by Antony Trew
‘Yes, of course,’ she said casually, as if passing the topic in review.
In the bar-lounge after supper they’d seen a film, Dirk Bogarde and Charlotte Rampling in The Night Porter, and stayed on afterwards for a chat and drinks. It had not been a happy occasion. Conversation kept returning to what was uppermost in the minds of them all. What would happen at the end of the voyage? What did the future hold for them? The speculation was predictably gloomy. Back in their cabin, the Foleys had continued the discussion on a more personal level.
Disenchanted though she was with the role of tanker officer’s wife, Sandy knew what a blow the laying up of Ocean Mammoth was to her husband, and she felt for him. He liked the sea, was content with his life in tankers, and she had no doubt that, but for her, he would have soldiered happily on until he got command of his own ship. These feelings of sympathy were sharpened by her conscience. It had been worrying her a good deal lately. In the early hours of the morning she would lie awake thinking of her disloyalty, trying to excuse it to herself and failing and with feelings of guilt and unhappiness she would fall into a deep sleep. Then, with daylight and the beginning of the new day, her mood would change; she’d see Freeman Jarrett at breakfast and the fears and misgivings of the night would vanish.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ Foley looked at her reproachfully.
‘Yes. I’m sorry, George. Really sorry because I know what it means to you.’
‘Can’t be helped. Nobody’s fault. Maybe it’s a good thing.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Now I’ll have to find a job ashore. You’ll like that, won’t you?’
She looked at him, nodded slowly. ‘Yes. From a selfish point of view I will. I know I’m a bitch about it, but I do honestly believe there’s not much future for us if you stay at sea. I want more than you can give me with things the way they are. And it’s no good leaving me on my own. I can’t help it, George. That’s the way I’m made. I know you’re not keen on a shore job. It’s not what you really want, and for you this couldn’t have come at a worse time.’ She leant forward and with both hands threw her hair back over her shoulders. ‘Terrific unemployment. Redundancies all over the place. It’s a grotty outlook. I really am terribly sorry.’
He seemed embarrassed, deprecatory. ‘Never know what’s round the corner, Sandy. Opportunity knocks at surprising times. Something fabulous may turn up. I might get into real money ashore. Who knows?’
‘How, George? Tell me how.’ She watched him uncertainly.
He shrugged his shoulders, looked at her in a strange way. ‘It’s just a thought.’
She smiled the sad but affectionate smile of a mother listening to a wayward child. ‘Poor George. I’m afraid that’s all it’s likely to be.’
‘Perhaps you’re in for a surprise.’
‘Wish I was, darling.’
The phone rang. Foley picked it up. ‘Two-Oh here. Yes. Thanks, Alan. No, I haven’t gone to bloody sleep. Won’t keep you waiting. Don’t worry.’ He put the handset back on its cradle. ‘That was Alan with my five-minute call.’
‘D’you mean to say it’s nearly midnight?’
He pointed to the clock on the bulkhead. ‘Five minutes to. Time you were in bed, Sandy.’
‘I suppose so. I’m not really tired.’ She yawned. ‘Or am I?’
‘Only you know. I reckon bed’s a good place. I’ll join you there at four.’ He winked and kissed her. ‘I’m off. Mustn’t keep Alan waiting. I was a Three-Oh myself once. ’Bye now.’
He buttoned on a uniform jacket, slipped the strap of the R/T set over his head and left the dayroom.
Not long after he’d gone to the bridge she heard a discreet knock.
She put down the paperback, pulled her wrap more firmly about her and went to the door. An envelope had been pushed under it. On it her name had been scrawled in a large angular hand. She thought of looking into the passageway to see if there were any signs of the deliverer, but thought better of it, went back to the settee and opened the envelope. It was a hastily scribbled note from Jarrett : Please come along to my office. Have something important for you. L of L – F.J.
She read it with mixed feelings. It was fifteen minutes past midnight. It would not do to be seen going into his cabin at such a late hour. On the other hand it was extremely unlikely that she would be seen. Jarrett was evidently not worried or he wouldn’t have made the suggestion. She wondered what it was all about. Was there really something so important that it couldn’t wait for morning, or was it simply a ruse to get her there? That, she decided, was more likely. She laughed nervously.
The more she thought about the invitation the more excited she became. The note was a challenge and she wasn’t the woman to refuse that sort of challenge. She could feel her heart beating faster, almost thumping, and her legs felt like jelly. ‘How stupid‚’ she muttered to herself. ‘I’m behaving like a sixteen-year-old.’
Of course she’d go. One only lived once. She wouldn’t stay long and she felt sure – well, almost sure – she could handle him. It was the element of doubt that made it all the more exciting. She tore the note into small pieces, went into the bathroom, flushed the pieces away, came out, put on her bra and pants, slipped a caftan over her head, did her face and hair, sprayed herself generously with Madame Rochas and went to the long mirror. She thought the result wasn’t bad. The white caftan with gold embroidered sleeves and collar went well with sun-tan, dark hair and brown eyes.
She slipped into the alleyway. The entrance to Jarrett’s accommodation, the door of his office, was on the opposite side, two up from theirs. She had reached it, was about to open it, when she thought she heard someone coming at the far end of the alleyway. She hesitated, nobody appeared, so she turned the handle and went in, closing the door gently behind her. The lights were on but he was not there, so she went through to the dayroom. A shaded lamp was burning and in its dim light she saw him slumped in an armchair. She went closer and saw him smile through half-closed eyes.
He got up slowly, yawning and stretching. ‘Marvellous, Sandy. Thought you’d never come.’
‘Sorry. I thought I’d done rather well. Ten minutes to dress, put on a face and do my hair.’ She spoke quickly, nervously, little more than a whisper.
He put his hands on her shoulders, bent down and kissed her. ‘You’re a clever girl.’
‘I’m a woman, not a girl.’
‘Yes. I had noticed that.’
She pushed him away with both hands. ‘What’s it that’s so important?’
‘Hold on a moment and I’ll tell you.’ He went through to the office and came back soon afterwards with a small, gift-wrapped package. ‘This,’ he said, and gave it to her.
She looked at him, then at the package, puzzled, amused. ‘It won’t blow up, will it?’
‘Probably. Try.’
She unwrapped it carefully and neatly as women do, until the brown and gold plastic box was revealed. She opened it and took out the small bottle of Rochas’s Audace, ‘Oh, Freeman. It’s fabulous. You know I adore it. How marvellous. You are a nice man.’ Still holding the perfume she put her arms round his neck and kissed him. He tried to make more of it, but she pushed him away again. ‘No. For God’s sake not now, Freeman.’ She was suddenly serious, her dark eyes wide under the frown. ‘This is quite crazy. Anybody could come in.’
‘Anybody couldn’t‚’ he said. ‘I’ve locked the door. There’s nobody about. If anybody wants me, which is highly unlikely at this hour, they’ll phone or use R/T.’
‘What happens if George phones from the bridge and I’m not in my cabin?’
‘You’d gone up on deck for a breath of fresh air. Gone to the pool. Anywhere. This is a bloody great ship. There’s no law that says you can’t leave your cabin.’ He went to the corner cupboard beside the refrigerator. ‘Calm down. Let’s have a drink. Then you can go back to bed.’
‘You must sleep, Freeman. You go on watch at four.’
‘No prob
lem. I had a good kip this afternoon and I’ve been asleep in that chair for the last hour or so.’
She looked at him doubtfully. ‘Are you sure it’s all right?’
‘Of course. What’ll you have? G and T?’
‘After midnight?’ She made a face. ‘What else can you suggest?’
‘Chartreuse.’
‘Super.’ She smiled affectionately, sat on the settee. ‘I still think we’re crazy.’
He ignored the remark, went on pouring the drinks. When he’d finished he put the glasses on top of the coffee table and joined her. ‘Now I’ll tell you a bedtime story.’
‘You’d better do that, Freeman.’ Her eyes were mischievous. ‘There’s not going to be anything else.’
By thirty minutes past midnight Foley had settled down to the routine of the watch. The third officer on handing over had made the customary reports of course and speed, ship’s position, distance off shore, traffic approaching, ETA for the next alteration of course – 0250 off Great Fish Point – the engineroom state, manned on this occasion, and he’d handed over the traditional cup of coffee the quartermaster had prepared. He’d stayed chatting with Foley for a few minutes, then made his way below.
When Simpson had gone, Foley carried out a quick radar check, after which he established the ship’s position by Decca Navigator, took a radar bearing of the light at the mouth of the Buffalo River, and checked it with a gyro compass bearing. He compared the echo-sounder reading with the depth of water shown on the chart, compared the gyro and magnetic compass readings, checked gyro-repeaters, determined the error of the magnetic compass by means of a star azimuth and finished with a brief chat by phone with Jonathan Malim, the engineer on watch in the engine control-room. It was a subdued humourless exchange. Since his wife’s death the third engineer had become more morose and withdrawn than ever, rarely leaving his cabin except to go on watch.
Despite its grim name, ‘The Graveyard Watch’, Foley enjoyed the middle-watch at night and was grateful that by long standing tradition it was his. In the small hours of morning, between midnight and four o’clock, life in a ship at sea was at its lowest ebb. But for the bridge and engineroom watchkeepers, the crew were asleep. Those quiet undisturbed hours suited him admirably. The middle-watch at night was perhaps that part of life in tankers which he relished most.
Now he had the bridge to himself but for Gomez the quartermaster who was on standby, the ship being on auto-steering. It was a fine warm night with no moon, the southern sky was brilliant with stars and out on the starboard wing of the bridge a light breeze fanned his face. Bracing himself against the roll of the ship he leant over the gyro, turned up the brilliance and took bearings of two ships bound up the coast. They were inshore and well clear of Ocean Mammoth. There were three other ships in sight, all to port. Two were coming up astern and the third, having overtaken in the first watch, showed no more than a dim sternlight fine on the port bow. He judged her to be ten miles ahead. He went to the AC radar, selected the twelve-mile range, and read off the ranges and bearings of the ships in sight. Though there was no risk of collision, he placed relative motion markers on the echoes of the two ships coming up the coast. He did this because he enjoyed using the technique and it helped pass the time. He left the radar and went out to the port wing. Shortly afterwards Gomez came out to tell him the Captain was in the wheelhouse.
Coming back from the starlit sky to the dark of the wheel-house, he saw nothing at first but the subdued light of neon dials and displays along the console. Soon he made out the dim shape of the Captain standing at the radar sets. He joined him. ‘Good morning, sir.’
There was a longish pause before the Captain answered. ‘Much traffic about, Mr Foley?’
One of the Old Man’s ploys, thought Foley. He’s looked at the displays and wants to see if I know what’s going on. ‘Three ships to port, sir. Bound down the coast. Two astern, overtaking but well clear. One fine on the bow which overtook in the first watch. There are two ships northbound, both out on the starboard bow and well inshore.’ Anxious to show that he had the situation under control he added, ‘I put relative motion markers on them. I’ll check again.’ He bent over the hood of the AC radar and checked the display. The echoes had as he’d expected moved away from the collision courses indicated by the markers. ‘They’re on parallel courses, sir. They’ll pass several miles inshore of us.’
Captain Crutchley said, ‘Good.’ He moved along the console until he reached the midships gyro-repeater. Foley checked the time – 0053. The Captain usually stayed for twenty minutes. It was his custom to do this before going to sleep. As a rule he came up between half past twelve and one o’clock. Foley’s thoughts were interrupted by the ring of a telephone on the console where a light glowed red. He lifted the handset. ‘Two-Oh here.’
A hoarse voice he did not recognize answered. ‘Your wife needs you urgently in your cabin, sir.’ Before he could ask any questions he heard the click of the caller’s phone being put down. He wondered what on earth could have happened. She wouldn’t have sent for him unless it was really important. But why hadn’t she phoned herself? God, he thought, she must have had an accident. He turned in the darkness towards the Captain. ‘That was my wife, sir. There’s been some trouble. She wants me urgently. I think she may have had an accident.’
‘Then go to her at once, Mr Foley. I’ll look after the bridge with Gomez. I trust it is nothing serious.’
‘Thank you, sir. I won’t be long.’
Foley raced through the chartroom, down the stairs to Deck One and along the passageway to the door of his cabin. Stuck to it with sellotape was a crudely pencilled note: Your wife is in the chief officer’s cabin.
Chapter 11
Foley was sure the unidentified voice on the bridge phone and the writer of the note were the same person. Who he was and his motive, he could not imagine. Perhaps a hoax aimed at hurting him and Sandy? Foley knew that Jarrett’s weakness for her was no secret. Was that it? An attempt to make trouble? To show her up? These jumbled thoughts were in his mind as he tore off the scrap of paper, stuck it in his pocket and opened the door.
The lights were on but she was not in the dayroom. He went through to the bedroom. That, too, was empty. Next he tried the bathroom, but drew a blank there. The wrap she’d been wearing when he left was on the bed together with a small hand towel. The sheets had not been turned back, the bed had not been slept in, and the room reeked of Madame Rochas.
By now he knew that the phone call and the note on the door were no hoax. His anxiety changed abruptly to suspicion and anger. So she was with the chief officer.
He went down the passageway to Jarrett’s office, opened the door and went in as quietly as he could. The lights were on but the office was empty. He listened at the door of the dayroom. All he could hear was the thumping of his own heart and his laboured breathing. The door was locked. That confirmed his worst suspicions. He knocked but there was no response, so he banged with his fists but still nothing happened. ‘I know she’s in there‚’ he called. ‘Open up.’ Although he had almost lost control, he did not shout. He had no wish-to advertise his wife’s indiscretions.
Moments later Jarrett called out, ‘What the devil’s going on there?’ There was the sound of a key turning, the door swung open and the chief officer appeared. ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’ he demanded.
Blinded by rage and jealousy, Foley forced his way past him and made for the bedroom door. It, too, was locked. He banged on it. ‘Come out, Sandy. I know you’re there.’ His voice was hoarse with emotion. Before he could get an answer Jarrett was hauling him off the door. Foley wrenched free, got an arm round the chief officer’s neck, took a wide stance and threw him to the deck. ‘Get up, you bastard, and I’ll give you what you deserve.’ It was a hoarse, threatening growl.
Jarrett scrambled to his feet, raised his fists and made for the second officer. ‘Come on, do that,’ he said in a voice thick with anger.
; Foley waded in with flailing fists and wild swinging punches. What he lacked in skill he made up in sheer rage and animal strength. Both men were strong, there was little between them in height and weight, but Jarrett was the cooler fighter and he held Foley off with solid lefts and rights to the head. Had the fight gone on one or the other would probably have been knocked out. As it was the bedroom door swung open and Sandy emerged in the white caftan, her eyes wild, her hair untidy.
‘Stop it, you maniacs,’ she shrilled, clawing at them. ‘Stop it, for God’s sake. You’ll kill each other.’
That brought them to their senses and they stood, bruised and dishevelled, their arms at their sides, breathing heavily. Blood trickling from Jarrett’s nose and from a cut on his eyebrow left crimson stains on his white shirt and shorts. Foley’s lower lip was swollen and bleeding, and he had bruises on his forehead.
‘For God’s sake try and behave like civilized human beings,’ she implored looking from one to the other, her eyes alternately threatening and pleading. ‘All right? Now let’s go.’ She went out of the dayroom. Foley followed her to the door, stopped and looked back. ‘Keep your hands off my wife, Jarrett, or I’ll kill you.’
Jarrett gestured angrily, turned away. ‘Oh, get to hell out of it‚’ he muttered.
They got back to their accommodation and Foley shut the door. She turned to him, her face white and drawn. ‘I’m sorry, George. Terribly sorry. I know I’ve let you down.’
He gave her a long hard look, shook his head, but said nothing. He went into the bathroom, took off the blood-stained shirt and filled the hand basin with water. She came in a few minutes later. ‘Can I help?’ she asked in a low voice.
‘No. Don’t touch me. Go to bed. You’ve done enough damage already.’
She went into the bedroom and he heard her sobbing but he was in no way moved. It was too late for tears. He got on with dabbing the swollen lip and the bruise on his forehead, using water as hot as he could bear. After he’d dried his hands and face he put on a clean shirt. He felt a grim satisfaction that most of the blood on the one he’d taken off was Jarrett’s.