‘Nothing to what I’ll have you in a few hours time, my handsome colonial!’ She reached out and thrust a finger through the front of his shirt, scraping his skin with her nail.
He said, ‘Watch it, for heaven’s sake!’ But he wanted her more than ever.
Niven came down later in uniform, carrying a suitcase.
‘A taxi’s coming.’
She crossed the room and kissed him. ‘There’s a good boy then.’
Drake watched them, unable to think clearly. How old was she? Nineteen, did someone say? She had the ways and wiles of a sorceress.
Alec Jenkyn leaned on the parapet of Waterloo bridge and studied the Thames beneath. It was slack water, and surprisingly peaceful. He could feel spring in the air, and no amount of soot or smoke could keep it out. There were even a couple of swans down by the pier, which was unusual these days.
But the air was still pretty sharp, and he could feel the cold stone parapet through his naval raincoat. Perhaps I’m getting past it. Too long in submarines.
He would have to move on soon, but the pubs were not open for two more hours. He could not face the hostel again for a bit. Blokes going on about the war, their officers, grub, women; he had had a gutful.
Behind him the pavements rang with countless feet, mostly the heavy boots of soldiers on leave, hundreds of them, from all over the world.
Where did all the civvies go, he wondered? He would like to find a nice village pub, like the ones he had visited with his dad on their rare holidays together in Devon. Full of brass and snug corners, red-faced farm workers with all their quiet jokes at the holidaymakers’ expense.
He turned to watch a small girl coming along the pavement. She was tossing a penny up and down in one hand, her face stiff with concentation. About three, he thought, no more. But all the kids were supposed to be evacuated? Things must be getting brighter. He saw who he supposed was the child’s mother almost on her hands and knees trying to retrieve some potatoes which had burst from a carrier bag.
The penny hit the pavement and rolled rapidly over the kerb into the bridge road. The child gave a cry of despair and ran after it, seeing the penny and nothing else.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Jenkyn darted from the parapet and charged after her, oblivious to the towering front of a double-decker bus, the shriek of brakes and shouts from every side.
He snatched the child and pulled her aside, then gasped with pain as the front wing of the bus pushed him over and on to the pavement.
People crowded round. ‘What happened? Did you see the kid?’
And the shaking bus driver climbing down to add his piece. ‘Weren’t my fault, chum! God, I’d ’ave killed ’er but for you!’
Then the patch of dark blue. ‘Now then, what’s all this then, who’s been hurt?’
The crowd melted slightly in the presence of the London bobby.
‘S’nothin’.’ Jenkyn stood up and brushed down his raincoat. There was a slight tear in it. And it was brand-new from the pusser’s store at Loch Striven. ‘I’m okay.’ He looked at the policeman and grinned. ‘No, really.’
The policeman glared at the bus driver. ‘Off you go then. Some of us have to work, y’know!’
Still shaking, but glad to be out of it, the bus driver moved away with a violent grinding of gears.
Jenkyn looked down at the child, who was sobbing breathlessly against her mother’s shoulder. She was on her knees on the pavement, her carrier bag forgotten.
She looked up blindly and said, ‘That was brave. I’d just looked away for a second. She’s a good girl for most of the time.’
‘Well then, if you’re all all right?’ The policeman waited.
But Jenkyn had not heard him. He was staring at the child’s mother. Mid-twenties, and although she was poorly dressed, and her brown hair was in disarray under a green headscarf, she had the face of a young beauty. Oval-like. With cornflower eyes and a fresh, smooth skin.
He reached down and took her elbow. ‘’Ere, let me ’elp.’ He pulled out a sixpence and handed it to the child, who had fallen silent to watch him. ‘’Ave a tanner. I think your penny went down a drain.’
‘I can’t thank you enough.’ She patted the child’s coat collar into position. ‘To think you nearly died, too.’
The policeman walked away. Unnoticed.
Jenkyn shrugged and winced. He’d have a massive bruise there tomorrow.
He asked awkwardly, ‘You live round ’ere then?’
She did not reply directly. ‘I’ve been to the War Office. We were just going over to the station. To catch a train home.’ She shook her head. ‘No. I live down the line. Wimbledon.’ She sounded wistful.
Jenkyn was lost. War Office. Wimbledon.
She asked, ‘And you? On leave?’
‘Yeh.’ He set his cap at a proper angle. ‘I’m stayin’ at the Union Jack Club. I – I lost my ’ome a while back. Blitzed.’ He was angry with himself at once. She obviously had troubles of her own. He didn’t have to tell her about it.
She said suddenly, ‘Your coat! You tore it on the bus!’
She sounded so upset that Jenkyn said, ‘Not to worry. Jack can mend most things.’
‘Jack?’
He grinned. ‘Yeh. The Navy.’
He felt the child’s hand inside his and was strangely moved. God, I must be getting bomb-happy.
‘I’ll be off then.’ Jenkyn did not want to go anywhere. Just to stay. Keep her talking.
‘I don’t want you to think …’ She looked away, biting her lower lip. ‘I’m not that sort.’ She nodded suddenly. Making a decision. Something she had to do a lot, Jenkyn suspected. ‘You could have our spare room.’ She looked at the child to cover her embarrassment. ‘Couldn’t he, Gwen?’
The grip on Jenkyn’s hand tightened.
He said, ‘I’d like that a lot. An’ don’t worry. I’m not that sort either. People get funny ideas about the Andrew.’ He grinned, feeling an uncontrollable happiness. ‘Most of ’em true, unfortunately.’ He spoke quickly. ‘I’ll ’op over to the club an’ get me gear. Then we’ll catch a train, eh?’
The girl smiled, watching him dazedly, as if unable to realise what she had started.
Jenkyn waved his hand to a passing taxi. ‘We’ll do it in style!’
Later, on the busy Waterloo concourse, he said, ‘I’m Alec Jenkyn, by the way.’
She smiled. ‘And I’m Sarah. Mrs Sarah Woods.’
He nodded and said gently, ‘War Office. Yer ’usband?’
‘Yes. Missing. That’s all they keep telling me.’ Her lip trembled and she added firmly, ‘But we’ll not talk about that. We’ll go home, and I’ll fix that coat for you. I just hope you don’t find us a bit boring.’
Jenkyn guided them towards the paltform. Boring? His heart was almost breaking with the pleasure of it.
14
The Secret
THERE WAS NOTHING fake or pseudo about the Niven family home. It stood in a perfect wooded setting, surrounded by rich Sussex countryside, a rambling yet elegant place of mellow stone and brick. A neatly kept drive curved up from a tall gateway, and as the car moved slowly between an avenue of firs Seaton was conscious of permanence, of security.
Niven sat beside him in the naval staff car, watching his reactions.
‘Used to be a fortified manor house, sir. Back in Queen Elizabeth’s time. Great barn of a place really.’
Seaton nodded. The long journey had sapped his energy and made him realise there was a lot more to recovery than being wangled out here by an admiral. He wished Niven would stop calling him sir. It made things worse in some strange way.
He saw a maid and an elderly manservant in black jacket and pin-striped trousers coming down some stone steps to greet him. He noticed the steps were curved deeply in the centre, worn away by a million feet.
Niven held open the door while the marine driver went round to unload the cases from the boot.
Seaton exclaimed, ‘My God, the air!’ The words came ou
t without conscious thought. The evening scent of shrubs and freshly cut grass brought it all back. The old estate in Hampshire. That special moment of peace at the end of a day.
Niven was pleased. ‘Bit different from the boats!’
The car was already moving towards a long garage, which had apparently been converted from a stable block. In it were several cars, two of which were Rolls-Royces. Now carefully resting for the duration. In hibernation until things got back to normal again.
Seaton wondered if there ever would be such a time once this war was finished.
Niven saw his glance and said awkwardly, ‘Some of my early ancestors were pirates, though we choose to call them privateers.’ He grinned. ‘I sometimes wish I’d lived in those days.’
The admiral was waiting inside a circular entrance hall, a great, glittering chandelier poised above his head, completing the picture.
He watched Seaton with a mixture of pleasure and uncertainty.
He said, ‘Glad you came.’ He gripped his hand. ‘You look a bit bushed. Spot of leave will fix you up.’ He glanced at his son. ‘’Evenin’, Richard. All well?’ Before he could answer he said to Seaton, ‘Have to check everything myself. Richard here couldn’t organise a bottle party in a brewery!’
A thin, vague-looking woman in a filmy grey dress emerged from an adjoining room and greeted Seaton with something like dismay.
‘So you are the poor boy I’ve been hearing about. Let us hope you will soon be your old self again.’ She took his hand. Like her, it was fragile.
The admiral muttered, ‘God damn it, Harriet, he’s not a poor boy, he’s a chap who’s done a good job! How many times must I tell you not to fuss!’
She did not even flinch. ‘How many times have I told you not to blaspheme, Philip?’
She hurried up some stairs with the maid, followed discreetly by the old manservant.
The admiral winked. ‘Bed, David? Or a large drink first?’
Seaton smiled. ‘The latter, sir. All this takes a bit of getting used to.’
They went into a big panelled room, where decanters and glasses stood waiting. It was like stepping into history. On every wall pictures of sea officers stared out at their ships or at forgotten battles. It was all there, like a tapestry. A museum. The Saintes, The Glorious First of June, Trafalgar. Through another door Seaton could see a library, with even more pictures to mark the Niven family’s record.
Dogger Bank, Jutland, and many more. One day there would be others, Seaton thought. Crete, Narvik, Matapan. He wondered if Richard Niven would follow the same tradition when his father died.
Rear Admiral Niven sat down heavily in a chair and poured some whisky.
‘No point in waiting for Griffin. He’s getting so doddery that the time between drinks gets longer each week.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Cheers.’
His son sipped the whisky and said, ‘I suppose I’d better make a move.’
‘Nonsense.’ The admiral was already pouring another drink. ‘Anyway, you’ll not get transport to the north at this time. I’ll get you driven up tomorrow. I’ve got some stuff to be sent by road.’ He chuckled. ‘So the journey really is necessary in this case!’
Seaton looked at his glass, at the scars on his hands where he had fallen or been kicked. Go home now, Richard.
He said, ‘You did a good job in looking after me, Richard. I really can manage now, you know.’
Niven looked at him strangely. Did he sense the warning behind the casual remark?
The admiral said, ‘I’ll have none of it. You’re my son, God help me, and your place is here until –’ He did not finish.
Niven stood up. ‘I’ll give Decia a call then. Let her know we’ve arrived.’
As soon as the door closed the admiral leaned forward and asked quietly, ‘What d’you make of him, eh?’
‘I like him, sir.’
‘Well, I like him. I like dogs too, for that matter!’
Seaton watched him, seeing the sudden fire in the man, the compulsion. Like some of the still faces in the portraits around the room. Strong, and with little time for indecision, he thought.
‘He’s done his job well, far better than I’d have thought for a fairly recent recruit to X-craft.’ He was thinking aloud, but aware that the admiral was giving him his full attention. ‘He has a detached attitude to his duties, as if they and not he are in control. I’m surprised he came into this kind of work at all.’
‘You’re shrewd. Walter Venables was right about you. Have another glass.’ He ignored Seaton’s protest. ‘Fact is, I’m worried about the boy. He’s a rebel, against the family, against all I stand for. He’s always got to challenge everything I say or do. You probably think it makes me sound like a tyrant, well that’s as may be. Marrying that girl, for instance.’ He stared past Seaton directly at the images of his irritation. ‘He picked a right one in Decia. Spoiled, arrogant little bitch. Richard could see I didn’t approve of her and her bloody “ee-bah-goom” father. So he married her. To spite me.’ A smile broke through his stern expression. ‘Out of the frying pan and into the fire, as it often happens. She was marrying him to provoke her father! God, what a pair, it’ll never last. May ruin the boy.’ He looked at the window, at the purple shadows reaching down from the great trees. ‘A man has to keep his mind alert when he’s involved in danger. I could get him out of X-craft, I could order him out.’ He shrugged. ‘That would put me in the wrong again. But if I leave him well alone I might lose him altogether.’
‘I think he’s growing up fast, sir.’
It seemed to please him. ‘Young devil! Had too much too soon. My old father used to keep me short of cash until he thought I was old enough to marry and settle down. But it was different for him. Richard grew up in the Depression. I suppose I spoiled him to keep him free of all the despair and gloom.’
Seaton could feel the drowsiness closing in on him. He hoped the hospital had not forgotten to pack his tablets. Without them, each night was a thing of terror and unbelievable dreams.
The admiral said abruptly, ‘Bed for you, I think. It should all be ready now. When you’re feeling a bit more get-up-and-go. I’d like you to drive over to one of our establishments. Quite near here. Old Noel Ruthven would be delighted to see you.’
A picture formed reluctantly in Seaton’s blurred mind. The bunker. The trim air marshal, the new ‘chief’.
Griffin, the old manservant, entered the room and announced, ‘All ready, sir.’
‘Good.’ The admiral walked to the door with Seaton. ‘Your Number One. Did he come through all right? You can’t get the real truth from intelligence reports.’
Seaton looked at him. The admiral had said nothing so far that he had not intended to say.
‘He’s reliable, sir. We’ve been through a lot together.’
‘Oh yes, quite. I agree. But not much there, I’d have thought? Bit of a hanger-on if the going gets rough, hmm?’
Seaton did not know how to answer. He said, ‘I think he should have his own command. He’s earned it.’
The admiral eyed him impassively. That’s loyalty speaking. Friendship. But deep down you know, just as I’ve known for some while, he’ll never rate a command. Not a submarine anyway. Never in a million years. He’s a nice chap, good-looking, do-anything-for-you sort of fellow, but beyond that, nothing.’ He grinned unexpectedly. ‘Now go to bed, for God’s sake, before you fall down! Forget Drake, the boat, the whole bloody war!’
Niven came from another room. ‘She was out. I’ll ring again later.’
The admiral drew a cigar from his case. ‘Who answered?’
‘Geoffrey. Geoffrey Drake.’ He walked into the library.
The admiral turned and looked straight into Seaton’s eyes. ‘You see? Nothing beyond the moment. I’ll bet she was there all right. If it wasn’t for the work in hand I’d go and see that New Zealander myself. I’d tell him a few home truths, believe me!’
He watched as Seaton started up the stairs. ‘But yo
u put it out of your mind. Leave this one to me.’
Seaton felt his heart quickening, and knew it was not just his condition or the steepness of the stairs. If it wasn’t for the work in hand, he had said. That implied only one thing, that XE 16 was already earmarked, a little tin flag on someone’s operations map.
Otherwise Rear Admiral Niven would never tolerate a situation which might involve his son and the family name. It was not in the man’s make-up. His sort always used everything they had, from influence to ruthlessness, to protect their own.
He followed Griffin into a large bedroom and was desperately tired, barely able to remove his jacket.
Griffin might be old, but he knew his work like a true professional. Seaton found that his clothes had been removed from his body with barely a jar to his injuries. As he sat on the bed feeling rather like a small boy, Griffin slipped pyjama trousers round his ankles. He said, ‘I’m sorry to be such a bother.’
The man paused and looked up at him. ‘It’s no bother, sir. I’ve been with the family all my life. And you’re very like Master Jonathan, and about his age, I’d reckon, sir.’
‘Jonathan?’
‘Master Richard’s older brother, sir. A fine young man. This was his room when he was home.’
‘He’s dead?’
The man sighed and buttoned Seaton’s pyjama jacket. ‘Yes. Went down off Malaya in the old Repulse. We still miss him, y’know.’
Seaton allowed himself to be helped into bed. Long after the door has closed he lay staring at the darkness, listening to the soft tap of a creeper against the window.
Jonathan had once laid here. Dreaming and pretending. Planning. Now he was just another name on the list. Killed in action.
Griffin had not said so, but Seaton guessed that the dead Jonathan had been the apple of the admiral’s eye. The favourite. Just one more standard for Richard to compete against.
No wonder the admiral was worried. Perhaps too late. For good or bad, it seemed as if Richard held all the cards.
When Seaton eventually fell asleep he’d forgotten to take some of the pills. But for once, he did not need them.
Surface With Daring Page 22