Then he said, ‘Don’t worry about your people. I shall see that you are kept informed until you get on that train for Dorset.’ A glance at the clock. ‘Now, to another meeting.’
He shook hands, and their eyes met. ‘You’ll hear from me soon. Until then . . .’ He looked at the clock again. ‘Cloak-and-dagger indeed!’
For several minutes Masters stood alone in the quiet room. Critchley . . . was he never to be allowed to melt away like all those other faces? He thought of the old house with its damp wallpaper, the wardrobe where the uniform had been hanging as a reminder. And what of de Courcy, the collaborator? Perhaps he would learn more when he was himself fully trusted. Investigated. He half smiled. Cloak-and-dagger . . .
‘Your car’s ready, sir.’
He felt the man watching him as he walked out, and into the glare of the white-painted corridor. He probably saw many come and go from here. Maybe it was better not to think too much about it. Petty Officer Coker had the right idea.
‘Will you be requiring anything further, sir?’
The waiter was very small and molelike, his hands folded around a napkin like paws.
Masters looked across the dining room. Only a few tables were still occupied, and everyone was in uniform, even the only two women present.
He massaged his cheek, feeling the scar. The hotel was not large, but he imagined it had been expensive in happier times. He did not know London well, and had usually visited it only for official purposes. He grimaced. Like today. And tomorrow . . .
He could scarcely remember the meal, although the waiter had provided a bottle of wine to make it seem more of an event. It was no use pretending that rationing and shortages did not exist. Maybe it was different at the grander establishments. He thought of the enigmatic Captain Wykes. Wall-to-wall with red tabs and gold lace up to the elbows.
‘A brandy, perhaps? Is that possible?’
The little man looked around and murmured conspiratorially, ‘I think we can manage that, sir.’
Masters glanced down at his wrist on the table, the two and a half gold stripes. His whole life. Once he had wanted nothing else, only the future and the next horizon. He shook his head, cursing himself. He should not have had the wine, not on top of Wykes’ Scotch. R.H.I.P.
Maybe a walk before turning in . . . He felt his jacket pocket. At least he would be able to smoke his pipe without ruffling everyone’s feathers.
He remembered that he had seen a bellboy march past the restaurant with a sign on a cane, the sort they usually displayed when tracing a guest or visitor. All it had stated was AIR RAID WARNING IN PROGRESS. As far as he could tell, no one had taken any notice.
He heard a woman’s voice, low but insistent. ‘No, thank you. I can give it to him myself.’
Masters turned in his chair and saw her walking between the other tables, apparently towards him, the little waiter peering anxiously after her. She was wearing what looked like one of the old-style naval boat cloaks, a must for every young officer and hopeful in the peacetime programme of regattas, reviews, and at some of the more desirable ships’ parties; the collar was turned up, and she had covered her head and shoulders with a shawl. As she moved beneath the lights he saw heavy droplets of rain on her clothing. He was also aware that the room had fallen silent, and faces were turning to stare.
He got to his feet but she shook her head. ‘No, no! Please do not disturb yourself. I hoped I might catch you, you see . . .’ A small bag appeared through the cloak and she snapped open the catch. ‘We thought you would be looking for it.’
She took out the lighter he always used for his pipe. It had a flame longer than most, something to be avoided if you were holding a cigarette.
‘Captain Wykes said you might be here.’ As she spoke she unconsciously pushed the shawl from her hair, shading her eyes, exactly as he had seen her in the conference room.
He took the lighter from her hand and said, ‘I hadn’t even noticed. Thank you.’ He felt stupid and clumsy, unable to think properly. ‘It was very good of you . . . I’m sorry. We were not introduced.’
She said, ‘I shall sit for a moment,’ and sat easily on the next chair. ‘But only a moment. You must be tired out after your full day here.’ She waved the little waiter away as he approached.
The cloak had opened across her knees and Masters saw that she was no longer wearing black or dark blue, he had never determined which in the glare and shadows of the conference room, but a dress of dark green, cut low at the neck, beneath which she was wearing the same glittering brooch.
‘You are staring, Commander Masters!’ She softened it with a smile. ‘Perhaps I should not have been so direct. I have been told it is a bad habit of mine.’
Masters heard the murmur of voices returning to the restaurant. Who would not stare at her? Beautiful, striking; she was both, but very relaxed, and in control. She knew Wykes, but of course she would. And Wykes had a reason for everything he said or did. He was far too busy with yet another meeting to care about a lighter being abandoned in his office.
He said, ‘The brooch . . . I saw it earlier.’
She glanced down at it. ‘Jasmine flower. Yes, I like it a lot.’
It gave him a chance to watch her. Her hair was uncovered completely, and in the lights it had the colour of rich chestnut, loose across her forehead, and captured at the nape of her neck, he guessed, by a ribbon or cord.
‘Have you been out for the evening?’
She looked at him again, very directly. ‘I am just going out, Commander!’
She glanced towards the entrance. There were voices, and Masters recognized the tall figure of Capitaine Lalonde, impressive in full uniform, speaking on a desk telephone, wagging one finger to emphasize something.
She said, ‘It is best to be certain these days. Two seats for a cabaret are not easy to obtain.’
Masters looked at the long curtains which hid and disguised the shutters and blackout screens. He saw them shiver, and imagined he could hear the dull thump of anti-aircraft fire.
He said, ‘Isn’t it rather risky?’
She had turned towards him again, one hand resting on her small bag.
‘You are not one to be afraid of taking risks, I think.’
It was not a casual remark. It was like a challenge, and at the same time, a barrier.
She raised her hand to readjust the shawl, and from the other room Masters heard someone laugh, and the telephone being slammed down. It was almost over. It had never begun.
He heard himself say, ‘I hope we meet again. After all, you know who I am.’
She regarded him calmly, the brooch giving the only hint of her breathing, her composure.
She half turned, frowning, and Masters saw Capitaine Lalonde standing in the doorway, beckoning urgently.
‘Come, Elaine! It is time!’
She deliberately reopened her bag and took out a small mirror, but did not use it. Used to having her own way. Or was it something else?
She had eyes like the sea, he thought. Blue, or smoky green. She snapped the bag shut and pulled the cloak across her body.
‘Yes. I think we may.’ She regarded him as if coming to a decision. ‘I am Elaine.’ She turned up the collar, the rain still sparkling like diamonds, as if to prove that they had spoken only for a few minutes. ‘Elaine de Courcy.’
Masters watched her leave, imagined her getting into a car with the French captain. And later . . .
‘Your cognac, sir.’ The waiter had returned.
‘Thanks.’ Just in time.
He looked at the empty chair, seeing her there. Imagining her with someone else. How it would be.
Why was he making an idiot of himself, when he needed all his senses? Perhaps it was Wykes’ way of involving him completely.
She had the same name as the collaborator. She wore no rings; in any case she was too young to be his wife. Daughter, then? The glass was empty. He signalled to the waiter, but the little man shook his head and said sadly, ‘
I’m afraid that will have to suffice for tonight, sir. I’m so sorry . . .’
Masters touched his arm. ‘I know, my friend. The war. I’ll just have to wait until tomorrow!’
They both laughed, but this time no one turned to stare.
He picked up the lighter and thought of her hand, so close, holding it out to him.
And it mattered.
7
Two of a Kind
As soon as the train pulled into Dorchester station Masters sensed that something had changed. It had been a long, slow journey, one of those special trains that seemed to move only at night. The powers-that-be obviously thought it a good way to avoid feeding anyone.
At Poole he had hurried from the train while some troops were being offloaded and checked by their NCOs, and attempted to telephone the base. He had been unsuccessful, and most of the telephone kiosks had been occupied in any case.
The town was even busier. He was tired and uncomfortable and needed a shave and a clean shirt, if only to make himself feel normal again. There was an unfamiliar car and driver waiting; he had been expecting it, but somehow it still came as a surprise.
The driver, another Wren, was very different as well, with short blonde hair poking out from beneath her cap and a cheeky, pretty face which, he noticed, was quick to respond to the whistles that came her way.
But she saluted and took his suitcase, her eyes taking in every detail of his unshaven appearance.
Masters had stood in the train’s corridor for the remainder of the journey after Poole, having given his reserved seat to a young A.T.S. subaltern who had been sitting on her luggage. She had looked worn out, and her brilliant smile of gratitude had been worth the apparent resentment of his seated companions.
‘Has something happened while I’ve been away?’ He watched the Wren toss his case into the back of the car, half expecting it to fly open. He was no match for Petty Officer Coker’s expertise.
She stared at him, wide-eyed, obviously pleased that she had found somebody who had not heard the news.
‘It was on the wireless, sir! Our midget submarines have clobbered the battleship Tirpitz!’ She flushed. ‘Sorry, sir. I meant that they exploded their charges under her.’ But the excitement was irrepressible. ‘Right up there, in the Norwegian fjord where she was holed up!’
Masters recalled Bumper Fawcett’s interest, perhaps even involvement, with the midget subs, X-Craft as they were officially known. And they had done it. But at what cost? He might even know some of those who had taken part. It was hard not to compare, or to remember. Tirpitz was Germany’s last true battleship, probably the most powerful in the world. While she had been lying in her fjord, out of range of most air attacks and safe from surface damage behind her booms and nets, she was a constant menace. If she had broken out and reached the Atlantic no convoy would be safe; no escort could hope to survive her massive armament. And while she was ‘holed up’, by her very existence she had tied down capital ships and, more to the point, the many desperately needed destroyers and cruisers which were required to screen their heavier consorts.
Nobody needed reminding that her sister ship, Bismarck, had broken out of her lair just over two years ago, and had sunk the battlecruiser Hood with the loss of all but three of her company. She had also put the brand-new battleship Prince of Wales to flight; her tail between her legs, the German press had gleefully announced. Bismarck had been sunk before she had been able to reach an Atlantic coastal base, but it had taken the skill and courage of the pilot of an elderly Swordfish torpedo bomber and half the Home Fleet to achieve it.
Masters recalled what Fawcett had said about Italian frogmen and their explosive motor boats. Courage and determination could bring down a giant.
He got into the car, an old Humber this time, while the little blonde Wren held the door for him. She smiled broadly as two army warrant officers marched past and saluted, although there was no need at this crowded station.
One, a regimental sergeant-major with a moustache like a brush, said as he passed, ‘That’ll show ’em, sir! Well done!’
It was the uniform. A part of it. Something they all wanted to share.
He noticed that there were several dents in the car’s doors and wings, which even the camouflage paint did not disguise. She slipped behind the wheel and he wondered idly how she managed to see over the long bonnet. The clutch went in with a jerk, and he felt the ache in his back which rarely troubled him any more.
‘Sorry, sir!’ She was watching him in the mirror and must have seen his expression, and slapped her fist on the horn as an armoured scout car pulled out of the yard in front of her. She murmured, ‘Idiot!’
The other driver put out his hand in a brief but obscene gesture.
Fortunately, as far as he remembered, it was only five or six miles to the coast.
He turned to watch a group of sailors spilling out of the station, looking around for their transport and loaded down with bags and hammocks. Joining a ship somewhere, and obviously all strangers to one another. But the same infectious excitement had already drawn them together. On the plans and maps at the Admiralty’s command bunker the effect of the X-Craft attack on Tirpitz would already be measured in careful statistics. More escorts freed for the vital convoys to North Russia, and capital ships, spared from their endless vigil in case the great battleship should break out of Norway, to lend their support in theatres of war where they were truly needed. But to the ordinary seamen it was more personal. For the Hood, and all who had died with her.
Or, as the sergeant-major had remarked, ‘That’ll show ’em!’
He saw the first hedgerows as the car turned onto the familiar road; it seemed impossible that he had been away for so short a time. Dry branches scraped along the side of the door and he winced, and felt his stubble catch on his collar. He knew from experience that things could change very quickly, and it was still less than a month since he had taken this appointment. He confronted it once more. Since he had replaced Critchley.
He had gone over the London visit again and again in his thoughts. He had not seen Wykes before he had left, but had received a scribbled note of thanks from him, ending with Will be in touch. Perhaps nothing would come of it. But he had thought of the woman called Elaine de Courcy more than he cared to admit. He had not seen her, either. He tried to shrug it off. Nor had he seen her escort, Capitaine Lalonde.
But he could not forget how she had looked, her direct manner of speaking . . . testing him perhaps, for Wykes, or for reasons of her own?
He saw the farm gates and then the old house as it loomed above the ragged trees.
He said, ‘I’ll not be long. I need to change and make a couple of phone calls.’
The little Wren nodded.
‘I’ll be here, sir.’
Petty Officer Coker had the door open before he could climb the worn steps.
‘Heard you were coming, sir. The R.T.O. called from Dorchester.’ He took the case, glancing at the Wren by the car. ‘Made it without killing anybody, did she?’
Masters walked into the hallway. It was as if the house had been waiting for him. So still. Waiting.
Coker was saying, ‘I’ve got a bath running, and some coffee on the go. You’ll feel as right as rain, sir.’ He took Masters’ jacket and studied it critically. ‘A quick press, I think.’ Then he beamed, ‘What about Tirpitz, sir? One in the eye for Jerry!’
Masters walked into the other room and looked at the telephone on the desk. There was a long envelope which Coker must have propped beside it, with Philip Brayshaw’s name and rank printed in one corner.
He loosened his tie and perched on the arm of the chair. He dared not lie down.
He heard Coker bustling along the landing, whistling to himself. Glad to have things to do again. Glad to be in charge.
The envelope contained one signal pad flimsy, written in Brayshaw’s fine, almost copperplate hand.
A full report of the MLs’ action was waiting for him, with d
etails of damage, if any, and casualties. All three boats were once again ready for operational work with the countermeasures team. He had already heard about the war correspondent who had been killed aboard Lieutenant-Commander Brock’s boat; there had been a long and solemn announcement after the B.B.C. news, just before he had met Elaine de Courcy in the hotel restaurant.
His mind lingered on the last item. A new officer was joining the Land Incident Team. Eventually he would replace Clive Sewell at Portland . . . Masters felt his head drop but roused himself with effort. He was joining today.
Coker was waiting for him when he emerged from the bathroom.
‘That was quick, sir!’
Masters buttoned the clean shirt. In submarines you soon learned to wash and dress standing on a pocket handkerchief.
‘In the past, did you ever have a young woman named de Courcy visit here?’
Coker fenced the question. ‘Would that be a foreign lady, sir?’ He shook his head. ‘A few ladies did come here, from time to time. Commander Critchley’s friends – guests, that is.’ He was clearly uncomfortable.
Masters glanced at the wardrobe mirror, where the uniform had been hanging.
‘You’d remember this one, all right.’
Coker was polishing the peak of Masters’ cap with a duster. ‘Of course, sir, it’s not for me to say, or speak ill of the dead, but Commander Critchley had quite a way with the ladies. Nothing serious, of course, he an’ ’is wife were like one person together.’
Masters took the cap, vaguely satisfied. Coker had dropped an aitch.
He swung round as a clock chimed somewhere in the house; he recalled seeing a tall grandfather clock when he had first arrived, but he had never heard it strike.
Coker grinned. ‘That young seaman, Downie, he’s been a tower of strength while you’ve been away, sir. He’s made things work which I’ve never seen in use – he even repaired my old watch. He’s a marvel with anything electrical or mechanical.’
Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) Page 12