A voice said,' 'Ere we go again. Let's find a shelter.'
The crowd seemed to be thinning, and Sherwood found himself walking past the Ritz, beside Green Park. He had often walked there with his sisters.
He clenched his fists together in his pockets. Leave it. They've gone. You can't bring them back.
Crump - crump - crump — the familiar sound of shell-bursts, nearer now. More casualties, more smashed debris where streets had once stood and survived the years.
Like the times when he had been sent to deal with the parachute mines dropped on congested towns and seaports. Every street was always cleared beforehand. Just the Unexploded Bomb sign, his rating assistant, and utter desolation. As if every living thing had been spirited away.
He had never got over the feeling that he was intruding. The Marie Celeste atmosphere of meals from precious rations left steaming on tables, letters half-read or partly written. Mantelpieces with their framed pictures of dear ones in uniform. Sons, husbands, lovers. And always below the tell-tale damage, the huge, deadly mine hanging from its parachute.
Intrusion. That summed it up better than anything. What war was all about.
A voice said sternly, 'Just a moment, sir.' A policeman in a steel helmet stepped from his little sandbagged observation post.
Sherwood peered at him through the gloom, saw the helmet reflect a couple of the shell-bursts. It was strange, but you never got used to seeing a London bobby in a tin hat.
'Yes?'
The constable said, 'Air-raid, sir. There'll be some shell splinters dropping about soon. It's not safe to walk the streets. Your cap won't stop the stuff.'
Sherwood thought of the ships he had watched being blown up or strafed, of Fawn and her broken, pathetic survivors.
He replied, it's the war, I expect.'
He walked on and the policeman muttered to himself, 'Another bloody hero!'
By the time Sherwood reached the street where the company flat was installed he had guessed that the raid was heading further away, to the City or East London perhaps.
He heard the far-off crash of bombs and the familiar rumble of collapsing buildings. As he climbed the stairs to his flat, the streets came alive with other sounds. It was like a mad symphony, he thought. The clamour of fire-engine and ambulance gongs, taxis roaring down side-streets, not with passengers this time, but "towing small pumps as a part of the auxiliary fire service. It was as if the whole of London was putting its weight against the enemy. Nobody was spared. And yet when another smoky dawn laid bare the ruins, these same ordinary people would go about their daily tasks. Make the best of it.
Sherwood threw his cap on the bed and prepared himself for the night. He took a bottle of gin from a cupboard, one glass and a rare lemon he had brought from the ship.
Then he hung his jacket on a chair and glanced around the flat. As it was in Mayfair, he supposed it was worth a fortune. But it was for visitors who came and went without caring too much about the decor. It was dull, without personality.
He swallowed half a glass of neat gin and bit back a cough. Then he switched off the lights, opened the black-out curtains across the window, and seated himself in a comfortable chair to watch the progress of the raid. He heard the occasional clink of a splinter on the roof or in the street and thought of the policeman's warning.
Another ambulance dashed through the unlit street, its bell clanging violently. Some terrified soul would awake in a hospital bed. He grimaced and took another drink. Or not, as the case might be.
He did not remember falling asleep, but awoke with a jerk, his mind clearing instantly despite the gin, his reflexes tuned like those of a wild animal.
For a brief moment he imagined the building had been hit by a bomb or an incendiary. There were fires flickering beyond the window, and he heard a sudden crash and knew that was what had awakened him. But the glow of fires was several miles away. The noise seemed to be from the flat next door. He drew the curtains, then something fell against the wall and he heard a woman cry out; then a man's voice, blurred and indistinct, but full of menace.
Sherwood ran from the flat, wishing he had picked up a weapon. It must be a robbery, or some burglar who had been disturbed on the job. He had had no idea that the other flat was occupied. He stood breathlessly on the landing, gauging the distance as he stared at the closed door.
Then with only the briefest thought of the consequences he hurled himself at it. It flew open, the lock flying across the room so violently that the two occupants froze stock-still, like figures in a waxworks.
Sherwood was used to making up his mind in a split second. It did not need a genius to work out what had been happening. An army officer's tunic with red staff tabs on the lapels lay on the floor, and the bedside table was filled with bottles and a soda syphon. The scene was set.
Sherwood looked first at the man, a big, wild-eyed individual in khaki shirt and trousers, his eyes almost popping with surprise, then fury as he realised what had happened.
The woman lay propped against the wall, one leg bent under her, her blouse torn from one shoulder, a smear of lipstick or blood beside her mouth as if she had been hit, and hit hard.
Sherwood took it all in. She was very attractive, and half out of her mind with terror. He also noted she was wearing a wedding ring.
She called, 'Help me, pleaseV
Sherwood found that he was so calm he wanted to laugh. And it was not the gin.
He asked, 'Whose flat is this?'
'What the hell is that to do with you?' The man lurched towards him. 'I'm living here, and —'
Sherwood reached out and helped the woman to her feet. 'Are you all right?' But he kept his eyes on the army officer.
She thrust her foot into a shoe which had fallen under a chair.
'I came because he was going to tell me about -' She hesitated. 'About my husband —'
The man glared and then laughed. 'She knew what it was all about!'
He seemed to realise that Sherwood was partly dressed in uniform. 'You a bloody sailor?'
Sherwood said quietly, 'Go next door. It's open. Just walk in. You'll be safe there until the raid's passed over —'
'Don't you bloody dare to burst in here giving orders! When I've finished with you -' He got no further.
Sherwood lashed out hard and hit the man in the stomach. It was like exploding a bag, he thought. He just folded over, retching and choking, his face contorted with agony.
Sherwood said, 'You shouldn't drink so much, old chum.' He picked up a chair and smashed it across the reeling man's shoulders, so that pieces of wood and fabric flew in all directions.
He was aware of two things. That the young woman was pulling at his arm, pleading with him to stop. The other was that he knew he wanted to go on hitting the man until he was dead.
She did not resist when he guided her to the flat next door.
He said, 'Make yourself comfortable. I'll try to get a taxi, or walk you home if you like.' He heard the man lumbering around in the other room, the crash of glass and the loud flushing of a toilet.
He said, 'See? He'll live.' He watched her as she sat in the chair by the window. 'Do you want to tell me about it?'
She was not listening, but trying to drag her torn blouse across her shoulder.
Sherwood picked up her coat and bag where she had dropped them when he had slammed the door. Perhaps the man in the other flat was telling the truth, that she had gone there for a bit of fun, which had got out of control. She was quite pretty, he thought, about his own age. He gropped for a handkerchief and dabbed the corner of her mouth. She winced but did not pull away.
She said in a small voice, 'I lost my husband some time ago.' She was staring at her hands, anywhere but meeting his eyes. 'In the Western Desert.' She spoke in clipped sentences, like parts of an official communique. 'He was in the infantry. First they said he was missing. Then they discovered he had been —' She looked away. 'Killed in action.'
'I see.' Sherwood
sat very still opposite her, the blood-stained handkerchief held between them like a talisman. 'Go on.'
'I'd met Arthur -' her voice hovered on the name. 'The man next door, when his regiment was in Dorset, my home. He knew my husband, and quite recently he telephoned me to tell me he was stationed in London, that he had discovered something about my husband's death.'
Sherwood nodded. He had noticed that at no time had she revealed her husband's name. As if just to speak it aloud after what had happened would destroy even a memory. It was all she had now. So he was not alone after all.
'So naturally I — I came up on the train. He'd said that there would be others here -' She looked up suddenly and stared at him.
'I thought you were going to kill him.'
Sherwood smiled. 'Wish I had, now.'
'I intended to find a hotel, you see.'
Sherwood considered it. The raid seemed to have moved on, but the A.A. guns were still cracking away, the emergency vehicles as loud as ever in their combined protest.
'You'll not be able to find anywhere now.' He studied her impassively. 'Stay here.' He saw her eyes widen with alarm and added, 'No problems. This is a flat owned by my father's company.'
'Suppose he found out?'
'He's dead.' Sherwood stood up suddenly. 'They're all dead.
So you see —' He looked back at her and saw that she was crying without making a sound.
'I'm sorry. I didn't realise -'
Sherwood heard the man groan again through the wall. I'll bet his bloody wife doesn't know what he's up to.
Sherwood said, 'Look, I'll tell you what. You sleep here tonight. I can doss down in the chair, or find somewhere else if you'd prefer.'
She stared at the wall. 'No. After what you did, I -'
Sherwood waved her words aside. 'Tomorrow we'll go out for breakfast. I think you can still get a good one at the Ritz. There's nothing here.'
She was looking at the wall again. 'What about him? Won't he call the police and get you into trouble?'
'I wouldn't think so, not him. It might make too much of a scandal.' He tried to hide his bitterness. 'And trouble is no stranger to me anyway.'
'I don't know what you must think.'
He said gently, 'J think you are a very pretty lady, but too vulnerable for the likes of Arthur next door.'
She kicked off her shoes and Sherwood felt a pang of envy for the man who had known her, who had died in the Western Desert. He could even envy the scheming bastard next door who had tried to rape her.
She said, 'You're very kind to me. And thank you for what you just said.'
He smiled and held out his hand. 'I'm Philip Sherwood, by the way.'
She saw his jacket hanging from a chair. 'Navy. I'm so glad.'
He did not ask her what she meant. Perhaps it was because her dead husband who had loved and known her, but made the mistake of marrying in war, had been in another service.
Sherwood went into the tiny kitchenette while she used the bathroom. He heard her climb into bed. It must seem a far cry from Dorset, he thought. Suppose there was another air-raid? They might be found together, like poor Tinker's mother had been discovered.
He downed another glass of neat gin. So nobody lives forever.
The excitement, the strain of the past months, and the gin took their toll, and within minutes he was fast asleep, slumped across the kitchen table.
He did not hear the wail of the Ail-Clear, nor did he feel the girl come to the kitchen and cover his shoulders with a blanket.
They had both learned a lot about themselves; if not each other.
'When Are You Going Back?'
Ian Ransome paused outside the boatyard gates and removed his cap to allow the lively Channel breeze to drive away the discomfort of the journey. There was a hint of haze above Gribbin Head where it thrust itself out into the sea like the bastion of some ancient fortress: a sign of an early summer perhaps.
He turned and looked through the sagging wire gates, then up at the big j^oard which stated, Edward Ransome and Sons, Boatbuilders. The sign was flaking, and Ransome felt a touch of sadness for his father. He was carrying on as best he could, and from the din of saws and hammers within the yard, there was more than enough work to do. Ediuard Ransome and Sons. Now, one was sweeping mines, the other doing heaven knew what with torpedoes and deadly cannon-fire.
He walked through the entrance and stared in wonderment at the activity on every hand. Not graceful yachts or stocky fishing-boats, but hulls that looked more like giant egg-boxes than anything that floated.
A voice said, 'Bit of a come-down, eh, Mr Ian?'
Ransome swung round, then seized the rough hand of the yard's foreman, Jack Weese. Ancient yet timeless, as much a part of the boatyard as any frame or timber in it. Ransome knew he must be well into his late sixties, but he seemed exactly the same, as he had always looked. Heavily built, his shoulders rounded by stooping over every sort of craft from dinghy to ocean-racer, he was wearing a spotless white apron, and of course his cloth cap.
The latter was occasionally changed at Christmas-time when one of his offspring presented him with a new one.
Weese said, 'Landing-craft - infantry jobs.' He eyed the nearest with distaste, his eyes wrinkled against the glare. 'Bloody things. Still, it's a living.'
'I didn't know you were building them, Jack?'
Weese shrugged and eyed him keenly. 'Bless you, Mr Ian, they're throwing 'em together all the way from here up to Lostwi-thiel. For the Second Front, whenever that's going to be.'
Ransome fell into step beside him while Weese pointed out the various stages of construction, and all the strange faces who had been brought to work on the landing-craft.
'They don't know what an apprenticeship is,' he said scornfully. 'Just give 'em a hammer and nails, that's about their style!' He added, 'You look a bit bushed, if I may say so.'
Ransome smiled. 'As you say, Jack, it's a living.'
They paused by a small jetty and Ransome asked, 'Where is Maggie May ?'
She was an old tug, very small, which his father had used first on the Thames, then down here for local jobs, towing timber to the yard, or moving craft to difficult berths. Like Jack, she was a part of it from the beginning.
He recalled his mother's horror in what Churchill referred to as 'the Dark Days' when she had discovered that the elderly tug was missing from the yard.
One of the local coastguards had told her, 'Mr Ted's gone to sea in the old girl, Missus. You know he's always wanted to.'
Ransome recalled the touch of pride and love he had felt when the news had reached him.
His father had taken the little tug with some of the fishermen from Fowey and Polruan, and of course Jack Weese, to a place over the other side called Dunkirk. It was still a miracle they had survived, let alone brought off some fifty soldiers in two trips.
Jack Weese said quietly. 'Your lot have taken her for the duration. I hope they looks after her.' He sounded like a man who had lost an old friend.
Ransome nodded. 'What about my —'
Weese cheered up and grinned, his eyes vanishing again.
'Your Barracuda? God, I've fought harder for her than me bloody pension!'
They walked through the litter of rusting metal and wood offcuts until Ransome saw the long hull resting on stocks, her deck and upperworks covered by patched tarpaulins.
Barracuda had been his dream. She was a big motor-sailer of some forty-six feet, one he would cruise in, and if necessary live aboard when the time came.
When not working on plans for his father and learning more about the craft of boat-building, Ransome had spent his spare time and the long summer evenings working on his boat. The hull had been overhauled, and some of the inside accommodation completed when Ransome had been called to make use of all the training he had done with the peacetime RNVR. She had stood here ever since, and Weese had indeed fended off the greedy approaches of Admiralty agents who toured the ports and harbours around Britain i
n search of vessels which might be thrown into naval service. A sort of press-gang, as Weese put it; not to be tolerated in Fowey.
The agents had insisted on taking Barracuda's two diesel engines for war service in some harbour-launch or other, but the hull was still safe.
Weese watched as he crouched under the canvas awning, reliving all those dreamy days when he had come here. Ransome ran his hands along the curved planking. Old, but a proper boat, a thoroughbred. The girl had come here to watch, to sit with him, or just to sketch. He straightened his back, and looked across the harbour to the village of Polruan on the opposite side. The little houses banked street upon street, the pub by the jetty where the tiny ferry chugged back and forth. He had taken her to the pub once. She had been too young to go inside, but they chatted together on the benches near the jetty. A slim, sprite-like girl with long hair who had put away a Cornish pasty from the pub as if it was a mere crumb. He remembered her eyes while she had listened to him; her bare knees had usually been scratched or grubby from exploring the water's edge and this same boatyard, 'Memories, Mr Ian?'
'A few, Jack.'
Weese waited for him to re-tie the tarpaulin. 'When arc you going back?'
Ransome grinned. Everyone said that, as soon as you came on leave. 'A week. I can spare that.' His inner voice said, I need it.
Weese said, 'Mr Ted's over in Looe Bay today. He'll be here before dusk.' He watched Ransome's profile. 'A freighter was torpedoed off the Knight Errant Patch a week back. There's some quite good timber washed ashore. Pity to waste it.'
Ransome slapped his shoulder. 'Years ago you would have been a wrecker!'
He hesitated, then asked suddenly, 'You remember the kid who used to come here in the school holidays? She sketched things - pretty good too.'
Weese nodded. 'I remember her. Her dad turned out to be a Holy Joe, didn't he?' His eyes became distant. 'She did come here again.' He was trying to fit it into place, so he did not see the sudden anxiety in Ransome's grey eyes. 'Same cottage as the other times.' He bobbed his cap towards Polruan. 'Your brother, Mr Tony would know. I think they went to a dance together over at St Blazey when he joined up.'
In Danger's Hour Page 10