He watched some soldiers carrying Sherwood up the beach towards the road.
'I don't know how many of those damnable things that lieutenant has made safe, but I swear to God, that one will be his last He looked out at the black water as if expecting to see it lying, there, as evil and as patient as ever, but there was only the faint gleam where Sherwood had lost one of his lamps in the water, and the sigh of a tide on the turn.
When Wakeford returned to the car he found Sherwood sitting in the back, the rug still around his shoulders, his face hidden in his hands.
The Wren whispered, 'He was just sick again.'
Sherwood looked up; in the darkness his eyes were like holes.
'Telephone?'
'D'you think you should, sir?'
'Please.' His voice was very small. 'Help me.'
They found a telephone at the police station where the news of the mine had obviously been a lively topic since it had been dropped by an enemy aircraft one night earlier. The German pilot had probably jettisioned it because he was caught in a barrage, or being pursued by night fighters. They would never know.
Tomorrow the sappers would haul the mine from the sea and then it would be the boffins' chance to examine it.
Sherwood found himself in a small office with pictures on the wall of wanted criminals and missing persons.
Wakeford got the number for him, handed him the telephone and then withdrew. He tried to smile at him, to offer some encouragement, but all he could think about was the sound of Sherwood's voice on the field telephone, like a man staring at the rope or a firing squad.
Sherwood heard her voice immediately.
She said huskily, 'Somehow I knew you would phone. I had to wait. To be sure. Tell me what to do.'
Sherwood tried to clear his mind. 'I want to see you. Now. I — I need to -'
She said quickly, 'Where are you? I'll come at once.'
He tried to laugh. 'The police have offered to drive me, you see.'
She said, i shall be here, waiting. Don't do anything, just come.'
But Sherwood could not reply this time. His defences had linally broken down.
Reunions
Ian Ransome stamped his feet on the stone flags to restore the circulation and watched the snow falling steadily from a dull grey afternoon sky.
Every so often he turned and looked at the massive abbey and the groups of people who were making their way towards it.
Many of them were in the uniforms of all three services; in fact they outnumbered the civilians. Some were accompanied by girl-friends, others walked purposefully and alone. There was no saluting although the ranks varied from army privates to at least one group-captain from the local air station.
Eve had chosen this place where they would meet for the first time since Rob Roy had entered the dockyard. That had been three days ago, with only their brief, sometimes anxious telephone calls to sustain them.
There was a concert being held at the abbey, musicians from Plymouth and some surrounding towns, plus a few in uniform. She had remembered that he enjoyed classical music, and had bought tickets for this one performance.
It was not just that. She had told him on the last telephone call, she wanted them to meet on their own ground. Perhaps she meant away from her usual surroundings, even her father? He had answered Ransome's calls twice and had been outwardly friendly, and yet Ransome felt his reserve; he was careful not to display too much warmth.
He glanced at his watch and saw the snow clinging to his sleeve. He thought of Sherwood, what Cusack had said when he had gone to see him.
The astute Irish doctor had described finding him in the care of the young woman to whom he had gone directly after the incident with the mine.
'Before he never felt fear, y'see, because he no longer cared about living. He thought that his life, in its deepest sense, was finished, with only some driving force keeping him going, a determination to hit back at the enemy in a field he knew better than most.' He had shrugged and downed another glass of Ransome's Scotch. 'Then everything changed. He and this woman found one another, though that part was left suitably vague for my benefit, I suspect. Philip Sherwood did explain how it hit him when he was working on the mine. He thought of dying, and for the first time since his life had been smashed to pieces, he wanted, no, needed to live.'
Thank God Sherwood was not required for duty. He wanted to come back to Rob Roy, but Ransome knew inwardly that he was finished with his lonely encounters with mines and whatever the enemy could dream up, forever. Perhaps in his strange, distant fashion he wanted to share his change of fortune with the only people he really liked.
He heard a door closing behind him and felt a start of anxiety, maybe she had changed her mind? Or she had been prevented from coming? A small bus rolled to a stop with slush dripping from its sides, and suddenly she was there, running towards him, her arms outstretched, oblivious to the other passengers and the grinning bus driver.
They clung together for a long moment, saying nothing, each reassured that it was really true.
Then she said, 'Shall we go inside?' She looked up at him, searched his face, and in those few seconds she saw it all. The shadows beneath his eyes, the small tight lines at the corners of his mouth. She wanted to keep on hugging him, to hold him as she would a child, and make the strain go away.
She asked, 'Perhaps you'd rather not? I — I mean they're not from Covent Garden or the Albert Hall. But I thought —'
Ransome put his arm around her shoulders and guided her into the ageless shadows of the entrance, where he shook the snowflakes from his cap on to the worn stones. 'I'd love to, Eve. I can't tell you —'
A wizened usher guided them to their seats in one of the pews. The place was quite cold, but strangely moving with its flickering candles and air of timeless strength.
She pressed against him while he spread his greatcoat over their knees like a rug.
She whispered, 'No heating. To save fuel.'
A man in an unfamiliar uniform touched Ransome's shoulder. Excuse me, sir, but would you let this party into your pew?'
Ransome had wondered why the rest of the pew had been empty when the abbey appeared to be packed.
A line of young RAF officers filed past them, silent, and looking neither right nor left. The highest ranking one was a flight-lieutenant. They were all about Eve's age.
As the last one attempted to pass he knocked a prayer book from its shelf, stooped down and then handed it to Eve with a mumbled apology. He had been a good-looking youth, but now half of hijj, face had been burned away. Just like wax, with a gleaming glass eye to complete the mockery of his survival. The others were much the same, burned, mutilated, and somehow embarrassed.
Eve said, 'Thank you. There's not much room, is there, in such a big place.'
Ransome saw the young pilot stare at her. Astonished that anyone who looked like her could treat him as if he were normal. Perhaps he had once had a girl like her, before —
Ransome saw a tear run from his remaining eye before one of the others pulled his sleeve and said jokingly, 'Come away, Bill, she's in the navy's care!'
What did each hour cost them? Yesterday's heroes.
Ransome felt her fingers digging into his hand. But she did not speak this time.
He glanced around. The wounded pilots still had the same need as the other servicemen here, he thought. Like an oasis, to help repair what they had lost.
The orchestra made itself comfortable, and while a senior lay churchman made a ponderous introduction there were all the usual exciting if discordant sounds of musicians tuning up.
It was a mixed Baroque concert, the Telemann violin concertos, and after a freezing fifteen-minute interval, a selection from handel's Water Music. Eve had even remembered that, and Ransome thought of his small and dwindling collection of Handel records in Rob Roy. Too many explosions and near-misses had done for most of them.
And all the while he was very aware of the girl beside him, h
er warmth, the scent of her long hair, and when he glanced at her profile, the memory of those other times. Was it wrong to hope in wartime? Could it even be fair to profess love when each day the odds against survival mounted?
Then the concert was over, and they were outside in the snow again.
'I have to get back.' He hated each word.
'I know.' She thrust her arm through his as they walked towards the bus-stop. 'You warned me.' Then she turned and looked at him. 'I'm so happy, Ian. Just to have you with me. 1 shall never forget this, the concert —' her eyes dropped. 'Those poor airmen. Everything. I feel a part of it now because of you.'
Ransome had already been told about Richard Wakely's broadcast and newspaper article. He should have guessed. Wakely's image was far more important to him than trying to score points off the men who had been there, who had seen him grovelling and blubbering for his own skin. Perhaps in its way his was a kind of courage too. Being in contact with events which could strike terror and revulsion into you when you did not have to, because of duty, or whatever sent a man to war . . .
The bus floundered through some deep puddles and they climbed on to it. It was about twenty miles to Plymouth and yet it seemed to pass in minutes.
When they reached the outskirts of the city it was pitch-dark, with only the falling snow giving any sort of life to it.
She said, 'Thank you for meeting me at Buckfastleigh.' She-shivered, although not from cold. 'Sometimes when you spend your days in and around Christianity it can become oppressive.' She smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck. 'But never with you!'
Ransome gripped her and wanted to blurt out everything, as Sherwood had probably done. As he held her against him he was very aware that she was no longer the schoolgirl, and he knew she understood what he was thinking.
She said, 'When can we meet? Please make it soon. I've been so worried, I've tried to be with you wherever you were. Then seeing your picture, hearing how it was -'
He replied, 'I'll call you tomorrow. Things on board should be in hand by then. I'll have to go and visit my parents-Tony will be home too, with any luck.' He looked at her, then kissed her very gently on the cheek, feeling the snow melt on his lips. 'Will you come with me?'
She nodded. 'We can look at your funny boat.' She was almost in tears.
'Don't be sad, Eve. I love you more than ever, at least I would if that were possible. I don't want to share you with anyone.'
She touched his mouth with her fingers. 'I know. Once I didn't dare to admit what I was thinking about you.' She shook her head. 'No, don't look at me! I never knew I could feel that way, so utterly wanton.'
Another bus groped its way towards them. She said breathlessly, 'I want you, Ian.' Then she kissed him hard on the mouth and ran to the bus. He watched her wiping the condensation off a window with her sleeve to wave to him as the bus headed away towards Codrington House.
Ransome thrust his hands into his greatcoat pockets and walked slowly into the deeper darkness, his whole being clinging to those last words. I want you. No demands or conditions, not even a doubt, without knowing it she had already given him the greatest gift of all. Her trust.
When he reached Rob Roy there was an air-raid warning in progress, two seamen of the duty watch were under arrest for being drunk and disorderly in a dockside canteen, and Vice-Admiral Hargrave had been asking for him several times on the shore telephone.
Ransome listened to Morgan's report and then touched his arm. 'Deal with it, will you. Then come to my cabin and listen to some music.'
Sub-Lieutenant Morgan watched him go below and smiled. Like the cat that found the cream, he thought. And about time too.
Ordinary Seaman Boyes felt his heart quicken as a camouflaged Bedford three-tonner rolled into the station yard and spilled its khaki occupants on to the slushy snow. For a moment longer, he thought she was not there, and realised just how much he wanted to see her again. Then he saw her, her face lighting up in a grin as she pushed through the soldiers and A.T.S. girls from her battery who had been given a lift into town.
It was hardly like the West End, but he guessed that anything was probably better than gaunt army huts in Home Park across the river from where the battery provided A.A. support for the sky above London.
She let him kiss her and stepped back to look at him. 'How long have you been back, then?'
'Two days.' It sounded like an apology. 'I had to see the parents of one of our people in Rob Roy.' He looked at her, his eyes pleading. 'He was killed at Sicily.'
She put her arm through his. 'Never mind, Gerry- I'm taking you to a party. It'll be warm at least, and more important, it's free.'
As they walked she glanced at him. He had changed in some way. Not matured, that would be too simple; if anything he had seemed more defenceless when he had blurted out about someone who had bought it at Sicily. His face held a kind of desperation, made him look older.
They crossed a street near the riverside of Kingston-on-Thames, with the massive chimneys of the power station standing against the dull sky like abandoned lighthouses. He did not know where she was taking him. He had hoped to be alone with her, and recalled his mother's tone when he had telephoned the army camp to ask for her.
She had warned, 'Don't get into any trouble, that's all I ask-' His father had murmured soothingly, 'Don't worry, dear. He's home now, and to all accounts he's earned a bit of leave.' He might just as well have saved his breath.
Boyes thought of his visit to Davenport's home. It was as if the midshipman's body was still in the house. Everything was so still and deathly quiet.
They had been civil enough, but when he had left he had had the feeling that Davenport's parents resented his being alive while their son lay fathoms deep in the Mediterranean.
Davenport's father had asked just once, 'Did he suffer? Was he able to speak?'
Boyes had replied as truthfully as he could. 'He didn't feel very much.' He thought of Davenport clinging to the talisman of his promotion even as his life had drained away.
Davenport's mother had asked almost sharply, 'How could you know that?'
Boyes had got to his feet and had answered without hesitation, 'Because I was with him. He died in my arms.' Before, he would have stammered and felt in the wrong. That at least he had left behind.
The girl dragged his arm around a corner, an ordinary street of Victorian houses. It could have been anywhere.
She stopped outside one of them. 'Here 'tis. Might be fun.'
A gramophone was cranking out dance music, and she led him into the sitting-room where several others were already swapping jokes and making steady headway into crates of bottled beer. The owner of the house was apparently a local butcher, who did quite a bit of business with the army in Home Park. His wife, a lively looking girl with dyed blonde hair and wearing, surprisingly, a bright party dress, was obviously a good bit younger than her husband, but they both made Boyes and the girl called Connie very welcome.
There was Connie's friend Sheila with a bombardier from the battery, and a massive quartermaster-sergeant whose contacts with the butcher had opened the way for this and perhaps previous parties.
A leading aircraftman and his girl, related in some unexplained way to the host, made up the party.
Connie settled down on a sofa beside him and took two glasses of beer from the table.
'Cheers, Sarge!'
The quartermaster-sergeant beamed at her and touched his ginger moustache. He nodded to Boyes. 'Up the navy!' Then he turned to his host and thrust another full pint into his hands. 'Come on, my son, drink up! It'll put hair on your chest!'
Connie giggled. 'You'd think it was bis beer he's being so free with!'
Boyes tried to remember how much he was drinking. He did not usually drink, and was too young to draw his tot of rum as Beckett had often reminded him. The thought of the coxswain and his friend the randy Buffer touched him like a hot wire. The shell screaming and ricochetting around the wheelhouse, men dying, Ri
chard Wakely attempting to hide under the table where Davenport lay bleeding.
Connie saw his expression. 'What is it, Gerry?'
He shook his head, not wanting to spoil anything. 'Someone walked on my grave, that's all.'
She did not believe him but said, 'I'm just going to powder my nose.' She waited for his eyes to meet hers. 'Remember the last time, you naughty boy!' Then she was gone.
Boyes could not remember how long she had been away, and for one awful moment imagined she had become irritated by his mood and had left, perhaps with somebody else.
He stared around the room. All but a table lamp had been switched off; Sheila and her bombardier lay in one another's arms, her stockinged feet curled over his massive army boots.
The leading aircraftman and his girl were trying to dance without cannoning into the beer crates and empty bottles.
Boyes blinked. Surely they hadn't drunk all that? Then he saw the butcher and knew that he must have consumed the bulk of it. Their host lay propped in a corner, his mouth open, his shirt and waistcoat sodden with spilled beer. He was out to the world.
The leading aircraftman and his girl left without speaking, so that only the quartermaster-sergeant and the butcher's wife remained in the centre of the floor, slowly gyrating but barely moving to the beat of the music.
The sergeant had his arm around her waist and was pressing her against him, while she clung to his neck, her body swaying even when the record came to an end.
Boyes noticed that her party dress was caught in the sergeant's uniform, but when they turned slowly once again he realised why the hostess had her eyes tightly closed. The sergeant's other hand was thrust up beneath her skirt.
, Connie opened the door softly and quickly turned over the record. She looked at Boyes and held out her hand. 'Sorry to leave you with this lot, but I had things to do.' She pulled him to his feet. 'They won't miss us.'
She led the way up the stairs to a narrow landing and asked, 'Home for Christmas, d'you reckon?'
'Don't know.' He noticed that she did not look at him, and had the same bright nervousness as that time in the cinema.
In Danger's Hour Page 27