The Green Gauntlet by R. F. Delderfield Page A

that …’ but suddenly she threw aside the blanket and moved away from the couch so that he thought she was crossing the room for the drink he so badly needed. He soon realised otherwise. She had returned to the bedroom leaving the door wide open and switched on her bedside light. He called, furiously, ‘Get something on and for God’s sake let’s both have a drink!’
    ‘I don’t want any more to drink,’ she said, quietly. ‘If you do, help yourself.’
    There was silence for a moment as he made a great effort of will to get up, pour himself a stiff brandy, drink it and get to hell out of the place before she could move within reach again but suddenly she reappeared in the doorway, the light behind her, so that she might as well have been naked. That way, he thought, she looked exactly as he had just imagined her without clothes, her limbs plump, rounded and nicely proportioned, so that he suddenly thought of his wife’s figure as angular and without promise. She stood there perfectly still, looking across at him without a flicker of embarrassment or apology. Then she said, very levelly, ‘In for a penny in for a pound! That was another of Andy’s dictums, remember? Come in, man, and lock the damned door behind you!’ and she shrugged herself out of her nightdress and climbed slowly into bed.
    She had to shake him when she brought in the tea and he opened his eyes astonished to see her wearing that identical scarlet-lined cloak he had expected to see at the station. There was no hint in her manner or expression of the hysteria of less than three hours ago and when she addressed him by name she might have been hailing him on the beach at Deauville where he and Andy and Monica were sunbathing while she wandered off to fiddle with one of those idiotic little machines that accounted for her loose change wherever they went.
    ‘I’m going now, Stevie. You take your time. You’ve nothing to get up for, have you now?’
    ‘No,’ he said, ‘nothing’ and then, as he took the cup a little of her tranquillity passed to him and he looked at her with a kind of awe that acknowledged her ability to solve her problems so swiftly and resolutely. He opened his mouth to say something but she lifted her hand and pushed a playful finger against his lips. ‘No inquest,’ she said. ‘When do you have to go back?’
    ‘I’m due in camp at 0800 hours tomorrow and it’ll mean catching the 1.30 a.m. from King’s Cross. Will you be back in time?’
    ‘I’ll see that I am,’ she said, ‘and don’t bother about Henrietta. She’s off on a dirty weekend of her own. King’s Lynn I think she said. She won’t be here until tomorrow night. Good-bye now. There’s cornflakes and a few rashers in the ’fridge. Milk too if you want to make yourself coffee.’ She bent and kissed him on the mouth and as she drew away she gave a little giggle. ‘You’re plastered with lipstick,’ she said, ‘and you look like the broken-hearted clown! Don’t worry! It’s done and it’ll stay done, so make the best of it before everything goes bang!’
    IV
    I t is just possible that Monica, married to Andrew instead of Stevie, might have become reconciled to the life of an R.A.F. camp-follower.
    Most people, both in the Valley and out of it, thought of The Pair as interchangeable but Claire for one had always known they were not. There was a fanatical streak in Andy that reminded her of Paul and was entirely lacking in his twin. Both had been unspectacular scholars at school but once they were launched into the scrap world old Franz Zorndorff had soon recognised the complementary contributions each could make to his business concerns. Stevie had charm and an amiability capable of conjuring a profit from the crustiest dealer and the fields in which he operated, cozening, bribing, softening up prospects, were bars or clubs. Andy showed himself more adept at mastering the economics of the trade and later, when they became fliers, he was able