Dotted round the church were the familiar faces – Mrs James sharing a pew with Mr Fraser but seated at the far ends. Mr Jenkins sat near the front together with his wife who, a sufferer of arthritis, rarely left her home. Jenkins had read the lesson with considerably more gusto than Reverend Pritchard delivered his sermon. A couple of rows in front of me sat June and Abigail, but not Pete Parker, June wearing a fetching dark blue hat with a peacock feather, Abigail sitting with her shoulders hunched. Behind them, to the right, I noticed William sitting with his mother, her arm draped over his shoulder. The boy sat with an air of impassivity, neither animated nor bored by the service and its rousing hymns.
It was the hymns that I enjoyed the most. My singing voice, though far from awful, was not, I knew, particularly good, but it didn’t stop me from adding my voice and singing with enthusiasm. The church possessed a choir consisting solely of middle-aged women who, in such a large space as this, had difficulty making themselves heard above the organ. The organist, playing twice every Sunday, was Gregory. Listening to my friend play made me appreciate just how versatile he was – from jaunty pub singalongs to Sunday service favourites and a bit of Chopin in-between, his repertoire was impressive. The creative tragedy for Gregory was that no one truly appreciated him and he lacked the conviction in his own talent to move to somewhere that had an audience with more refined musical tastes. I took communion, grateful to receive from the vicar the small, squared-shaped piece of dry bread and a sip of sweet wine. It was not so much the religious symbolism that comforted me, but the sense of community. I was back, having been presumed dead, and, but for the misunderstanding with Abigail, felt eternally grateful to be here, in this oversized and impressive church and its congregation.
After less than an hour, and finishing with a muted rendition of Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise, the service came to an end. Reverend Pritchard led the choir down the aisle and into a room round the back of the nave, only to reappear moments later at the church door. I remained in my pew while others made their exits, shaking hands with the vicar. I admired the large stained-glass window behind the altar, a triptych depicting Christ on the cross in its middle panel, a lamb at his feet, its primary colours heightened by the piercing rays of sun. Jesus looked suitably mournful, his eyes cast down, resigned to his fate. The image had a soothing effect on me, perhaps God Himself had, after all, allowed me to survive for a purpose. It was up to me now to find that purpose, to give my life meaning. Yet the doubts nagged at me still, the questions I knew would forever remain unanswered – why did I, and I alone, survive? Why had God deemed my life alone worthy of saving? Had not the others been deserving of a future life? Charlie Palmer, with his new bride waiting for him at home and all the children he planned to have, a whole family that never saw the light of day; Ed Davison yearning for the beauty of the Lakes and home, dead a week before his dreaded fortieth birthday; Hodgkin with the child he had yet to see and never would; John Clair dead on his nineteenth birthday. Had one made a list of the men ordered by a sort of worthiness, then surely I would have been at the bottom of it. No one depended on me, my mere existence did not impact on any other human being. Yet it was me who lived.
Rita, William’s mother, I noticed, was talking to a couple of other women, the three of them huddled together, whispering, halfway down the side aisle. Gregory was still playing the organ, a rousing tune to accompany the worshippers as they exited the church. William was left alone, still in the pew, sitting on his hands, with his oversized shorts and socks rolled up above his knees. He made a forlorn figure. I tried to catch his eye but he seemed lost in his own misery, somehow.
‘Hello, William. Are you OK there?’
He looked at me, eyeing me from head to foot. He nodded, then looked away.
As I left, I shook Reverend Pritchard’s hand. Standing at the church entrance, he squinted against the sun as he asked how I was. ‘I trust you’re settling back in after your ordeals?’
‘Yes, although I feel as if I’m still trying to find my land legs.’
‘I can imagine,’ he said, both his hands over mine. ‘If you ever need to talk, you know where to find me.’
I almost told him – there and then, just blurted it all out. Instead, I smiled weakly and thanked him.
Stepping fully outside into the sun, I saw little pockets of villagers gathered, leisurely talking. About to go and say hello to Mr Jenkins, I found myself being pulled to one side by Parker, who had just appeared. June and Abigail hung round behind him looking awkward. ‘Eh, Searight, I wanted to ask you something?’
‘What’s that?’ I said, trying to disguise the weariness in my voice.
He pulled Abigail towards him. With an arm round her waist, he asked, ‘Have you seen this one’s lover boy?’ Abigail, clearly uncomfortable, crossed her arms, the gaze falling to the ground. ‘Where is he, eh?’
‘Dad, he won’t know.’
‘He might.’
‘She’s right – I don’t.’
‘Pity that. See, him and me still need words. We haven’t got to the bottom of what happened that night.’
‘Nothing happened,’ said Abigail.
He let her go of her. ‘I’m not talking to you. God, typical woman, thinks she knows best. Anyway, that’s not how I’m hearing it. Torn shirt and all that, the little bastard.’
‘Dad…’
‘What? Oh, sorry, my sweetness, my language.’ Turning to me, he added, ‘She don’t like it if I swear. Fair enough, shouldn’t swear in front of the kids.’ He patted her on the bottom. ‘Now, you go home with mum and get lunch ready.’
Glad to get away, she joined her mother talking to a friend. ‘She’s a good girl but she needs a firm hand. She can twist her mum round her finger, but not me.’
‘So I gather you haven’t found Dan.’
‘You gather right, mate. The little git. Once I get my hands on him…’
‘Well, I ought to–’
‘Coming to the game this afternoon?’
‘Of course.’
He leant towards me. ‘I’ve got a couple bob riding on it. Quite a lot on it actually. So your mate better be ready. Shame you’re not playing.’
‘The doctor told me–’
‘Yeah, you said.’ He spat on the ground. ‘Good do last night, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, lovely,’ I replied, trying to disguise my lack of enthusiasm.
‘You had a knees-up like that, yeah?’
‘It was a total surprise.’
‘The likes of you and me, we have friends, don’t we? And that’s what friends do for each other.’ A couple of his mates, as if on cue, turned up. The men exchanged handshakes. ‘We’re off to the pub again before lunch. Bit of pre-match training. Come with us, if you want. You can tell us all about your grand adventure out on the high seas.’
‘I won’t. Thanks all the same.’
‘We’ll get your Greg over. He was good on the old ivories last night. Just a shame about the t-t-t-talking.’ I hated him for that. He got the cheap laugh he was looking for and his companions copied him, all of them talking to each other in stutters, trying to outdo each other. I hated myself even more for not saying anything.
I watched them saunter down the road, heading towards the pub, their mutual bond, forged during childhood, made that much stronger by prejudice. ‘Hey, June,’ he shouted. ‘Hurry up and get lunch on, will you?’
She responded with an exasperated look that said ‘can’t you see I’m talking?’
Turning round, I caught sight of William holding his mother’s hand as they headed home. I saw her ruffle his hair which pleased me. Whatever was going through his young mind, at least he still had his mother. As they walked away, he glanced over his shoulder. For the briefest of moments, our eyes met, but, however hard I tried, I couldn’t read anything in his expression.
‘How are you, Robert?’ It was June. Abigail had found a friend to talk to.
‘Yeah, fine. And you? Are you pleased to have
your husband back?’
‘It’s only for a few days.’
I wasn’t sure what she meant by that but felt it wasn’t the time or place to push her. Instead, sensing her awkwardness, I asked, ‘Tell me, what do you know about that boy?’
‘William?’ She leant towards me, talking in a whisper. ‘He’s a strange one, that one. Don’t know why – just is. Anyhow, I’d better go – I’ve got to get his lordship’s lunch on.’
‘Nice talking to you.’
Gregory chose that moment to come out of the church. I noticed the vicar slip a coin or two into his hand, his informal payment for Gregory’s services as an organist. On seeing me, he came to say hello. ‘Got the f-f-football match this afternoon,’ he said glumly.
‘Looking forward to it?’
‘W-what do you think?’
‘Come, I’ll buy you a drink if you like. Cheer you up a bit.’
‘No. No, t-thanks.’
He walked briskly away. There goes an unhappy man, I thought.
Chapter 25
The football pitch belonged to the school, the grass pitted with holes from numerous sets of football boot studs. The grey school buildings with their slate roofs lay to one side looking almost attractive under the sun. Villagers gathered round the touchline as an assorted batch of men and boys warmed up while waiting for Jenkins, the referee for the day, with the orange ball at his feet to bring them together. Angie lay behind me. I stood next to Rebecca who was fanning herself with her straw hat. ‘It must be the hottest day of the year,’ she said.
‘Call this hot? You should try the Indian Ocean.’
She laughed. ‘Poor Gregory, he’s been dreading this. Look at them all. The men Churchill didn’t want. They’ve either got bad eyesight, asthma or a limp. Most of them have all three.’
‘Apart from Parker.’ I waved at June and Abigail further down the touchline but they didn’t see me. Old Fraser, further along, had brought his own chair and now sat in it drawing on his pipe.
She leant towards me. ‘Rumour has it there’s a lot riding on this game for him.’
‘Pete Parker? Doesn’t strike me as a man too concerned with the church roof.’
‘Robert, keep your voice down,’ she said, nudging her elbow into my ribs. ‘No, he’s got a bet against someone on the other team. Apparently, it’s a…’ She lowered her voice, ‘large – sum – of – money.’
‘Yes, I know. Should spice things up a bit then. Luckily, it’s only twenty minutes each half. So, you looking forward to starting your new job?’
‘Yes, very much.’
‘Have you any family in the area?’
‘No. They’re in Wales.’
‘Ah, so is that where you’ve come from?’
‘Originally but I was abroad for a while. I was married to a… foreigner,’ she said, mocking the word.
‘Where were you living?’
‘Oh look, I think we’re about to start.’
Jenkins, wearing a black shirt and shorts, blew his whistle and with a muted cheer the game kicked off. The game was seven a side. Our village boys were playing in red, the opposition in blue. Between them, every conceivable shade of red and blue was represented. Some had long-sleeved shirts, others had short; some had V-neck shirts, some crew neck. Parker had placed himself up front, and had taken it upon himself to shout at his teammates. Gregory, hovering in defence, never far from the goalkeeper, looked especially ridiculous in his oversized shorts and his blond hair falling over his glasses, ridiculous and vulnerable. I hoped our players would play well enough so that Gregory’s services wouldn’t be called upon too often. There seemed to be no structure to either side’s playing, and the ball spent much of its time in the air, being hoofed from one end of the pitch to the other. The game was meant to be a friendly affair, but as so often the case when you pit quick-tempered young men against each other, it escalated into something rather vicious. Men fell and shouted at each other every minute or so. But, based on the first ten minutes, if I was a betting man, like Parker, I’d put my money on us, the Reds.
‘So, why aren’t you playing?’ asked Rebecca as Parker got ready to take a free kick.
‘I’m not fit enough yet, or strong enough.’
We watched as Parker took a shot on goal, missing by some distance.
‘Your future boss is doing well as referee. He’s no spring chicken.’
The first half finished nil-nil. The teams dispersed to opposite ends of the pitch as two women in aprons appeared carrying large trays of orange slices for them. I spied Parker at the centre of his team punching his palm, making his point as he tried to galvanise them. Gregory looked like a man on trial for his life.
Ten minutes later, the game re-started with the teams having swapped ends. Now we were close to where Gregory paced up and down, looking distinctly uncomfortable, his face bright red, his hair flattened by sweat. ‘Keep going, Gregory,’ I shouted. ‘You’re doing well.’
He threw me a distasteful look.
‘Has he touched the ball yet?’ asked Rebecca.
‘Don’t think so.’
Whatever pep talk the blue team gave themselves at half-time worked for they came out far stronger. As a defender, Gregory was as useful as a sapling, swaying this way and that but utterly impotent and incapable of stopping the opposition. It was only a matter of time before they scored and sure enough, after five minutes, they duly did. Parker, taking out his frustration, yelled and screamed at Gregory. Having realised it, the Blues now exploited Gregory’s weakness and scored again and again while Parker almost melted with rage.
‘He shouldn’t be allowed to talk to him like that,’ said Rebecca. ‘Who does he think he is?’
‘Ted Drake.’
The final whistle couldn’t come quickly enough. Finally, Jenkins blew. Our team traipsed off having lost 4-0. Or was it 5-0? Gregory hung back, unable to face anyone. While all the other players, from both sides, shook hands and patted each other on the back, having re-established friendly relations, Parker ran halfway across the pitch to remonstrate with Gregory. ‘You b-b-bloody i-i-i-idiot,’ he screamed, mimicking Gregory’s stutter, pushing him in the chest. ‘You just cost me two quid. Two bloody quid. What sort of man are you, you poof?’
Gregory, regaining his balance, glared at him. People nearby stopped to watch. No one, least of all I, expected what happened next. Gregory swung for him, hitting Parker squarely on the jaw.
Jenkins and I ran to try and intervene. Rebecca screamed. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ shouted the headmaster. Recovering quickly, Parker punched Gregory, causing Gregory to stagger back, his glasses to fly off.
‘Parker, leave him be,’ I shouted, stepping in between them.
Jenkins followed my lead. ‘Both of you, stop this now. You’re a disgrace.’
‘He started it,’ said Parker in the tone of a schoolchild.
Gregory dabbed his nose with his shirt, trying to stem the flow of blood. ‘You hooligan,’ he muttered.
‘Go tell it to your girlfriend. Oh, sorry, forgot – you’re still a virgin.’
At this, Gregory lunged at him again. I caught him, my arms round his chest, pulling him back. ‘Forget it, Gregory, forget it.’
‘That’s enough now,’ said Jenkins with little conviction.
‘Don’t worry, sir,’ said Parker. ‘I’m off.’ He shot me a filthy look, strode passed Gregory and, for good measure, stamped on his glasses.
Chapter 26
A year previous
I’d only known Alice for a month when I proposed in a restaurant on a Saturday night in May 1943. Drancy’s, it was called. Drancy’s in Plymouth. Round tables, white tablecloths, candles, half-oval mirrors on the walls and low-hung lights with orange lampshades. On the wall, behind Alice, was a framed print of Seurat’s Bathers at Asnières upon a white-bricked wall. ‘I love this painting,’ said Alice, once we’d ordered. ‘It always makes me think of a perfect Sunday, lazing on the riverbank, not a care in the worl
d. Have you ever been to Paris?’
I hadn’t even been abroad. Nor had she.
‘You ought to join the navy,’ she said. ‘Then you’d see the world. Imagine, Robert, all the places you might go. Egypt, India, South Africa…’
‘The Isle of Wight.’
‘Oh now, that’s a bit too exotic.’
Dinner at Drancy’s was delicious considering wartime supplies – mushroom soup followed by roast pork. But, not surprisingly, considering what I had planned, I had no appetite. I kept checking my jacket pocket, making sure the little box was there. After cheese and biscuits, I had to have a cigarette to calm my nerves. ‘Are you all right, darling?’ she asked. ‘You barely touched your food. There’s nothing wrong, is there?’
‘Alice, there’s something… something I wanted to, well, to tell you.’
‘Now, this sounds intriguing. You’re not going to tell me you’re one of them, are you?’
‘One of them?’
‘You know.’ She leant forward, glancing left and right. ‘Catholic.’
I tried not to laugh. ‘No, I don’t mean tell you, I mean ask you.’
‘Robert, the suspense is too much. Fire away, I’m all ears.’
‘I’m being serious.’
‘Oh, it’s like that.’ She ran her finger across her lips, as if to remove her smile.
‘Alice, I… I love you and–’
‘Robert…’ She reached over and took my hand. ‘I love you too.’
‘And – you do?’
‘Yes.’ She tightened her grip on my hand. ‘Yes, I do.’
I reached inside my pocket. Silently, I placed the velvet box on the table in front of her, next to the cheese board.
‘Robert, you’re not…?’
‘Alice, would you be my wife?’
She placed her hand over her heart. Carefully, she took the box and opened it. ‘Oh, Robert, it’s… it’s beautiful.’ It was nothing grand – a simple gold band with the smallest of rubies nestled on a layer of silver leaves.
The Unforgiving Sea (The Searight Saga Book 2) Page 16