Shake of the head. ‘None, sir.’
‘Good.’ A glance the other way, checking privacy. Then, quietly, ‘Is it a fact that you’ve become engaged?’
Complete surprise. He nodded. ‘Yes. I’d have mentioned it, but—’
‘I was not in a receptive frame of mind.’
One way of describing it… Otto added, ‘And earlier, in FdU’s presence, it might have seemed I was looking for an excuse not to join you.’
‘Might indeed.’ Bisonic nod. ‘Especially as I had been given an incorrect impression of your relationship with a young lady of whom I am fond and would not like to see harmed in any way.’
‘Nor I, sir. And she won’t be. Incidentally, since it was you who introduced me to her in the first place—’
‘Von Mettendorff – if I’d had the facts of it straight, I would not have brought you along. That’s all I have to say on this.’ He turned away, called through to Hohler, ‘Bring her up to ten metres!’
In order to put the search periscope up and check on the approach of twilight. Moving to the ladder up to the CO’s control-room for that purpose, and Otto returning to the wardroom, Neureuther asking him, ‘About to surface, are we?’
‘Maybe. In the next half-hour anyway. Checking how the light is.’
Hintenberger then – with a gesture towards the chart table – ‘All right, d’you reckon?’
‘Looks all right.’ Nodding and crossing fingers. ‘Looks fine.’
13
Thursday 31 October, still dark. They’d been called at seven by the hotel’s boot-boy, and the car Sam had ordered was at the front door at eight, by which time they’d breakfasted on porridge followed by eggs and bacon. All three of them in the back of it now, as the driver turned it first south and then west, Sam in the middle with an arm round each of them, smelling of shaving-soap. The driver had thrown a rug over their knees, but it was very cold, despite bulky greatcoats, and the bodily proximity made it seem less so. Anne murmuring, ‘Isn’t this cosy…’
They’d arrived at Thurso’s station hotel after dark last evening, Sam going to his single room on the second floor and the girls to their shared double on the first, having about an hour and a half before supper in which to have baths and get ready. The bathroom was somewhat austere and at the end of a freezing-cold corridor; having checked that the water in the pipes was at least warm, Sue had been finding a coin to spin, to decide which of them would bath first, when there was a knock on the door. Anne called, ‘Who is it?’, and Sam’s voice answered, ‘Thought I’d let you know I’m going for a stroll. Case you found me gone, and worried.’
Anne opened the door. ‘Might I come too?’
‘Why, sure! Nothing I’d like better!’ Then, with barely any diminution of enthusiasm, ‘How about our chaperone?’
Sue had snorted. ‘Count her out. Strong as your unbridled passion for each other may be, on a wet and windy night, even in romantic Thurso—’
They’d laughed. Hadn’t seen much of the place in the growing dark, but had been less than overwhelmed by the little they had seen: and the wind had been gusting quite strongly, with sleet in it, boding ill for the next day’s crossing. (Today’s, in fact.) Anne struggling into her Wren greatcoat; Sam advancing into the room to lend a hand, and Sue protesting, ‘Oh, I don’t know about this, now—’
‘We’re the sort you give an inch to, we take a mile.’ She had the coat on, was tightening its belt. ‘Isn’t that so, Sam?’
‘Would be. Far as I’m concerned.’ He’d been at the door by this time, ushering Anne out ahead of him. Suggesting then, ‘Hey, like to see the room they’ve put me in?’
‘Hear that, chaperone?’
‘Most certainly did!’
He’d pulled the door shut; Anne saying quietly, ‘Yes, I would.’
‘Huh?’
‘Like to see your room.’
‘Mean that?’
‘No. Not literally.’ Turning up the stairs, though; glancing round at him. ‘Actually, don’t give a hoot about the room, what I want is—’
She’d checked that. Above her on the stairs a rather stout maidservant was trying to flatten herself against the wall to let them by. Didn’t flatten all that easily. Anne smiled at her, squeezing by, murmured, ‘Good evening.’
‘Evening, ma’am.’ A small knees-bend, ostensibly a curtsy. ‘Evening, sir.’
‘Very good evening to you, my dear!’
He’d got past her, and she’d continued downwards, murmuring to herself. He told Anne, ‘That’s ruined your reputation in the north of Scotland!’
‘Better not stay up here too long, then. I was saying – or about to – all I want is to have you kiss me. After sitting staring at each other all day, or most of it…’
‘Door on your right here. Oh, I have a key.’ Passing her, opening the door and standing back while she walked in and turned to face him, commenting without having looked anywhere except at him – ‘What a nice little room. Oh, Sam…’
‘This actually you?'
‘Me on holiday. Letting my hair down – having given our dear chaperone the slip. I love her but it’s nice to be on our own for a moment. I’d like you to know I’m very much enjoying being with you, Sam. It was a good idea you had.’
On her toes, arms round his neck, kissing.
‘Oh, my dear—’
‘You’re my dear.’
Beginning again – for a while… Then remembering that maid, and easing off, Sam telling her various flattering things about herself, she cutting in with: ‘When we get back to London, I think we should – well, pursue this, get to know each other really well?’
‘If I’m understanding you correctly—’
‘I’m sure you are.’
* * *
Their limousine forked off from the coast road on to one that slanted downhill towards the western end of Thurso Bay, where Scrabster was. Quite soon there were little houses up on the left, most with lights in their windows, then some on the right as well, and after a mile or two an iron gateway with guards – and a guardhouse – soldiers with slung rifles, braziers glowing to keep them warm. The driver slowed to a crawl and a corporal peered in, waved them through.
‘There she is now.’ Driver pointing to a lit section of quayside. Lights on a gangway, and the dark profile of a destroyer. HMS Brecon, she turned out to be. Sailors carried their luggage up the gangway, after Sam had identified himself to a petty officer and then returned to the car to pay its driver. By that time a lieutenant had appeared – exchanging salutes with Sam, telling them his name was Cholmondely and that they’d have the wardroom to themselves. There was an Army contingent already embarked, in one of the Messdecks.
‘Pushing off in about a quarter of an hour, sir.’
‘Timed it about right, then.’
Sue asked whether it was going to be rough, and he said they might find it a bit lively – as they probably knew, the Pentland Firth had a reputation to live up to – but in fact the sea had gone down during the night, it shouldn’t be too bad – wouldn’t last long, anyway. Sam asking him then, ‘Is Brecon what I’ve heard referred to as a thirty-knotter?’
‘Is indeed, sir. Also known as an oily-wad. Vintage 1894. She’s done more than her bit in the last few years, though, I can tell you.’
‘I’ll bet she has.’ Sam and the lieutenant were following the girls up the timber gangway. ‘But if you’re sailing in fifteen minutes you don’t want to waste your time on us. Only thing is, at some point I should say how-do to your skipper.’
‘Good thinking, sir. His name’s Morton. Two-striper like myself. If you’d like to make your number with him right away, I’ll take you along.’
‘And where do you fit into the scheme of things?’
‘Second in command, sir. First lieutenant – in other words, chief cook and bottle-washer. Now in this tin doorway, ladies – minding your heads and also the steps – ladder downward, right in front of you.’
There was lig
ht inside, anyway. The ladder – a short steel stairway – led down to what he called the wardroom flat, off which were the wardroom, several cabins and the wardroom heads, or WC and washplace. Wardroom about the size of that single room of Sam’s, with a hatch through to what was called the pantry, in which lurked a steward who’d look after them, name of Smithers. Anything they wanted, within reason – coffee, lemonade, for instance. Anne asked Lieutenant Cholmondely, ‘Best to avoid liquids, isn’t it, in rough weather?’
‘Well – yes, you’re right…’
He took Sam away to meet the ship’s captain, leaving them to settle down. Sue muttering to Anne, ‘I’ve a feeling this is going to be what’s known as a harrowing experience. I rather like that Cholmondely boy, though.’
* * *
Surprisingly, neither of them was sick, although Anne felt close to it at one stage and jumped at Sam’s suggestion that they might see how it was on deck. He’d been looking a bit pale himself, she’d noticed. They were something like halfway, it was fully daylight and blowing hard, there was a lot of movement on the ship, and the land in sight to starboard was the island of Hoy, according to the steward, Smithers. He’d probably been told to keep an eye on them, and appeared from time to time, although Sam told him there was no need to. It was cold on deck, and the ship was rolling hard enough that one needed something solid to hold on to; but she was feeling better within minutes, Sam manoeuvring them into the shelter of the bridge superstructure, starboard side – their backs against it, him in the middle again with an arm around each of them; there was also a rail that ran around the superstructure at about waist-height, which they could hang on to behind their backs, as an additional precaution. Wind being from the northwest – the ship’s other side – was giving her a corkscrew-like motion, combination of pitch and roll. But it was better up here than down below. The land – west coast of Hoy – was coming closer all the time: before long, Sam informed them, they’d see the Old Man of Hoy. Some kind of rock, apparently – either he’d mugged-up this stuff from the guidebook, or the skipper had been showing him their route on the chart up there. Before the Old Man of Hoy, though, there was a westward extension of the coastline to a headland of which he’d forgotten the name: it was half-buried in white foam, the sea sounding like distant thunder, flinging itself against the high, rocky coast. Dramatic – invigorating – and wonderful to be feeling well now. The Old Man when they came to him turned out to be a tall pinnacle of rock, a giant’s thumb stuck up on the cliff about a mile away. Coastline receding then, the ship gradually altering to starboard, following it round. Cliffs taller than ever. She yelled to Sam – in the wind and noise you had to scream to be heard – ‘Steam round the top of this island, do we?’
He’d nodded. ‘Next island to the north is Mainland, we turn east between the two of them – through what they call Hoy Sound. Then north into Stromness.’
‘How far?’
‘I’d guess five, six miles.’
‘And how fast are we going?’
‘Don’t they teach you anything in the Wrens?’
‘Never taught me a thing!’
‘Well – say fifteen knots.’
‘Not much longer, then.’
‘Sticking my neck out, say twenty or thirty minutes.’
‘Then what?’
‘Oh – we go ashore – to the Stromness Hotel, which is very close to where we berth – and I make a couple of telephone calls.’
‘You still don’t know whether or not we stay at the hotel, I suppose.’
‘No, that’s one of the things I’ll discover. As I mentioned, there’s a Wren establishment in Kirkwall—’
Sue shouted, ‘Much sooner stay in a hotel!’
‘Day or two ago they didn’t have a room. All taken for military and naval personnel in transit, apparently.’
‘So what are we?’
‘Take your point, but – anyway, something will have been fixed up. Have to take what we’re offered, I’m afraid. But you’ll be looked after all right.’
‘Slowed down, haven’t we?’
‘Sure have. That’s why I said, sticking my neck out…’
‘This far it’s been top-hole, anyway. Really has.’ She asked Sue, as the pitching eased but the roll became heavier, ‘Don’t you think?’
Sam’s left arm tightened round her. Other one tightening around Sue, no doubt. Or maybe not. The motion had become more violent in the last few minutes, and he had one foot up, jammed against what he’d referred to earlier as a ventilator. She howled, ‘I’m frankly amazed at not having been sick!’ and caught Sue’s reply, ‘Probably still time, if you’re keen to. What’s that island?’
‘Oh – that is…’ A pause while memory stirred. ‘Graemsay, I think it’s called. We pass in through the channel that’s ahead now – see? Ten knot tide, apparently. Then hard a-port, and – lo and behold…’
* * *
The hotel looked down on the harbour and was quite large and rambling, but at the desk the clerk confirmed that there were no rooms vacant. Sam thought it was probably just as well, being jam-packed with various soldiery – also dockyard technicians from Invergordon, the clerk had mentioned – and having no less than three bars in it, he guessed maybe not all that suitable for young ladies on their own.
He went to make his telephone calls, which included one to the Wren hostel in Kirkwall, where a Wren 2nd officer who’d been contacted two days ago from London told him that since the hostel itself, which was in the course of being re-roofed, was fully occupied, she’d arranged for the girls to be put up in a guesthouse at Swanbister – proprietress a Mrs McGregor – which they’d used before as overflow accommodation. It wasn’t far from Stromness, on high ground behind Houton and Orphir Bay, had wide views over the Flow, including the anchorage where the American battleships were at present anchored. And if they were to be taken out on a tour of the Flow, as had been mooted, Houton would be conveniently near for embarkation.
Anne looked at him in surprise. ‘Tour the Flow – by boat?’
‘Doesn’t seem likely now. I raised it as a possibility, thinking that if we had good weather – anyway, the lady’s point was that trawlers work out of Houton, which is handy to Swanbister. But despite your having proved to be such first-rate sailors, a problem is you’d need to be escorted, and I’m not going to have the time for it. Even to set it up. On the other hand, this guesthouse – Swanbister’s on the road between here and Kirkwall, and there’s a regular two-way service by omnibus, so you’ll have both towns in easy reach—’
‘And the Standing Stones.’ Sue had studied the guidebook last evening. Telling Anne now, ‘Standing Stones of Stennes and what’s called the Ring of Brodegar, also what sounds rather creepy, some “chambered tomb”. All quite near, though. We could ask Mrs McGregor – if it’s fine, borrow or hire bicycles?’
‘Well’ – Sam again – ‘seeing as you have luggage, I was thinking I’d do something about a car – to get you out there, anyway. It’s not so far, ten or twelve miles by the look of it.’
‘Very kind, Sam, but we’ll take the bus.’ Glancing at Sue, who nodded. ‘Find out when and where from, and fill in any waiting time by looking around this place. We’ll manage, anyway. I think you should get on with your own business now. How will you get out to the flagship?’
‘In her steam picket-boat, from right here in this harbour.’ Checking the time. ‘Yeah, well—’
‘There you are, you see. But when you know the weekend plans—’
‘You did telegraph your mother?’
‘Did indeed. Told her I would again when we know more.’
‘Capital. I’ll be in touch in any case. Be as well if you’d let Mrs McGregor know where you’re going, what time to expect you back, so forth.’
* * *
Sue bought a sweater, Anne bought a map. The shops were all in the cobbled main street that wound its way between terraces of small houses along the shoreline and higher ground on which the hotel
and other stone buildings, some quite large, were ranged. Looking down through gaps between houses one saw slipways and jetties, fishing-boats moored close inshore. In summer it would be pretty, now it was all in varying shades of grey. But pleasant enough, and not as cold as they’d thought it would be; sheltered, of course, by the buildings crowding in on the narrow street. Anne’s map, which they studied while lunching in the hotel – herrings with bread and butter, followed by plum pudding – showed them why from here there was no view of the American battleships: the projection southward of the Mainland coastline, with the land rising inland into hills, hid that northeast part of the Flow where Sam had said they were lying.
But there’d be a view of them from Swanbister, he’d said.
‘Or from down near the water’s edge along here. Peculiar names – Smoogro, Roo Point, Greenigo…’
The bus left Stromness at about two-thirty, and a porter from the hotel brought their luggage down to it. Then, after grinding out of the village – or town, as it called itself – and over a narrow causeway with an inland loch on one side and the Flow’s choppy surface on the other, they were passing turn-off signs for the Standing Stones and the Ring of Brodegar. High ground to the left, inland, and on the right grassland sloping down to the water’s edge. Here and there, farmsteads; and all of it stone-walled. The island of Graemsay, its end with a lighthouse on it, was about a mile offshore. Driving south now – to the place called Houton, which Sam had mentioned, after which they’d be only two or three miles short of Swanbister.
Houton was an inlet, with jetties, cranes and fishing-boats, but the bus having stopped to set down a woman and her children now turned steeply uphill, away from the water, speed reducing to no more than walking-pace near the top, engine then near-convulsing as the driver forcefully changed gear and swung right. An old woman in a long black coat and woollen hat, with whom they’d exchanged a few polite words before departure from Stromness, told them that Swanbister was the next stop and they’d find the guesthouse up on their left.
Stark Realities Page 23