Bliss snapped, 'I can't send Ranger's R.M.S.O., he's not got Sherwood's experience. Might just as well trundle some heavy-footed soldiery along!'
Sherwood asked quietly, 'You're asking me to go?'
Ransome interrupted, 'What about this Commander Fouler ton — what does he suggest, sir?'
'Well, there you have it, Ian.' Bliss looked at Sherwood, his eyes hard. 'He was killed while he was handling the one in the Thames Estuary. The only information is what he passed over his telephone to an assistant. They had to keep his death hush-hush.'
Sherwood said softly, 'Christ!'
Bliss added, 'I wouldn't ask, but —'
Ransome picked up his pipe. Portland was one of the most important naval harbours on the South coast, about seventy miles from here.
He persisted, 'But he'd being doing other duties on board, sir. He'll need an assistant —'
Bliss didn't shift his gaze from Sherwood. 'I'll get somebody. I can't order you to go, Sherwood.'
Sherwood turned his cap over in his hands. He replied, 'You just did.' His eyes glittered in the deckhead light.
He looked at Ransome. 'I'll get my gear, sir. I don't want to take anyone I don't know. If Leading Writer Wakeford agrees I'd like him, please.'
Bliss stared. 'That's your writer, Ian — what does he know about it?'
Ransome was equally baffled but was determined not to show it. There was something so compelling and yet so sad about Sherwood that he knew there was no room for doubt.
Sherwood said calmly, 'Leading Writer Wakeford was an excellent physics and chemistry master in a good public school, or didn't you know that, sir?' He did not hide his contempt. 'But they said he was too old for a commission. What is he? Thirty-two? Not too old to get his arse blown off in bloody minesweepers, though!'
Bliss ignored the outburst, or perhaps he was so relieved that Sherwood had agreed to go that he had not noticed it.
Ransome nodded. 'Send for him.' He pictured the quiet leading writer who had acted as his helper, secretary, and shadow all the while he had been in Rob Roy. A withdrawn, gentle man.
Sherwood said, 'I've often discussed mines with him. He's got 1 very retentive mind.' He gave a bittersweet smile but the navy doesn't seem to care too much about such trifles-' Ransome nodded to him- I'll see you before you leave.'
As the door closed he 'I must disagree with you on this, sir.'
' Why? Because you know him,or because you need him here?' He watched him curiously- or maybe its because you think he's over the top already, too far gone to cope. his tone hardened. 'I can't lament over' personalities Ian not any more. God Almighty, I've seen enough youngsters get the chop - so have you. It's the bloody war, it doesn't help to look over your shoulder or to care too much I know!! I've been there and back a hundred times. He's probably the best man for the job, and right now he's the only man we've got available.' He leaned forward to
emphasise each point. 'The met people have promised good weather, or the best you expect in winter. If the wind drops still further, Sherwood will have a fair chance but we must know! The Allies will attempt to invade France next year, you can bet on it. With the Italian campaign slowing down to a crawl, they'll have to launch the landings whether they want to or not.
Any secret weapon Jerry can create we must master before it drops in our laps.'
'I'd like to be there with him.'
Bliss's expression softened I expect you would. But I need you here. I shall go with him I know he hates my guts - better that than you worrying about him, eh?' He relaxed and smiled. 'Besides which, our vice-admiral, who, like the sick and needy, is always with us'will expect it.' He stood up and seized his cap. 'I'll go and rouse the driver.'
Ransome followed him out to the darkened deck. The first full day. What a way to end it. so bliss had known all along that Sherwood would go; he had even laid on a car for the fast drive to Weymouth and Portland They paused by the quartermaster's lobby and Bliss observed.
'It'll look good for the flotilla too, think of it that way!' Then he was gone.
Sherwood arrived eventually carrying a small bag. He had changed into old blue battledress and rubber boots, which Ransome knew he always wore on these dangerous assignments.
Sherwood glanced up at the sky. 'No more snow then. That's good.' He sounded very cool. Almost disinterested. He faced Ransome and added quietly, 'Thanks for trying to put a spanner in the works.' He shrugged, it'll all be the same in a thousand years, I expect.'
They heard steps on the steel deck and Leading Writer Wakeford hurried into view.
'He agreed then.'
Sherwood smiled for the first time. 'Glad to go. You work him too hard, sir.'
Wakeford peered at Ransome and said,'Sorry about this, sir, short notice, but I've done all the files you needed for the dockyard and —'
Ransome gripped his arm. It felt like a bone through his raincoat sleeve.
'Just take care of yourself. I can't manage without you.' He stood away. 'That goes for you both.' He saluted. 'I want you back as soon as possible.'
Sub-Lieutenant Morgan, who was staying aboard as O.O.D., watched them go and said, 'Your writer left some letters, sir. It's as if he knew.'
Ransome shivered. There was no point in asking about Sherwood. He had nobody to write to. He doubted if he would anyway. There had been grief enough in his young life.
He said, it looks as if your promotion may be delayed a while.'
Morgan stared into the darkness but the two figures had vanished.
'Suddenly it doesn't seem that important, see?' He shook his head, it's always just around the next corner, isn't it, sir?'
He did not explain but Ransome knew exactly what he meant.
The Reverend Canon Simon Warwick stood with one hand resting on the huge stone fireplace and stared thoughtfully into the flames of a cheerful log fire. It gave only an illusion of warmth however, for this room, like all the others in Codrington House, were too vast to heat easily. Once away from the fireplace and the winter intruded like a chill breath.
He glanced at his wife, who was sitting with a local lady dressed in the uniform of the Women's Voluntary Service, of which Betty had been the most active member until the bombing.
Sometimes it was difficult to pick up the threads of God's reasons and reasoning, he thought.
The two women were checking their lists of promised gifts offered by local shopkeepers and farmers for the Christmas raffle.
Warwick was already thinking of Christmas, of how hard it would be to decorate this rambling house and brighten things up for the ebb and flow of evacuees and homeless people who stayed here.
But he was finding it hard to concentrate. He could hear the clatter of plates and cutlery from the dining-room where two evacuee volunteers were laying the table for dinner. He hoped the W.V.S. lady would leave before any of his guests arrived. He knew it was an uncharitable thought, just as he knew the reason for his inability to concentrate on Christmas.
But for the sound of cheerful chatter and clink of crockery, he knew he would hear Eve's voice from the draughty hallway, where the private telephone was situated.
He frowned. Seeing her face in his mind, the young lieutenant-commander, so self-assured, who seemed to think of little but his ship and the war. He had said a lot, but their eyes when they met across the table had told another story. Warwick had felt it then, something akin to jealousy, more like a suitor than a father.
She had answered the telephone herself. Warwick shied away from the thought which touched his mind like a raw nerve. Would he have summoned her, had he answered Ransome's call first? Or might he had made some excuse? It would only postpone, rather than prevent it. But the thought remained, unanswered.
The W.V.S. lady stood up and snapped her handbag shut. She was a square, competent woman, a local magistrate, and the widow of an old major-general who had died in the neighbouring village.
She thrust out her hand and said, 'Goodbye, Canon.' Her hands
hake was like her heavy shoes, firm, sensible.
Betty played uncertainly with her necklace.
'Well, er, — I'll see you to your car.'
Warwick bit his lip. They were old friends, but he knew Betty had nearly revealed that she had forgotten her name.
The door opened and Eve walked in. She wore her heavy fisherman's jersey, and her favourite trousers with the paint smears.
She hugged her arms across her body and shivered. 'I'm like ice!'
Betty smiled at her. 'How is he, dear?'
Eve looked fondly at her mother. 'He's all right, Mummy.' She dropped her eyes. 'I - I think he's had a bad time.'
The W.V.S. lady exclaimed, 'What's this, Betty? A secret love? I must say, I'm not surprised, what?'
Warwick said, 'He's someone we used to see when we were on holidays, before —' He did not go on.
The woman said knowingly, 'I see. Well, well!'
She crossed the room and put her hands on the girl's shoulders. 'He's a lucky boy!'
She replied, 'He's a man, not a boy. He commands a minesweeper.' It sounded like defiance, a defence against the trite summing-up and her father's constant refusal to accept that she had feelings.
Once her mother would have helped and understood. Now she seemed to wander, lost in her own thoughts, which nobody could share any more.
She said, 'I'm going up to have a bath and -' She looked down at her daubed trousers and remembered his smile when he had seen them, how he had recalled those other times in the boatyard, reminded her without making her relive them as a young girl, but as an equal. 'And change, I suppose.'
Warwick tucked his hands into his cassock. 'Good idea. Don't be long. Early supper tonight. In case there's a raid on Plymouth.'
The W.V.S. lady was still watching Eve, her flashing eyes when she had spoken out. Such a quiet girl, who rarely mixed. But something had changed her. It would make a new topic at the bridge party on Saturday, she thought.
Eve closed the door behind her and leaned against it, hoping ih.it the heavy fisherman's jersey had hidden the thrust of her breasts and her breathing, which had still not settled after speaking with him. A bad line, but they often were nowadays. She had sensed the change in his voice, the careful way he spoke, as if each word was precious to him.
But nothing could take the real happiness away. He was back, .liter all the months and the days, and the hours; his ship was in ilie dockyard. It might have been anywhere, in Scotland or in the North of England, but Rob Roy had come to Plymouth. He had not told her in so many words, and she had had the feeling that many ears were on the line, fingers waiting to snatch away the hissing, noisy connection. By mentioning the gardens around this old house, he had made her realise where he was.
He could not say when he would see her. There were 'things' which had to be done. Again, she had felt the same sense of anxiety, that someone he cared about was in danger.
She ran up the great spiral staircase to her room. She did not even see the flaking paint, the rough notices pasted to the wall which gave directions about the nearest air-raid shelters, what to do in a gas attack, how to deal with an incendiary if one fell through the ceiling.
She arrived in her room and stood panting by the window before drawing the heavy black-out curtains. There had been snow, but most of it had melted.
Perhaps he would be home for Christmas? She threw herself on the bed and pressed the old teddy bear against her face.
She thought of his brother, the irrepressible Tony, who was still in the naval hospital. He was to be home for Christmas; he had written to her, had told her about meeting Ian in Sicily. It had taken several attempts before she could control her tears and read it.
She had made a point of visiting Fowey to see his parents. His father had hugged her warmly and treated her like one of the family. His mother had kept a polite distance, playing much the same role as the Canon downstairs. She had gone to see his old boat, the Barracuda, and the foreman Jack Weese had pulled her leg about sailing off with her before young Master Ian got home for good. It could all have been so different. She closed her mind to the other thought. That it might still change.
She opened a drawer and took out his precious letters, and lastly the big newspaper article written by the celebrity w.n correspondent Richard Wakely. It was very much like the broad cast, so that when she read and reread it she heard his familial voice describing the scene just as he had witnessed and shared it. The shrill scream of Stuka dive-bombers, the roar of ships exploding, the troops fighting their way up the Sicilian beaches.
Richard Wakely had been right there beside Ian. Could have reached out and touched him. Wakely's cameraman had taken several action pictures, and one of them had been of Ian.
He had been looking up at the sky, pointing with one arm while smoke rose behind him like an evil presence.
She looked at the picture now. Ob, dearest of men, 1 love you so.
Wakely had finished his broadcast like the article, with his usual flourish.
'Together, that young captain and I had looked into the face of death, and come through yet again.'
She had written to the newspaper and had asked if it was possible to purchase a copy of the print of lan's picture. So far there had been no response.
She walked into her small bathroom and turned on the taps. She saw the unopened jar of bath salts by the window. They didn't make it any more. As the lady in the shop had said wistfully, 'I expect it's used for explosives now!'
Eve would save it, as she had - She felt her face flushing and left the bathroom. Then she did something she never normally did. She locked the bedroom door, and stood in front of the wardrobe mirror for several tormenting seconds, while the hot water hissed into the huge bath like a pool of lava.
Very deliberately she opened a flat drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe and took out the nightdress. She carefully removed the little sachet of rosebuds and rosemary although their fragrance remained in the fine white silk, as it had for the two years since she had bought it. She smiled and held it up against herself while she watched the image in the mirror and remembered. She had almost emptied her post office savings account to buy it, in the days before rationing had made such luxuries beyond the reach of all but the very rich and the black market. She had taken two buses to go to another district and withdraw the money, in case the local postmistress might tell her mother what she had done.
She made up her mind, and pulled the jersey over her head and slipped the trousers down to her ankles.
Her heart was beating painfully; she kept her gaze on her own reflected stare as she tossed her underwear on to the bed and stood quite naked, with the nightdress held up to her chin. She would not put it on until . . .
Two years she had had it. She had known then, and before that, that she had wanted him. If he had turned instead to another, she would never have married. She did not know how she was so certain. She just knew.
Her mother called, "Will you be long, dear?'
She smiled and carefully folded the sachet inside the nightdress before slipping it into its special bag.
'Ten minutes, Mummy!'
She walked, naked, across the cold room and into the steamy embrace of the bath.
Soon. They would make up for all things lost. Together.
The big staff car seemed to be hurtling into complete darkness. With the headlamps almost blinded by the regulation shields to prevent them being seen from the air, objects loomed out of the shadows as if the driver had lost control.
Commander Bliss muttered, 'God Almighty, I'm glad she knows the road!'
She was a leading Wren from the C-in-C's staff at Plymouth, a small, wiry girl who seemed to be enjoying the drive, a conflict between herself and the car.
Sherwood saw pale cottages, their small windows blacked out, crouched by the roadside, then gaps where the fields took over again, gaunt hedgerows which shone in the dipped beams from the melted snow, and once a horse staring over a gate, its eyes
like bright stones in the glare.
Up to Exeter and away from the sea to Honiton in Devon, the windscreen wipers fighting a losing battle against the mud and slush thrown up from the road by other vehicles. Most of the latter were military, Sherwood noticed, huge lorries which seemed to fill the breadth of the unmarked road.
In the front seat beside the driver, Leading Writer Wakeford sat stiffly back in his swaying seat, and Sherwood got the impression he had both feet pressed against the floor — as well he might Sherwood kept thinking of Ransome's attempt to keep him from this unexpected assignment. He had heard about Wakeford's letters, which he had left in safe keeping, and wondered why he had not done the same. Just a note, a few words to try and explain why he had left her asleep, why he had not even written to her.
If this job went badly wrong. . . He glanced out of the streaked window so that he could avoid opening another conversation with Bliss. He seemed to speak of little else but The War, in capital letters. It was like being cooped up with the nine o'clock news, he thought.
The mine might easily explode. Something new could have been added. Bliss had stopped the car once to make a telephone call: when he had returned he had said that the mine was still intact. He had sounded almost relieved, as if it would have spoiled his record to lose it.
Sherwood thought of the girl called Rosemary, the way they had clung to one another, had demanded so much that they were totally spent.
A letter would have made it worse for her; that is, if she cared after what he had done.
He thought too of the men who shared his life in Rob Roy, a typical small ship's company. How long would they remember him if things went wrong? He forced a smile. Just a dog-watch, as the old sailors said.
He could picture some of them now, making their different ways to all points of the compass. The luckier ones would already be home, down at the local pub, or picking up the pieces of a broken marriage, discovering peace away from their messmates, from everything. Others might still be wondering what they would find. A gap where the house had once stood, sympathy, and a feeling of utter loneliness.
He thought of Rosemary again. She was alone. Could she remember her husband, the soldier called Tom? Had she been loving; him on that last, desperate night in Mayfair?
In Danger's Hour Page 25