gin.â
âThen youâll have wine tonight,â Philippe smiled. âAlways on the first night, there is wine for dinner. There is the gong. Come, Iâll show you where we go.â He guided her by a light touch on her arm. A gong. It was like something out of a Hollywood film. This imposing house with its evidence of class and privilege, but going back a very long time. The confident shabbiness of generations. The dining room was like a school refectory. One long table, orderlies in white coats to serve the food, an atmosphere like a school. The food was generous; quantities of vegetables and luxuries like fresh bread and butter. The wine was thin and sour, but she was thankful for it.
She didnât try to talk; she found herself seated next to Captain Michaelson, who hardly spoke to her at all, and the strange men on either side were polite but disinterested. The new girl had nothing to contribute. They seemed preoccupied and exclusive. She felt miserable, which Michaelson noticed. Homesick on the first night, he thought. Nobody was making a fuss of her, though she was the best-looking girl theyâd seen in a long time at Loch Gary. And she hadnât flirted with Philippe, who had given her the opportunity. That was a good sign anyway. He wasnât sorry for her. She had no right to expect his sympathy, if she felt like a lost soul, and wanted to turn round and go straight back to her Portsmouth Barracks and forget it all. She had only herself to blame for coming to Loch Gary, and for getting involved in the Service. Women shouldnât be allowed, he protested silently, and again his hands trembled, remembering Lisette. Women shouldnât be sent over.⦠By Christ, he was going to lean on this girl. And heâd see the instructors did the same. Sheâd hate his guts for it, but she might just live to thank him. Unlike Lisette, whom heâd sent out to her death only eight months ago.
Kate had never been so cold in her life. Her hands and feet were numb, a vicious wind whipped at her face, and the summit of the rock loomed overhead, slippery and smooth. It was the third rock-climbing exercise that her group had been set and the most difficult. Michaelson had supervised their preliminary training, under a grim-faced PT instructor; stiff and sore, Kate remembered Philippeâs warning the first day. âDonât try too hard, let your body get accustomed, or youâll hurt yourself.â She hadnât listened, determined to prove herself, and found out just what good advice that was. She hated heights, but never said a word. They climbed a modest outcrop and she felt more confident. And Michaelson watched her, silent when she did well and scathing about the least mistake. The evenings became more relaxed; people formed friendships, hoping they might end in the same team, but not knowing. The group who had been there when Kate arrived dispersed ten days later. No one knew who had passed or failed. The next morning they werenât there. That was all. No questions were asked, no explanations offered. The discipline was accepted without demur because the penalty for breaking it was a taxi ride to Lossiemouth and a rail voucher out. After the rock-climb, there would be twenty-four hoursâ rest, Michaelson had announced the night before. They would begin with a survival course in open country the following day. Next to Kate the airman muttered, âChrist,â and pulled a face. âWhatâs he trying to do, kill us off?â
âYou made a comment?â The chilly stare passed over Kate for once. The young man grinned; he was always cheerful, and Kate liked him. His name was Fred and he came from the Midlands.
âJust a silent prayer, Sir.â
Michaelson said, âNext time, keep it more silent.â
The night before the climb Kate couldnât sleep. The second climb had been a miserable ordeal, undertaken in sheets of icy rain, and she was
Alana Hart, Ruth Tyler Philips