A Thought of Honour

by Alexander Cordell

Genres: Historical Fiction; World War II; War & Military

Synopsis

John Macmasters is an expert in the highly specialised skill of defusing explosives. his is the most nerve-racking job of them all - face to face with the possibility of a sudden and violent death. But in times of war new weapons must be tested. Macmasters' job is dangerous enough but he has something else to battle against too. His love for Loetia has made him intensely vulnerable. Suddenly he finds himself exposed to the ravages of fear, the enemy within. First published in 1954, A Thought of Honour was the first book in Alexander Cordell's highly prolific and successful career.

Release date: July 24, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 256

Sample

WALTER TIETJENS leaned on the rail of his little steamer and smoked with the air of a satisfied man. It always pleased him to return to Hals-flower after a week at Mombassa.

His trip down-river had been a success for he had shipped eighty tons of sisal and twice as much coffee aboard the trader bound for Bristol. Soon a letter would come from the Sisal Trading Company and a three per cent profit put to his personal account. He smiled, eyes narrowed against the arc-light sun, watching the bright foliage of the river bank sliding by in wide sweeps. Soon the foliage would clear and the eternal green darken into cool shades of brown country. Wiping sweat from his face he carefully filled his pipe. It was a new pipe and for a moment he held it in the shadow of the rail, examining it. Loetia had given it to him recently and he treasured it.

Tietjens frowned as he remembered her. But thoughts of the little white bungalow at Hals-flower and the quay there and new shipments animated him; flung new strength into his determination to force the graph of profit higher. He calculated the possibility of another trip south before the rains. It was just possible, he decided, but he would have to drive the natives. Nodding, he spat into the river, lit his pipe and turned, seeking shade.

It was then that he remembered the letter. Taking it from the hip pocket of his khaki shorts he squatted on empty sisal bags and read it again.

‘Dear Sir,

Your communication has been received by the Director of Scientific Research via the Government Office, Nairobi.

This Department is most interested in the Device you are developing and would be prepared to send a technical representative to further examine its possibilities at any time convenient to you after completion of the model prototype.

I am, Sir, Your Obedient Servant,

H. L. F. Harrobin

For Director of Scientific Research.’

To Tietjens it was the result of eight years of study and research; the abandonment of scores of good ideas for better ones. It was the payment for years of work on the drawing board or filing and moulding in his workshop while other people slept. The possibility that the scientific people might reject his invention out of hand did not occur to him. He had achieved what most technicians believed impossible—made twenty tons of steel float on marsh with nothing more cumbersome than a flimsy metal tray.

Returning the letter to his pocket he began to wonder how much they would pay him for it. Reflecting that they had willingly paid one thousand five hundred pounds for his Henley Gas Projector in 1918, it seemed impossible that they would offer less than ten thousand pounds now. It was all a question of requirement, of course. If the War Office were not interested in a fighting raft crossing marsh under its own power they would not pay tenpence for it. But they were interested, apparently, for there was bound to be a strong liaison between the Scientific Director and the General Staff. Tietjens argued this silently, sitting in the shade with his pipe between his teeth, staring at the bright river.

He rose as he remembered Macmasters, buttoned his hip pocket and wandered along the hot deck towards him.

Macmasters was sitting in a rope coil, his long legs thrust out, examining a small, silver flask with interest.

‘Brandy?’ asked Tietjens.

‘Gin.’

‘Mother’s ruin. You’re asking for it.’

Macmasters said, ‘The students will assemble for the hundredth bloody lecture,’ and tipped the flask to his lips.

‘You’re drunk.’

‘You’re right, sir.’

Tietjens sighed. He had met youngsters like this before and handled them with efficient ease. This time he was handicapped. He liked Macmasters, which made it difficult for a man unused to having preferences, and said:

‘Please try to pull yourself together. Loetia won’t like it, you know.’

Focusing his eyes, Macmasters saw Tietjens as a blur partly obscured by sweat and light; a portly dump of a man standing against leaves and water.

‘With respect,’ he said, ‘to hell with Loetia. She doesn’t appear to like anything.’

Tietjens stood uncertainly; ran his tongue around his dry lips. He examined Macmasters with the aloof superiority that a sober man uses when dealing with a drunken one. Suddenly he smiled. Good material, he thought; not the usual brandy-soaked dwarf that Sir Robert sent upcountry, full of chlorodine and pomposity. Macmasters was nothing like that. He had breeding, even if it wasn’t immediately apparent. Yes, good material, if gin and women didn’t get him, which was likely at his present rate of delinquency. Tietjens was wise in the ways of men. He knew the boy was under a cloud at home, and excused the natural reaction. The last time he had seen Macmasters was in Sir Robert’s office in Bristol. The lad was at Eton then, a bright, polished-faced little chap with a high collar and a fair quiff. Times had changed, thought Tietjens. He wondered what Sir Robert would say if he saw his son now.

‘You mentioned Loetia,’ said Tietjens. ‘I agree I’ve made my wife appear tricky. But she’ll be reasonable if you behave yourself and show a little respect. So tidy yourself up, John. You owe it to the firm to appear presentable.’

Macmasters did not seem to be listening. In sudden anger Tietjens said, ‘Look, if you didn’t like the idea of coming east why the hell did you apply for it? In your position you could have chosen any one of ten places.’

‘For barefaced cheek you take the bloody biscuit,’ replied Macmasters.

The older man wandered about. ‘Loetia will ask why you chose to come here—you know what women are.’

Macmasters said suddenly, ‘Since we’re all going to be so damned inquisitive—what makes anyone come out here—you, for instance?’

Tietjens shrugged. ‘Lack of prospect at home, mostly.’

‘Sure it wasn’t a can on your tail?’

Tietjens mopped his florid face and said flatly, ‘I came east because I wanted a change. At first I hated it, like you. Now I prefer it to England.’

‘This stinking, festering hole?’

‘It can be home, son. Especially with a good woman about.’

‘Blimey!’ exclaimed Macmasters. ‘Besides being a hypocrite the man’s an idealist. What an unholy combination.’

Tietjens bit the tip of his tongue and said steadily, ‘A man’s got to cling to something. Half your trouble is that you don’t know where you’re going. You’re discontented with life so you take it out of life—going around insulting people.’ He paused, breathing noisily. ‘Nobody’s done you any harm, John. You’ll find Loetia sympathetic and kind, and …’

‘Sure, sure,’ Macmasters rose, nodding excessively and walked to the entrance of the companionway. Leaning against the frame, he turned and said:

‘D’you think I don’t know what’s been going on? You’ve been scratching the old man’s back, Tietjens. Admit it, you patronizing little double-cross. Of course you know all about me, and your missus does, too.’

‘Loetia has no idea who it is coming,’ said Tietjens mildly.

‘I bet she doesn’t!’ Macmasters glared. ‘With luck the pair of you should blow it over the Colony in a week. I’m the bloody show-piece, aren’t I—the Chairman’s son who’s gone wrong and been sent to Tietjens to be straightened up?’

‘You’ve made a damned fool of yourself,’ said Tietjens, wearily, ‘and you’re the only one who’s shouting it about. All right. I’ll admit that I offered to have you—to help square you up—to teach you to do something useful in life. Your father jumped at the suggestion. What’s wrong with that?’

‘Nothing, except that you don’t give a tinker’s damn for me or anyone else. You’re just using me as a lever to climb higher and you know it.’ He levelled a finger at Tietjens’ composed face. ‘All right! You’ve got something on me, eh? I’m telling you that I know enough about you to send you back to Bristol tomorrow, so you can think that one out.’ Macmasters slipped on the top step of the companionway and disappeared down the stairs with a crash, to reappear a few moments later, his face level with the deck. ‘Thought I was down, didn’t you? Well, I’m not bloody well down and don’t you forget it. Talk your head off. Have a hell of a time. …’ He disappeared again. Tietjens, unmoved, heard him rattle down the steps and land with a thud at the bottom.

The gin-flask was lying at Tietjens’ feet. Picking it up, he unscrewed the stopper and poured the contents over the steamer’s rail.

He stared at the river waving in foaming, concave sweeps from the bows. A twig, twenty yards up-stream, was jutting up, making foam. He reminded himself to watch Loetia’s face when she saw young Macmasters. Turning, he watched the twig until it was out of sight. Its passing was irrevocable; something he could do nothing about. Like Loetia and Cameron from Wadelai. He had watched her slip away like that and had been powerless to stop her. Their affair had developed under his nose and he had watched it and done nothing and hated himself for his weakness. The engine below him thumped. Sweat ran into his eyes and he wiped it away with his right hand, then with his left. Balance habit. What one hand touched the other must touch. He had done it since a boy; a nervous gesture that was almost a disease. He thought, fancy bringing Macmasters and Loetia together at an unsettled time like this—with Cameron scarcely over the doorstep. Asking for it. Ought to have his head read.

A sense of dread gripped Tietjens. Only a few times in his life had he suffered it so acutely. Like waiting for the cane in his headmaster’s study surrounded with all the shame of sending a dirty note around the class: waiting for his court martial at Arras in ’18 for misappropriation: being told by Sir Robert Macmasters that a swindle was exposed and that he was lucky not to be going to jail. All nervous expectations of disaster had the same killing effect on his disposition.

Macmasters and Loetia.

It was nearly five o’clock. The steamer, its bows cresting foam, rounded a bend in the river. Macmasters, standing in the waist of the vessel, saw a little quay appear like a visitation. He shielded his eyes. Corrugated-iron shedding cut segments out of bright green. A solitary crane, leaning acutely, split the mud hut settlement like a gibbet. A native, naked but for a loin cloth, lay asleep with a tattered sun-hat tipped over his face. A board like a station name-plate announced in three feet high whitewashed lettering:

HALS-FLOWER TRADING ESTATE

(KENYA AND BRISTOL)

Macmasters said, ‘And Bristol fears no competitor.’

‘It may look indolent but don’t let it fool you,’ replied Tietjens.

‘Where’s the town band?’

‘We keep it for the Chairman, not his black sheep son.’

Macmasters grinned. ‘Good for you. Time I had some back.’

‘And there’s more where it came from.’ Tietjens gripped Macmasters’ shoulder and turned him. ‘Get something straight. Whatever the reason for your presence, the fact is that you’re here. Loetia and I want nothing except the respect the situation deserves. See we get it.’

‘I’ll do my best, Walter. You’ll find me less objectionable sober.’

The steamer bumped the quay. Jumping ashore, the steersman secured it with a rope. Tietjens pressed three times on a klaxon horn.

Hals-flower awoke. Within thirty seconds the insect-music of the river was shattered. Mud huts shivered into activity. Natives, shouting, leapt from the rush beds, gathered into a throng and surged towards the river. Children shrieked. Women, half-naked, snatched up sleeping babies and trailed the road verges. Old men tottered along on sticks, Macmasters watched a small, black army converge towards him, and looked at Tietjens.

The man was standing erect, topee on the back of his head. Arms folded, belly thrust out, he awaited an onslaught. Yelling, the natives gathered around him, leaving Macmasters standing alone. They waved and cheered, but never touched Tietjens or approached within yards of him. Macmasters, fascinated, wondered if he had underestimated Tietjens. This was more a kingdom than a trading estate, and the man was apparently a beloved ruler. This belied all Macmasters had heard in Bristol where Tietjens had a name for ill-treatment of his labour. Tietjens shouted an order and the crowd parted. He said, turning to Macmasters:

‘Welcome to Hals-flower, John. God, it’s good to be back! No, leave that. The people will bring the baggage.’

Macmasters followed him to a battered, high-powered Chrysler standing under a canvas shelter. They climbed into it while the natives, standing in a circle, watched in silence. A porter piled their luggage into the back. Tietjens started the engine. Macmasters noticed that the man’s shirt was heavily stained with sweat and that he was panting. The car reversed. Tietjens fought with the gears and it lurched forward, raising dust. The crowd parted. As they drove away Macmasters looked over his shoulder. The natives had closed the gap and were staring after them. Before he turned back in his seat Macmasters saw a woman with a child in her arms. She held it away from her, and spat.

Tietjens stopped the car a hundred yards from his Hals-flower bungalow and garaged it. Loaded with their cases, they trudged the rest of the way.

Mrs. Tietjens was standing on the bungalow veranda.

Macmasters saw her from a distance; a slim, white shape which, as he drew closer, assumed the proportions of almost regal authority, so well did the woman hold herself. She stood motionless, awaiting them. Macmasters lowered his cases while Tietjens scrambled up the veranda steps and planted a schoolboy kiss on her cheek. She did not move or attempt to greet him.

‘Loetia, meet Macmasters.’

‘How do you do,’ she said.

Macmasters’ eyes moved over her, assimilating every detail of her fine, oval face; the high, slightly flushed cheekbones, the slanted, dark eyes. It could have been the face of a nun, such was its repose and purity. She offered her hand. It was smooth and strong.

‘Good trip?’ She was looking past him.

‘Fine, thanks.’

‘I hope Walter treated you well?’ Her tone was cold.

‘The essence of hospitality.’ Macmasters began a grin but her expression stopped it.

‘The name is Loetia,’ she said. ‘A little sociability does much to make this place tolerable.’

Macmasters nodded, aware of tension. Tietjens was standing in an untidy bundle with his stomach bulging over his belt, shifting his weight from one foot to another like a child waiting to be thrashed. His wife said:

‘You must be tired. Please come in.’

Macmasters followed her into the bungalow, ducking his head under the butt of a heavy rhinoceros whip decorating the door lintel. The room was large, with cane furnishings and rush mats.

‘Do sit down,’ she said, gesturing.

Macmasters obeyed, looking for Tietjens. The man was bending in the veranda doorway, his round, sweating face staring over the cases. Suddenly pitying him, Macmasters rose.

‘Don’t worry, Walter. I’ll take care of these. Have a rest. I’ll be back in a minute.’ Tietjens shuffled away. Macmasters saw Mrs. Tietjens imaged in the glass panel of the kitchen door. Entering the lounge with a tray of drinks, she set it on a low table beside him. As her husband came in from the veranda, she said, ‘Not good enough, Walter. You should be doing this.’

Tietjens wheezed and sat down heavily. ‘Dog-tired, my dear. The river plays the devil with my eyes.’

‘Catch the trader?’

‘Skin of my teeth.’

‘As usual. Remember the invoices?’

‘Everything.’

‘You haven’t asked how I’ve been.’ Her tone was fractious.

‘How have you been?’

‘Frightfully uncomfortable. Monsamma’s been a pest.’

‘What’s he been up to?’ Tietjens sounded bored.

‘Marajel’s away,’ she replied in a tone that appeared to explain everything.

‘Oh,’ Tietjens grunted and grinned. He poured whisky and handed Macmasters the glass. ‘Help yourself to soda. Marajel’s the wife of Monsamma, my personal servant. Commendable fellow. Best nigger I have, isn’t he, Loetia?’ Tietjens smiled as a man smiles at his thoughts. ‘And a giant of a man. He’s devoted to my wife, which means that I can leave her here in perfect safety if I’m ever away on business.’

‘I’m quite capable of taking care of myself,’ said his wife sharply.

‘Yes, yes. But for my own peace of mind I prefer Monsamma to help you do it.’

‘The man does nothing but follow me around. I have absolutely no privacy, and when Marajel’s away he is a source of real embarrassment.’

‘All right, all right,’ said Tietjens sharply, ‘no need to make a domestic issue out of it. I’ll consider replacing him.’

‘That’s the usual answer, which means that you’ll do precisely nothing about it.’

Macmasters was feeling uncomfortable. Suddenly Tietjens reached out and gripped his wife’s wrist. Macmasters saw the veins in his arm stand out a vivid blue. ‘Forget it, my sweet,’ said Tietjens softly. ‘Run along and get us something to eat, we’re both famished.’

There was a brief silence and then she said, ‘Sorry, darling. It’s … it’s this awful hanging around. You know how it is.’

Macmasters saw a transformation of her mood. She was smiling brilliantly, her head back. She said, ‘I’m afraid we’ve been most neglectful, Mr. Macmasters. Forgive me. Being left alone has the most unhappy effect upon me.’

‘Of course,’ said Tietjens, smiling. ‘John understands.’

‘John?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Not the Chairman’s son?’

‘Who did you expect?’ asked Macmasters, smiling over his whisky.

She made a pretty motion with her head, replying, ‘Walter wired saying he was bringing one of the Macmasters, but naturally I expected a nephew—the firm’s overrun with them.’

‘Son,’ said Tietjens peremptorily, and drained his glass with obvious impatience.

Macmasters said, ‘Don’t get things wrong, Mrs. Tietjens. The nephews get the plum jobs. I’m the black sheep—practically an outsider.’

‘But what are you, of all people, doing at Hals-flower?’

‘Gaining experience,’ said Tietjens. ‘What about something to eat?’

‘But why Kenya, of all places?’ his wife persisted.

Tietjens said sharply, ‘When dealing with an inquisitive man you tell him to go to hell, John. You can tell my wife the same thing.’

Macmasters rose, walked to the veranda door and turned, glass in hand. ‘Mrs. Tietjens, I think I’m going to tell you about myself, for you’re bound to hear it all eventually and I’d prefer you to hear it from me.’

‘Well?’ she replied after a silence.

‘I got mixed up with a woman at home.’

A smile flickered over Mrs. Tietjens’ face. ‘Somebody we know?’

‘A waitress.’

‘Oh.’ She nodded, looking away.

‘Don’t be so damned virginal, Loetia,’ Tietjens said brusquely. ‘Any man’s entitled to fall in love and it’s none of our business, anyway.’

Macmasters said, ‘I took her to Switzerland. Walked right into the old man on Berne station.’

‘Damned hard luck,’ murmured Tietjens. ‘Like to have seen you get away with it.’

‘Walter,’ said his wife sharply, ‘please don’t be vulgar.’ She was smiling again, faintly. She said, ‘So they sent you away from her?’

‘Cut your corns and sent you to Kenya.’ Tietjens reached for the decanter. ‘What perfect psychologists the aged are. They restrict a youngster’s natural instincts and send him East where the outlets are boundless. Come on, forget it all. Drink up.’

Loetia Tietjens sat on the arm of a chair, clasped her hands around her knees and stared through the veranda doorway. Macmasters was a little surprised when she said, ‘Personally, I consider the whole thing quite sordid.’

Tietjens exploded into his glass. ‘God,’ he said. ‘Hark at that! Aren’t women the most profound hypocrites? He wasn’t on his own, you know, Loetia? His waitress was giving him a hand.’

‘There’ll be the most frightful scandal when this thing gets out,’ she said, ignoring him.

‘Up to you, Mrs Tietjens,’ said Macmasters. ‘You can always kick me out.’

‘She’ll have you, never fear,’ said Tietjens. ‘Find me the woman who wouldn’t after such a confession.’

His wife rose. ‘You may stay,’ she said softly. ‘But I need not tell you that Kenya is like any other place where a scandal is concerned. Despite my husband’s unhappy knack of distorting the woman’s point of view, someone must consider the facts. You are in the public eye here, Mr.. . .