Читать книгу The Englishman's Bride - Sophie Weston - Страница 7

THE Englishman was deceptive. Even after twenty-four hours, every man in the detachment agreed on that. He might look like a Hollywood heartthrob with his wild midnight hair and haughty profile. But the tall, thin body was as lithe as a cat. And he was tireless.

When they first heard that a New York bureaucrat was joining them on their jungle expedition, they muttered resentfully. But when they learned that he was a member of the British aristocracy as well, they nearly mutinied.

‘Sir Philip Hardesty?’ queried Texas Joe, stunned.

‘I ain’t calling no snotty pen-pusher “Sir”,’ said Spanners. As an Englishman himself, he spoke with authority.

The group decided to take their line from Spanners. And when the man arrived they were sure they were right. As well as his title, Philip Hardesty possessed beautifully kept hands, a backpack that was so new it shone and customised jungle boots.

But he did not use his title. He got his hands dirty without noticing it. When they waded through the river his boots kept the water out better than their own. And there was that tireless determination.

Nothing got him down. Not the evil-smelling insect repellent. Not the stifling humidity. Not the long, exhausting days pushing on through the jungle. Not even the horrible nights.

He did not have their precision training but his endurance was phenomenal. In his quiet way, he was as strong as any of them. He took the long days without complaint. He climbed well when he had to. And when he swung that bulky new pack off his back at rest stops, you could see that his shoulders were dense with muscle.

All right, none of them had wanted a civilian along. Captain Soames had wanted him least of all, though of course he had not said so. The trip was dangerous enough, between the hazards of the jungle and the unpredictable moods of the so-called freedom fighters that they were coming to see.

But High Command had insisted. And for once High Command had been right.

The man even knew how to make a fire—and how to put it out.

‘How did you get into this line of work?’ said Captain Soames as they all sat round the small flames.

It was their last night before they reached the rebels’ camp. All six of the men who had volunteered for this duty knew that there was no forecasting what awaited them at the camp. Rafek, the rebel leader, said he wanted to talk. It was he who had made the first contact. But rebels had lied before.

Philip Hardesty said quietly, ‘Family tradition.’

‘Very British,’ said Australian Captain Soames drily. ‘How long has the UN been going? Remind me.’

Philip Hardesty smiled. ‘Hardestys were meddling in other people’s affairs long before the UN thought of it. We’ve been doing it for centuries.’

It was a smile you remembered. It seemed to light a candle inside a mask. You had been talking to him, getting nothing but impassive logic back—and then he smiled!

Suddenly you felt he had opened a window to you. You could read him! And he was friendly! You felt you had been given a present.

‘I bet you’re good at it,’ said the hard-bitten captain, warming to Philip Hardesty in spite of recognising how the trick was done.

‘There’s no point in doing something if you don’t do it well.’

‘I’ll vote for that,’ the captain agreed. ‘So your family are OK with this?’

There was a tiny pause.

‘No family. Ancestors, yes. Family, no.’

‘Oh.’ The captain was genuinely surprised.

The wonderful smile died. ‘Families need commitment,’ said Philip Hardesty levelly. ‘I can’t do that.’

The captain shuffled uncomfortably. Sometimes, on these small, dangerous expeditions, men confided stuff that later they wished they hadn’t. He didn’t want to be the keeper of Philip Hardesty’s conscience.

But the man was not talking about his conscience, it seemed.

He said unemotionally, ‘You see, the job of a negotiator—a good negotiator—is to see everyone’s point of view. To say, no one is ever wholly in the wrong. Peace is just a matter of finding enough room for everyone to have some of what they want.’

The captain was puzzled. ‘So?’

‘So lack of commitment is my greatest professional asset. The moment I lose that, I’m in the soup. With everybody else trying to reach some goal of his own, I have to stay absolutely without any goals at all.’

The captain thought it over.

‘But surely personal stuff is different—’

‘Not for me,’ said Philip Hardesty, cool and level and just a little weary. ‘I can’t live two lives. What I am, I am all the way through.’

The captain thought, And maybe that’s why this bastard we’re going to see tomorrow trusts him.

‘And that’s why you don’t have a family? I see. Seems a lot to give up.’

Philip shrugged. ‘Family tradition,’ he said again.

The captain hesitated. But the others were either on watch or asleep and confidences seemed to be the order of the day.

‘Isn’t that lonely?’ he asked curiously.

The jungle night was full of noises. Above their heads, a bat screeched. There was a whirr of wings as some predator took off after it.

Philip held his hands out to the fire, though the night was not cold and the fire was dying.

‘Lonely?’ he echoed. ‘All the time.’

Five days later, Captain Soames was responding to reporters in the makeshift conference room at Pelanang airstrip.

Yes, they’d all got out alive. Yes, it had been dangerous. Yes, that part of the jungle was uncharted. Yes, they had brought back some totally new specimens.

‘And now we’re going to publish the map. Which was the aim of the expedition in the first place.’

‘You took UN negotiator Sir Philip Hardesty along with you on a field trip?’ said the local stringer for a group of European newspapers, scenting a story. ‘Do you want to comment on that?’

‘Sure,’ said Captain Soames with a grin. ‘It was a privilege.’

But later, over a beer under the palm trees, he said, ‘The Englishman? Off the record? The guy’s a phenomenon. If anyone can get these lunatics to make peace, he can.’

‘What’s he like?’ said the stringer, intrigued. ‘I mean, as a person.’

Captain Soames lowered the beer can. His face was sober.

‘As a person? He’s the loneliest man in the world.’