The ITN headlines were being announced as she sat down. ‘... from Northern Ireland, and in the Gulf, a Liberian tanker hits a mine, killing one British officer and injuring another. More about that later, and now to...’
Oh, God. With a sickly feeling of apprehension, Zoe sat down, her heart lurching with every change of topic, willing the newsreader to hurry up, ignore the rest of the world’s tragedies and just get to the Gulf. The suspense was agonizing.
‘Oh, bloody get on with it!’ she muttered ferociously as the Prime Minister was pontificating on a new atmosphere of co-operation between London and Dublin. At any other time she might have been interested, but right now...
‘And now, to the Gulf of Oman, where Jeremy Brown reports on the latest casualty in the Gulf War...’
Squinting against the glare, a sunburned young man faced the camera, while behind him stretched a dazzling sea, dotted with ships. ‘Behind me you see the Fujairah deep-water anchorage, favourite stopping-place for tankers on their way into and out of the Gulf. Here, just before dawn today, a Liberian-registered oil tanker, manned by British officers, struck a mine during the anchoring procedure...’
The young man’s face on screen was replaced by an anonymous aerial photograph of a large ship, while his professionally flat, unemotional voice went on: ‘The tanker – the Damaris – was hit in the stern, causing an explosion in the engine-room where a British engineering officer was killed, and another injured. The ship’s Master was also slightly hurt by the blast, but he was able to speak to us over the ship’s radio...’
Icy with shock, Zoe heard Stephen’s voice, terse and distorted by the VHF, giving a brief account of events, including the fact that the fire had been rapidly brought under control, and the ship was now under tow to Dubai. Only towards the close of the report did the reporter interject with a question.
‘But I understand that you too were hurt by the blast, Captain?’
‘Very slightly. A dislocated shoulder which has been attended to.’
‘Are you anxious about returning through the Straits of Hormuz?’
‘Not at all. The damage has been done, another tanker is incapacitated and that’s what it’s all about. The fact that one of my officers is dead and another injured, is purely incidental to the people who direct and carry out these attacks on international shipping.’
He sounded so bitter.
The recording ended, the picture faded, and with the usual cryptic question about what this new turn of events might mean, ITN’s man in Fujairah signed off and returned the picture to the studio.
Zoe stared blankly at the screen, taking in nothing of the following summary of who was doing what in the Gulf, and to whom. Eventually, the jolly jingle of the local news magazine penetrated her consciousness and she rose to switch the television off. Her body felt like lead, her brain paralyzed. She stood, poised, by the telephone, knowing she had to speak to someone, had to find out what was going on...
Who?
She thought of Irene, then recoiled from the idea. What if Mac was the one who was killed? She had to find out before she spoke to her.
‘Joan...’ Reaching for her address book, she dropped it, had great difficulty retrieving it, fumbling as she searched for the right page. Dialling the York number, first her hands, and then her body, started to tremble. She sat down, but by the time Joan answered on the third or fourth ring, Zoe was almost incapable of speech.
‘Oh, Zoe – I’ve been trying to get you all day, since just after nine this morning. You’ve been out, obviously – did you see the news?’
‘Yes – just now.’
‘Yes, on ITV – wasn’t it dreadful? It was on at lunchtime, too. Now listen, Zoe, you are not to worry. He’s all right. Somebody from the London office telephoned Pamela this morning. It’s a terrible thing that’s happened, I know, but Stephen is all right, and that’s the main thing.’
‘But he was hurt – and Mac, what about Mac?’
‘He’s all right,’ Joan assured her firmly, adding on a softer note, ‘it was the Third Engineer, poor man. I don’t know if he had any family, but he wasn’t married, which I suppose is a blessing...’
‘Oh, God... And poor Stephen, having to cope with all that...’
‘He’s very capable, love – very capable. And he won’t die of a dislocated shoulder. I telephoned the ship-manager myself this morning, just to make sure Pamela had everything straight – she was dashing off to work when they got in touch with her, and she’s a born worrier, you know, panics at the slightest thing, just like his wife. Sorry, just like Ruth...’
Zoe closed her eyes as the words washed over her. Finally, Joan caught herself and returned to the matter in hand.
‘Anyway, it seems they’re going to do their best to get everybody home from... oh, Lord, where is it now? Abu Dhabi? No, Dubai, that’s it. As soon as they get to Dubai, the company will get things sorted out and fly him home. Shouldn’t be more than a few days, a week at the most – he was most insistent about that. And Stephen is fine, Zoe. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t still be aboard, now would he?’
Although Joan sounded very convincing, Zoe was not at all sure about that. A man with Stephen’s determination would probably need to be taken off in a stretcher...
With a repeat of all those assurances, Joan advised her to make a good strong cup of tea with plenty of sugar in it, and to call in a friend to stay with her.
Zoe found it hard to think of anyone she wanted to be with. Polly would have been ideal, but Polly was at the moment sunning herself in Marbella with a man friend.
‘Well, why don’t you call your mother?’
There were dozens of reasons why Zoe preferred not to call either of her parents, not least of which being the time it would take them to get here. Finally, however, she said that she would.
Joan repeated her instructions about that cup of tea, and said she would call Zoe back in an hour. But before she could say goodbye, Zoe interrupted.
‘Joan – I saw Liam today.’
There was a short silence. ‘Sorry dear – what did you say?’
‘I went down to Wandsworth, to the old hospital – remember I told you about it? That’s why I was out all day. Anyway, Liam was there. I saw him, clear as day, coming down a corridor towards me... Strange, isn’t it? And now this...’
She was not at all sure Joan believed her. She thought she did, but it was hard to tell over the phone. Anyway, what did it matter? The point was that she had seen him and had felt his presence beside her for some considerable time; she would defy anyone to tell her it was an illusion.
What she could not understand was why. None of it made sense, particularly today of all days, when this terrible thing had happened to Stephen. It was beyond her.
Trying to follow Joan’s advice, Zoe opted for coffee instead of tea, and two chocolate wafer bars in place of sugar. Chilled to the bone, she changed her dress for trousers and a warm sweater, and gradually the trembling abated. Her thoughts remained a jumble, anxiety for Stephen vying with confusion over Liam, and a pressing need to find out more about the situation aboard the Damaris.
Longing to speak to Stephen, or to someone who had spoken to him, she cursed the impulse that had led her to Wandsworth today. If only she had been at home, it would have been possible to telephone the shipping company, speak to the manager Joan had mentioned.
She picked up her address book. Irene, Mac’s wife, might know more...
But even as she reached for the telephone, it rang.
The clicks and sighs of a distant connection met her ears; then a man’s voice, foreign, asking her to stand by for a call from a ship.
For a moment she did not fully understand what was said. Hardly daring to breathe, she gripped the receiver like a lifeline, and then suddenly Stephen’s voice, faint but unmistakable, was speaking her name.
Incredulous, thankful, overjoyed to the verge of tears, she could do no more than utter his name in response, while in her heart
she thanked God for this minor miracle.
‘Zoe, darling, are you all right? I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to call you earlier — it really has been chaotic here, so much to organize, you wouldn’t believe it...’
‘Oh, Stephen, I’m fine, it’s just so good to hear your voice – but how are you?’
‘A bit tired, but otherwise all right. We seem to have got most of the problems ironed out, and there’s not much more I can do now until we get to Dubai. I should be able to get my head down for a few hours. Anyway, what about you? It must have been a bit of a shock – did Joan or Irene manage to get in touch?’
‘No, I was out all day. I didn’t get back until just before the news came on – and that was a shock, believe me.’ Zoe paused and swallowed hard. ‘Anyway, I phoned Joan, and she said she’d been trying to get hold of me since first thing this morning – and I was just about to phone Irene when you called.’
‘Oh, love, I’m sorry about that – sorry you had to hear it on the bloody news – that wasn’t the idea at all. I’m just glad I managed to get through to you now – we’ve had one or two problems during the day with calls. Anyway, not to worry. The thing is, we’re all OK, and we should be in Dubai sometime tomorrow. I expect it’ll be a dry-dock job, and it’s bound to be lengthy – the engine-room’s virtually destroyed.
‘Mac’s really sick,’ he added with a short laugh, ‘we always used to joke about it being so clean down there. His little ice-cream parlour, we used to call it... Well, we won’t be saying that any more, I’m afraid...’
Zoe was faintly shocked. How could he joke at a time like this? And anyway, a man was killed... ‘Stephen, what happened? I didn’t really take in what you were saying in that interview.’
There was a silence before he answered her; and when he did, the strain in his voice was clear. ‘We hit a mine, love. Backed into it while we were laying out the anchor. It blew a bloody great hole in the port quarter, and wiped out the control-room. Including one of the engineers.’ He paused for a moment. ‘The irony is, Jim joined us in Kuwait, after the original Third demanded off. He volunteered for the job. Sick, isn’t it?’
Wincing, Zoe could think of no words of consolation. ‘What about the other man – is he all right? And you — you haven’t told me about yourself...’
‘Well, the Second’s in hospital now. He got a bash on the head, but I think he’ll be all right, and we put Lecky ashore as well. I was daft enough to be hanging over the bridge-wing at the time, so I took a bit of a knock as well – dislocated my shoulder, but it’s been put back.’
‘Was that terribly painful?’ she asked tentatively.
She heard him laugh. ‘Yes, you might say that... but not to worry, I keep taking the tablets! Actually,’ he confessed. ‘I was bloody lucky not to do worse. I had a look afterwards, to see where I’d fallen, and how the hell I missed cracking my head open on the compass-repeater, I do not know. There’s a metal ridge and locking nuts on either side, so I’m really thankful I didn’t hit that on the way down. The damage might’ve been permanent...’
Zoe winced. ‘But you’re all right?’
‘Fine, honestly. It’s been a hellish situation, but I’m still here... hard to believe, but true...’
As his voice tailed away, she said brokenly: ‘I’ve missed you, Stephen – missed you dreadfully... and I’ve been so worried...’ Her voice choked on that, and she struggled against tears. Eventually, she said: ‘Do you think they might send you home?’
The lengthy pause that followed made her wish that she had not given voice to those sentiments.
When it came, his reply was suddenly softer and deeper, as though for some reason he had stopped shouting into the telephone. She had to struggle to make out his words, something to the effect that he was not alone on the bridge, and that he would try to contact her again from Dubai, which would make conversation easier.
‘I’ll know more when I’ve had chance to talk to the Super – the trouble-shooter from the office. But it may be quite a while before we get home, Zoe – Masters and Chief Engineers usually stay with their ships in dry-dock. I’m sorry, love, but that’s the way it is.’
His brusqueness hurt her, silencing further questions. The line was crackling, and anyway, she thought, that promise to get everybody home was probably no more than a placebo to keep the relatives quiet. Acute disappointment silenced her.
‘I’ll phone you from Dubai – give me a couple of days, all right?’
‘Yes – yes, of course. I’ll be waiting...’
‘Must go, love – take care.’
‘Yes – you too... Stephen?’
But he was gone. The empty line hummed, stressing the distance between them; very slowly she replaced the receiver, while tears streamed down her cheeks. She was unsure whether it was anxiety, disappointment, relief, or just the release of tension, but she let them run, mopping them with paper tissues as they dripped off her chin. One way or another, she decided, it really had been one hell of a day. Eventually the tears ceased of their own accord and she poured herself a brandy, which restored both heart and reason.
He was all right. He had telephoned. He had called her darling, which took Zoe back to the passionate days of their first acquaintance; but he mostly called her love, which she had long ago come to realize might mean all or nothing. The Yorkshire endearment was akin to the Cockney ducks and West Country m’dear, apparently applicable to anyone short of the totally obnoxious.
And to think that only a massive lump in her throat had stopped her from blurting out that she loved him, wanted him, couldn’t bear to go on like this a moment longer...
She felt a fool, a weak-kneed, love-sick, adolescent idiot.
On the other hand, she thought with the second tot of brandy, while it had taken him a moment to respond to the emotion in her voice, there had been something approaching emotion in his... Perhaps when he called again from Dubai, on a more private line, perhaps then he would sound less impersonal.
She picked up the telephone and dialled Irene’s number in Northumberland.
Thirty-three
For the next two days, Zoe did not stir from the flat. There was no call from Dubai, but on the morning of the third day, Jack Porteous telephoned with flight details.
‘But I thought... I mean, Stephen said he would have to stay for the dry-dock,’ she said foolishly, torn between disbelief and a desire to kiss the man on the other end of the line.
There was a short bark of laughter. ‘Well, that’s Steve for you. Talk about having to lever him free!’ He laughed again. ‘Don’t worry, Zoe, a relieving Master is on his way out there at the moment. They’ll hand over as soon as he arrives, and Steve will be on his way home in the morning, along with the others. He wanted me to let you know, as he thought you might like to meet him at Heathrow.’
‘Oh, yes! Yes, of course I’ll be there...’
‘There’s only one slight problem. With Steve and the Chief Engineer, Mr Petersen, living so far from London, we’d like them to come into the office immediately for a first-hand report on the accident. It saves them going home and then having to travel back later in the week — I hope you understand?’
‘Of course – that sounds sensible to me.’
‘Good. So there’ll be someone from the office at Heathrow tomorrow – a Mr Goodall. He knows them and they know him, so there shouldn’t be any problems about meeting up. He’ll have transport arranged into the city... I hope a journey to the office and back won’t disrupt your day too much?’
‘Oh, no, not at all...’
‘Good. Well, Zoe, I look forward to meeting you tomorrow – until then, try not to worry. Steve’s fine.’
‘Thank you – yes, I’m sure he is...’
Her sense of relief was so vast, Zoe hardly knew whether to laugh or cry. With Polly home at last, she now had someone to celebrate with; in a dizzy whirl of delight she dashed up the stairs and almost fell through her friend’s door. They hugged each other and
did a little dance round the kitchen, then Polly grabbed a bottle of Spanish bubbly from the fridge and they toasted Stephen and each other, Jack Porteous, Polly’s man friend and the glories of Marbella. Then they toasted Stephen again.
Half an hour later, silly with champagne and relief and sheer, unbridled joy, Zoe remembered her obligations and left to make a series of telephone calls. She shared her joy with her mother and Joan, and very briefly with her father’s secretary – as usual, James Clifford was in a meeting and could not be disturbed – and then she contacted Irene, making arrangements to meet up at Heathrow the following day.
‘It’s going to be quite a party,’ Irene said, ‘I wonder if the company will treat us all to lunch?’
They were both nervous waiting by the barrier at Heathrow, trying to distract themselves by guessing possible identities amongst the crowd. The man from the office could have been one of several, and there were so many women about it was impossible to know who might be connected to the men from the Damaris.
The flight had landed some time ago, and Zoe’s eyes were torn between the clock and the exit from the Customs area. To begin with a thin trail of passengers carrying hand-luggage came through, followed in ones and twos by those with trolleys and babies. Eventually a whole bunch emerged together.
She and Irene spotted Mac’s red hair and beard in the same instant, and Irene was gripping Zoe with one hand, and waving madly with the other. Mac grinned and edged round the trolleys, dropping his suitcase and scooping up his wife in a bear-like hug. Behind them, Stephen was hidden for a moment, then another man, laughing, was telling Mac and Irene to clear a path there, other people wanted to get through. He pushed past them, to be grabbed by a glamorous blonde who brushed Zoe out of the way in order to get to him; that he was astonished to see her was obvious.
Zoe turned her head to see Stephen edging towards her, still blocked by the crush of passengers in that narrow space. His hair was long and surprisingly curly; like his deeply tanned skin, it seemed at variance, somehow, with the grey suit and tie. His face looked thinner, etched with lines of exasperation; then he glanced up and saw her, and for a moment his eyes held hers with such longing, Zoe’s heart swelled with love.
Liam's Story Page 62
