by Helena Halme
‘I am the rich boy, after all,’ he’d said and grinned.
His comment and the whole of the situation had made Kaisa feel very embarrassed, and she’d laughed nervously. All the same, it was a relief, because she wasn’t sure she would have been able to pay the astronomical prices the place charged for food, or the fine wine. When Tom had asked for her telephone number while they waited for his change, she wrote down her sister’s number. Tom then gave Kaisa his number. He was living in a flat in Ullanlinna, he told her. It was in the southern part of Helsinki, where the beautiful Jugend houses from the turn of the century were. It was Kaisa’s favourite area of the city, and naturally the most expensive. Not a surprise that Tom would be living there, she thought.
She turned the envelope over in her hands. It was very thick and she wondered what that meant. Was he writing her a long letter of goodbye, or a long love letter? Perhaps the stories of Peter and Jackie were just rumours after all. Suddenly Kaisa was afraid to open the envelope. She gazed down at the cold street below. It was two degrees below zero, she read on the little thermometer attached to the outside of the kitchenette window. While she’d been walking from the tram stop, it had started snowing, the light white flakes falling gently onto the ground. An opaque carpet of snow was now covering everything outside, the tops of the street lights, the sand box by the side of the road, even part of the roof of a tram trundling past. It was getting darker, even though it was barely three o’clock, and the snow glimmered here and there against the steel grey sky. Kaisa sighed, sat down at the small table and tore open the blue envelope. Out fell British bank notes, and one sheet of written paper.
* * *
Kaisa,
Hope you are keeping well. Please find enclosed £200. I will send you this each month after I get paid.
Send my regards to your mother and sister,
Peter
* * *
Kaisa stared at the ten pound notes, scattered on the table in front of her, then re-read the letter. At the station in Glasgow Peter had promised to send her his new address, but week after week, there had been no correspondence from him.
After Pammy’s letter, Kaisa understood why; he’d moved on. She didn’t want to be the one to ask him about Jackie, because that would make it official in some way, so she hadn’t written to him either. She still hoped it was mere gossip; she knew how easily stories like that began in the Navy. With bitterness, she remembered how Maureen had phoned to accuse her of having an affair with Jeff, Peter’s best friend and best man. Remembering that ridiculous telephone conversation with one of the other Navy wives in Portsmouth had given her hope in the last few days.
But now this – just three cold sentences and money. The ten pound notes looked dirty to Kaisa. In addition to the detached tone of the letter, they added an extra layer of hurt to the lack of warmth, or love, in Peter’s words. Kaisa looked at the handwritten lines that Peter’s favourite fountain pen had made. At least he had taken that much care, to use his good pen, the one he saved for official Royal Navy correspondence and his love letters to her – when she had deserved them. But this time there were no kisses. How she now missed that little cross, which had been so puzzling when Peter first wrote to her, after their romantic meeting at the British Embassy in Helsinki. After he had explained the tradition to her, that little ‘x’ gained so much importance. She would often kiss the letters on that spot, hoping Peter had done the same before putting the sheet of paper in the envelope and posting it. But now, only eight months after their dream wedding, the kisses had disappeared from Peter’s letters. Kaisa put her head in her hands. What had she done? How could she have been so stupid to spoil their love for each other? It was obvious now that she had lost him forever.
She examined the letter again. The address in the top right-hand corner was new: ‘HMS Orion, BFPO Ships, London.’ That must mean Pammy was right; he was living in the wardroom, on the base in Plymouth. Poor Peter, he didn’t even have a home to go to. But then, she thought, he would have all his mates around him, drinking beer every night, not having to worry about a home, or a wife — a foreign, troublesome wife, who was always unhappy with something or other. And he could go and see Jackie whenever he was free.
Suddenly Kaisa felt anger. He could have written a few words to say where he was, and how he was. He could have said he was seeing someone else and made their split official. They were still married after all, and what had happened wasn’t all her fault. Kaisa had entered the marriage not understanding that she would have to give up her career and follow her husband from one port to another, often at very short notice. Or that even if she’d chosen to stay put in Portsmouth, to pursue a career, and not move up to the isolation of Faslane, she’d have to accept that she would see her new husband only a few times a year. Or that most employers didn’t understand — or value — her Finnish degree. And even if they had, many employees still didn’t want to give jobs to Navy wives, because they knew they’d up and leave as soon as their husbands were posted elsewhere, whatever the wives said in job interviews.
Kaisa sighed. She did need the money, however. She counted the notes, picked up her coat and took the tram to the centre of town again. She walked up to a different bank on Alexi, and changed the Sterling notes to Finnish Marks. At least she had money again, she
* * *
thought, as she slipped into Stockmann’s department store and found a pay phone. She took out her diary and dialled a number.
‘Hello,’ the man at the end of the phone said.
‘Hi, it’s Kaisa. I just wanted to call and thank you for the lunch.’
Ten
Devonport, Plymouth
Peter sat on his bunk and looked at the letter he’d just picked up from his pigeon hole in the cold and deserted hall outside the wardroom. Without thinking, he did what he always did when he saw Kaisa’s handwriting on top of the envelope: he held it up to his face and breathed in the scent. A long time ago, it must have been their second or third meeting after the Embassy cocktail party in Helsinki, he’d asked her to put a little bit of her perfume on the sheets of paper before slipping them into the envelope. He remembered how Kaisa had been puzzled by his request but had promised to comply. After that, all her letters were soaked in perfume, so much so that he’d been teased about it as a young sub-lieutenant onboard his first submarine.
How long ago those heady and carefree days were now. But as he became aware of Kaisa’s fragrance once again, he breathed it in all the same and carefully opened the seal.
Dear Peter,
Thank you for your letter and the money. I will pay you back every penny once I have a job. There may be one in my old bank here in Helsinki. I went to see the manager yesterday and he seemed hopeful.
It’s still very cold here. It snowed yesterday and overnight, and the ground is covered in a white blanket, making everything look pretty and clean.
Kaisa
* * *
Peter reread the letter and stuffed it into a drawer of the desk by the window of his cabin. He sighed, picked up a thin but clean towel, and headed for the showers.
An hour later, he was drinking a pint in The Bank, a pub in the centre of Plymouth. It was Friday night and, as had become his custom, he was going for a few beers with the young, single, Part Three. The term used for a trainee officer onboard a submarine suited Simon particularly well, because he was a round-faced, pimply 19-year-old, and prone to taking things too seriously. He’d fallen for all but one of the practical jokes the others had played on him, including the old favourite ‘Spar Lash’. Peter, too, had fallen for it on his first ship. In the joke, the Part Three is sent to look for a piece of wood and when he finds it, is asked to throw it overboard, at which point the Senior Officer says, ‘Here you go, Spar…lash.’ Of course the whole of the ship’s company is in on the joke, and in the course of looking for the ‘Spar Lash’ the Part Three is sent around the boat several times, before someone hands him a piece of wood suitable for thr
owing overboard.
Peter would have preferred to spend his weekends with an officer more his age and rank onboard HMS Orion, the diesel boat he’d been demoted to after the disastrous events in Faslane, but apart from Peter, Simon was the only one who wasn’t going home to a wife or girlfriend at the weekend. Peter liked Simon well enough and had become a bit like an older brother for him, dragging him home when he’d had too much beer, and making sure he wasn’t picked up by any of the working girls along Union Street. And to be fair, Simon was good fun. For one thing, he didn’t want to talk about Peter’s court martial, a subject the other officers onboard never forgot to mention.
As usual, The Bank was heaving on a Friday night. There were a few sailors from HMS Orion there, too, and Peter lifted his pint in a greeting to the group of men standing and drinking a few feet away from him, their tight T-shirts displaying impressive sets of tattoos. Peter often wondered what made sailors think it a good idea to go through the pain of carving the name of a sweetheart on their flesh. Just as well he hadn’t had the crazy idea of carving Kaisa’s name on his biceps, he thought, and immediately decided to pull himself together.
He saw Simon emerge from the gents. ‘Another round?’ Peter asked. He’d have to cheer up before going to the Plymouth Yacht Club, a disco down The Barbican otherwise known as the ‘Groin Exchange’ (or ‘the GX’ for short).
By the time Peter and Simon had finished at The Bank there was a small queue outside the glass doors leading to the Yacht Club. The GX was downstairs, and as usual there was a fair number of local Plymouth girls there, but this time Peter also noticed a group of Wrens standing by the bar at one end of the dimly lit room. He recognised a shortish blonde girl who worked in the office at the base. She’d smiled at him when they’d passed each other in the corridor, and he seemed to remember talking to her on one occasion. But he couldn’t remember her name. Did he even know it? She was wearing a pair of jeans and a light blue satin blouse, revealing the contour of her full breasts. Not bad for a split-arse. He lifted the glass of beer that Simon had given him towards the Wrens. ‘You really that lazy?’ Simon shouted into his ear, and Peter grinned. Yes, tonight he really did feel that lazy, he thought, and walked towards the group of girls.
Sam, or Samantha, had a rippling laugh, or a giggle really, and this was her reaction to almost everything Peter managed to shout into her ear in the loud club. Soon he took her to the dance floor, and during Alison Moyet’s All Cried Out, he pulled her close and moved with her to the music. He kissed her and found she tasted of bubble gum. She let him put his hand on her round, firm buttocks, and then move it up to her back, feeling for her bra buckle. It was the traditional kind, not a front fastener, with just one hook. ‘That’ll be easy to deal with,’ he thought. Removing his lips from the girl’s mouth, he pressed himself harder against her. She responded by pushing her soft breasts against his chest. ‘You’re lovely,’ he whispered in her ear. He moved his hand to her neck and she let out an involuntary sigh into his ear. Peter could feel himself harden, but he knew he must be patient. When the track finished, he pulled himself away from Sam and gave her a smile. ‘Would you like a drink?’ He went to join the crowd trying to attract the attention of the barman, who’d now been joined by a thin, pretty girl, with dangly earrings and short black hair. When she looked up from pulling a pint for a guy standing next to Peter, her eyes met his, and for a moment the two looked at each other. She had bright blue eyes, which contrasted with her black hair. Not her real colouring, Peter thought, and found himself wondering what hue her pubes might be.
‘So, what will it be?’ she eventually said and Peter gave her his order: ‘A pint of Bass and a G&T.’
Peter couldn’t take his eyes off the barmaid. When she bent down to get the small bottle of tonic from the other side of the bar, Peter noticed she had a tattoo of a swallow on the small of her back. Her arse was the shape of a heart, ‘What’s your name?’
The girl looked up. ‘For me to know and you to find out. Two pounds, please.’ She had a London accent.
‘Daylight robbery,’ Peter grinned and gave the girl the money.
She shrugged and moved to the next punter. Peter stood for a moment and watched her, but he was pushed away by other men trying to get to the bar.
Peter danced with Sam for the rest of the evening, and Simon got together with one of Sam’s friends. At 1 am, he paid for a cab to the base, having made sure that Simon and his Wren were safely in a taxi of their own. Sam and Peter kissed in the back seat and when they arrived at the residential quarters they tiptoed across the linoleum floor towards the officers’ cabins. It was obvious the Wren had done this before. As soon as they entered the hall leading up to the new wing of the Victorian building, where one corridor led to his quarters and another to that of the Wrens, she removed her shoes, grinned at him, and took his hand. But Peter didn’t mind; it was better that way. As soon as they were inside his cabin, Sam removed her top and began kissing him. He took off his shirt and kicked off his trousers. As they kissed, Peter undid the clasp of her bra and, taking a step back, admired her large round breasts. He cupped them in his hands, noticing the unusually large areolas, before removing her jeans. She was wearing small, pink, lacy knickers. Sam took hold of him, and Peter groaned. She moved her hand up and down, and Peter had to think about Mrs Thatcher to stop himself from an embarrassing early loss of control. It had been too long. Sam wasn’t a true blonde after all, Peter found, when she pulled down her own pants, but she wasn’t too hairy. Peter pushed her gently onto the bunk and parted her legs. She made the right noises when he touched her between the legs, and when a few moments later Peter came on top of her, she responded with soft moans of pleasure.
Afterwards, when Peter was lying on his bunk watching Sam getting dressed, he reached out and took her hand. ‘Come and sit down for a minute.’
‘I’ve got to be off, I’m on duty tomorrow am.’
‘Yeah, I know, but I just wanted to say …’
‘What?’ Sam had brown eyes, Peter noticed and felt bad he hadn’t seen them properly before.
‘I’m married, you know.’
Sam looked down at her hands. She was buttoning up her now wrinkled satin blouse, ‘Yeah, I’d heard.’
‘And you know about the court martial, right?’
‘Yep.’
‘So, my life is pretty complicated at the moment.’
Sam didn’t say anything.
‘I’m sorry, but this can’t go any further.’
She stood up and said, ‘Sure. We had fun.’
‘Definitely,’ Peter said and kissed Sam quickly on the lips.
* * *
That morning at breakfast, Sam was in her uniform, sitting in the middle of the wardroom with three other Wrens. She gave Peter a quick look, and he heard some muffled giggles when he walked past their table. Peter nodded to the group and went to sit on his own in the corner of the large dining hall.
The Devonport wardroom was a large space in the old part of the Victorian building. When Peter had first entered the room after his appointment to HMS Orion, and seen the oil paintings of famous sea battles on the walls and models of ancient sailing ships hanging from its ceiling, he immediately wanted to show the place to Kaisa. But that wasn’t to be.
The steward brought him a cup of tea and he ordered a full English. Opening that morning’s copy of the Telegraph, he began reading an article about the housing market when two older officers from HMS Orion joined him. It was Saturday, and Peter wasn’t on duty, and not in uniform, but the engineer and his oppo were wearing their ribbed Navy jumpers with the Lieutenant Commander’s rank visible from the golden braid on the shoulders.
‘Trapped last night?’ James, the engineer grinned, nodding at the corner table where the Wrens were still making a show of Peter by nodding and grinning in his direction.
‘Wouldn’t you like to know,’ Peter said. He turned back to his paper. James Sanders (his nickname was Sandy onboard, but Pet
er never used it to his face because he thought the guy was a complete prat) and his best mate onboard, Malcolm ‘Mac’ Rowbottom, sniggered. Peter knew both men had unattractive wives. He had met them at a ‘families day’ during the half-term holiday. Peter remembered how he’d walked into lunch that day and was faced with a noisy room full of wives and kids. He’d thought of Kaisa then, knowing how much she would have hated a ‘families day’ had she been with him, which, of course, she wasn’t.
‘You went to the GX last night, the Part Three told us.’ Sandy wouldn’t let it go.
Peter nodded. Luckily his breakfast had arrived and he began eating as quickly as he could.
‘No water sports this time, eh Bonkie?’
Peter lifted his head up and looked at the man. Mac was sniggering next to his oppo, trying to hide the laughter in his linen napkin. James Sanders was the one officer onboard who kept reminding Peter of his sordid past. Every few days he came up with a new joke about it. This week’s jibe was ‘water sports’, a reference to Peter’s fight with Duncan at the Faslane base swimming pool. Peter suspected the engineer was bored with his own life, and jealous of Peter’s (if only he knew). Still, he was becoming a nuisance. Once Peter had been appointed to Orion, and knew his career in the Navy wasn’t over, that he’d been given another chance, he’d decided to put up with the inevitable jokes and jibes. Black humour was the life blood of the Navy, after all. If you couldn’t joke, you shouldn’t have joined. And he deserved it; he’d messed up. He’d even thought the nickname, ‘Bonking Boy’, shortened to ‘Bonkie’, was quite funny. But after a couple of months most of his fellow officers had let it be. (Although he was still known as ‘Bonkie’.) Everyone except Sandy, that is. Peter wondered whether he lay in bed at night, thinking of new ways to torment Peter?