Surviving the Evacuation, Book 17

by Frank Tayell

  “With any old-world supplies we find going into a central store?” the admiral asked.

  “As we discussed, yes,” Kim said. “Colm will maintain a guard on it. Once we’ve searched everywhere, we’ll see what we’ve got, and how far it’ll stretch.”

  “Thank you,” the admiral said. “Malnutrition is a concern. As is frustration with the diet, and what that might lead to. To counter it, tomorrow, I’m going to propose the Faroese join us in a joint expedition northward aboard the Amundsen.”

  “I thought that ship was going west,” Chester said.

  “The New World will go west,” the admiral said. “If the ice is too thick for her, it would be too thick for the Ocean Queen. The Amundsen will go north, to Norway or wherever else the locals can recommend. Three days to travel north, one day for looting, three days back, and she’ll return before The New World reaches Canada. The prospect of a varied diet will fill the mind, if not the stomach. Before The New World has rounded Newfoundland, the Amundsen will have set sail for the Bay of Biscay.”

  “Where it’ll look for the people of Creil?” Chester asked.

  “Yes and no,” the admiral said. “The Amundsen will inspect Biarritz and Bilbao, and the coast between. If there is a safe, deep harbour, the Courageous will search those cities and that section of coast. The Amundsen will continue south to Gibraltar, and then head into the Mediterranean with the intention of looking for fresh fruit. As for the Courageous, she will arrive in harbour tomorrow evening. We will detach three of the Vulcan cannons, and distribute one to each ship.”

  “Is this so the Faroese know we have the warship and its weapons?” Mary O’Leary asked.

  “In part,” the admiral said. “And in part because we have so little ammunition. We’re down to under a thousand rounds in total, not counting whatever shotgun shells and handgun ammo clink in the depths of our pockets. Those cannons are almost the extent of our armoury. Removing them is as much out of fear that if we were to lose the Courageous, we’d lose them all. Captain Fielding will then head south, to Ireland, to Kenmare Bay where the Harper’s Ferry is rusting, and where Mister Mills and the Vehement still sit. The colonel will travel with the ship, to persuade Mister Mills to scuttle his boat.”

  I glanced over at Leon who showed no surprise at this news.

  “And then head to the Bay of Biscay?” Chester asked.

  “Only if the Amundsen finds something worth the voyage,” the admiral said. “But not until The New World is on its return. Kenmare Bay is closer to Newfoundland than Faroe. If a rescue is needed, the Courageous will make the trip. On its return, The New World will then set out for New England. My intention is, by the end of January, to have selected the best alternative site for our new home from between the Bay of Biscay, the Mediterranean, and the Northeastern Americas. If the Faroese will not extend the deadline, we won’t beg, and we won’t delay. This spring, we need to plant. We need to spend February preparing the ground. Either that’s here, or it’s not. Personally, I have faith that we can reach an accommodation with the Faroese, but we will plan for the alternative. That brings me to one last thing. Nilda, I’d like you to command The New World on its voyage west.”

  “Me?” she asked. Clearly this was news to her, and to Chester. “Why me? All I know about ships I’ve learned in the last few weeks.”

  “Chief Watts will tend your engines. Norman Jennings will make an admirable pilot. They’ll select another ten sailors to maintain the ship. You won’t need more than that. Thaddeus will accompany you, commanding Sergeant Toussaint and his squad as a shore-party. But I need a captain everyone here knows will return.”

  “Because I wouldn’t abandon the children?” Nilda asked.

  “And because you are still something of an outsider. You’re not tainted by association with what happened on Anglesey or in Belfast.”

  “What do you think, Chester?” Nilda asked.

  He looked at his bowl. “A honeymoon in the Arctic? Sounds all right to me. We’ll have to take Jay, of course. He’d never speak to us again if he missed a chance to knock another three countries off his list.”

  “And Tuck,” Nilda said. “Sorcha, too, if she’ll come. And Dr Harabi.”

  “You can take as many as you need,” the admiral said.

  “Remind me to find a copy of Titanic to bring with us to watch,” Chester said.

  “On which note,” the admiral said, “and if that is all, I will thank you again, and bid you good night.”

  Kim and I were the last to leave, by which time the hotel lobby looked like an electrical scrapyard. The programmers had finished emptying their boxes; with everything scattered about, I wouldn’t describe the mess as being unpacked. They’d moved on to stripping copper wires and optical cables from the walls. I didn’t ask why, but took Kim’s arm as we went out into the ice-cold night.

  “Brr,” Kim muttered as we inched our way along the glittering, frosted streets. “That’s all I have to say. Brr, brr, brr! And I’d say it more loudly but I’m worried the letters would freeze in the air.”

  We weren’t the only people about, and we bid a good evening to the handful braving the cold and making the most of being on solid ground once more. Even so, and despite the still early hour, almost everyone was inside, attested to by the music, the conversation, the lights spilling from every window.

  “Chief Watts, Norm Jennings, and I bet the other sailors they pick for the voyage will mostly be former submariners,” I said. “You can see what the admiral is doing?”

  “Yep,” Kim said.

  “Sending them away before the mission to deal with the Vehement. A mission commanded by a colonel of French Special Forces. It won’t end well.”

  “I know,” she said. “But it’s out of our hands. If it weren’t, if it was down to us, we’d have made the same decision. We can’t have a nuclear-armed submarine left loose in the world. Who else can be trusted to make sure it’s made safe, one way or another?”

  “One way or another,” I said. “Whenever we find peace, safety, it always seems facade-deep.” I stopped. “Are you sure you don’t want to get married tomorrow?”

  “No, thank you. And nor do you, not like this. We acquired a family before we went on a date. We’ve… we’ve done it all back to front. We’re as married as we need to be. I’m a little jealous of Nilda getting to see Iceland on her honeymoon, but we’ll have a winter staycation instead. We’ll ask George and Mary to look after Annette and Daisy, and…” She peered up at a dark streetlight that, despite power being returned to the town, hadn’t come on. “And we’ll enjoy the light while we still have it.”

  Day 272 10th December

  Chapter 2 - The Wedding

  The Faroe Islands

  To everyone unaware of the original plans, the wedding appeared to go off without a hitch. Rather with nine hitches, not eight, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Though, to summarise: everyone who wanted to get married did; all the food was eaten; entertainment was enjoyed by all, even if they, like me, were enjoying the dance floor from the comfort of a chair. What I should have said is that nothing appeared to go wrong, but you know what they say about appearances?

  At nearer two than twelve, with the sun sneaking towards the horizon, the ceremony began. Dawn had been dry, clear, and nearly windless, prompting the decision to hold the event outside. By half-eleven, we’d arranged the folding chairs on the nearly-all-weather pitch, but everyone loves a wedding, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise that the clouds came to watch, bringing an Arctic gust as their plus-one. It was too late to get the chairs back inside. The children scampered about, stringing up pennants, banners, and coloured-card flowers, barely faster than the gale knocked them over. Sholto corralled a dozen to bring out the collapsible bleachers, setting them up either side of the stage as a wind-block as much as a viewing platform. Kim made an executive decision to redefine the banners as streamers, and ordered people into the chairs as the best way to stop them from blowing away. As the
weather grew more enthusiastic, and the crowd grew less so, it was time for the ceremony to begin, but there was no sign of the couples.

  By half-twelve, people were beginning to fidget. Far above our heads, our uninvited guests decided to get into the spirit of things, though somewhat prematurely. Noting our lack of confetti, they offered freezing rain as a substitute. I’ll confess, in my suit and scruffily knotted tie, under which I wore two layers of thermals, I didn’t mind. After ten minutes outside, both Kim and Annette were turning a shade of blue to match their sleeveless, shimmering dresses. Annette had found them both packed away in a cupboard at our house. Daisy, alone among us, was truly comfortable. Wearing an all-in-one, weather-proof romper suit, sat in a push-chair with rain-proof cover, she was having a great time. Annette had found her a small, blank-page book, and filled a box of crayons with every shade of blue. Daisy happily coloured, while everyone else grew miserable.

  When a few people stood, but before they could flee, Dean started the music. He’d found the speaker-stacks in a storeroom behind the main gym, along with other large equipment that must be so rarely used among such a small population, it was communally owned. Perhaps they have better, more powerful speakers stashed elsewhere in town, but despite that these stacks were as tall as Colm, the music could barely be heard over the rising storm. The sudden, loud, sparking bang was definitely audible. Everyone jumped, and more than a few hands went to the incongruously worn weapons belts before fear turned to a cheer as the couples slowly trooped out from the sports hall. I counted seven pairs, suited and dressed, and clearly as cold as Annette, before the interruption from the front.

  “I can take a hint when it’s dropped on my head,” Mary O’Leary said, her assembly-hall tone bringing the diminishing cheers to an abrupt end. “On your feet, George Tull. Honesty isn’t made. Respectable is a word only to be applied to age. But when you do reach as respectable an age as ours, it’s important to recognise some opportunities don’t come knocking every day. Wheel me to the front, we’re keeping everyone waiting.”

  “You’re saying yes, then?” George replied, having to shout so the entire congregation heard.

  “Of course I am,” Mary said. “If there’s room for one more.”

  Grinning, though still shivering, Heather and Lorraine stepped aside, making room for Mary and George.

  I looked over at Kim. “No,” she whispered, squeezing my arm, leaning in closer. “Not today, and not just because of the weather. Nilda’s wearing my dress.”

  “Your dress?”

  “Annette insisted there was a spare.”

  “And Nilda’s wearing it?”

  “Because Gloria is wearing hers,” Kim said. “Shh. We’re missing it.”

  At the front, Chester and Nilda had arrived, last rather than first, and now stood at the very end, next to a happily grinning George, and a smartly dressed Mary. Couture is a word I had to ask Kim how to spell, which about sums up all I know of dressmaking and style, but I would have called Nilda’s periwinkle-blue, puffy-hemmed dress a gown. The lime-green, high-waisted coat she wore over it certainly didn’t match, but she looked a good deal warmer than anyone other than Mary.

  With the rain growing stronger, the admiral took a scythe to the service where sonnets replaced psalms, cut the minute’s silence for those who were absent to a respectable moment, and jumped into the vows. I won’t say they were rushed, but no one was slow in announcing ‘I do’.

  When they were done, again to the background of cheers rather than music, the procession inside turned into a run. When lightning struck on a hillside to the north, the run turned into a scrum.

  “What did you mean, Nilda wore your dress?” I asked an hour later as we stacked the last of the folding chairs. Rather, as Kim stacked, and I, one-armed, supervised.

  “Annette insisted there be a spare in case anyone changed her mind,” Kim said. “No prizes for guessing whom she was thinking of.”

  “So how did Nilda end up wearing it?” I asked.

  “Gloria’s dress was trashed by the cat,” Nilda said. “There were some little flowers that Tabitha must have thought were food. Or perhaps it just didn’t like the style. Nilda gave Gloria hers, while she forced herself into the spare. It was too small for Gloria. It was too small for Nilda, really. Hence the coat, and hence why she changed for the photographs.”

  “Speaking of which, they’ll all have been taken by now. The music should be—”

  Even as I was talking, the music did begin. But it wasn’t playing from speakers. In the penalty box painted onto the floor’s soft surface, Dean hammered at the keys of a mini-grand. The instrument was dripping wet, while Dean was soaked to the skin, and so were Lena and Kallie. But they were both grinning. Miraculously, they appeared to have buried the hatchet, and not in each other. More miraculous was the music. I’d heard Dean play a couple of times in Ireland, but only a few bars of a few old songs. I’d never heard him give a concert before, and that was what he did. He played unaccompanied for a few minutes, a few universally familiar bars from Bach that melted into Rachmaninoff, rose to Mozart, faded into Mahler, before twisting into Elvis. Everyone sang, except those who’d begun to dance, and so the party began. Dean played one old favourite after another until Reg walked up to him, and whispered a quiet word in his ear. Dean finished with a flourish that rolled into a bass-clef beat as Reg stepped forward.

  “Ladies, gentlemen,” Reg declared in his best theatrical bark. “We are here today to celebrate love. The greatest celebration of love is, of course, Romeo and Juliet, but have you ever wondered whether that perfect amore would have lasted through an arduous forty married years? Here, I present a short tale, our humble imagining of their life together. The setting, a semi-detached castle on the edge of Verona. The time, forty years and one day since their wedding. I am her Romeo, and she is my Juliet…” He bowed low as Gloria, dressed in something that wasn’t period-appropriate but was at least a costume, entered stage right.

  The play gave Mirabelle time to repair the speakers and for the kitchens to uncork their bottleneck. Four hours later, the food was gone, the announcements had been made, and everyone who’d come was fed and happy, and at least a quarter were dancing.

  Chester and I had retreated to a relatively quiet spot in the hall’s corner where we’d been discussing his upcoming expedition when we were interrupted by Annette.

  “Hey, Chester,” she said, trailing over with Sholto a step behind. “Thaddeus said he’s tired. Want to dance?”

  “Doesn’t Bill?” Chester said.

  “Tried it,” Annette said. “He nearly broke my toes.”

  “It’s the cast,” I said. “I can’t see my own feet.”

  “Yeah, but it was my feet you were treading on,” Annette said.

  “Why don’t you ask Jay?” Chester said.

  “I did, but he says he doesn’t know how,” Annette said. “I said we’d show him, and I saw you dancing with Nilda so you can’t say you don’t know how.”

  “She was the one dancing, I was just trying not to get in the way,” Chester said, but he stood and took Annette’s arm, while Sholto took Chester’s now vacant seat.

  “We created a few new traditions today,” Sholto said.

  “We did at that,” I said. “But I hope one of them won’t be that all weddings have to take place in December.”

  “Do you think George and Mary would have tied the knot if the speakers hadn’t blown up?” my brother asked.

  “They were dressed the part, weren’t they?” I said. “I think they had it planned.”

  “Because of the Faroese?” he asked.

  “Because of them,” I said, looking around the sports hall. It was nearly full. Some danced, some sat, some stood, but everyone looked happy. At least a thousand people were still present. There’d been more for the ceremony, and even more when the food was served. We’d left a guard on the ships, volunteers all, and Colm and Siobhan had run a perimeter patrol. There were another few hund
red who’d said, for emotionally personal reasons, they wouldn’t attend. That left about a thousand of our number who’d not turned up to any part of the event. More than I’d hoped, considering this was the only place serving food, but not as bad as I feared. The people who were obvious by their absence, however, were our guests of honour, the Faroese. They hadn’t shown up at all.

  “Mary guessed they might not come, so she and George were ready with their distraction,” I said. “Are you surprised?”

  “That the Faroese didn’t turn up? Maybe they don’t like weddings. Not everyone does.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Or maybe they’re too deeply religious to attend such an event,” Sholto said. “That guy, Mark from Malin Head, from what Siobhan said, it sounds like he was creating a cult. If the locals are deeply religious, it could help explain why they kicked him out.”

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “You don’t buy it?” he asked.

  “Why they didn’t come isn’t as important as that they didn’t,” I said. “Perhaps it came across as too weird, us arriving and then announcing we were having a mass wedding. After spending so much time alone, worried they were the last humans left in the world, we can’t have been what they were expecting. I’ll try… I don’t know what I’ll try next, but while you’re away, I’ll keep on trying to break the ice with them.”

  “I can help you there,” Sholto said. “I was speaking with Reg, or I was before Annette dragged me out onto the floor. I spoke to the admiral first. Reg is staying here. Not coming with me to the Arctic.”