Tiger, Tiger. Philip Caveney

      ‘Oh! You mean Bob Beresford.’

      ‘Do I indeed? And who, may I ask, is Bob Beresford? He’s not an enlisted man, surely to God?’

      ‘No, a civvy. He’s working at Kuala Hitam on the Gurkha repatriation scheme though, so he’s been given the run of the place.’

      ‘Yes. He was at the Mess last night. Just what exactly is he supposed to be teaching the Gurkhas? How to tell dirty stories?’

      ‘I don’t think so. Farming techniques, I believe. You know … irrigation, animal husbandry, that sort of thing. How to make the most out of very limited resources, basically. I can’t help thinking that these repatriation schemes are more an attempt to salve the British government’s conscience than anything else. But Beresford seems to be making the best of it. He’s certainly well-liked by the men.’ Dennis smiled warily at Harry. ‘I get the impression he hasn’t made an instant hit with you though,’ he observed.

      Harry grimaced and shrugged.

      ‘Well … you know how I feel about the Aussies, Dennis. I mean, good God, they’ve all descended from convicts anyway! And that one was in the Mess last night, shouting his mouth off to all and sundry, telling some filthy story … it … shows a lack of respect, that’s all.’

      Dennis chuckled.

      ‘Oh come on, Harry. None of us are above telling a dirty story now and then. The British tell it in a whisper and the Aussies tell it to the world. I’m not so sure that they haven’t got the healthier attitude. It just comes down to what you’re used to really. Beresford isn’t so bad; and I tell you what, you’ve got something in common with him.’

      Harry fixed his friend with a suspicious look.

      ‘Really? And what might that be?’

      ‘By all accounts, he fancies himself a bit of a crack-shot. Done some hunting in his time, or so he tells me.’

      Harry shook his head.

      ‘I haven’t hunted for years, as well you know. If this Beresford chap still does, it just confirms that he’s got some growing up to do.’

      Dennis laughed out loud.

      ‘Good heavens, Harry, give the poor lad a break, will you! It seems you’ve really got it in for him.’

      ‘Not at all, not at all! I just think people should show a little bit of resp – Ah, looks as though they’ve finally called it a day!’

      Beresford and his partner were leaving the court. The Australian was pumping his partner’s hand in what looked like an exaggerated display of good sportsmanship.

      ‘Great game, Ron! Let me buy you a drink …’

      Dennis and Harry collected their kit and walked out towards the court. Beresford eyed the two of them with a mocking glint in his eye. As he walked past, Harry distinctly heard the Australian say to Corporal Barnes, ‘Strewth, look at these two old buggers goin’ out for a bash!’ Barnes smothered a laugh, but Harry pretended he had heard nothing. He wasn’t going to let the observations of some jumped-up sheep-farmer from the outback make any impression on him. He followed Dennis into the court and closed the metal gate behind him.

      Dennis had heard nothing of the brief exchange.

      ‘Let’s have a quick warm-up,’ he suggested. Then he laughed. ‘I say, that’s a bit of a joke. I’m sweating like a pig now.’ He trotted over to the far side of the court and Harry served a lazy ball over to him. They played for some time in silence. They rarely bothered to score the games; it was playing that they relished, not winning.

      The white surface of the court reflected the fierce sun up at them and it was somewhat like playing tennis on a vast electric hot plate. After a few moments their clothes were sticking to them. Harry played mechanically, his thoughts not really on the game.

      For some reason, his mind had slipped back to a much earlier memory, a memory of Britain before the last war. He was unsure of the actual year, but it had been a fine summer and there was a tennis court not far from the family home in Sussex. He had been a young man in his twenties then, with no thought of enlisting in the army, no thought of doing anything in particular. His family was rich and landed and though he would never have admitted it at the time, he was a wealthy layabout. Life at his parents’ home seemed to comprise an endless succession of parties, dances, frivolous social functions; and as the potential inheritor of his father’s land and wealth, he was considered very eligible by the young ladies in the neighbourhood and did not go short of female companionship.

      But marriage had been the last thing on his mind; at least, until that particular day, the day when they had all gone to play tennis and Harry had spotted an exquisite young female on the court, a frail little thing, dressed in white, who played tennis like nobody’s business. Harry had watched her for ages as she dashed about the court, a look of grim determination on her pretty face. He had fallen in love with here then and there; and when his mother had wandered over to him to enquire what it was he was looking at, he had smiled at her and replied, ‘My future wife, I think.’

      Meg. Sometimes in the night, he lay alone in the darkness trying to conjure into his mind, a vision of her face. He could not do it. Her features were soft wax blurred by time. In the end, he would have to switch on the light and fetch her photograph, just to reassure himself that she had existed. It frightened him, this loss of definition. It made him wonder if the past was not just a series of hazy ghosts set to haunt him for eternity …

      ‘Come on, Harry, wake up! You missed that by a mile.’

      ‘Hmm?’ The present came abruptly back into focus. Dennis was peering at him over the net.

      ‘Do you want to rest for a moment?’

      ‘Certainly not!’ Harry retrieved the ball and stepped up to the serving line. He flung the ball skywards, whipped back his arm to serve. An unexpected pain lanced through his chest, making his breath escape in an involuntary exclamation of surpise.

      The ball dropped untouched beside him and he stood where he was for a moment, swaying slightly. He could not seem to get his breath and his heart was thudding like a great hammer in his chest.

      ‘Harry? Are you alright, old chap? You’ve gone white as a sheet.’

      ‘Yes, yes! I’m fine …’ Harry stooped to retrieve the ball but as he stood up, the court seemed to seesaw crazily from left to right. His racquet clattered to the ground and he flung out his arms to try to maintain his balance. Suddenly Dennis was at his side, supporting his arm.

      ‘Here, here, old chap. You’ve been in the sun too long, I think.’

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ protested Harry feebly. ‘I’ll be fine in a moment. Let’s play on.’

      ‘I don’t think we better had.’ Dennis was easing him towards the exit. ‘Come and sit down for a while, at least till the feeling passes.’

      ‘This is really quite silly … I’m alright I tell you.’ Harry was aware of anxious faces peering at him from the press of tables. He felt totally humiliated, an object of ridicule. He tried to detach his arm from Dennis’s grasp, so that he might walk under his own steam, but when he exerted any effort, the dizziness seemed to get worse, filling his head with a powerful red hum. He felt vaguely nauseous.

      ‘Here old chap, this way. Our table’s just a few more feet …’

      Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see Beresford and his companion watching the scene with expressions of amusement on their faces. The Australian turned to mutter something to his companion and the two of them collapsed into fits of laughter. Harry wanted to die of shame. He was lowered into a seat and a cold drink was thrust into his hand.

      ‘How do you feel Harry?’ It was Dennis’s voice, but it seemed terribly distant.

      Harry forced a smile.

      ‘I’ll