All in all, it didn’t exactly draw one back there.
‘Alio, oui?’
‘Auberge Bleue?’ He booked a table for two. They knew his name now, treated him with the deference reserved for a regular customer who tipped well; the table would be the one they always had when they were on their own.
He hung up, came back to her.
‘Is something wrong, Ned?’
‘Oh – it hasn’t been the best of days.’
It was a fact, it hadn’t. And the news of the loss of Prince of Wales and Repulse in the Indian Ocean hadn’t made it any better. Coming so hard on the heels of recent losses here. He told her: ‘Out of mind, now. Day’s over.’ Beginning to kiss her, gently. The beauty of the gentle kissing was that it didn’t change the shape of her mouth. Touching her lips lightly with his: slightly open, and tongue-tips meeting, tasting. He could never stand it for very long: it was the same for her, thank God. He murmured, opening her blouse: ‘As of this moment, the day’s perfect. I love you. I am absolutely crazy for you. Said it before, I know, but—’
‘What was so bad?’
‘Oh, I’ve forgotten.’
‘Please. If it’s not secret?’
That word ‘secret’ jarred. As she’d known it would. The question wasn’t devoid of sarcasm. There was this sensitivity between them – what he could tell her and what he couldn’t. He loathed it, felt bad going along with it, but still had to. Although as he’d told her once – if he’d been in England and talking to his mother there’d have been a lot he couldn’t have discussed with her. He told her: ‘Less secret than depressing. One of my sailors was notified this morning that his young brother was killed in the desert recently. That’s all.’
‘All.’ Arms loose round his neck. ‘You say all, but it made your bad day.’
‘Well, in a small ship, small crew—’
‘You’re Papa, eh?’
‘Hardly. But – believe me, they’re marvellous people. The best. Really, the best.’
‘You’re the best, Ned.’
‘Old English word – balls. But – no, there’s nothing Papa-ish about it. I – hold them together, is what it comes down to. ’
‘Lead them.’
‘Synonymous with holding together. Giving them a sense of direction and making sure they hang on to it makes a team out of what’s otherwise a disparate collection of odds and sods.’
‘Not very polite – after you’ve said they’re so wonderful?’
‘But- I’m one of them, don’t you see. Odd or sod I’ve a special position in the team, but I’m still part of it. Listen – while I’m gassing about my job – tell you something else. This last time out, I got us into a situation that was – well, you wouldn’t get into it from choice. My fault, entirely, I – blundered. That’s a fact. Well – when it’s – you know, going on – you’re coping with it, no time to think about anything much else, what to do about it – well, when the crisis was over, back to normal or getting back and I had time to think about – you know, how damn lucky I’d been was – the really important thing about it was you. That I was alive to come back to you. That’s the story. Not such a brilliant one, I’m afraid. Message is supposed to be that – well, that you matter – totally.’
‘And do you think you don’t to me?’ She put her arms behind her, to let the blouse slide away. Her bra had already gone. ‘I’ve told you – when you’re away from me I’m – dead. I mean I try to be, I don’t want my brain to work. Like a long, bad night – dreams would be nightmares, you don’t want to dream, you tell yourself: In the morning it’ll be all right… The morning’s only when that bell rings – and it’s who I’m hoping, praying—’
‘For me it’s when the door opens, and—’ He took a breath. ‘Lucia, you are the most exquisite—’
‘I know, I know…’
He laughed. Her eyes opened. ‘It’s just – I don’t know what I’m saying, it’s such – heaven… Ned, for what time did you book the table?’
‘Nine. So there’s no rush.’
‘You’re staying the night, are you?’
‘Didn’t you realize?’
‘No. Oh, that’s lovely. But I thought you said—’
‘I did. You’re right. Fact is, things have changed a bit. I don’t know how to tell you—’
‘Because you’re not allowed to.’ Brown eyes on his: no gold in them now; in the darkening room it didn’t show. ‘Are you saying you won’t be here, on Saturday?’
‘No. Not exactly—’
‘Is it the truth?’
‘If it were the truth, Lucia darling—’
‘You wouldn’t tell me.’ She turned away. ‘Ned just a minute, I—’
‘Darling—’
‘It’s – all right, I—’ She’d slipped away – leaving a half-stifled murmur in the air behind her: ‘—won’t be two minutes.’ A door – bathroom – clicked shut. He muttered – arms spread, helpless, then turning to the window – ‘Damn…’ The sun was down behind ridges of black-looking cloud, a steely brightness low down behind the trees throwing them into relief like cut-outs, a stage set. Be all right in the morning, she’d said. It wouldn’t, it would be bloody awful in the morning. Less bad for him once he was away and had pushed her into the back regions of his mind, lost himself in his job – immediately, in preparations for patrol; but for her, facing yet another period of maybe three weeks alone with her quivering imagination…
He knew what his problem was, suddenly. Not just the necessity of leaving her, but having virtually to sneak away. Not saying: ‘I’m off, look after yourself, see you in about three weeks’, but just – disappearing.
Bloody silly. Unnecessary. Cruel, even.
The light came on.
‘I’m sorry, Ned.’ Passing him on her way to draw the curtains. ‘Of course – I was thinking – you’ve been back eleven days, so—’
In his arms, so tight he eased up a bit, scared of hurting her.
She’d come back all bright and chirpy – he’d had one glimpse of her as he’d turned back into the room, slightly dazzled by the sudden flood of light, had seen as it were in that flash the brave smile, bathed eyes patted dry. Now, a warm dampness on his shoulder – through a shirt for which he hadn’t yet paid Messrs Gieves. Unpaid Gieves’ bills were cancelled, when customers were killed in active service: one felt no urgency to settle up. ‘Lucia – darling – if there was any way I could change it – change anything, so I wouldn’t have to leave you—’
‘Wouldn’t be alive.’ Her forehead on his chest, fingers unbuttoning the damp shirt. He didn’t know what she meant, quite. ‘It’s the price we pay, isn’t it. Think – if we hadn’t met – all right, I wouldn’t be miserable now, but—’
‘Don’t be. Please?’
‘All right. I’m happy. Well – it’s true, I am. That’s what I was saying, really – if I hadn’t met you—’
‘I can’t imagine how it was, before we met.’
‘Exactly – and there is a price. There’d have to be – one might have known it. At these times, that’s—’
‘Won’t be for ever, though.’
‘What won’t? Us? We won’t?’
‘No. Paying prices. Bad times to make up for good ones.’
‘You think not?’
‘Darling, I know—’
‘No. We don’t know. That’s a big part of it. We don’t…’
* * *
In the Auberge, dancing: She asked him: ‘What made us start like we did? I mean – just like that?’
In contact, all the way. Tell Me, with your Kisses…
‘Just happened. I don’t know why, how. Just thank God it did.’
‘So dangerous. If I’d stopped to think – what you might have thought – of me, being like that – such a – what d’you call it, a pushover – our very first meeting, the first hours!’
‘All I thought was – what is this miracle, this – glorious, heavenly—’
‘Did you ever be
fore – like that, when you’d just met someone?’
‘Never. Absolutely not.’
‘You sound disapproving. Stern. As if now you—’
—and I’ll answer, yes I’ll answer—
‘Would be – I suppose. Wouldn’t you? If it was two other people we just heard about who’d—’
‘Other people. Well…’ Shrugging, in his arms. ‘Might depend – if one liked them? Anyway, not when it’s been proved so right.’
* * *
Then in the morning – still quite dark, but not all that early, not the worst kind when he had to get up alone and leave her in bed – she asked him: ‘It’s changed, hasn’t it. Between us, I mean. Aren’t we – you know, on a different level now, more – what’s the word, not fundamental, but—’
‘I think it’s called love.’
‘Oh, Ned.’ Grabbing him. Half dressed. ‘It is, isn’t it? With you too – I mean, absolutely real, right down to one’s toes?’
‘It’s – total. I’ve told you before. Dozens of times. You don’t listen, that’s your trouble. It’s all I am.’
‘Well, that’s – not quite true.’ Pointing with her head – seaward, more or less. ‘You have that. What you’re off to do now – most of what you are – were before I found you, still must be. What I have of you – well, in between whiles—’
‘Only for the time being.’ He held her tight: razor in one hand. ‘When I can offer more, Lucia, I promise—’
‘Uh-huh.’ Fingers on his mouth. ‘Only promise I want is you’ll come back. Promise me that – please?’
Next day, the 11th, details were coming in about the sinking of Prince of Wales and Repulse. They and a destroyer escort had been without any air cover at all and they’d been hit by successive waves of torpedo-bombers. The destroyers had picked up about half Repulse’s 1300 officers and men, and more than three-quarters of Prince of Wales’ 1600. Admiral Phillips, C.-in-C. Singapore, who’d had reason to believe that he’d have had land-based fighter protection by that time, had gone down in Prince of Wales.
Then, at lunchtime, news that the United States had declared war on Germany and Italy. Mitcheson remembered an anecdote recounted by Josh Currie before they’d left the Sporting Club, the evening before. Conversation had touched again on the prospect of American involvement in this war – as distinct from the Pacific – and Mitcheson had postulated that in the long run it might well turn out to be of crucial importance, a turning point. ‘And don’t we just need one, for God’s sake!’ Currie then came up with this story, which had originated with the C.-in-C., Cunningham – that when in June 1940 news of the French surrender had reached Alexandria, Vice-Admiral Tovey had said to him: ‘Now I know we’ll win the war, sir – we’ve no more allies!’
Fallon had commented: ‘Bullshit. Whistling in the dark.’
Or good old British phlegm. You could look at it either way. But if it hadn’t been for that phlegm – or the whistle in the dark – the Nazis would have had the whole bag of tricks, by now.
Lucia on my mind…
The stand-in for Leading Torpedoman Hastings was a short, swarthy Welshman, name of Agar but already known in the fore ends as ‘Taff’. The torpedo department’s main business this afternoon was the reloading of the stern tube, the reload fish shiny-bright in its coat of blue shellac, lowered to them on the depot ship’s crane. Maintenance routines had been carried out on the twelve torpedoes for’ard – the six in the tubes and the reloads in their racks. Fresh water was being embarked – this was the Chief Stoker’s job – and oil-fuel was to come later. Embarkation of stores would take up most of tomorrow forenoon; ammunitioning – replacement of three-inch and Oerlikon ammo expended on the last patrol – had already been completed.
* * *
In the depot-ship’s wardroom bar that evening, Teasdale got himself a gin-and-water and went over to join Barney Forbes and Matt Bennett. Forbes asked him: ‘Any buzzes?’
Clues as to where they’d be going this time, he meant. Navigators did sometimes get advance information: if particular charts had been needed, for instance. Teasdale shook his head. ‘Sweet F.A. I don’t think the skipper knows, yet.’
Bennett said: ‘Long as we aren’t traipsing off into the minefields again.’
‘Wasn’t that something?’
Teasdale sipped his gin: remembering in particular the moment when, after they’d begun to think they had the answer and a clear route out, the H.S.D. had announced another contact right ahead. It had felt like a kick in the gut: you’d been scared rigid for a while, then seemingly reprieved, then – wham… Then – as a more or less instant antedote to that shock – Mitcheson’s quiet tone – a good description of it might be interested – asking Rowntree: ‘So where are the others now?’ Other mines – the ones they’d been aiming to pass between. Rowntree had swallowed, and got down to it, clicking his dial around and sending the pings out, and in the subsequent stream of bearings and succession of small course alterations, Spartan dodging this way and that – the minefield had thickened before it thinned again – the skipper’s matter- of-fact acceptance of their extraordinary situation and his logical, unflurried response to it had infected them all. Only afterwards, when it was over, you thought: My God…
Forbes pointed at Matt Bennett with his thumb. ‘Chief here didn’t know there was a minefield within a mile of us.’
‘Not quite true. We heard that wire. Couldn’t’ve been much else. Then when we shut-off for depthcharging it was obviously on the cards there might be a few more around.’
‘Didn’t know we were pinging our way through them, though.’
‘Just as well, probably.’ Teasdale glanced at Forbes. ‘Might’ve wet himself.’
‘Very likely.’ Chief nodded. ‘Old plumbers’ tradition, you know. But for that you can get us a couple of large gins, you cheeky sod.’
McKendrick – he had the duty tonight, would be sleeping in the boat instead of in the depot-ship – drifted in at this point, came pushing his way over as Teasdale headed for the bar. ‘Ah, Johnny. Buying, are you?’
‘That’ll be the day.’
‘Mean bastard.’ He joined the others. ‘Hi. Would you believe it, skipper just buggered off ashore. Last night in, even. Must be getting chronic.’
‘D’you blame him?’
‘Well – no, I suppose—’
‘Nor do I. Not in the least.’ The engineer raised his glass. ‘God bless ’em both.’
* * *
He hadn’t intended to go ashore, breaking his own rule of staying on board the last night or even last two nights before sailing for patrol. He knew she wouldn’t be expecting him, only hoped she hadn’t gone to the Seydouxs’, or somewhere. She might have, rather than sit alone and mope.
Incredible – a girl like that – who even might sit and mope!
(No letter, incidentally, from Elizabeth, since before the last patrol. One from his mother, though, which had consisted mostly of references to her – what a splendid girl she was, how absolutely right for him, etcetera. Easy enough to put two and two together there. But he was glad he’d written that letter to her. The next one would be much more difficult to write – as well as to receive, however carefully one worded it – but at least she’d had the warning signal, wouldn’t be taken completely by surprise.)
From Number Six gate he took a gharry into town, then the tram. Rattling towards Lucia. Last night’s tune playing over and over: Yes, I’ll answer, with my heart… Through Ibrahimia: thinking maybe he’d take her to the Greek’s for supper. If she was here. Beginning to worry about it, now: what to do if she were not…
Try the Seydouxs’?
The reason for staying away, of course, had been so as not to signal more clearly than necessary the imminence of departure – so that neither she nor any third party keeping tabs on them could know with any certainty that Spartan would be leaving for patrol that day or the day after, or for that matter might already have gone.
But the he
ll with it. There were no third parties. And he was sick of sneaking out on her. That stage was over, a thing of the past now. As she’d said – this morning, in the bathroom – things had changed, moved on, they were – quote – on a different level – unquote.
Should have telephoned…
It was close on seven-thirty when he touched her bell-push, then – after a short, depressing silence – heard her coming.
Light, quick steps – across the hall. Door-handle turning…
‘Ned!’
That sag of – shock, more than surprise. Like being winded. He’d seen it once before – here, and in his mind since then: astonishment, then right on its heels total, unaffected pleasure. ‘Really is you! I hoped – didn’t dare believe… I’m not dreaming, am I?’
‘No.’ He pushed the door shut behind him. ‘Just couldn’t stay away from you, couldn’t—’
Couldn’t speak, then. Didn’t need to. Well aware of the price to pay and that there’d be an instalment in tomorrow’s dawn.
12
The aircraft, a Ju 52 painted in Italian colours, lurched savagely as it flew in and out of cloud. In clear moments now and then Emilio had glimpses through his square window of a rocky, barren-looking island with a deeply indented coastline outlined on this western side in a white boil of surf brilliant white, in the beginnings of evening twilight – and now a small offshore island, mistakable at first glance for a half-surfaced submarine. Gone again, the machine banking steeply, back into cloud. He felt sick: somewhere behind him one of the others was vomiting. One more of those sudden drops, and – Christ, think of something else…
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