by Max Hennessy
VIII
Kate Fee waited through the days of the evacuation at Wiggins’s. The boat-yard was silent and deserted and she sat in the office alone, watching the rats run from underneath the stacked timber into the empty boat-shed. Their hurrying brown bodies seemed to her more a symbol of loneliness and emptiness, she told me afterwards, than anything else in the silent yard; more than the gulls that wheeled in the sky overhead, their cries like the sighs of mourners in the stillness, more than the stolid, inexorable ticking of the office clock.
She stared through the windows with dry eyes, watching the corner where the rats disappeared. She’d been at the yard every day from the time the boats had left, first to arrive in the morning and the last to leave at night.
Sunday arrived, and the drab streets were deserted except for a few children listlessly playing among the orange-peel in the gutter. In the sunshine, away from the bustle of the Narrow Seas, there was nothing to indicate what was happening at the other side of the Channel, nothing beyond an occasional flight of aircraft roaring southwards and eastwards overhead. The papers were full of news, but it was an empty, crowded news that told her nothing beyond what she already knew. Judging by the columns and the staring headlines, most of the excitement was dying now and Britain had done far more than anyone had dared to hope. She’d swept an army from certain destruction and capture.
One of Wiggins’s boats had arrived back within twenty-four hours of its departure, limping badly, its engines hot. A second had arrived the previous day, the Saturday, its decks splintered with bullets that had put its steering gear out of action before it had even crossed the Channel. Of the others there’d been no word, no sign, no indication of what was happening to them or to their crews.
Kate had been about the dusty streets in the intervals between waiting at the boat-yard, talking to the dishevelled men in stained and torn uniforms, who’d arrived from the east by train to fall asleep among the abandoned newspapers and tram-tickets in the roadway outside the station as they waited for the lorries to take them away, too tired almost to drink the tea that was offered them and eat the sandwiches they held in their grimy fists.
‘There was too many boats, miss,’ they told her in answer to her questions. ‘There was too much going on at once.’
‘Gawd, miss, it was too much of a tea-party to notice anybody in particular.’
Outside, beyond the river, the grey, still sea had been like a steel sheet that gave no indication of what was happening beyond the horizon. Occasionally they’d heard rumblings but no more. No more beyond the tramping feet of those tattered men, who’d been housed for the night in the Town Hall and church rooms and schoolrooms, men whose eyes were heavy-lidded with exhaustion and weariness, men who sometimes had no boots.
Kate had sat all through that morning with every Sunday paper she could lay her hands on, scanning them for even the minutest scrap of information that would cheer her. But there was no rest for her strained nerves in the headlines, She and an elderly foreman had been virtually in charge of the deserted yard. Then, when the foreman went home for his lunch, glad to get away from the silent offices and sheds for a while, Kate was alone with a dry, dusty misery that made her feel sick inside.
Minnie had been to the boat-yard, her face pale and her eyes puffy with weeping. But there was no misery in her heart, I’ll bet. Only sorrow for herself, and a cunning little mind that refused to admit defeat. She’d put on her best clothes and was dressed fit to kill She’d tried to find me at Dig’s, I heard, before she went to Wiggins’s.
Kate had met Pat in the street as he hurried to the station and, from his incoherent snatches of words as he passed her, she’d gathered something of what had happened. Pat was not trite, not even humble or humiliated with his black eye and bruised face and missing teeth, only anxious to be away before Minnie could catch up with him.
‘She can look after ’er bloody self,’ he’d said as he went. ‘Got me into enough trouble, she did.’
Then he’d hurried off in the direction of the station, and Kate had known as he left her that she’d never see him in the town again.
Minnie she greeted coldly when she arrived at the boat-yard, half-defiant and with a simulated humility she didn’t wear well.
‘When’s he coming back?’ she’d demanded in reply to Kate’s information, feeling foolish and clumsy as she always did, I know, in front of Kate, whose stillness hid a sick heart Minnie couldn’t see.
‘I don’t know.’ Kate forced her voice to be steady. ‘Nobody knows.’
‘Don’t know what he’d got to go an’ do that for just now.’ Minnie’s tones were aggrieved. ‘Might have waited till I could see him before he went.’
Kate said nothing. There was so obviously nothing to say to this shallow, mean little woman, whose concern was only for herself. Unhappily, she realized Minnie had dressed carefully, with a thin frock over her curves, and scent enough to kill a cat. She’d done it all for me, I reckon. Ready to turn on all her charm.
‘Isn’t there some way I can get in touch with him?’ Minnie asked. ‘Them boats have wireless and things, don’t they? Can’t we ring up somebody who’ll know when he’s comin’ back?’
‘He may not come back,’ Kate said, and Minnie’s eyes widened, startled and big.
‘What? Never? Well, that’s a nice thing! That’s a bit ripe!’
Then she realized what Kate meant and her jaw dropped. ‘Oh, Gawd!’ she said. ‘Not killed?’
Kate nodded and Minnie was silent for a moment. I’ll bet she was thinking of herself in black, a widow. My death would have been her salvation. There’d be no clacking tongues to drive her from the Steam Packet, no scandal, no dirty linen to be washed in public. No one need know what had happened. There’s something comfortably respectable about widowhood.
‘Is that where he’s gone?’ she asked more happily, indicating the papers spread on the office desk.
Kate nodded again and Minnie stared in awe at the black headlines. I’m sure she’d no idea what was going on. I expect she thought a war was a bit like a noisy Saturday night at the Steam Packet.
‘Well!’ she said, and she seemed almost indignant. Her moment of dismay had passed and she was the old Minnie again, self-reliant, selfish and independent, her problems half solved, anxious to make an impression.
‘Fancy going off like that. Never a word of good-bye to a girl.’ She turned to Kate, not realizing how much she knew. ‘Never even bothered to kiss me aw revaw,’ she said.
‘I expect not,’ Kate replied, then she went on hurriedly, anxious to avoid an argument with a stupid woman: ‘Nobody did. They didn’t have time.’
‘Well, I think it’s a bit thick,’ Minnie said, and she even managed to force a few tears.
With thin hands that showed a sinewy strength Kate grabbed her shoulders suddenly, unexpectedly, and shook her so that her teeth jarred.
‘Shut up!’ she said, angered by the act Minnie was putting on for her benefit. ‘Don’t you realize he’s risking his life to save stupid people like you?’
The unexpected shaking on top of the nervous strain of the past few days while she’d been waiting for me to turn up at the Steam Packet, while she’d struggled to get her story word perfect and debated the best means of soothing me down, of winning me back now that she’d lost Pat, suddenly brought real tears to Minnie’s eyes and she began to wail. She stopped short as she felt a stinging blow on her cheek where Kate slapped her face.
‘Pull yourself together,’ Kate said. ‘There’s no time for hysterics.’
Minnie glared. ‘I ’spect you think he’s coming back to you, don’t you?’ she stormed, her passionate temper rising. ‘Well, you’re wrong, Katie Fee. You’re wrong. You wait. He’s my husband and we’ll soon see who he comes back to. Just wait till he spots me, that’s all. Then we’ll see.’
She shoved her hat straight on her head and, grabbing her bag, hurried out of the office…
* * *
Th
e day dragged on wearily towards dusk and Kate still waited under the harsh glare of the office electric light. The news that came over the wireless was still vague, but there was a more confident note in it now. England was on her own, but far from humiliated in her suffering. There was rising in her a spirit of pride, a grandeur that came from tradition. There was hope despite the disaster.
As she sat, Kate heard a train shriek in the silence and she guessed that another load of soldiers had arrived, needing shelter and food. Suddenly angry with herself for her fears, she rose to her feet. There were other women with anxieties just then, she decided. She wasn’t alone in her misery. There was too much to do to sit still, and the women who were slaving in and around the station and the Town Hall would be glad of help.
She rose and, switching off the light, stepped out into the cool night air and closed the office door behind her.
I was leaving the station with Dig as she turned into the street. She saw me immediately and broke into a run, her heels clicking sharply on the pavement.
‘Jess! Oh, Jess!’ Her voice broke and became an emotional croak as my hands caught her and steadied her. Then she was hugging me fiercely, her eyes shining with tears.
‘Oh, Jess!’ she was sobbing. ‘Thank God you’re safe!’
I held her silently, my arms round her, suddenly thankful she was there. My knees felt like water at the thought that she wanted me. I’d known she’d wait for me, but now that she was there in my arms it seemed to crowd the words from my tongue and hold my throat in a choking tightness that wouldn’t let me speak. And my eyes were full of stinging tears again.
‘Kate,’ I whispered at last. ‘I’m glad you were here.’
I drew her closer to me. My weary body and tired mind seemed to draw strength from her. Dig was standing nearby, his mouth twisted foolishly into a smile. Then Kate suddenly saw I was holding the shabby naval sword she’d last seen Old Boxer wearing when he stumbled into the boat-yard that last night. She didn’t question it, though she must have guessed why Old Boxer wasn’t there to carry it himself, and why Yorky hadn’t come back with us.
I knew then that I no longer had any fear of losing her. I should never lose her again after this, however far away a ship might carry me. The sea couldn’t ever keep us apart again.
I held her tighter at the thought. I never even noticed the grimy figures who hurried past, all of them too tired, too concerned with food and sleep to see us.
Occasionally we were jostled by the crowd, but we clung together silently, speechlessly, breathlessly. To me there was no longer any question about the future. Kate had decided it for me. All the emptiness and hollowness, all the solitariness had drained away.
‘It’s been a long and lonely voyage, Kate,’ I said, ‘but I’m home at last.’
Next in The By Air, By Land, By Sea Collection:
Light Cavalry Action
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About the Author
Max Hennessy was the pen-name of John Harris. He had a wide variety of jobs from sailor to cartoonist and became a highly inventive, versatile writer. In addition to crime fiction, Hennessy was a master of the war novel and drew heavily on his experiences in both the navy and air force, serving in the Second World War. His novels reflect the reality of war mixed with a heavy dose of conflict and adventure.
Also by Max Hennessy
The RAF Trilogy
The Bright Blue Sky
The Challenging Heights
Once More the Hawks
WWII Italian Collection
Harkaway’s Sixth Column
Up For Grabs
Picture of Defeat
The WWII Naval Thrillers
The Sea Shall Not Have Them
Ride Out the Storm
Cotton’s War
North Strike
The Flying Ace Thrillers
The Mustering of the Hawks
The Mercenaries
The Courtney Entry
The Martin Falconer Thrillers
The Fledglings
The Professionals
The Victors
The Interceptors
The Revolutionaries
First published in the United Kingdom in 1951 by Hutchinson Library Services Ltd
This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Canelo
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
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Oxford OX2 0DF
United Kingdom
Copyright © John Harris, 1951
The moral right of John Harris writing as Max Hennessy to be identified as the creator of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781800324817
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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