye.
Not particularly bonny boats, and certainly there were no Kings to step ashore, just ordinary men who had survived hell and were returning to the real and familiar world again. But what a way to make their landfall, greeted by the sound of the pipes. Some person, Judith decided, had been inspired. She had heard pipe bands before, of course, over the wireless or newsreels at the cinema, but had never actually been part of it all, watching and hearing the wild music stream out into the wind and the open sky. It, combined with the circumstances of the occasion, sent shivers down her back and she, like Sarah, felt tears behind her eyes.
She willed them away, and said in as normal and steady a voice as possible, ‘Why are they playing Scottish tunes?’
‘Probably the only ones they know. Actually most of the prisoners are Durham Light Infantry, but I think there are some Gordon Highlanders as well.’
All Judith's senses pricked. ‘Gordons?’
‘That's what my Second Officer told me.’
‘I once knew a Gordon Highlander. He was killed in Singapore.’
‘Maybe you'll meet up with some of his chums.’
‘I didn't know any of his friends.’
The first tender had come alongside and was tying up. Her passengers, in orderly fashion, began to climb up onto the jetty.
Sarah squared her shoulders. ‘Come on. Don't hang about. This is where we move in. Nice smiles and a cheerful manner.’
After all their apprehension, it wasn't difficult at all. Not aliens from another planet, but ordinary young men, and as soon as she heard them speak, in the reassuringly regional accents of Northumberland, Cumberland, and Tyneside, Judith lost all her reservations. Bone-thin, bare-headed, and with features still wearing the pallor of sickness and malnutrition, yet they were all neat and clean, decently kitted out (by the Red Cross in Rangoon?) in jungle-green cotton battledress and canvas lace-up shoes. No badges of rank or seniority, no regimental emblems. Coming down the jetty in twos and threes, they approached slowly, as though not quite certain as to what to expect, but as the white-clad Wrens and nursing sisters mingled amongst them, talking and shaking hands, their shyness melted away.
Hello. I'm Judith. It's good to see you.
I'm Sarah. Welcome to Colombo.
We've even organised a band to play for you.
We're so pleased to see you.
Soon each girl had, quite naturally, gathered about her a number of men, all of them clearly relieved to be told what they had to do.
‘We're going to take you up to Gordon's Green, where the tents are.’
‘Grand.’
One of the senior nursing sisters clapped her hands, like a schoolteacher trying to attract attention.
‘Nobody needs to walk if they don't feel up to it. We've plenty of transport if anyone wants a ride.’
But Judith's group, now swelled to about twenty men, said that they would walk.
‘Right. Then let's go.’
They set off at an unhurried pace, up the gentle slope that rose from the shore. The pipe band was now playing another tune.
Come o'er the sea, Charlie, proud Charlie, brave Charlie,
Come o'er the sea, Charlie and welcome MacLean.
For though you be weary, we'll make your heart cheery…
The man next to Judith said, ‘That Sister. Clapping her hands. We had a teacher just like that at home, when I was a lad.’
‘Where's home?’
‘Alnwick.’
‘Have you been to Colombo before?’
‘No. We stopped by on our way to Singapore, but we didn't come ashore. Officers did, but not other ranks. Suppose they thought we might scarper.’
Another of the men chipped in. ‘Wouldn't have been a bad thing if we had.’ He had scars on his neck from what looked like boils, and he walked with a painful limp.
‘Are you all right, walking? Wouldn't you rather bum a lift?’
‘Bit of a leg stretch won't hurt.’
‘Where's your home?’
‘Near Walsingham. The fells. My dad's a sheep farmer.’
‘Are you all Durham Light Infantry?’
‘That's right.’
‘Are there some Gordon Highlanders on board?’
‘Yes, but they're in the last tender. Following on.’
‘A bit unfriendly, playing Scottish music for coming ashore. They should have played Northumberland folk songs, specially for you.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don't know. I don't know any.’
Another man moved forward. ‘Do you not know “When the boat comes in”?’
‘No. I'm sorry. Very ignorant.’
‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Judith.’
‘Do you work in Colombo?’
‘No, I'm on leave.’
‘Why aren't you off enjoying yourself then?’
‘I am.’
Long afterwards, when it was all over, Judith remembered the official reception for the returned prisoners of war much as she recalled School Speech Days, or garden fêtes in England. All the elements of some churchly fund-raising were there. The smell of trodden grass, canvas, and over-heated humanity. The Royal Marine band, out on the Green, playing light selections from Gilbert and Sullivan. The stifling tents seething with khaki-clad men and visiting dignitaries come to pay their respects. (The vicar, the Lord Lieutenant, and Colonel Carey-Lewis would not have looked in the least out of place.) Then, the refreshments. Around the sides of the tent, trestle-tables were loaded with goodies. Buns, sandwiches, and little cakes, all of which melted away in record time, to be instantly replaced from some bottomless source or other. To drink, there was iced coffee, lemonade, and hot tea. (Again, one half expected to spy Mrs Nettlebed or Mary Millyway in charge of the tea-urn, with Mrs Mudge alongside dealing with the milk jugs and the sugar.)
So full became the tent that access to the trestle-tables was limited, so having safely delivered their charges, Judith and Sarah were pressed into duty as waitresses, loading trays with full plates and glasses and cups, and making sure that every man got his share of the feast.
By now, there was a lot of talking, and it was all very hot and noisy. But at last the assembled company, finally sated, stopped eating and drifted in twos and threes out onto the Green, to lie on the grass, smoke cigarettes, and listen to the band.
Judith looked at her watch, and saw that it was already half past eleven. Sarah Sudlow was nowhere to be seen, and the stewards were now clearing away the detritus of the party. Her shirt was sticking to her back and there didn't seem to be much else to do, so she left the tent, ducking under the canvas overhang and stepping over a couple of guy-ropes. She faced the sea, and the b
reeze was blissfully cooling.
She stood for a moment breathing gusts of fresh air and observing the peaceful scene. The lawns of Gordon's Green; the Royal Marine Band (suitably ceremonial in white helmets) now playing tunes from H.M.S. Pinafore; the random groups of relaxing men. And then her eye was caught by a single man, who did not lie prone, propped on an elbow, but stood, with his back to her, apparently intent upon the music. She noticed him because he was different. Lanky and fleshless as the others, but not wearing the anonymous uniform of jungle green and canvas gym shoes. Instead, a pair of battered desert boots, the sort that were always referred to by officers of the Royal Navy as brothel-creepers. On his dark head was a Gordon glengarry, the ribbons fluttering in the breeze. A worn khaki shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. And a kilt. A Gordon kilt. Ragged and faded, the pleats stitched down, in amateurish fashion, with twine. But still, a kilt.
Gus.
For an instant she thought it might be Gus, and then saw at once that he wasn't because Gus was dead. Lost, killed in Singapore. But perhaps he had known Gus.
…I cleaned the windows and I swept the floor,
And I polished up the handle of the big front door,
I polished up that handle so carefullee
That now I am the ruler of the Queen's Navee.
She walked across the grass towards him. He did not hear her coming, and he never turned.
She said, ‘Hello.’
Startled, he swung around, and she was looking up into his face. Dark eyes, thick brows, cheeks cadaverous, skin netted with fine lines that had not been there before. She experienced an extraordinary physical sensation, as though her heart had ceased to beat and for an instant she had been frozen in time.