Read 1968 - An Ear to the Ground for Free Online Page A

paper plate. She looked up at Johnny’s hard, expressionless face.
    ‘Any trouble?’
    ‘Here and there . . . nothing we couldn’t handle. The janitor wasn’t such a slob. He nearly caught us, but not quite. Anyway, we’ve done it, and there it is!’
    ‘You really mean there’s going to be no trouble?’ Martha demanded.
    ‘He was marvellous!’ Gilda said huskily. ‘He unlocked all the locks and relocked them. He had to spend eighty minutes getting that filing cabinet open and I nearly walked up the wall! But he didn’t! And when we got the file and photocopied it, he spent another half-hour relocking the file cabinet.’
    ‘Be quiet!’ Johnny said. ‘It was a job . . . it’s been done. I’m going for a swim.’
    He left them and ran down the steps to the beach below.
    ‘I told you, Martha,’ Henry said. ‘He is a good man.’
    ‘You don’t know how good,’ Gilda said. ‘It was magic. The way he opened the doors . . . the way he knelt for all that time fiddling with that cabinet lock, talking to it as if he was making love to a woman; so gently, so . . . I’ve never watched anything like it, and when the lock yielded as a woman might have yielded, he gave a moaning sound that. . . well, you know . . .’ Gilda stopped short, her face flushing, and she got to her feet.
    ‘Have a drink,’ Henry said gently. ‘Let me get you something.’
    Gilda didn’t hear him. She went to the balcony rail and leaning over, she watched Johnny as he swam far out to sea.
    The other two looked at each other, then Martha wiped her fingers on the Kleenex and picked up the photocopies.
    The tension of breaking into the office block, the moment when they had nearly run into the janitor who was wandering around on the second floor landing, the long wait while Johnny had fought with the lock, the final triumph had now left Gilda limp and exhausted.
    Leaving the other two examining the photocopies, she went into her bedroom, stripped off and took a cold shower. It was a hot night with a brilliant moon. The windows were wide open, but the room still felt close. She lay naked on the bed, staring out at the moon, her ankles crossed, her hands behind her head. She lay like that for a long time, her mind reliving her experience, reliving the jolt of terror as Johnny grabbed her and pulled her back into the shadows as the shambling figure of the janitor had passed them.
    She was vaguely aware of the light on the terrace being turned off and Martha stumping off to the refrigerator. She heard Henry’s door close.
    She wondered what Johnny was doing. If he came now to her room, she wouldn’t have refused him. Her body ached for him. She wanted him as she had never wanted any other man.
    But Johnny didn’t come.
    At exactly eight-thirty a.m., Flo wheeled the breakfast trolley into Martha’s bedroom. She was surprised to find Martha already out of bed, sitting on her small terrace, busily scribbling with a pencil on a sheet of paper.
    ‘Morning Miss Martha . . . you all right?’ Flo asked, her big, black eyes rolling.
    ‘Of course I’m all right, you fool!’ Martha snapped. She laid down her pencil.
    She regarded the trolley with greedy eyes. Flo always provided something exciting for breakfast and always served it well.
    ‘Tell the Colonel I want to talk to him in an hour. Where is he?’
    ‘Taking coffee on the terrace below, Miss Martha.’
    ‘Well, tell him.’
    Half an hour later, Martha had demolished four pancakes and syrup, four lambs’ kidneys with creamed potatoes, five slices of toast with cherry jam and three cups of coffee. She pushed aside the trolley and leaned back in her chair with a sigh of content as there came a knock on the door.
    Henry came in, looking like a lean old stork, a lighted cigar between his fingers.
    ‘Sit down,’ Martha said. ‘Do you want some coffee? There’s some left.’
    ‘No, thank you, I’ve had my coffee.’ Henry sat down and crossed his legs. ‘Well?’
    ‘I’ve made a