Not Thinking of Death

by Not Thinking of Death (retail) (epub)

  ‘You will.’

  ‘If I don’t – tell her for me that I love her, that she’s been the greatest thing ever in my life?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Thanks. If she’s still in London, go and see her? Address is in the book – in Belgravia. Andrew Murray Buchanan.’

  ‘All right.’ Now the whole family had invited him. ‘But it won’t come to that, Andrew.’

  ‘Really believe Jacko’ll get us up, do you?’

  Not the way he was planning, he wouldn’t, with so little time to do it in. Unless that miracle did come to pass – a salvage ship up there, everything on the top line and ready to go. It could happen…

  At least those who didn’t get out wouldn’t know much about it. It was getting harder all the time to breathe, but also to stay awake. Bloody awful headache, too.

  But not those who didn’t get out. Any who didn’t.

  His own suggestion last night had been that they should ask for not one air-hose but two, one to be connected to the whistle as they’d been planning, to supply air for blowing tanks, and the other to the gun recuperator connection to provide air for breathing, staying alive. Pargeter had objected that this wouldn’t solve the problem: you’d need a vent as well as an intake, to get rid of the carbon dioxide and keep the pressure down. Chalk had agreed with him, and had had the answer ready too. ‘Get air in through the recuperator, and run the LP blower to suck out the CO~2~. A few minutes at a time, guided by the barometer.’

  ‘Theory’s fine.’ A smile around the spaniel-eyes… ‘Full marks. But in the long run it’d slow us down. Don’t want that. Whole point is to get her up there fast – before the air runs out.’

  He thought Pargeter wasn’t thinking straight. But perhaps it didn’t matter much. They wouldn’t have the gear up there, and by the time they got it there’d be no use for it.

  Snoozing. Partly, anyway – in and out of sleep and dreams. In the dream-state, seeing Guy with a rifle and some kind of uniform that was familiar – except for the red band on his arm. His expression – that lop-sided grin – came straight out of an enlarged snapshot which Chalk had in a frame. There was a cricket pavilion and some flannelled fools, and girls with parasols in the background. Guy wasn’t flannelled, he was in RNAS uniform, vintage 1914–18 – boots, military tunic and breeches, naval cap – derived from a portrait of their father which was beside their mother’s bed in the nursing home. She’d asked him once, holding it up and frowning at it, ‘Who’s this man?’ With Guy still in his mind, though, he was recognizing the blunder he’d made. To have argued with him – against his going to Spain – on pragmatic and even political grounds. Water off a duck’s back – might have known it would be. In fact had known, but lacked the clarity of vision – which he had now, extraordinarily enough – to realize that he should have put it as a personal, brotherly plea not to go because he and Betty needed him – alive, intact and here. Should have hit that note and gone on hitting it. Guy was soft-hearted, naturally kind – which was why one had felt so defensive of him against Dymock’s ruthlessness. He’d quite likely have given in to that approach – which might have been followed with a reminder of Betty being on the point of giving birth and how Guy had said he was looking forward to being an uncle. What use was a distant uncle – let alone a dead or maimed one? And – can’t we keep it together now? – what between us we’ve put together?

  Meaning the loss of their father. Having weathered that…

  Awake, he found he had tears in his eyes. But it was all right: watering eyes were a symptom of the CO~2~ poisoning. Camouflage…

  ‘Time?’

  Gleeson. Presumably the little engineer’s watch had stopped. Chalk could see one on his bony wrist. From his other side one of the civilians informed him, ‘Five-thirty, near enough.’

  ‘So what time’s breakfast?’

  Someone – it might have been Alec Rose – muttered, ‘Two eggs, bacon, sausage and tomato. If you please.’

  ‘Tea or coffee?’

  Gleeson again. Odd senses of humour, both of them. Unless they were off their rockers. Chalk turned his head enough to see him. Little man in his fifties, could have been eighty. Seamed face like a small, exhausted monkey’s, tired little eyes on Chalk’s, and telling him now – in a thinner tone, almost a whisper – ‘Brekker up top, eh?’

  He’d no apt answer for it. Drowsing again: hoping that Betty wouldn’t have heard about this mishap. Anyway, not that he was in it. It was odds-on to be in the newspapers this morning; the Admiralty and Messrs Barlows’ would have issued statements probably coupled with reassurance so that the headlines might read RESCUE OPERATIONS UNDER WAY. Even if they weren’t. But she didn’t have to know he was among the passengers. She’d never have heard of Trumpeter, or of Barlows’; the only address he’d given her was his lodgings, Mrs Blair’s address and telephone number, so they could reach him with the news of the baby’s birth… And then they would know. Her husband, Dick Traill, would make the call and Mrs Blair would pour it all out to him. He’d told her that he was going out on these trials.

  The Cameron-Greens would know, he guessed. Suzie – or Patricia, but more likely Suzie – would quite likely have heard rumours first, and have ’phoned Barlows’ – probably Mrs Blair as well. And Diana would know, if she was in touch with them – as she would be, because (a) she was in the habit of telephoning him at his digs every few days, when she was in a position to do so; and (b), since she was expected to arrive at Glendarragh on Friday she’d surely have contacted the C-Gs directly too. Or would soon.

  She’d still fly up. Perhaps sooner. With news for Suzie of some flying course, no doubt. When Diana said she’d do a thing, she did it.

  Poor Suzie…

  Patricia would look after her, though. Dry her tears.

  Better at it than their mother would be. Pat was practical and warm-hearted as well as bright. In fact she was really rather special. As Betty had told him: and he’d nodded, shown polite interest: ‘Is she really?’

  He’d wondered at times – like that one – whether Betty might be none too keen on having Diana for a sister-in-law. She hadn’t been so clumsy as to say it, but knowing her as he did –

  Diana…

  His door opening, shutting again as silently as ancient, unoiled hinges would allow. Her whispered ‘Hush…’

  Patricia? Not Diana?

  ‘Pat?’

  ‘Lightning decision…’

  ‘You’re brilliant. As well as—’

  As well as not Pat.

  Dreaming… And a change of scene – Glendarragh still, but downstairs, in the drawing-room. On-stage had been Suzie and her mother and Patricia, while he’d been a silent presence, as it were, in the wings. Dymock elsewhere, doubtless being hauled over the coals by Sir Innes. Patricia had been teasing Suzie about the night’s goings-on at that Trossachs place, telling her she really might have waited to lose it at the Astor – their mother snapping, ‘That’s enough, Patricia!’ Pat putting an arm around her little sister and humming There’s a small hotel…

  Singing softly, putting her own words to it: ‘I wish that I’d been there…’ Beginning to giggle then, Lady C-G failing to comprehend, Chalk stifling his own amusement until Suzie herself gave way in a shout of laughter, breaking free and aiming a wild swing at her sister…

  Thump of an explosion: then another. His chuckle as he woke, cut off by reality – excitement – and a roar from McAllister in Pargeter’s cabin: ‘Random!’

  A third grenade exploded – telling them Come on up…

  * * *

  Farewells all finished in a rush, were already half-forgotten – except for Buchanan’s and Nat Eason’s. Eason’s ‘Mine’s a double Johnny Walker – and no water in it, right?’ A glance upward then: ‘Hate fucking water…’ He was a part of that shifting pattern now – faces on the dry side of the glass port, a blur of them close together crowding for a view. The chamber was flooding quickly, the influx of water a churning, deafe
ning ordeal of sound and pressure. All four of them were masked and breathing pure oxygen from their sets. The stern-up angle, he’d realized, wasn’t likely to make for any problems: the problem it had made had been that of getting aft, uphill, hauling oneself up with handholds on engines, overhead piping, gear in the motor-room, etcetera. It had kept some potential onlookers away too, though. As well as a bunch of stokers – ‘locals’, the After Ends was their mess – but Pargeter was out there, and Dymock, Harry Calshot and John Hervey; Nat Eason and the Chief ERA, Hennessy, were operating the chamber – the flood-valve, at this stage. They had it fully open: you could flood the chamber fast or slowly – like turning on a tap – and Random had told them the faster the better.

  Chalk was acting as nursemaid to Cox, the young electrician. He was all right, so far. No signs of any tendency to panic. You never knew, until you tried: anyone in the least claustrophobic could go crazy. The noise didn’t help. He put a hand on Cox’s shoulder, raised the other with a thumbs-up sign close in front of his mask, and got a nod by way of reply. Any reassurance thankfully received… The water was seething up to chest-level – chin-high to the ERA and to Random, neither of whom was particularly tall. Random putting his hand up to the vent, ready to open it: the influx had begun to slow, as the air trapped in the top of the chamber resisted the sea’s efforts to rise higher. He’d forced it open – adding a new dimension of sound – then ducked his head under the frothing surface, in accordance with the drill as taught in the tank at Blockhouse. Emerging then – momentarily, since the level was rising fast again now that the air was venting – and raising a hand to Cox – See, how easy? The water was over his head then, over Crowley’s too and bubbling up around Chalk’s mask, Cox submerged also, with Chalk’s hand still on his shoulder.

  Random would be first out. It was up to him to get the hatch open, then climb out and stay there – outside, holding on to the casing – to see the others emerge, render assistance if any of them was in trouble.

  There was no reason why they should be. You had only to take it calmly and steadily and stick to the drill – having ignored the initial urge to spit your mouthpiece out, take a real breath… You were breathing – and at that, more easily than in recent hours. Breathing through the mouth – inhaling oxygen, and exhaling CO~2~ to be absorbed by soda-lime crystals in the bag.

  The noise had stopped, and Random was opening the hatch. With some difficulty, judging by the time it was taking… A dark figure in the slight radiance penetrating from that window: a surreal quality about it. ‘The noble order of the French letter,’ he’d called it, conducting a kind of mock investiture when he’d put the string loops over Chalk’s and Crowley’s head…

  But that – incredibly – was daylight!

  A narrow slit of it, then oblong, expanding into the full rounded shape of the hatch itself as Random forced the lid right back. Daylight filtering through about thirty feet of water – blanked off then by Random’s body as he climbed up and out. Now again, that flickering light. Chalk found the exhaust-valve at the bottom of Cox’s breathing-bag, and opened it for him. He’d told him he’d be doing this, not trusting a complete beginner to remember. Crowley was on his way out, and Cox would go next. Opening the exhaust-valve before leaving the chamber was a necessary piece of the drill because as you rose towards the surface the pressure lessened and the bag might have burst if it had had no vent.

  The hatch was clear again. He pushed Cox up into it. Random would be there to help him out and show him the jumping-wire, which would be only about six feet above the hatch and a hazard to be avoided. He’d also release the roll of rubber apron which was attached to the bottom of the breathing-bag and served as a parachute-in-reverse: Cox had been shown how to hold it out to slow his ascent – rather than shooting up like a cork. Taking it more slowly – well, from only thirty feet the change in pressure wouldn’t do him any harm, but if there was a boat up there and he surfaced under it at high speed he might crack his skull.

  The hatch was still filled – by Cox… Chalk opened his own exhaust-valve, glanced back for a second at the glass port, that yellowish glow of artificial light behind the vague dark shapes of men’s heads – faces close to the glass, hands cupped against it to shut out reflections… Then he was at the hatch as it cleared again, passing through it and out, with daylight and the surface a shimmer like bright silk overhead. Sounds of his own breath a harsh, regular huff, puff, huff, puff… Hanging on in the aperture in the casing, Random close to him banging twice on the hull with his wheel-spanner, then dropping it through the open hatch to clatter down inside the chamber. The signal they’d have been waiting for – to shut the hatch, which had to be wound shut from inside the submarine – and then drain down, send out the next four men.

  He’d freed his apron. Random, clinging to free-flood holes in the casing, was waiting for him to go up first. You could easily see the jumping-wire, a black diagonal slanting overhead. He got over to the starboard side, as clear of it as possible, and then kicked off as he let go. The wire came at him and passed by in a flash, seemingly very close. Holding the apron out, and arching his body – head back, chest out, the silver surface brightening fast then blinding as he broke out through it.

  Into sunlight, patchy blue sky, the swell lifting him, swinging him around, letting him slide down its slope then lifting him again while he pulled his mask off and breathed air – real air. The breathing-bag was a buoyancy aid now: he’d shut its exhaust valve. Down again – swallowing a certain amount of salt while the sea rose like a wall around him; in his mind at that moment and as he was to retain it all his life – it was one of the moments that took hold and stuck, presumably would have hit him at this of all times in the realization – surprise, even – at being alive, at having been singled out to live – Buchanan’s handshake and urgent plea: ‘You won’t forget to tell her, Rufus?’ Then it was out of mind… His impression was, as he soared up on another swell, that he’d come up in the middle of an assortment of about half a dozen small ships deployed more or less in a circle with boats here and there inside the perimeter, mostly under oars. In a trough again then, seeing only sky and the heavy, threatening sea, he heard the drone of some low-flying aircraft, then from surprisingly close by a shout of ‘Oars!’ – which was a naval coxswain’s order to his crew to stop rowing. A line splashed down close to him and he grabbed it, held on with it bar-taut until he had a close-up of a whaler’s dark-blue planking and hands reaching for him. The boat’s bowman was telling him, ‘You’ll be all right now, chum. Here – easy does it…’

  * * *

  Chalk had got up from the table, gone to the terrace wall. Leaning there with his hands flat on the stone, gazing across Glandore Bay as if that blue water lightly rippled by an onshore breeze connected somehow with a very different picture – roughish, greener water, and that scratch assembly of ships and boats.

  ‘It was bloody awful.’ Still staring out, southwestward. A course on which if you managed to avoid piling up on the Azores you’d have a straight run of about 5,000 miles to the coast of Brazil. Not much pollution in that wind, by the time it got here. Chalk told me, ‘Really was. Excruciating… Watching for ’em to come up – deluding oneself – knowing damn few had any real chance.’ He shook his head: ‘Correction – knowing that at least some of them had no chance at all.’

  ‘Seven more came out?’

  He turned to face me. ‘Yes. The first four surprisingly quickly. I was on board the destroyer Hoste. Her quack was badgering me to go down to his sickbay for a check-up or treatment of some kind, and I was telling him to go to hell, there was nothing wrong with me. I don’t want to – well, exaggerate this, but I wasn’t far off hell, in those hours. Why I should be up there when the rest of them – I knew that Pargeter, for one, wouldn’t be coming up. Since it wasn’t possible that they all could, and he’d have been the last out anyway. As for Buchanan – I remember saying a prayer, to bring him out.’ A shrug. ‘Even in those days I wasn’t
exactly making a habit of it. Praying, I mean.’

  He’d turned away again, eyes back on the sea. ‘Self-interest. Strong aversion to the prospect of carrying his message to Zoe.’

  ‘Empathy too, surely.’

  ‘That was what I thought it was. I’ve had time to think, since then.’

  ‘But time can distort memory.’

  ‘Can, yes. Not in this case, though.’ He went on, ‘Dymock, now. I didn’t care if he came out or didn’t. Not even for Suzie’s sake – rather the opposite. But – how’s this for pragmatism – it had occurred to me that it might be the ill wind that blows some good – from Guy’s point of view – or mine, ours, getting him to come back from Spain perhaps. Then I’d seen it was a pipe-dream – nothing was going to change Guy’s mind. Even if he’d been in England with a clear field he probably wouldn’t have wanted to try again with Suzie. As for Dymock and the great love affair, my guess was she’d have found out pretty damn soon he wasn’t the man she thought he was. So whether he came out of it or didn’t was – frankly, six of one, half a dozen of the other. Don’t misunderstand me – I wanted them all out, but whether the next was Dymock or Joe Soap—’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Different entirely with Nat Eason. I’d have sold my soul to the devil to have him pop up.’

  ‘But he didn’t.’

  ‘One of those two pals of his did – Melhuish, commissioned engineer standing by a boat building at Scotts. He was in the second team of four, came quicker than I’d expected, gave one hope that if they kept coming at that rate – at least, as many as there were DSEA sets for… Even the free ascent prospects looked less bleak than they had, while the mood of optimism lasted. But in fact, you’d only need to start holding your breath when the vent was opened, that last foot or so of flooding up. If the front-runner got the hatch open damn fast and nobody got in anyone else’s way – well, with such a short trip to the surface – letting one’s breath out very slowly then on the way up…’