Free Flight of the Eagle by Peter Watt

which concealed the take-nothing-for-granted-about-me expression in her eyes. ‘Brett, this is my grandfather's guest, Captain Duffy.’
    The arrogant smile on the son of the English industrialist imparted its own message. ‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance, old chap,’ Brett said, without attempting to offer his hand. Not that this was practical as Patrick held a cigar in one hand and a port glass in the other. ‘Catherine has told me a lot about you over dinner and I gather you are some sort of hero. I see you even have a couple of medals. What are they for, old chap?’
    Then and there Patrick wished his competitor for Catherine's attentions was before him in the desert at Tel-el-Kibir dressed in the white uniform and red fez of a Nubian rifleman where he could bayonet the bastard! ‘For service at Tel-el-Kibir in ‘82,’ Patrick growled. ‘A bit for the old Empire, old chap.’
    ‘Rum show, so I have heard,’ Norris replied. ‘Killed a lot o' darkies yourself then?’
    Patrick noticed that the young man had taken on the affectation of London's aristocratic fops and appeared to have little of his father's roots in the way he spoke and acted. And he, with a petite bourgeoisie background – a term Patrick had picked up in the readings of some obscure German Jew by the name of Karl Marx he had skimmed through whilst in his first year at Oxford.
    It was not as if anyone would probably remember Marx in the years to come, he had thought then. There had been so many social philosophers expounding their views in the last few years. But the description of petite bourgeois seemed apt for the man now standing before him at Catherine's side. ‘Yes, we killed some, we killed a lot at Tel-el-Kibir,’ Patrick replied softly as for a moment his memories were transported to that terrible dawn of fear and death.
    ‘Probably an easy thing to do when the poor beggars you are fighting have no chance against British arms, what!’ Brett said with the hint of a sneer.
    Patrick's hackles rose like those of a fighting dog. It was clear that the man was attempting to bait him in front of Catherine.
    ‘Maybe we didn't kill as many of those poor beggars, as you call them, as your father's coal pits kill Welsh miners.’
    Patrick's blood affinity for the Celts of Wales had flared and the hint of a sneer disappeared from Norris's face as he realised that he had pushed the Highlander officer just a bit too far. Although he prided himself on the social status that his father's financial situation gave him, he realised that nothing protects you against a man who has lost some of his fear of violence in war. Catherine had followed the exchange and she too realised the green eyes of the Australian had a cloudy look that was animal dangerous.
    ‘I say, old boy, that was not called for. I think you should apologise immediately,’ Brett Norris bluffed.
    But somehow it sounded more like the bleating of a sheep to Patrick's ears. ‘If you will excuse me, Miss Fitzgerald,’ Patrick flashed a savage and cold smile, ‘I think I will join the gentlemen for port and cigars.’
    He did not see the frown of annoyance flit across Catherine's face as he strode away, his kilt swirling around legs muscled by miles of forced marches as an infantry officer. He was not playing the game the way she presumed he would!
    ‘Surly uncouth lout, that Captain Duffy,’ Norris said loud enough for Patrick to hear as he walked away. ‘He is a disgrace to the Queen's uniform.’
    But Patrick ignored the taunt and joined Professor Clark as Catherine cast Brett a withering look.
    ‘Captain Duffy is to sail to Egypt very soon,’ she hissed. ‘And will probably be facing great peril again. I rather think you were being a bore with your talk.’
    But Brett Norris only smiled at Catherine's rebuke. He had regained his composure. ‘The man has no class,’ he sneered. ‘And I suspect no real means of private income.’
    ‘You know nothing of Captain Duffy,’