He swallowed hard. Anything was better than returning to that. There had been two air raid warnings since they had come alongside, but no untoward activity or gunfire. Or he had been too drained to notice it.
There were voices in the adjoining room, more animated now. Preparing to leave.
The lieutenant, one of Garrick’s aides, had finally told them why their mooring had been delayed. A destroyer, H.M.S. Java, had been towed from the harbour to be deliberately scuttled, where she could pose no further risk to other traffic. Java had been forced to go into dock for urgent repairs after being dive-bombed while escorting supply vessels to Malta. She had been damaged yet again in another air raid while still in dock, irreparably this time, and towed into deeper water to sink. Still dangerous to other ships, she had been raised once more for her final passage. Kearton had heard several similar stories, when there had been no real chance from the moment those bomb-doors had opened.
And Java’s captain, if he had lived to see this morning: what must he have been thinking?
He pulled himself together; the voices were louder, more jovial, the door opening. The other door as well, and somehow it reminded him of something his mother used to say when people seemed overeager to be rid of visitors. All ready with dustpan and brush!
Two army officers, one a brigadier with a bushy moustache and the loud voice. “We can’t let grass grow under our feet, eh?” He shot Kearton a brief look. “Or it’ll be growing over our graves!”
He seemed to think it was amusing.
Garrick came to meet him and offered his crushing handshake.
“Thank God that’s over! I sometimes wonder …” He was leading the way into the other room. “Thought of you sitting out there, probably wondering why you’d bothered to make an appearance!”
He waved him to a chair. “We’ll leave the door open. Let the air clear.” The familiar grin. “In more ways than one!”
The room was full of smoke, and the aroma of a cigar. Here, too, the window was sealed.
Garrick must have seen his eyes. “You know what the old Jacks say about the navy? If it moves, salute it! If it doesn’t, paint it!” And he laughed.
He sat down with his back to the window and plucked at his shirt impatiently. “The Chief of Staff is here on a flying visit—only a short one, thank God, but he likes everything pusser, war or no war!”
Kearton had noticed the smart jacket with its gold lace and medal ribbons draped across another chair, unlike Garrick’s previous informal rig.
“You did well, Bob. Shan’t know the end results for a while, but you almost certainly saved the day.” He smiled. “You must be pleased,” and barely paused for a reply. “I heard about your casualty. Could have been much worse, but I don’t need to tell you that.” He reached out for a packet of cigarettes and clicked his lighter. “You could have put the poor chap over the side.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “Not much spare burial space at present.”
Kearton found that he could relax, unwind for the first time since he had stepped ashore.
It was not an act, a pretence. This was the real Dick Garrick. Testing him. Like that first meeting.
He said, “I’m told that we’re on stand-by, sir.”
“Yes. Your lads won’t like it, but it’s what they’re here for. We’re getting a fourth boat in a day or so—things are moving at last.” His back was to the window and against the light it was impossible to see his expression. “There’s a canteen of sorts attached to this place. They’ll have to make do with that.” He picked a shred of tobacco off his lower lip. “Don’t want any of them spending their free time in the Gut catching a dose of something unpleasant, when we need them for sea duty!” He laughed shortly. “And yes, there are still one or two brothels open for business, bombing or no bombing!”
He was on his feet suddenly, swinging round toward the filtered sunlight.
“We’ve got some good men. And given half a chance …” He broke off, and snapped, “I told you I was not to be disturbed!”
It was the same petty officer. He stood his ground, perhaps used to Garrick’s changes of mood.
“You said I was to remind you, sir.”
Garrick looked at his watch. “Bang on time,” and he smiled. “Sorry, Yeo. One of those days.”
He dragged his jacket from the chair and slipped into it. “I’ll contact you tomorrow. I’ll bet you need some sleep, otherwise …” He was taking his cap from the top of a filing cabinet. “You did damned well. Knew you would. I’ll walk with you to the gate and see you over the side.”
Just doing his job. Discussions with the loud-voiced brigadier and his companion. Now no doubt another session with the visiting Chief of Staff. The bar would be open.
Garrick nodded to the petty officer.
“A replacement for the dead rating—John Irwin, right? He’ll be reporting aboard, forenoon tomorrow.”
Easy, almost matter-of-fact. Even remembering the dead seaman’s first name. No wonder he always made such a memorable splash in the press whenever he was given the opportunity.
He realized that Garrick had halted on the stairs. I must be half asleep.
Garrick said, “What’s this? You’re a bit off your usual stamping-ground, aren’t you?”
A woman’s voice. Kearton saw her on the stairway, answering, but looking straight at him. The voice, too, was just as he remembered it.
“I was told it was all right, Captain Garrick. I heard he was here …” She paused as Garrick exclaimed, “So much for security!” He grinned. “Didn’t realize you knew each other.”
She lifted her chin. Like that day near the blitzed cellar, and the Maltese child in tears.
“We’ve met.” She waited for them to join her, and held out a small package to Kearton. “Not perfect, I’m afraid. Best I could do.”
His handkerchief. He could still see it, crumpled and bloody in her hand. Her anger and despair, and something stronger.
“Thank you. I never expected …”
Someone called from the top of the stairs and Garrick stared up, annoyed at the interruption. “Tell them I’ve already left!” More voices, and he retorted, “Oh, very well, damn it. But I can only spare a minute!” He ran lightly up the stairs and called back over his shoulder, “We’ll talk again, Bob. Very soon.” He paused, looking down. “Mrs Howard will take care of you!”
She ignored him, and said to Kearton, “I knew you were back. They said you’d been in action. I wanted to give you this.” She shook her head, the dark hair catching the light. Not like that other time, the dust and sand. The anger …
She was wearing a plain khaki shirt and matching slacks. No Red Cross or any insignia.
She smiled, for the first time.
“You’re staring again,” and she held up her hand. “No, I’m the one to apologize.”
She led the way along a passage, where men were removing old bricks from a demolished wall.
“It’s getting like a village around here. Secrecy doesn’t mean very much.”
He wanted to stop, to look at her. Instead he kept walking, matching his pace to hers.
“Do you work here, at the base?”
She was taller than he remembered; about his own age, maybe younger … The eyes he could recall without effort. Very dark, but without the hostility now.
“Part time.” She might have shrugged. “Civil Defense, and helping to rehouse those cast adrift after the raids.” Surprisingly, she laughed. “Oh, that’s very nautical of me! I’ve been working with the navy too long.”
The gates were in sight, and beyond them the steps down to the pier. She had made her gesture. He had not expected to see her again.
He said, “Where we last met. You live there all the time?”
She stopped and looked out at the first gleam of sunlight on the water.
“Our home is over in Sliema, but there are refugees there, too.” She pushed some hair from her forehead. “The bombing never stops.”
Perhaps Garrick had been warning him. Or had ideas of his own?
Our home in Sliema. That was plain enough.
He saw a sailor sitting on a low wall above the steps, then he got up, so casually that it was obvious.
Skipper’s on his way!
He faced her. “It was good of you to come.” He touched his pocket. “To bring this to me. To care.”
She looked at him directly. “I owed that to you. It was a bad day, for a lot of people.”
They were at the gates. It was over. It had not even begun.
He held out his hand and she took it, probably relieved to be going.
He said, “I hoped we might bump into each other again. When neither of us was on duty.”
He felt her hand stiffen.
“Before you leave, you mean? Get sent somewhere else? You must be accustomed to that.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
She removed her hand gently, as if to brush something from her sleeve.
“D’you think that would be wise? I said it was like a village. Remember?” She half turned. More voices. Intruders. “I may be away. But if it helps, you could leave a message.”
He reached out and took her hand again, expecting her to pull it away. She stood looking down at it, not at him.
“I’ll ask for Mrs Howard, shall I?”
She stepped back, and waved to somebody who was hurrying toward the gates, but her eyes returned to his.
“Glynis. That’ll find me.”
He watched her cross the road, afraid of losing something. But she did not look back. Perhaps she dared not.
Turnbull seized the back of a chair and nodded to one of the soldiers who had just vacated the table.
“Thanks, chum.”
The soldier, a sergeant, grinned.
“Yeah, just like the Ritz!”
Laidlaw joined him and set down his glass between the puddles of spilled beer.
“Give me the NAAFI any day.” He looked around. “Never thought I’d ever say that!”
The ‘canteen’, as it was optimistically labelled, was gaunt and high-ceilinged, with a long counter across one end and barrels mounted on trestles behind, out of reach. It had been a gymnasium at one time: there were parallel bars and a vaulting-horse stacked in a corner, and climbing ropes in a tangled heap nearby. Turnbull lifted his glass and saw a punch-bag too, standing quite alone. Someone had painted a face on it, and what had started off as a name. He noticed that some of the soldiers threw a punch at it when they passed. It was one way of letting off steam.
“Cheers, Jock.” It was better than nothing. But not much.
He stared around. If this was reserved for N.C.O.s, what did the rest have to put up with?
But the place was crowded, and nearly all were in khaki. Just a handful of petty officers, H.Q. staff by the look of them, he thought. You could always tell.
Above the din of voices there was music playing, jazz when he could hear a snatch of it, interrupted from time to time by names or units being called over a tannoy.
There were sandbags along one wall, floor to ceiling, and fire extinguishers as well. In case anyone needed reminding.
A group of soldiers were playing cards at one table, oblivious to the noise around them, and the unmoving pall of cigarette smoke. Royal Artillery badges, for the most part: there seemed to be guns everywhere, Turnbull had noticed, even mobile ones just outside these buildings. Not very far from their new moorings. So much for getting any sleep …
Laidlaw said, “So we’re on stand-by again,” and drank. “I’ve just fuelled up, so we’re not going to be dragging our feet for long.” He glanced at him. “The Skipper—is he bothered? You know him better than anyone.”
Turnbull shifted his glass on the table. The beer was warm. Flat. They should have stayed aboard, down aft in their own mess, had a few hoarded tots and put up with the stench of petrol from the Chief’s refilled tanks.
He said slowly, “Out on his feet, I’d think. He’s been with the Big White Chief, then he saw the two other skippers. He was even finding time to write to poor Irwin’s folks, though God knows when they’ll get that.” He leaned back. “Rather him than me!”
Laidlaw said, “I’ll get a couple more drinks. Then we’d better make our way back for something a wee bit stronger.”
Turnbull took out a packet of cigarettes. He was trying to give them up.
He lit one, considering Laidlaw’s question. Maybe he was right about knowing Kearton better than anybody. It happened in this outfit, if you were lucky. But you never knew when it could happen. Like Irwin, and all those others.
Like this last time. The sound of engines tearing at your nerves, knowing it was real. It was now.
Is he bothered?
He rubbed his eyes. He had gone ashore this afternoon to collect some information about transport from the Master-at-Arms’ lobby by the gates, and he had seen the skipper with the dark-haired woman. Walking and chatting like old friends. But how could that be? And he had seen her hold her left hand to her eyes to shield them from the sun, and thought he caught the glint of gold on her finger. That was trouble in any language.
“Any one sittin’ ’ere, mate?”
Turnbull saw Laidlaw returning with two full glasses.
The soldier, a corporal, moved away. “Sorry, mate.” Then he saw the packet of cigarettes. “Duty-frees, eh? All right for some!”
Laidlaw put the glasses down and shook some spilled beer from his hand.
“I’ll lay odds the Skipper is doing better than this!”
They both laughed, and Turnbull was suddenly glad that what he had seen would remain a secret.
There was probably nothing to it. He reached for his glass. Bloody good luck to him anyway.
The glass hit the table, beer slopping against the duty-frees, and the canteen was half empty. The familiar alarm was sounding loud and clear over the music, and this time there seemed to be another, shriller note. A double emergency.
He saw Laidlaw slam down his glass and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. The glass, like the canteen, was empty.
“Let’s move it, Harry! I think we’ve got visitors!”
Then they were both running.
*
It was coming to a stark and terrible climax. Worse than before, worse than ever, because of the utter silence. There should be voices, a scream, before the explosion. The mine was still there, closer now, sometimes within reach. He was drowning.
Kearton rolled on to his side and stared into the light, for a few seconds fighting the shadows.
“Sorry, Skipper—it’s six o’clock. You told me to call you.”
It had been Ainslie’s hand which had broken the dream.
The boat was quiet and still, without even the nudge of the moorings or the improvised pier.
He had his feet on the deck, beside the boots which were always close by, ready for any emergency. Three hours since it had ended. It seemed longer. As if he had been in his bunk for days.
Ainslie was saying brightly, “I’ve got someone busy in the galley. There’ll be something to drink in half a mo’.” It was a favourite expression of his. “D’you think we’ll be on the move again soon, sir?”
Kearton stood up and stretched his arms until his fingers brushed the deckhead, his thoughts falling into order.
“I have to visit Operations at midday. Maybe Captain Garrick will be better informed by then.” He was probably still sleeping off the Chief of Staff’s visit.
Ainslie snapped his fingers.
“Sorry, Skipper, I almost forgot. Ops sent word by messenger. You’ll have a driver this time. Make it a little easier, especially after the last raid … Just as well we changed our moorings, from the sound of it.”
Kearton was halfway to the cupboard where he kept his shaving gear when the casual remark hit him like a fist.
He had been here, in this cabin, when the alarm had sounded. Some of the hands had been ashore in the canteen, and th
ere had been plenty of ripe curses when they had hurriedly and noisily returned aboard, not least from those who had been trying to catch up on their sleep.
There had been the usual crump, crump, crump of the heavier anti-aircraft guns, but only a few louder explosions.
“Not even worth uncoverin’ guns!” someone had said.
Kearton said, “Go ashore for me, will you? See the Officer of the Day and find out about that raid. Close to our last moorings, you said? Tell him I need to know.” He tried to lighten it. “As your senior officer!”
Ainslie was going.
“Right away, Skipper.” He grinned. “Sir!”
Kearton walked to the side and unclipped one of the deadlights. Grey, but it would be daylight very soon. He thought of the matters demanding his attention. A new hand joining their small company, the replacement for Irwin. The burial arrangements to be confirmed. Garrick had said a fourth boat would be joining their flotilla very shortly. It could take weeks, or it might be today.
He wanted to shake himself. Had that brief action left such a mark on him? Or, like the dream, was it only a reminder of something unresolved?
He recalled his visit to the two other boats, the obvious delight, even envy, at 992’s success. And far too many drinks. That was always the excuse.
He had finished shaving by the time Ainslie returned. In the early light, his beard appeared, finally, to have established itself.
He said, “The O.O.D. couldn’t tell me much. Or wouldn’t. Said it was just a couple of bombs. The others fell in the drink. Best I could do, sir.”
Kearton looked into the small mirror. His hand was steady enough; he had not even nicked himself.
“When Number One does his rounds, I’ll be going with him.” But the door had shut, and he could hear Ainslie’s footsteps on the deck overhead.
For their sakes? Or for mine?
He heard a sudden gust of laughter coming from the messdeck, then more, until someone tried to quell it, probably because it was so near this cabin.
He reached for his jacket. It had answered his question.
The car arrived earlier than expected. Whether this was because of the state of the roads, or the vehicle itself, was not explained. An old Wolseley, commandeered at the beginning of the seige, it had seen better days. It looked about the same vintage as Kearton’s beloved Triumph.
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