The Death of the Fronsac_A Novel

by Neal Ascherson

  *

  More divers gathered. It was a booming season for their profession. All over Europe, ports were choked with wrecks and harbour floors were sown with drowned vehicles and unexploded bombs.

  Off Greenock, down in the blinding murk, the new teams of divers bored their sixteen extra tunnels under the ship. Above deck, a squad from Ketling’s shipyard at Rosyth worked with oxyacetylene burners to cut away what was left of the superstructure: funnels, forecastle, gun platforms and any other projections. One salvage hand, spraying sea water to keep the metal cool, very gingerly burned open the steel plates under which the depth charges still lay in their chutes. They were shipped off down the Firth beyond Ailsa Craig and detonated. It was over thirty miles away, but the sound reached the men on Fronsac and rolled around the Argyll hills.

  With the superstructure gone, the divers excavated the two six-ton phosphor-bronze propellers from the mud, cut them off their shafts with torches and hoisted them on to a raft. Ketling sat in his Dumbuck hotel and made fresh calculations.

  The weight was now well down. But his salvage manuals required a margin of 25 per cent more lifting capacity than the weight of the wreck. With Fronsac still wedged deep in her underwater trench, and with an unknown load of sand and gravel inside her, that margin could be too fine for comfort.

  September, month of equinoctial tides, was approaching. The pace grew desperate. The salvage crew cutting into the compartments below deck were hit by concentrations of stench and chemical fumes; several men collapsed and were carried ashore to an ambulance. But the tunnels were completed on time; the messenger wires were passed through; the pairs of giant nine-inch cables followed them and some of their slack was very delicately taken up by winches on the lifting vessels.

  *

  Jackie found the letter when she came home from school. Her name and address were in anonymous capital letters.

  MY DEAREST GIRL,

  This is to invite you to the Big Lift. All is Ready. I think your Sea Studies make it one for you to remember. And maybe it will make you Proud of One who is Proud of You.

  The note gave a day and a time – six in the evening – to be uplifted at Princes Pier. ‘Warm clothing Advisable. Tell your grannie you will be away till morning, and not to worry herself.’ Not a word about Mother. That was awkward.

  Helen didn’t care for the idea. But Mrs M said: ‘He’ll see she’s safe out there, Helen. And sailors just love spoiling children.’

  ‘She’s fifteen years old, Mabel, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Well, I dare say she’ll take better care of herself than you did at her age. From what I heard.’

  Jackie would have liked to wear the old red tartan parka, the Canadian one. It was still almost big enough, but not quite. Her wrists stuck out foolishly, beyond the sleeves. So it was the woolly coat with horn buttons that Mother used to wear before the war. Into her pockets she put a comb, her reading spectacles and a notebook.

  The launch was waiting at the pier. ‘I was telt to look out for a wee girl, no a great big lassie,’ said the seaman helping her to jump in. He sounded indignant, but Jackie thought he might be teasing. Why did people not say what they meant?

  Out at the wreck, she was lifted up to a much larger boat alongside, with many important-looking men on board. Her father introduced her to a pair of friendly fellows in donkey jackets: ‘This is Jacqueline, my oldest niece. I was hearing she studied marine science, so I told her dad she should see this. I’ve to take charge now, so just keep an eye on the lassie.’ To Jackie, he muttered: ‘Watch what ye say now. Well, ye’re no stupid, so. And this’ll be a long night, I’m fearing. Ta-ta for now!’

  The friendly fellows were foremen from the Rosyth breaker’s yard. They brought her a mug of cocoa, and found her a seat on the bench by the deckhouse window. ‘See, we’re waiting on the low tide – the spring tide, as low as she goes. A few minutes after eight, it turns. And then – see all the winches down here and there’s a line of them on the port side too – then we draw the cables in taut. And then, just right gently, handsomely, we set to taking up the strain. And the rising tide and the lifting cables together will bring her off the ground.’

  ‘Here’s hoping,’ said the older man. ‘You’re in luck, young lady. Nobody ever tried a lift this big before. They raised that submarine Truculent in one piece, but she was a bairn’s bath-toy compared to this.’

  ‘Could it go wrong?’

  They both laughed. ‘Your uncle’s a terror for getting what he wants. But, aye, his job’s on the line the day. That’s if he’s no done his sums right.’

  ‘Aye, the things he’s up against. See, the rise and fall of the tide at springs is nae mair’n ten foot: mebbe enough to lift her, mebbe no. And if she does rise, she could just bust in half; down where the stuff exploded, there’s a nine-foot rent through the structure. And it could cheese. D’ye ken cheesing? If the hull’s right weak, the lifting wires could just slice up through her. Oh aye, your uncle’s a hard man, gey good at chasing the lads to get going. But, boy, he’ll be sweatan blood the night.’

  They sat and waited. A ferocious sunset, scarlet, gold and royal-blue, burned over the Argyll peaks to the west. The sea was flat calm, almost oily. As the light began to fade, the older man said: ‘Wait and it’ll get going any minute. But there’s a long night in it. One, two in the morn before we know she’s risen. If she’s risen.’

  He took out a pipe and began to stuff it from a pouch. Jackie noticed the pipe had an interesting metal lid, with perforations, and she was just about to ask about it when she heard shouting. Men were striding about the pontoons and waving a lamp from the bridge of a lifting vessel. She saw her father run across the vessel’s deck and vanish down a lit-up hatchway. An enormous iron clattering rose from the winches, growing unbearably loud and then suddenly cut off into silence. Another burst of clattering, then more silence.

  ‘That’s them taking up the slack.’

  Hours passed. Over and over again, the winches made their brief clamour and went quiet. Jackie fell asleep.

  When she woke up, it was dark. Dirty water was pulsing out of the wreck’s side but the floodlit hull didn’t seem to have shifted at all. The two men from Rosyth had moved away, and a tall, thin young man with black hair was sitting beside her.

  ‘What’s your name? Okay, Jackie, I’m Malcolm and I’m a naval diver. What’s your thing?’

  ‘I’m at school yet. Studying science. Were you diving here? I like sea diving, I’m going to be a marine biologist.’

  ‘I’m a student. Well, I will be a student. I was at Edinburgh University and had to break off. Called up to the navy, and went for the diving course; you’re more independent and there’s bonus money. And one day I’ll get back to my Honours degree.’

  ‘Student what like?’

  ‘Philosophy.’

  ‘Wow! But tell me about the diving here. Was it good?’

  The young man ran his palms back and forth over his knees, and looked at his feet. She noticed the deep, half-healed scratches on the back of his hands. ‘It’s dark, black down there. Most times, you’re just feeling forward with your hands, groping, and no hard ground to stop you losing balance. It’s not so deep, but when the dive’s over I get sick to my stomach, needing to boak – excuse me. And the gaffer, him with the wee red beard, no sympathy from that swine of a slave-driver, I’m telling you. Right bastard, he is – sorry for the language.’

  Jackie said nothing for a while. Malcolm’s hair was nice but he didn’t look well at all, grey in the face, red around the eyes. Then she asked: ‘What was your best time diving, Malcolm?’

  ‘There’s no best times. But I had wild times with the big bonuses last year. I was still in the navy, and we were on clearing the harbour at Kiel, in Germany. Big naval base, bombed to pieces. Great money. But I nearly lost my mind there.’

  He gave her a sizing-up look. ‘See, I went down to the harbour floor. And then I’m surprised: there’s another diver over th
ere already. And another, and another further off. What for did nobody tell me? So I went over to one of them. It was a dead man, a German sailor. They were all dead men, standing on the bottom with the weight of their boots, a whole crowd of them. If you took a step, they swayed towards you. Jesus! I heard that another diver went up to one of them and it put its arms round him. He went off his head after that. Aff his heid altogether.’

  ‘O God! That’s so... Malcolm, d’ye not get nightmares?’

  ‘You say you like sea diving? I’ll tell you something good then. The Germans at Kiel were working on something amazing – a lightweight diving gear. You just wear a mask, connected to miniature oxygen cylinders on your back, and rubber flippers on your feet. We found a set in a marine lab there.’

  ‘So you’re on your own? No airline, no lifeline, but you can stay under. How long for?’

  ‘It near killed me. Two pals and I took it up the coast where there was depth. The cylinder seemed to be half full, by the gauge on it, so I went first – right deep, so it gets to be the same dimness all round you. Ever been that far down?’

  ‘No, never. Not yet.’

  ‘Lost my sense of time; it was so great feeling free under water that way. But suddenly that tight feeling. I look at the dial: Oh God, air’s almost done. So up – but which way’s up? I was disoriented. Every way around me was the same dark. So I do the diver thing: loosen the cylinder valve a turn. And the wee silver bubbles come rushing out – but rushing downwards.’

  ‘Downwards?’

  ‘Aye, I told you – I was disoriented. I looked at the bubbles and saw the air was done and thought: this is death. The mind tells you down is up: those bubbles have to be going to the surface. But your whole body’s screaming: don’t do it. Don’t follow the bubbles down into that blackness when the light and the fresh air are behind you. Jesus, no! But you have to. So I went down, away from life into death. And in a minute there I was up again, back under the blue sky.’

  Jackie said: ‘That’s some courage you had. I think I would have swum upwards and died.’

  ‘My father’s a minister, United Free. I told him all that and he said: “Son, that’s the Conversion experience. To reach the light, you need to force yourself down into your own darkness. What looks like death is life. For our Lord God, down is up.”’

  ‘Are you believing in God?’

  ‘He could have said just: “Son, I’m glad ye’re no deid.” But he never did. I do so believe in God, and I hate him.’

  Malcolm turned his thin face towards Jackie. He gripped her hand painfully.

  ‘D’ye have a boyfriend, Jackie?’

  She tried to free her arm, but he wouldn’t let go.

  ‘Is there a fella you’re going out with, regular, you know?’

  ‘Shucks, Malcolm, I’m only fifteen.’

  He grinned in a sad way that frightened her. Maybe he too had been driven aff his heid like the diver in Kiel. Maybe... she saw her father coming towards her across the cabin and managed not to shout ‘Dad!’

  Malcolm dropped her hand and walked away without looking back. ‘That laddie’s a wee nyaff,’ said Ketling. ‘Aye blethering and girning. Does a fair good shift, though.’

  Jackie hadn’t seen him smiling before. Or not broadly, as if he meant it.

  ‘She’s coming up out of it! She’s rising just the way I said she would. Give it another hour, when the tide’s full, and she’ll be there.’ He was going to say more, but the winches roared out and drowned his voice.

  *

  Dawn came. A clear, sunny morning began. But the chill night air was still in the cabin as Jackie woke from under a navy blanket; even with the blanket and Helen’s coat, she was shivering.

  A mug of tea was on the table for her, next to her father’s clipboard.He sat beside her on the bench, spooning sugar into the mug and pushing it towards her. This seemed odd to Jackie, still half asleep. Had she ever in her life seen him proffering tea instead of accepting it? She took a searing sip and winced.

  ‘Come out on deck, my girl. And see this.’

  The dripping hulk towered above them. Now upright in the water, the creature which had been Fronsac had become a huge blind platform, stripped of all the funnels and features which had made it a ship. In the early morning light, raw surfaces glittered where superstructure had been burned away. The sides were shaggy with green and black seaweed. Now Jackie could see the dark rent near the bows which ran down to the waterline.

  Ketling went off to the pontoons. His hat was on again, and she could see him checking his clipboard and pointing to the men around him. Two of them were wanting to shake his hand, but he shouldered past them.

  She pressed the mug to her belly, feeling its warmth through the coat.

  ‘That’ll be you wanting back to Princes Pier now,’ said the older Rosyth man, leaning on the rail beside her.

  ‘Is it over now? Is it done?’

  ‘Aye, it’s done. She’s in a couple of foot of sand, no more. We’ll get a patch on her side now she’s above water, hose out a bittie more silt, and then she’ll float. Take her in tow and away to the breakers.’

  ‘What happens then?’

  ‘Sky’s the limit for your uncle now. Boy, they said the big man coudny dae it and he done it. What happens then? Knock her apart for scrap, that’s what happens. Could be across the way at Smith and Houstons. Could be round in the Gare Loch, at the Faslane yard.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then it’s into the railway trucks with the metal and away to Lanarkshire to the steel mills. Why, are you wanting a souvenir?’

  He reached into a pocket. ‘See, here’s a French navy button. Out of the crew accommodation where the fire was; some poor bugger’s no needing it. Wee minding of your uncle’s big day, eh?’

  From the launch, she looked back across the Firth as Greenock grew larger ahead. Fronsac shrank in the distance, from a ship’s hull to a dark coffin lifted from the grave. Jackie dropped the button over the side.

  26

  When I switched on the hall light, to get a better look at the men at the door, they both stepped back a pace.

  One was stubby and sullen-looking, with an untidy moustache. The other was elongated and officer-like; he smiled at me. A black car waited.

  ‘You do speak English? Well done! Major Szczucki, we want to ask you some questions.’

  I noticed that he could pronounce my name. I was meant to notice.

  ‘Who are you? Police?’

  ‘No, no, we’re on the legal side of the military, so to speak.’

  Did he expect me to believe him?

  ‘Come in, then.’

  ‘We’d prefer you to come with us. Goodness, you don’t need to pack a bag. Not like that at all.’

  I thought the car would take us to Glasgow, maybe even to London. But instead it wove round the back of town to a bungalow on the Inverkip Road. Perfectly clean, perfectly empty. But somebody had turned on an electric fire in the front room. It was still daylight, but the chintz curtains were drawn.

  It was the stubby man who took charge. I watched him adjust his expression from ‘sullen’ to ‘concerned’. As he spoke, he leaned his head to one side, miming sympathy.

  A check on my name, rank, age, service record.

  ‘You applied for repatriation to Poland. Right. You must be one of the very few officers who did. Something you don’t like over here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Some trouble you might want to get away from?’

  I said nothing.

  ‘The French authorities want to talk to you, don’t they. Badly. About your wartime friend Albert Kellerman.’

  ‘I know all about that. Friend? I never even met him. That statement is lies, fairy story.’

  ‘How do you know there was a statement? Who showed it to you?’

  ‘A French officer told me about it.’ The long man was scribbling.

  ‘Kellerman only wrote that because they said they would shoot him if he didn�
��t cooperate.’

  ‘But Major, he wasn’t the only person who said there was something fishy about the loss of the Fronsac. And about how Lieutenant Melville disappeared. By the way, when did you last see Eric Kent?’

  ‘Who? Eric? But I saw his murder. I was chief witness at the trial. You know that perfectly well.’

  ‘He left a lot of interesting notes behind. Nothing completed, but we are working on them. What do you think really happened to Lieutenant Melville? And where is he now? A little hint? I promise you it’ll go no further.’

  ‘He’s dead. I went to his funeral and he’s dead.’

  ‘Well, he doesn’t seem to be in his coffin. Bits of other people are. Wonder where he went.’

  The stubby man considered me. ‘Feel like a cigarette? Want a break?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Funny that you were on the spot at Abercultie when Eric was killed. But of course you had already been in contact with Wuttke, the chap who stabbed him, for quite a time. True?’

  ‘I interrogated him once. With British officers. That’s all.’

  ‘When Eric was dead, did you feel a tiny bit relieved?’

  ‘Why should I? How can you ask?’

  The questions went on, or, rather, went round and round, repeated with changing emphasis. The early winter night came, and the tall man rose and switched on a standard lamp.

  At about six, they made a pause. Both men stood up. The small one went out, and we could hear the banging of a raised toilet seat. The lean, lengthy man lit a cigarette and offered one to me. This time I took it.

  ‘Słuchaj, Panie Majorze...’ He was speaking Polish, with a very English inflection. His father had emigrated before the war, he said, to work as an art restorer for some English earl with a country palace.

  ‘Listen, Major... you can see how things are building up. Obviously we know more than we have shown you today. More than the French do, in fact. You aren’t being cooperative, and I don’t blame you. But ask yourself: do you have a future here? Either we or the Poles will have to hand you over to the French. And even if you come out of the French justice system in one piece, it will be our turn to hold you while we consider charges.’