Westbound, Warbound

by Westbound, Warbound (retail) (epub)

  ‘You had it worse a week or two ago, we heard.’

  ‘You’re right, we did. Some o’ the same lot you was in yourselves, I dare say. And that couldn’t’ve been much fun – eh? But now where the dickens…’

  ‘There?’

  Number 11 Merriwell Way was one half of a cube of yellow brick. One window downstairs, with flouncy curtains in it, and two on the floor above; in front, a few square yards of mud and weeds bisected by a concrete path. If this had been costing Halloran an arm and a leg, they must have seen him coming. Or seen Leila coming – he’d said proudly that she’d found it, Andy remembered. Colley switched off the wiper and then the engine: ‘Best make sure she’s at home before we haul his stuff out – eh?’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  A vision in mind then – unsought, unexpected, maybe prompted by Colley’s reference to foul weather – as he approached the blue-painted door. Mind and memory back in that Atlantic storm, its incredible ferocity, the Anna three-quarters buried in it, battling to remain afloat, and the doubt in all minds that she’d be able to; whether any of them – including most prominently in his own thoughts, Julia – would be alive by evening or morning, whatever… How many days and nights, facing that? And having by some miracle come through it – what, sniffing around Halloran’s leavings now?

  All right. Motives as stated. But some of which he wouldn’t have tried to explain to Julia.

  He’d hardly taken his finger off the bell-push when the door jerked open.

  Blonde girl. Well – woman. Thirty-ish. Not unattractive, in an obvious sort of way, but nothing at all like Leila. Her figure – well, neither the skirt nor the sweater were doing much to hide it. She turned to look behind her, snapping, ‘Won’t you belt up now, Billy?’ Welsh accent: and the scowl changing to a smile as she swung back and looked up at him – he’d edged in slightly, out of the weather, removing his uniform cap. He’d have shifted into civvies before coming ashore but there hadn’t been time – Colley wanting to get away, have it done with and get back again… The girl asked purringly – as a toddler squeezed up beside her, clinging to her – ‘What can I do you for, then?’

  ‘Does Mrs Halloran –’

  ‘When she’s in the mood, she does, but –’ She’d checked that, the giggle faltering and smile fading as she saw the car and Colley climbing out of it. ‘What is this, then?’

  He’d been about to ask did Mrs Halloran live here – because the blonde might have been a relation of some kind – but that facetious answer had suggested she was Mrs Halloran. Although even if she’d dyed her hair… Hell, couldn’t be. She was gazing up at him suspiciously, while the child clung to her leg and slobbered around the dummy in its mouth. He told her, ‘My name’s Holt – third mate of the SS PollyAnna. Are you Mrs Leila Halloran?’ Jerk of the head, tossing back yellow hair.

  ‘Name’s Lucy, not Leila. Is Dave in some kind of –’

  Checking again, watching Colley struggle with one of the suitcases. ‘You and your friend coming to stay, is that it?’

  ‘Bringing your husband’s gear, Mrs Halloran. I’m terribly sorry. Excuse me though, just one moment –’

  ‘Sorry for what?’

  ‘Give us a minute?’

  ‘Jamming his cap on, hurrying to join Colley at the car; taking that heavy case from him and the other from inside, leaving the sextant in its brass-handled box for the older man to bring, muttering to him, ‘It’s her, but not the one in the portrait, and her name’s Lucy, not Leila, says she never heard of Leila, and – see…’ The child had tottered out into wind and rain, she’d sprung after it and caught it, called as she dragged it back inside, ‘You’d best come on in. But’ – dumping the child and turning back – ‘bringing his gear, you say – where’s he?’

  ‘This is Mr Colley, office manager of Dundas Gore, the PollyAnna’s owners. Mrs Halloran, I’m dreadfully sorry to bring such news – as I said, my name’s Holt –’

  ‘Something happened to him?’

  ‘Yes.’ A glance at Colley – who was resolutely leaving this to him. Back to the girl… ‘He drowned, Mrs Halloran. Swept overboard in terrible weather four days ago. We docked this morning in Port Glasgow. Captain Thornhill asked me to tell you how sorry he is, and the same goes for all the rest of us. We were in really huge seas, had one hold flooded – tell you the truth, we were in danger of foundering. Your husband took two men for’ard to check for damage; they had lifelines but for some reason his didn’t hold – big sea hit us and – well, he didn’t stand a chance, he just – went.’

  She was still gazing at him. Wide-eyed – still dry-eyed – mouth slightly open. Hadn’t sunk in yet, he guessed, wasn’t real for her yet. Colley put his oar in then: ‘As Mr Holt mentioned, Mrs Halloran, I’m with the owners, and our chairman, Sir Alec Dundas –’

  She’d stooped to the child. ‘Gentlemen come to say you’ve no daddy now, Billy-boy. Have to find you a new one, won’t we…’ She’d kissed him, straightened now with one hand resting in his curls, refocused on Colley. ‘Excuse me – you were saying –’

  ‘My chairman – Sir Alec – asked me to express his sympathy in your tragic loss, Mrs Halloran. He himself was only apprised of it this morning. I must add that – well, turning to practicalities such as money that may be due to him – and now of course to you – you’ve been receiving a monthly allotment, I know that, but whether there may be any balance due –’

  Andy said, ‘I’ll wait in the car.’

  ‘All right. Mrs Halloran, I’ll sort it out in the next day or two, and we’ll be writing to you. Meanwhile however…’

  She’d find the violet-coloured letters when she went through the cases, Andy realised. Would see then why he’d thought her name was Leila: and from the portrait in the leather frame would get to see what Leila looked like. Might even know her? Probably not, though. Probably wouldn’t have an address – not if Leila had been consistent with that You know where dodge.

  What the dodge had been for, perhaps?

  Colley came hurrying, wrenched his door open. ‘Phew…’

  * * *

  He’d been meaning to telephone home before returning to the ship, but Colley didn’t want to stop, and on the way back he decided it might anyway be sensible to leave it until he had a better idea of what was happening, one way and another.

  The dock had been pumped out, PollyAnna’s keel rested on the central blocks with a forest of timber props out on both sides all down her length to hold her upright; engineers and dockyard mateys were moving around under her dripping forepart. It felt like a dizzy height he was looking down from, crossing the swaying brow to the fore-deck, after end of number three. Colley had been right – they certainly weren’t wasting any time. On board, Fisher told them she was quite badly holed, that it looked as if she might have struck some underwater object – which was possible: at the height of it all she might have come down on some submerged or semi-submerged – well, God knew what, but it could have happened without anyone being aware of it, when things had been at their worst. Damage couldn’t be assessed from inside yet; cranes were being brought up to start unloading the ore from all five holds, and floodlighting would allow that to go on all night and round the clock until they’d emptied her.

  Fisher asked him, ‘How did it go with Mrs Halloran?’

  ‘She took it surprisingly well. But – that sudden, out of the blue – well, by this time –’

  ‘Yeah. Sink in later, maybe… Like her picture, is she?’

  ‘Surprisingly, not at all. For one thing, she’s a blonde.’

  ‘Peroxide, or –’

  ‘Not that girl at all. And there’s a child, about two years old.’

  ‘Good God!’

  Chief Hibbert and Tom McAlan were still on board, apparently – or in the vicinity, the dock bottom maybe – but most of the officers and crew had left, including the Cheviot Hills survivors – Benson, Ah Nong and company – who’d been taken to the station by some individual from A
& J Hills’ Glasgow agency. Finney had gone with them, en route first to his family in London but then – so he’d told Fisher – to a berth Messrs Hills had for him in some ship sailing from Liverpool in a week or ten days’ time. And Julia had gone. Andy had guessed she might have, having seen that the chairman’s Daimler was no longer on the quayside. Her absence left him feeling – well, lonely. Actually, sort of cut off at the knees. That she’d have left without a word – message – anything at all. Admittedly he’d left her, when he’d dashed off with Colley; simply hadn’t envisaged her not being here when they got back. Although she could hardly not have gone., he realised, when the great man had been ready to hit the road and she’d already accepted his offer of a lift.

  From home, he thought, get her number from directory enquiries. First thing in the morning.

  Fisher told him – in the saloon, Andy gulping stale bread and mousetrap cheese which he’d foraged from the pantry, Fisher at the table working through a stack of paperwork that would have been for Halloran to deal with – ‘The Old Man went with ’em. Chairman was dropping him off at the St Enoch’s Hotel, which now houses Naval Headquarters, apparently. He’ll be back by and by. Expects you to sign on again – what you want, isn’t it?’

  ‘Except that right away I’d like to take some leave.’

  ‘He knows that. He wants a break, too. So do I. PollyAnna’ll be in dock a week or so, any case. Here and now I’d stick around, if I were you… By the way, Julia left a farewell note – did you see it? In your cabin?’

  He pushed his chair back. ‘No –’

  ‘Must be there somewhere. Unless she changed her mind or they didn’t give her time. She said she was going to –’

  ‘I’ll be back to finish this.’

  His cabin looked as if a bomb had gone off in it. He’d been sorting gear ready for packing, and it was scattered around in heaps. He’d looked in here briefly on his way to the saloon, hadn’t seen any note: wouldn’t have, without specifically searching for one… But there it was – brown envelope with ANDY pencilled on it, and inside that – ripping it open – a half-sheet of paper with what looked like a telephone number at the top and below it:

  Andy dear. Have to run without saying goodbye. Going to the Central Hotel, where my mother’s arriving soon or may have already. I don’t know if we’ll be staying the night or going straight back to Newcastle – it probably depends on trains – but anyway here’s our home telephone number, and if you still want to pay us a visit, just ring and say you’re coming.

  I very much hope you will. Meanwhile, thank you for everything – you really have been an absolute darling. Even if you find you can’t make it this time, some time please do get in touch?

  All my love – J.

  He’d muttered aloud, ‘Oh, crikey. Oh, Julia…’ And read it through again before going back to finish his bread and cheese.

  Postscript

  I would like to thank Captain Iain Irving FNI, a former Merchant Navy shipmaster of wide seagoing experience, for his kindness in having read the script of this story and put me right on several points of detail.

  The wartime Merchant Navy, it seems to me, has not had anything like its fair share of literary attention, especially considering the huge importance of its role and the extent of losses in ships and men. Figures for loss of life in the services, for instance, have been estimated as Army 6%, RAF 9%, RN 9.3%, Merchant Navy 17%. On that basis it might be said that the seas were a lot more cruel to those ‘non-combatants’ than they were to the rest of us.

  A.F.

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2003 by Little, Brown and Company

  This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2018 by

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  Copyright © Alexander Fullerton, 2003

  The moral right of Alexander Fullerton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781788630788

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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