Lindsay thought of his own leave. The endless walking, the visits to the Admiralty. The nights when he had at last made good use of Boase's pills. Now, with the ship needing him once more, he wondered what the first night would bring. Perhaps he would be safe.
Ritchie said, `Signal 'ere from H.Q., sir. Ops officer comin' aboard at 1400.' He added quietly, "E's bringin'the commodore with'im.'
Lindsay looked up. 'Kemp? I thought he was staying at Scapa?'
Ritchie shrugged. `You know 'ow it is in the Andrew, sir. They give you tropical rig and sends you to the Arctic. 'Train you for torpedoes and make you a cook!' He grinned. `They call it plannin'!'
Lindsay smiled up at him. It was good to see him again. Something familiar. To hold on to.
`We shall just have to see what it is in our case.'
`There's another signal about A.B. McNiven, too.' Ritchie leaned over to open the pad. `A shore patrol caught 'im breakin' into a chemist's shop. Poor chap probably thought 'e could cure a dose with stickin' plaster.' He became formal again. `An' Mr. Aikman's replacement is due this afternoon.'
Jupp entered the cabin and hesitated. `Pardon, sir.'
Lindsay stood up. `I think we'll have a drink.' He looked at Ritchie. `What about it, Yeoman? Just to start things off again.'
Ritchie grinned. `Well, if you say so, sir. Never bin known to refuse.'
Jupp darted a quick glance at Lindsay and saw the smoother lines around his mouth and eyes. The tablets had done some good then. He looked at the petty officer as he stood beside the desk, pleased yet awkward with the captain's invitation. He thought too of Ritchie's family photographs in the P.O.'s mess and wondered how he had endured the past three weeks.
He straightened his stooped shoulders. `Comin' right up, sir. An' as we're safe in 'arbour, the best glasses!'
Immediately after lunch, while the cranes dipped and swayed back and forth overhead, the ship's company turned to for work. There was a keen wind across the port and they needed little encouragement to make the business of loading stores and ammunition as brisk as possible.
On the outboard side an oiler nestled against the fenders while the pulsating fuel hoses pumped Benbecula's life-blood into her bunkers, her skipper already watching other ships nearby with signal flags hoisted to show they too were demanding his services.
Throughout the ship, above and below decks, officers and ratings busied themselves with their allotted duties, their faces absorbed as they relived some incident or memory of their leave.
Fraser stood by the guardrail above the oiler, his gloved hands on his hips-as he watched the chief stoker checking the steady intake. He had done it so often, in so many ports, he could gauge the fuel supply almost by the jerk of the hoses. He was thinking of his family in Dundee. It had all turned out to be quite different from what he had expected. For years he had been almost a stranger in his own home. A man who came and went, season by season. Back and forth to the other side of the world, a life which he could share with no one outside whatever ship he happened to be serving.
But this time he had been shocked to find his wife was suddenly growing old. And his two children had seemed like strangers, even embarrassed by his forced familiarity. There had been no tours around the pubs as in the past. No quiet anger on his wife's face as he staggered home in the early hours. For three whole weeks he had tried to make up for it. Had tried to rediscover what he had never known he had possessed. She had understood. No arguments. No quarrels about other ships' officers who lived in the district, whose wives had always told her how well their men were doing. Better ships than Fraser's. Promotion, more opportunities, fancy jobs on shore or in some harbour authority.
It had been a close, warm Christmas, and unlike any other leave when New Year had been involved, neither Fraser nor his wife had budged from their fire. As they had listened to the welcome to the New Year on their radio they had held hands, both realising perhaps that it was not merely the end of a year but also of this leave.
He had heard himself say, `If anything happens to me, will you let young Jamie follow the sea if he's so inclined?'
Their son was eleven but had seemed so much older this time.
She had replied, `Don't talk like that, Donald. It's not like you to fret so. What have they done to make you like this?'
`I didn't mean to worry you, lass.'
She had poured him a full glass of whisky. `Drink this, Donald. Jamie's like his father. I'll not stop him.'
And when he had made to leave he had stared around their small house as if trying to remember everything at once. Then he had kissed her and had gone down the path without looking back.
The chief stoker squinted up. at him, his eyes red in the wind. `That feels better, eh, sir? The old girl'11 take us anywhere!'
Fraser regarded him dourly. `She'd bloody well do just that, Usher! I'll. not forgive her, if she conks out now!'
Above on the boat deck Lieutenant Maxwell was staring up at the twin mounting which had appeared abaft the bridge superstructure.
His assistant, Lieutenant Hunter, was saying, `I've checked the communications, sir, and the siting of the mounting is quite good, too.' He was careful to say little, knowing how scathing Maxwell could be.
Maxwell bobbed his bullet head. `Good. Fine. As it should be.' He had hardly heard a word Hunter had said.
He still could not accept it. It was like a bad dream which refused to be broken even when the sufferer was endeavouring to burst awake and free himself from it.
If he had telephoned first he would never have known. He felt the sweat gathering under his cap, hot in spite of the bitter wind. He rarely bothered to telephone or send a letter about leave. Decia, his wife, always seemed to be home anyway. She had money of her own, plenty of it, thanks to her rich father, and was quite content to entertain her friends rather than go visiting.
It might have been going on for months. Years. He felt the anxiety and disbelief churning his insides as if he were going to vomit.
. On the last link of his journey down to Hampshire the train had been held up for several hours because of a " derailment further along the line. Without lights or heating, the occupants of his, compartment had satin resentful, shivering silence. Then when at last he had reached his station there had been no taxi or hire-car available. The aged porter had said sourly, `Don't you know there's a war on?' Stupid old bastard.
Maxwell had been almost out of breath by the time he had walked the five miles to his house. His case had been heavy, filled mostly with duty-free cigarettes and a length of silk which he had obtained in Liverpool from an old contact. For'Decia.
Inside the front door the house had been as quiet as a grave, and for a few moments more he imagined she might have been away. The housekeeper lived out, for now that factories and the services offered either better money or amore exciting life, servants were almost impossible to find. Decia often complained about this fact, as she did about other things, too.
Then he had heard her laugh. A long, excited, sensuous sound.
He did not remember running upstairs or how long he had waited outside the bedroom door. In his mind he could only picture.the scene captured in the bedside lights like some hideous tableau.
Decia sitting up and staring at him, her naked body like gold in the lamplight, her hair across her shoulders in a way he had never seen before. And the man, openmouthed and transfixed, one hand still thrust against her thigh. He had tumbled from the bed, blurting out senseless, meaningless words, groping for his trousers, falling, and then sobbing with terror as Maxwell crossed to his side.
The worst part of it was that Maxwell had been unable to hit him. Maybe in his heart he had known that if he had once started he would have killed him there and then. The man was paunchy and ridiculous. Not even young, and had been in tears as he had babbled for forgiveness..
Maxwell had slammed the door behind him, hearing the man stumbling. downstairs, the sounds of his feet across the gravel drive, and then si
lence.
In the. bedroom there had been no sound either. Just her breahing and his own heart pounding into his ribs like a hammer.
`Why?' The one word had been torn from him even before he had recovered his reason. `In Christ's name, why?'
I nstead of trying to cover her body she had leaned back, her eyes suddenly calm again.
`Why not? Did you imagine I'd be able to go on living like this without a man?'
Maxwell had turned towards the door. `Man? You call that a man?'
She had said, `He made -a change.'
Even as he stood stockstill below the twin Oerlikons Maxwell could not believe. She had not `been afraid or repentant. Had not even bothered to conceal what she had done, perhaps many times with others.
'You bitch!' He had almost choked. `You bloody, spoiled whore!'
Still she had not flinched, and when she had spoken her voice had been scathing, taunting.
`What did you expect? That I could just sit here while you go playing the little hero again? But for this war you'd still be living on my money, pretending to be the retired gentleman, when we both know you were thrown out of the Navy! I'm only surprised they took you in the first, place!' She had mocked at his anguish. `God Almighty, look at you! No wonder we're losing the war!'
`I was not thrown out.' He had heard his excuses pouring from his lips, just as he had told them to himself over and over again. `It was an accident. Someone else.
`Someone else? Oh, it would be. It always is when you make a mistake.'
She had let her shoulders fall back over the pillows, her ' perfect breasts firm in the bedside lights.
`You're a failure. Just as you're a failure in bed!'
He had almost fallen on top of her, his eyes blinded with tears and desperation, his hands groping for her as he had pleaded, `You're wrong. You know you are. I've had bad luck. I've tried to make you happy.'
And all the time she had just laid there, her eyes almost disinterested as she watched his hands running over her shoulders and breasts.
`You make me sick.'
Everything else had been lost in a blur. Like a film out of focus. He could still hear himself screaming down at her, saw her amused contempt change to sudden fright as he had swung back his arm and then struck her across the mouth. She had rolled on to her side, gasping with pain, only to rock back again as he had hit her once more. How many times he had struck her he could not recall. But he could see her doubled over the side of the bed, her cheeks puffed and swollen, her beautiful lips running with blood.
That last sight had frozen him, chilled his fury as if he had been drugged. Hesitantly, almost timidly he had put one hand on her quivering shoulder.
Before he could speak she had turned and looked up at him, her hair disordered across her bruised face, partly hiding one eye which was already closing from his blows.
`'Better now, little man?' The tears had been running down her face to mingle unheeded with the blood on her lips. Perhaps she had expected him to kill her and no longer cared.
Maxwell remembered only vaguely leaving the house. Even as he made to close the front door he had heard her call after him. Just one word which hung in his brain even now. 'Bastard!'
The leave had been spent in a small hotel. He had tried phoning her. Had even written several letters and then torn them up. After having her telephone hung up on him he had tried to get drunk. He had almost gone mad in his hotel room, drinking and going over it all again and again. The nightmare had been made worse by the other hotel guests singing Christmas carols, their curious or amused stares as he had sat at his table for an occasional meal. Once he had taken out her picture from his wallet and torn it in half, cursing her and her beautiful body until someone had banged on the wall and yelled, `Pipe down, chum! Who've you got in there? A bloody tiger?'
The sudden interruption had sobered him, and with pathetic despair he had dropped to his knees, gathering up the fragments of her picture, and had tried to fix them together as he had mumbled her name.
Hunter watched him carefully. He disliked Maxwell but his present mood was almost unnerving. Perhaps he had gone round the bend. It could happen, they said. Or maybe he had heard some bad news.
He asked, `Everything all right at home?'
Maxwell turned on his heels like a bullfighter, his face screwed up with sudden anger.
`You mind your own damn business, right? Do your job and keep the guns in order, that's all I want from you!' He swung away and marched violently towards the bridge, his shoes clicking across the worn planking as if he were on parade.
Hunter shook his head and smiled to himself. That was more like it. Better the bastard you knew than some nut case.
Lieutenant de Chair was passing and drawled, `Back to normal, I see?'
Hunter grinned. `One big happy family.'
The marine lieutenant rested his hands on the guardrail and watched a staff car driving towards the main gangway.
`Let's hope it stays that way, old son.'
A marine driver opened the car door and a stocky figure' climbed out to stare up at the ship's side, the dull light glinting on his oak-leaved cap and the single broad stripe on his sleeve.
de Chair added quietly, 'I should tell young Kemp to watch out.' He walked casually aft saying over his shoulder, `Some sort of god has just arrived!'
Commodore Martin Kemp selected an armchair and sat down very exactly. Without his cap he became just as Lindsay had remembered him from the wardroom party at Scapa. Stocky, even heavily built, he looked like a man who took some pains over his appearance. His features were very tanned, so that his keen blue eyes and the few remaining wisps of grey hair stood out as if independent from the rest of the mould.
He said briskly, `I expect you're wondering why I've come bursting in like this. I could have arrived quite unannounced, of course.'
Lindsay watched him impassively. The of course was somehow typical of the man, he thought.
He said, `I would be ready to receive you at any time, sir.'
Kemp grunted. `Yes. I expect so. Wasn't trying to catch you out.'
`Would you care for some refreshment, sir?'
He shook his head. `No time.' He studied Lindsay calmly. `But if you feel you would like a drink, don't let me stop you.'
Lindsay sat down and tried to relax. He must not let Kemp get under his skin so easily.
`What is it you want to see me about, sir?'
Kemp interlaced his fingers carefully across his stomach. Lindsay noticed how erectly he sat in the chair. There was not a crease in his uniform, and he guessed that he made a point of appearing alert whenever he was with his subordinates.
`As you know, Lindsay, I have been doing a good deal of work on co-ordination.' A small sigh. `A hard, thankless task.'
`I did hear something about it, sir. But I've been away for several weeks, and of course there has been leave for the whole ship since we came to Liverpool.'
Kemp's eyebrows lifted. `Away? Oh yes. The patrol.'
Lindsay took out his pipe and gripped it until Kemp's casual dismissal of the patrol faded into perspective. Perhaps being recalled to the Service after retirement, the fast-moving rate of the war, the sudden jump into his new work were hard to bear for him, too. There were plenty like Kemp. So grateful to be needed again, yet unwilling to bend in the face of the changes which war had hurled against the country and the world.
Kemp continued, `That was a bad show about the convoy. Its commodore did not throw much light on the matter.' He shrugged. `Past history now.'
Lindsay thought of the girl with the bandaged face. The blazing ship, and that last pathetic signal from the convoy escort. Am engaging.
He said quietly, 'It was murder. In my opinion, our people will have to start thinking like the enemy and not of acting out the war as if it is a game.' He could feel his hands trembling. `To see men die and be helpless to aid them was bad enough. To know it was because of carelessness makes it all the worse.'
&n
bsp; Kemp smiled. `You are still on your hobby horse? I've been hearing about your assault on the Admiralty. I'd have thought you'd find a better way of spending your leave.' He shrugged. `No matter. I came to tell you your new assignment. Not partake in amateur strategy.'
Lindsay replied, `You don't believe that ships and men's lives are important then, sir?'
Kemp smiled again. He looked more at ease than when Lindsay and the side party had met him at the gangway.
`Look, Lindsay, you've had a bad time. I make a point of knowing everything there is to know about my officers. Especially commanding officers.'
Lindsay looked away. My officers. So Kemp was taking the reins.
He said, `I am involved, sir. I cannot just ignore it.'
`Of course not. Admirable sentiment. However, you must allow me to understand the overall position and what must be done to contain whatever the Hun intends to do.'
Lindsay watched him with sudden realisation. There was something old-world about Kemp. He may have been able to obtain this new appointment through his past knowledge or record, but his manner, his form of speech were as revealing as a Cockney barrow-boy trying to masquerade as a bishop. The Hun, for instance. It had a First World War, Boys' Own Paper ring to it. God, if Kemp thought he could introduce cricket into the Atlantic he was in for a shock. He felt the anger rising like a fever. But Kemp would not be the one to suffer.
`Drastic situations call for drastic measures, Lindsay. I will be speaking with everyone concerned tomorrow, but I felt you should be put in the picture first.' He hesitated. `Well, I mean, this ship is hardly a front-line warrior, eh?'
Lindsay said quietly, `They are using old pleasure boats, paddle-steamers for minesweeping, sir. China river gunboats for covering the army's flanks in the Med. Benbecula is not alone when it comes to unpreparedness.'
`Well, we can't all have the plum commands.' Kemp's smile was still there but it was without warmth. `We need every ship we can get. Every man-jack who can serve his country to step in and fill the breech.'
Lindsay wanted to laugh. Or cry. `And the breech isa big one, sir.'
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