Hull seemed an unhappy place to be, even when they had been at sea with barely a break. It had been bombed so many times that the place was barely recognisable. But the work went on, and it was said that the turnround of ships in the port was quicker than ever.
He put Eve's letter down as Petty Officer Kellett opened the door a few inches.
'Beg pardon, sir, but Ranger's captain 'as come aboard.'
Lieutenant Commander Gregory strode into the cabin, nodding only briefly to Kellett. 'Sorry to barge in, Ian.' He dragged a tin of duty-free cigarettes from his pocket. 'Knew you wouldn't mind.'
Ransome watched him, the quick nervous movements of his hands as he lit another cigarette.
'What is it, Jim?'
Lieutenant Commander James Gregory tried to settle in the other chair and blew a thin stream of smoke to the deckhead.
'I'm leaving, Ian. That's what.'
Ransome waited. They had come through so much together.
Their small, hardworked group of fleet minesweepers, each one a personality. They had watched others go down, those whose luck had run out. Fawn, Dunlin and Scythe, with other names they could scarcely remember. Ships and men torn apart in a war which was without glamour and beyond the headlines, yet one which was as vital today as it had been right from the start.
Gregory shrugged. 'It's all part of the scheme for a bigger support group for the next invasion. I'm to take over a new flotilla of motor minesweepers as senior officer. I shall have a free hand, with Bliss's blessing of course.'
Ransome asked, 'Are you pleased? It shows what they think of you — I agree, you're just the bloke for it. Somebody who knows what it's all about.'
Gregory glanced around the cabin; it was an exact replica of his own.
'I'll miss her, Ian.'
'I know. We'll all miss you too.'
Outside the tannoy bawled, 'D'you hear there! Cooks to the galley! Senior hands of messes muster for rum!'
Ransomg grimaced. 'The right idea, I think.' He took out a bottle and two glasses. Ranger would not be the same without Gregory. He felt the same about losing her.
He pushed a full glass across the table. 'Cheers!'
Gregory drank some of it and swallowed hard. 'Christ!' Then he studied Ransome and said, 'You really don't know, do you?'
'Know what?'
'Ranger's new skipper is Lieutenant Trevor Hargrave.'
Ransome stared at him with astonishment. 'No, by God, I didn't!'
Gregory smiled. 'I suppose I shouldn't care. I've served under skippers who thought that nobody could ever be good enough to take their places. All the same —'
Ransome refilled the glasses. He was losing Hargrave. A command of his own. He felt suddenly angry. The Old Pals' Act; it had to be. Hargrave's father had pulled strings. On the face of it, Gregory was being promoted, and as Ranger's Number One was fairly new to the job, Hargrave might seem the logical choice. He was experienced, a good ship-handler, and even if he was new to Ranger, he was not to the flotilla.
The door opened and Leading Writer Wakeford peered into the cabin.
'Oh, sorry, sir. I'll come back later.'
Ransome saw the thick envelope in his hand and said, 'Bring it in.'
He watched as the Leading Writer laid the various items on the desk. He was as before, self-contained, studious, quiet. It was hard to see him crouched on the field telephone as Bliss had described it to him, speaking to Sherwood, waiting to write it all down, to hear his final words if the mine sprung its fuse.
Wakeford did not look at Gregory as he said, 'This one is about the first lieutenant, sir.'
It was the usual formal wording. 'Upon receipt of these orders you will etc. etc.'
Ransome looked up at his friend. 'Sherwood's coming back tomorrow. As first lieutenant.'
Gregory was still contemplating his own change of direction. 'That's a shaft of light, anyway.'
The big sealed envelope had been signed for by the O.O.D., Tritton. Ransome read it quickly. 'I think another enormous drink is in order.' Then he said quietly, 'We're moving to Falmouth in three days, Jim. Hargrave will assume command there.'
'Falmouth.' Gregory watched him thoughtfully. 'That's where I'm to take over the flotilla of Mickey-Mouses. Does that mean —?'
Ransome poured the drinks and shook the bottle. His stock was almost finished.
He replied, 'I think it does. It will be a work-up for the invasion. The big one.'
Gregory glanced at his watch. 'I'd best get back. I'll tell my lot in the wardroom. They'll all be gathering there for lunch anyway.'
He stood up, momentarily lost. 'I thought I'd end the bloody war in Ranger, does that sound potty? I know we have no say in these things, but I'm loathe to leave the old girl.' He met Ransome's questioning glance. 'No, not because of Hargrave. He'll probably do a good job. It's just —'
'I know.' It was like Moncrieff's last moments when he had relieved him. 'I'd be the same.'
When Gregory had gone, he took the bulkhead telephone from its bracket and jabbed one of the buttons.
He heard Kellett's chirpy voice reply, 'Wardroom!'
'Would you ask the first lieutenant to spare me a few minutes, please?'
He replaced the telephone and then straightened Tony's picture. He had written to him twice. That was quite something. Tony had never been a great letter-writer.
He was feeling much better, mainly, Ransome suspected, because he had been appointed to a destroyer which was still on the stocks and only half-built. It would be many months before he got to sea again. Their mother would be pleased about that.
Tony had written, So I'm all right, big brother. To tell the truth I'd have taken the job running a NAAFI manager's boat rather than be beached! He had ended by saying, Eve's a lovely girl. You're so right for each other. I envy you.
There was a knock on the door. It was Hargrave.
'You waited me, sir?'
Ransome pushed the orders across the desk. 'You'd better sit down before you read this.'
He saw Hargrave's eyes moving slowly across the curt, unemotional wording. Even when he received his own for taking command they would lack any of the excitement they usually represented.
One thing was obvious, Hargrave did not know either. He was not that good an actor.
'But — but, I don't understand, sir.' Hargrave stared at him. 'Ranger—she's our sister-ship.' He looked at his hands. Even that one word our was a thing of the past.
Ransome smiled grimly. 'I'll not tell you about the birds and the bees. You've learned well, considering it was not all that long since we were facing each other here for the first time. We are going to Falmouth again. Sail in Ranger and watch everything Gregory does. Ranger may be a twin, but her people are used to him and his ways. If we are going into Europe they'll need all their confidence. It's not time for the new broom syndrome.' He spread his hands in apology. 'Sorry. The birds and the bees win after all!'
Hargrave stood up. if I'm any good at it, sir, it will be your doing.' Then he almost lurched from the cabin.
Ransome sat staring at the closed door. Into Europe. How easy it was to say.
It was not like losing poor David. He had been a true friend, the closest he had ever had before or since joining the navy. He often saw him still. Those chilling nights on the bridge, booted feet on the ladder. Or a shadowy oilskinned figure hurrying aft when the order to prepare the sween was piped. The women in black. The schoolgirl who had looked like Eve.
He picked up her letter again and thought of her writing it.
Dearest of Men — It feels so long since —
Ransome found that he could lean back and smile. He would telephone her this evening. Just to tell her he was coming. Without breaking the Official Secrets Act, of course.
He heard footsteps moving away and knew that Hargrave had been standing there, putting his thoughts in order, grappling with his change of fortune.
Hargrave was indeed thinking of nothing else. He walked r
ight past the Buffer who was about to offer him a list of names, a rearrangement of the watch bill, his mouth already opened to speak.
As he strode aft the Buffer gaped after him. 'Gawd, Jimmy's like a whore at a christenin' today!'
He saw the new S.B.A., a small, pimply youth, leaning on the guardrail and staring down at the trapped water between the two hulls.
'Stand up straight! Never 'ang on them rails, sonny!'
i - I thought -'
The Buffer roared, 'Leave thinkin' to 'orses, they've got bigger 'eads than you 'ave!'
He bustled away, the first lieutenant's behaviour forgotten. He usually felt better after he had offered someone a good bollocking.
Hargrave paused by the big winch and the Oropesa float, resting on its chocks like a faceless dolphin.
His mind kept returning to Ross Pearce, what she had said, the cool way she had outlined what she believed he needed. Like moving pawns on a board. Gregory's promotion to all intents and purposes, and a ready opening in Ranger. It would probably mean a half-stripe, albeit lost again when the war ended. He stared round and up at the deserted bridge. What was the matter with him? Sherwood was right. The war might go on for years. Even if the invasion was a success it could drag out in stalemate. Then there was the Pacific and Burma. It seemed endless. None of the people he had seen today as requestmen or defaulters, working about the ship, or queueing impatiently for their rum issue, might be alive by then.
He was sure of one thing. He was completely infatuated with Ross Pearce. Without effort she had fenced with him, keeping him at a distance, giving no real hint of promise. He had met nobody like her. The more he had seen of her the less he could imagine his father having any more success than he had.
He looked across at Ranger. The sentry and quartermaster were watching him without apparently doing so. The buzz would be all thryugh the ship. Rob Roy's Jimmy was getting the Old Man's chair.
He thought of Ransome's quiet advice. They'll need all their confidence.
It was what he had been trained for. This was just the next step on the ladder. He might never know if his first command had been engineered, or influenced by his father. But it seemed likely. Ross's father was a viscount, and had a deep interest in service matters and stood on a House of Lords committee. What was good for Hargrave might easily turn out to be even more advantageous for his father the vice-admiral.
Shall I miss Rob Roy Only time would answer that.
The girl stood behind her mother and watched her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. She could hear the wind exploring the windows and sighing against the roof, but the rain had gone, and tomorrow was going to be a fine day, according to the postman.
The postman was old for the job, but had come back to work to help fill the gaps left by the younger men who had gone to war. He had his own special signal as he wheeled his red bicycle up the twisting driveway if he saw Eve waiting for him.
A wave if there was a letter from him. A thumbs-up if there was not. Meaning that there would be soon.
That morning he had given a wave.
He handed over a great pile of mail for Codrington House, all the usual replies to appeals, applications for jobs, offers of homes for the bombed-out and dispossessed. It never stopped. He had given her the letter in its familiar buff envelope.
'I reckon he's telling you he still loves you in this 'un, Miss Eve.' He pulled her leg quite mercilessly. His defence was that he was old enough to be her grandfather.
It was a lovely letter. They all were. She could hear his voice, see his grey eyes, touch his hand in every line.
He had telephoned as well. Another awful connection, but he had been lucky to get through at all.
He was coming south. To her.
Her fingers slipped on the comb as she completed setting her mother's hair, and their eyes met suddenly in the dressing-table mirror.
'What is it, dear?'
Eve smiled although it touched her deeply to see her mother like this. They had always been so close. She had been as much a friend and companion as mother.
'I had a letter this morning.' She watched for some hint of curiosity. 'From Ian.'
'Who, dear?'
Eve picked up a brush and touched up the sides of her mother's hair. She had always had such fine hair. How had they met, she wondered?
'Ian Ransome.'
She paused with her brush in mid-air. It was like a curtain being lifted, a light illuminating a darkened room. Her mother's eyes were as they were before. Clear, questioning, amused.
'You really love him, don't you, Eve?'
Eve nodded, almost afraid to move.
'Then take him, my darling. While you can. Love him. I can see that he worships the ground you walk on.'
Somewhere a loose shutter banged against the wall; the noise, or the interruption, broke the contact.
Eve whispered, 'I do love him so much. I want him to be safeV
But the eyes in the mirror did not reply.
Then her mother said indifferently, 'Fetch my glasses, will you, dear? I left them in the study.' As Eve went to the door she heard her murmur, 'Or was it in —'
The study was much as it had always been since the great house was built, she thought. Shelves from floor to ceiling, now mostly filled with her father's ledgers and personal books. The rest lay empty, a reminder of the house's better days.
She heard the wireless from the outer hall, the night porter's prop for staying awake.
Her heart turned to ice. As it always did.
'The Secretary of the Admiralty regrets to announce the loss of HM Submarine Skilful, and of . . .'
And of.. . and of. . . and of.. .
'Next of kin have been informed.'
She clutched her hands across her breast and waited for her breathing to steady. It was always the same now. The real meaning of that flat announcement. The sense of gratitude, then of shame, sympathy for the men who had died somewhere, in what conditions she could only guess at.
She looked around the shadowed study. Ian was coming back. Then she remembered what her mother had sent her for. But there was no sign of her reading-glasses. Her mother had often come here to work on her various charities before suffering the shock of the bombing.
Eve smiled. She had probably left them in the desk drawer. It would not be the first time.
It was strange that she felt guilty at opening her father's desk. She wanted to laugh, to cry out that she had shared her love with her mother. She pulled out the drawer, careless of the sound. Her father was in the city.
Then she froze. At the back of the drawer was a big envelope, marked with the newspaper's crest and the bold sticker, PHOTOGRAPH - DO NOT FOLD. It was addressed to her. The posting date she did not even need to examine.
With great care she slit open the envelope and removed the stiff cardboard protection.
For several minutes she studied the photograph, to which was pinned the newspaper's compliment slip.
So clear. So vivid. Ian on his bridge, pointing at the sky, his beloved face so tense, so strong.
With the picture clutched to her breast she mounted the stairs and looked into her mother's bedroom. She was wearing her reading-glasses and studying an album of holiday postcards which she had once collected.
Had she forgotten that she had kept her reading-glasses near her? Or was it her way of reaching her daughter, to tell her that her father had intercepted the picture of the man she loved and had tried to keep it from her?
Eve ran to her room and threw herself down.
How could be?
Then after a time she left the bed and rested the photograph against her bedside clock, while she took out the white nightdress from her drawer.
Love and Remembrance
Spring seemed to have come late to the West Country this year. It was true that the skies were often blue and cloudless, and the hedgerows and cottage gardens bright with colour. But the Channel which remained unimpressed and restless along the Cor
nish coasts often crashed amongst the jagged rocks as if it were reluctant to leave winter behind.
Ransome walked up from the tiny ferry and paused to stare across at the boatyard. Like the rest of the Fowey Estuary it was almost hidden by landing-craft and small warships of every class and use, some of which had probably begun life under old Jack Weese's supervision. You could feel it along this coast, Ransome thought. Everywhere you went, in the narrow streets and in crowded harbours, it was more of a sensation than anything spoken. Like the murmur of far-off drums. Something which was stirring, and yet filled with menace.
The war had moved closer again. Perhaps that was it. Along these shores they had seen enough of it, but never before had they been so involved in what was now inevitable.
Here in Polruan, directly opposite the place which even in memory had become his only home, Ransome could sense it. It was no longer the free-and-easy village it had been even during the darkest days of the war. There were troops and armoured vehicles all around, just as the vessels which would soon carry them into battle on the other side of the English Channel filled every creek and river, until invasion seemed to become a secret quite impossible to keep.
In other parts of the world the conflict raged on. In the Pacific and on the Russian front, where millions were said to have perished in that last bitter winter. In Burma, the forgotten Fourteenth Army was no longer in retreat, and even if the Allies in Italy were making only slow progress there were other benefits. The Italians, at least those lucky enough to be on the right side of the lines, had surrendered to the Allies, their fleet secured under the guns of Malta, a great achievement which had once seemed like a pipe-dream.
But the here and the now were more relevant. The sandbagged gun emplacements, the depressing barriers of barbed wire on tiny Cornish beaches where children had once explored and played. Many of them would now be in uniform, waiting for D-Day.
Ransome wondered what his parents really thought about the cottage in Polruan. Local people would know about it soon enough, but the events to come might put it into perspective.
In Danger's Hour Page 30