She remained there a long time. George finished his cigarette and the sun descended deep into the earth, leaving a pink glow where the sea joined the sky. Finally she dropped her hands and stepped back from the railings. As she turned towards him he was stunned to see that down the left side of her face ran a large, ugly scar. He gasped in horror and pity that this exquisite woman could be so cruelly disfigured. She met his eyes but didn’t allow them to linger for more than a moment. Before he could stand up she was gone. Now his curiosity was thoroughly roused. Who was she? What had happened to her?
He wandered inside and scoured the public rooms for her. How could she have been dealt such a cruel blow? In a man such a wound would enhance his masculinity and appeal, but in a woman it was a curse to have one’s beauty so maligned. Drawn out of himself by compassion he suddenly became aware of the world around him and felt a renewed desire to be a part of it.
After dinner, exasperated that the mystery woman hadn’t appeared in the dining room, George wandered into the bar. He placed himself on a high stool and ordered a Scotch. No sooner had he taken a sip than the old man two stools away leaned towards him and said, ‘You escaping the war too?’
‘The war is over,’ George replied.
‘Brigadier Bullingdon.’ The man extended his hand. George shook it, noticing at once that the brigadier’s eyebrows were so large and bushy they appeared ready to crawl off his face at any moment. ‘It might be over, young man, but the cloud still hangs over the country. I played my part in the Great War, wounded on the Western Front, hence the gammy leg, damn it. Would have relished the opportunity to serve in this one. Bloody Huns.’ He shook his head and knocked back his whisky, neat and warm the way he liked it. ‘You did your bit. I can tell. It’s in the eyes. You change and that never leaves you.’ He raised those furry eyebrows at George.
‘Flight Lieutenant George Bolton,’ he replied automatically. The brigadier nodded his approval.
‘Brave man,’ he said and his voice was thick with admiration. ‘So what takes you to this part of the world?’
‘Nothing more than the promise of adventure.’
‘You’ll get plenty of that,’ he chuckled. ‘Where?’
‘The Argentine, Córdoba.’
The brigadier nodded and stuck out his lips thoughtfully. They were fleshy, the lips of a young man. ‘My wife and I went there before the war. Very green. Mountainous. Lovely. You on your own?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, remembering Rita and wondering whether she’d survive on another continent. The brigadier leaned towards him unsteadily.
‘Between you and me, wish I was on my own. Argentine women are a juicy lot. Can’t get a look in with the little lady. She keeps a sharp eye on me, as well she might.’ He coughed and chuckled into his glass. ‘Few pretty young fillies on this boat.’
George thought of the mystery woman and wondered whether the old brigadier would know anything about her. But before he could open his mouth a small, shrivelled woman appeared and tapped the brigadier on the shoulder.
‘I think you’ve had enough of that, dear.’
‘Ah, the lovely Mrs Bullingdon. Esther, let me introduce you to my new young friend. Flight Lieutenant George Bolton at your service.’ She gave him her hand. It was limp and dry and dappled with liver spots.
‘Ah, one of the boat’s loners,’ she said in a high, quavering voice. ‘I’ve just seen the other one on deck. Strange girl. So disfigured. What a pity. It’s no wonder that she keeps herself to herself. Poor child.’
‘Do you know who she is?’ George heard himself asking.
‘She’s an American, Susan Robertson. I took the liberty of introducing myself at the start of the trip. She was rather aloof. Of course, I forgave her. With that ghastly scar on her face. She’s not married,’ she added, indicating the small sapphire ring on her own hand. ‘A woman notices these things.’
‘What a waste of a good-looking girl,’ the brigadier commented.
‘No one will have her now. Every woman deserves a husband and children. After all, what else is there for a woman to do?’ George didn’t like Mrs Bullingdon’s tone. She was clearly delighting in the younger woman’s misfortune.
‘It’s been nice meeting you. Will you excuse me?’ he said, slipping off the stool.
‘I’m being dragged to bed by matron,’ said the brigadier with a snort and a wink. ‘Like being back at school being married to Esther.’
‘You’ll only have yourself to blame when you wake up with a hangover, dear,’ she said. Then she turned to George. ‘I’m glad you’re not unfriendly. Perhaps you’d like to join us for dinner tomorrow night?’ George nodded reluctantly, hoping they’d forget by the morning. Then strode out of the room towards the deck.