Not Thinking of Death

by Not Thinking of Death (retail) (epub)

  Chalk saw Johnny Mottram coming briskly along the quay from Tracker. Tallish, narrow-shouldered, neatly trimmed black beard… He turned back to the commander and answered that rather odd question: ‘Lieutenant Van Sommeren, sir.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to go down to Dundee without him, I’m afraid.’ Pausing, looking round as Mottram came over the plank, arms out for balance. Don Sutherland, Chalk’s torpedo officer who was also responsible for the casing, had paused nearby with an ear tuned to whatever was being said. The commander turned to Johnny Mottram. ‘Breaking the sad news to him.’

  ‘Morning, Rufus.’ A glance upwards at Tumult’s periscope standards, where there was no Jolly Roger flying. ‘No luck this time?’

  You flew the black flag with its skull-and-crossbones and symbols sewn on for ships sunk whenever you got in from a successful patrol; after a blank one, you didn’t.

  Chalk asked them both, ‘What’s the interest in my first lieutenant?’

  ‘You tell him, Mottram.’

  ‘Fact is, Rufus, my number one – Pete Shoesmith, you know him – poor sod’s been landed to hospital. Appendix, the quack says. I’m going north – special op. with canoeists – sailing now, if not sooner – and I can’t go without a first lieutenant, obviously.’

  ‘Going north?’

  A nod… ‘Tricky time for it, you’re right. I’ve got three Norwegians on board with folboats, have to put ’em ashore – well, just north of Trondheim—’

  ‘Christ!’

  ‘—to collect some other chap before the Gestapo get him.’

  ‘Sixty-four, sixty-five north, roughly? Right inshore, and no dark hours at all?’

  ‘Oh, there’ll be some—’

  ‘Want me, sir?’ Chris Van Sommeren had appeared from the fore hatch. Chalk guessed that Sutherland had been down and told him what he’d heard. He introduced him to the base commander: ‘Lieutenant Van Sommeren, sir.’ A glance at Mottram: he and Chris knew each other, of course. Back to the commander: ‘Van Sommeren’s getting married on the 25th, sir.’

  ‘Not this month, he isn’t.’ The commander told him, ‘You’re being lent to Tracker, Van Sommeren. Her first lieutenant’s been landed sick.’

  ‘Pete Shoesmith?’

  ‘Only appendix.’ Mottram assured him, ‘He’ll be all right.’ The commander broke in again, ‘Sorry about your wedding. But take it philosophically – what’s a few weeks’ delay when it’s going to last a lifetime?’

  Chalk admired his first lieutenant for not pretending to be even faintly amused. As well as not showing his true feelings – except to anyone who knew him and recognized the anger in those brown, wide-set eyes. Mottram was saying, ‘I’m sorry too. Glad to have you, though. If one had to pinch any first lieutenant…’ Flattery, aimed at softening the blow: and glancing at his watch. ‘But this is a pierhead jump, I’m afraid. I’m ready to cast off now.’

  ‘In half an hour, let’s say.’

  ‘Hell, Rufus—’

  Mottram’s mouth shut again as he realized that he was being told, not asked. Chalk glanced at the commander: ‘Excuse us, sir? Lot of ground to cover.’ He put a hand on Van Sommeren’s arm, turning him with him towards the hatch. ‘Better hand over to Sutherland – and to me – I’ll sit in on it.’ He added, ‘I want a word, in any case.’

  * * *

  Half an hour later, he watched Tracker cast off. The hemp breasts went first, then the wire back-spring, and Mottram swung her stern out on the other one before he backed her off the quay on her motors, pointed her at the exit then but held her where she was until the casing had been secured and cleared – Van Sommeren leaning over the side of the bridge to hurry it all up. Mottram would have had in mind, Chalk realized, that recently an ‘S’-class boat’s third hand had been washed off her fore-casing and drowned, just outside there.

  On her way now. The diesels’ rumble, and a haze of exhaust that vanished quickly on the wind… Chalk put his hand up in farewell, Westwood lifted his cap and waved it, but Chris must have gone below – to start sorting out his new responsibilities, no doubt. Poor bastard…

  There hadn’t been much to be said between them: only that as soon as possible after he got to Dundee he’d telephone Suzie and explain the situation, try to convince her that there was no need to worry, that it was merely a postponement – and that neither of them could have done anything to prevent it. Also that he would not mention the name Tracker. Whether she could ever have heard of Trumpeter’s rebuilding neither of them knew. Chalk had wondered, once or twice – especially as Alastair had heard about it – but the subject had never come up in her presence, as far as he knew. Chris had been uncertain as to whether or not he’d ever mentioned it – in any conversation connected with the flotilla, for instance. If he had and she’d known of it already, of course, her reaction might have been minimal, one might not have noticed. He’d never talked much ‘shop’ to her, though. No reason to: he thought her ‘shop’, the flying stuff, was far more interesting. And then again, even if she’d known of Tracker’s existence and provenance, she could hardly have known she was in the Dundee flotilla – if neither he nor Chalk had told her. Chalk most definitely would not have: but Chris had admitted, ‘I wouldn’t have seen it as having any special importance. But I realize – damn silly of me…’

  No special importance, for God’s sake. And Tracker going north – in June – on a canoeing trip…

  She was stern-to now, about to pass out through that narrow opening. Diesel exhaust visible again, and her ensign fluttering wildly above it.

  When Suzie had confirmed to him that she was definitely going to marry Chris, in that telephone conversation from Dundee after Chris had finished all his calls – to Suzie, then to the Cameron-Greens and to his own family – she’d repeated what she’d said at the party at White Waltham, that she thought perhaps she should have her head examined for loose screws, even to think of marrying a submariner. Chalk had pointed out that it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d been a lion-tamer or a fishmonger, all she had to think about was that this was the man she loved and who loved her, who happened also to be one of the nicest men alive and in his – Chalk’s – opinion, tailor-made for her.

  ‘Don’t hold his occupation against him, Suzie.’

  ‘No. I won’t. That’s good advice… But – promise you’ll always bring him safely back to me?’

  ‘I’ll do my best to, believe me.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘All right.’ In some ways she was still quite child-like. He’d told her, smiling into the telephone, ‘I promise.’

  ‘Otherwise I won't – don’t want—’

  ‘You won’t go through that again, Suzie. I swear it.’

  Chapter 17

  He secured Tumult alongside in Dundee on the 22nd at about 1930, and was in the Mess half an hour later, fending off offers of drinks and questions about his own patrol and Tracker until he’d telephoned to Patricia in London – no answer, which was disturbing – and then to Suzie at the ATA women’s pool at Hatfield, to which they’d transferred her from White Waltham at the time she’d had her promotion to 1st Officer, for some reason. But no luck with her either. Another girl pilot told him she was on her way back from a ferrying job; it might be worth trying in about an hour, say. Or two hours, even. If she was flying back – in one of the taxi Ansons, as she might well be – she’d be on the ground by sunset, but if she was on her way by car…

  ‘I’ll ring later, anyway.’ He felt dirty, was looking forward to a long, hot bath. Shaven – one always smartened up as far as possible before entering harbour – but slightly foul. And tired. And Pat’s not being there – yet – had put a knot in his gut: she’d left on one of her SIS ‘jaunts’ a day or two before he’d set out on this last patrol. He asked the ATA girl, ‘Is my wife – Diana Chalk – anywhere around?’

  ‘Oh. Commander Chalk.’ (Tone of surprise: and of course, he should have asked for Diana first.) ‘I’m afraid not, Diana ’phoned to sa
y she’s stuck out. I’m not sure where, but if you’d hold on I’ll—’

  ‘Don’t worry. She’ll be ’phoning me, I expect. I’m at Dundee, by the way, you might tell Suzie. Anyway I’ll call her later.’

  Lying in the bath, he thought about Diana. If she was ‘stuck out’, as they called it, and aware of his having been three days overdue, one might have expected that she’d have called to ask whether there was any news of him – of Tumult – and left a message telling him where he could find her. But there’d been nothing in his pigeon-hole or on the board – only one for Chris Van Sommeren, emanating no doubt from Suzie.

  Chris would find it there, plus a letter or two probably, in a couple of weeks’ time. Touch wood: the floating nailbrush, its wooden back. Diana, though: perhaps they all got ‘stuck out’ as often as she did. Suzie had mentioned once that the ATA discipline was strict, in that area, all movements and stop-overs having to be accounted for, papers or logbooks signed whenever a ’plane landed or took off, and the records carefully scrutinized. And if that was the case, one might as well put it out of mind. But suspicion of course tended to breed further suspicion: the thin end of this wedge being some Belgian ATA pilot by name of Vemet.

  Patricia had told him: Suzie had told her, in strict sisterly confidence, and obviously not realizing at that time how close he and Patricia had become. Try Patricia again before dinner, he thought. He’d have been revelling in anticipation of doing so – even just hearing her voice over the wire – if the lack of a reply just now hadn’t left him fearful that he might still not get to hear it: only listen again to the thing ringing – visualizing that empty flat…

  Diana: why hadn’t he let that girl find out for him where she was ‘stuck out’, so he could call her… Prime reason: he didn’t want her thinking he was checking up on her. Second, the call to Suzie had priority, because for the last few days she’d have been living on her nerves and that would not, he imagined, go well with flying.

  ‘Planning to spend the night in that tub, Rufus?’

  He looked up at Charlie Ogden, CO of Sepoy.

  ‘Getting out this minute, Charlie.’

  Patricia was the emotional priority. The fear of finding she still wasn’t there countered by that of leaving it too late, just missing her.

  She had other friends, lots of them. No answer might only indicate that she was out dining, dancing, or at a theatre or the flicks. Towelling himself while the water gurgled out, he wondered whether the Marx Brothers’ film The Big Store was still showing and whether she might already have seen it. An alternative might be Coward’s play Blithe Spirit.

  If he could get down there – with no first lieutenant to take care of the boat in his absence. On the face of it, he couldn’t. But if she was there – might get one of the other COs to keep an eye on things, for just a day or two?

  * * *

  ‘Suzie – Rufus. I tried earlier, but—’

  Listening: and catching the tone of disappointment – that it wasn’t Chris. She’d had his message, had been intending to call him when she’d eaten… Then the inevitable question: ‘Where’s Chris?’

  ‘Well, that’s why I’m calling…’

  He tried to break it gently: telling her there was nothing to worry about, but he was very sorry to tell her they’d have to postpone the wedding. ‘Disappointing, I know – to put it very mildly—’

  ‘Postpone?’

  Explaining, then. Having – luckily – the excuse of an insecure telephone line and by this time well-ingrained habits based on the slogan ‘Careless Talk Costs Lives’. Chris had gone on patrol in another boat: which for obvious reasons he couldn’t name over the telephone. It would be a few weeks…

  ‘All right.’ He heard her long intake of breath. ‘All right. I understand…’

  She was well, she told him – ‘sparking on all cylinders’. And she’d let Chris’s parents as well as her own know about the postponement of her wedding. He thought she was marvellous: a lot of girls in her position would have been in floods of tears by this time. Tears, recriminations: from Suzie, none of that. But she let him know that she knew about his relationship with her sister, and gave him to understand that at least she didn’t disapprove of it: and changing the subject at that point – to the question of Diana’s whereabouts – he had in the back of his mind the age-old question of which came first, the chicken or the egg? Diana and her Belgian, or himself and Patricia?

  Suzie had said to Patricia once – quite recently, speaking of Diana, and Patricia had passed it on to him – ‘I owe her a lot, I can’t forget that. But my God, she can be as hard as nails!’

  He finished – thankfully, grateful to her for having taken the bad news so well – ‘Don’t worry about Chris. No reason to, honestly…’ But tense with worry himself by then – hanging up – thinking about Patricia, who was still away, Suzie had told him: adding, ‘Certainly long enough, this time…’

  He tried Pat’s number again – obviously not expecting the call to be answered, but hoping for a miracle. Suzie had said something like ‘Don’t worry, she’ll come back to you…’ To him: that was how she’d told him she knew about their relationship. But it was a good point she’d made: Patricia would be gone, from time to time, absences of indefinite duration; it was only the coming back that mattered.

  She definitely was not in her flat now, anyway. He cut off the plaintive, lonely ringing and put a call through to Betty.

  * * *

  He’d finished eating and had accepted a large Scotch from Charlie Ogden – a liar-dice session was about to get under way and he’d weakly consented to take part – when the steward on duty came through to tell him that he was wanted on the telephone.

  ‘It’s Mrs Chalk, sir.’

  ‘Ah. Thanks.’

  ‘Ah-hah.’ Ogden grinned at the others. ‘He’s rung all his girlfriends, now he’s got to face the music.’

  ‘Smashing music, from what I hear.’

  Tim Hart, captain of Threat. Chalk ignored him – he didn’t like him much – and told Ogden, ‘That last call was to my sister. The one before that, to Van Sommeren’s fiancée – to tell the poor girl she’s got to postpone the wedding. All right?’ He went out to the anteroom, to the telephone receiver hanging on its cord.

  ‘Diana?’

  ‘Rufus! You’re back, safe and sound! But I hear you’ve mislaid the bridegroom – Suzie called me, I was trying to get through to you there earlier, but – I don’t know, lines engaged, or—’

  ‘Right.’ The hell she’d tried earlier. He’d been overdue by three days, for Christ’s sake: why would she have called today, but not yesterday? Or the day before? If she had, there’d have been a message. He asked her, ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Bristol. Flying some Blenheims from Filton to Cosford first thing tomorrow. I brought an Oxford into Whitchurch this evening, found I had to stay over for these Blenheims when two other pilots get here. Which they should have by now. But that’s my worry… How are you, darling?’

  ‘Well – all right. Fine. But I do want to see you, this time. Please?’

  ‘Are you coming south?’

  ‘Doubt it. I’ve no first lieutenant to leave in charge, you see.’

  ‘Oh, well… So you’re stuck there, and I’m stuck out here, there, everywhere… And I won’t be getting any leave in the foreseeable future, unfortunately. We’re really quite stretched, need twice as many pilots as we’ve got. The wedding’s off, Suzie says.’

  ‘Postponed.’

  ‘That’s what I meant. Any idea how long you’ll be in, this time?’

  ‘About the usual time, I suppose. I suppose you couldn’t get yourself up this way? Get “stuck out” in Dundee?’ She’d begun to laugh. At the sheer impossibility of it, he wondered, or at his making the suggestion even if it had been viable? He went on, ‘Couldn’t you deliver some ’plane up here? I could get away for twenty-four hours, say – we might meet in Edinburgh?’

  ‘It’s a gorgeous id
ea, darling – nothing I’d love more, but…’

  But no. No soap – darling.

  He only wanted to talk – talk this whole situation out. He thought she realized it too. Whether she knew that he knew about Jacques Vemet – as little as he did know – well, that was something else. As was the question of whether she could know about Patricia. Might suspect: she’d been jealous of her for years. Foresight, possibly – intuition?

  He went back to the liar-dice game, feeling both frustrated and hypocritical.

  ‘Four tens to beat, Rufus. Here – matches.’

  He used one of them to light a cigarette with. They used match-sticks as counters: when you’d lost three you bought a round of drinks.

  Ogden, who was passing it to him from his right, murmured, ‘Four jacks, actually. Being kind to you, old chum.’

  ‘That’ll be the day.’ He put his hand on the inverted leather cup. Staring at it, all of them thinking he was making his mind up whether to accept it or lift it, but actually thinking about Patricia, who might be back – well, tomorrow, say. Or next week…

  ‘Looks like he’s still dreamin’ oh my darlin’ love of thee.’

  ‘Rufus, old horse?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Coming to, he shook his head. ‘Four tens, you said. I say you can stuff ’em.’ He lifted the cup, and found four kings under it. ‘Well. Stuff you.’

  ‘Clot.’ Ogden scooped the five dice back into the cup, and pushed it towards him. ‘I was gunning for Jake there. Come on, Rufus, finger out!’