Standing apart from the navigator and the officer-of-the-watch who shared the bridge with him, Alistair stared across the water to the city he’d last seen fourteen weeks ago. Its ragged outline reminded him of surviving teeth in a punched-out mouth. Roofless walls, the paralysed arms of cranes . . . Like London, Merseyside had been relentlessly bombed. Beyond Pier Head, devastation telegraphed itself in muzzy outlines with irrational gaps. Alistair felt a lacerating affinity for the place. Battered but alive. Ready for the next phase.
Over the coming weeks, the Quarrel – his Quarrel – would be sent for refit before being assigned to some new function. He didn’t know where he would be this time next year, or even next month. It was why he wanted so badly to see Fern at the dockside. Her presence among the wives and sweethearts would prove that something was permanent. Actually, he just longed to see her.
‘Sir? Sir?’ The navigator had been trying to get his ear for some time, by the look on his face. ‘Sir, the port authority can’t spare us a tug. We’ve caught them on the hop – we’ll have to dock unaided.’
The crosscurrents in the Mersey were devilish, but it was a devil they knew. Alistair broke into a faint smile as he answered, ‘Good. We don’t need to hold nanny’s hand, do we?’ The berth that had been signalled to them lay midway along the furthest of Gladstone Dock’s three prongs. With the navigator happy with their speed and course, Alistair went to the bridge wing to watch the fo’c’sle party laying out wires and readying the anchor in case of an emergency. These ratings, overseen by their petty officer, would secure the ship when she came alongside. He would watch, but not interfere.
He’d always held to the belief that a captain’s job was to train his men so well that he himself became superfluous. This ingrained standard did not stop him analysing every pulse and vibration as the ship’s engines were thrown into reverse in preparation for docking. Nor did it stop him logging each order that passed between his First Lieutenant and the fo’c’sle party. Alistair listened, then moved his attention to the world beyond the ship’s rail.
Gladstone Dock was where the anti-U-boat convoys had clustered throughout the war and Alistair took stock of every vessel in his sightline. Gun-grey decks, battle-scarred hulls, rivets bleeding rust . . . Destroyers like his own and any number of frigates. Recognising a couple of Flower Class corvettes, he was instantly pitched back on board the Sundew, a ship he’d joined as First Lieutenant and whose remains lay at the bottom of the Atlantic. From the Sundew, his mind jumped to her sister ship, the Monarda, whose destruction had taken him to the threshold of despair. After the Sundew was sunk, the Admiralty had given him the Quarrel. His first command, aged thirty. A shave young, some had suggested. Now thirty-two, he had many years at sea ahead of him. But it wasn’t that simple any more. Entire, exhausted convoys had come home. He had come home. But did Fern want a husband with a shore job, or did she prefer him perpetually away?
‘Sir?’ This time, it was Crawford, the coxswain, barging into his thoughts. ‘Sir, do you want us to “up-spirits” at the usual time?’ The man was referring to the customary measure of rum doled out to the crew at eleven forty-five each morning. They’d be tied up by then, but the ship would still be manned.
‘Your call, coxswain. Soon as we dock, I have to present myself at the Admiralty Office.’ What he really meant was, ‘I have a date with my wife.’ Alistair conjured a seductive shape on a hotel bed, in a silk camisole, her rich hair spread over the pillow –
Recalling himself, he told Crawford – who seemed anxious at being handed a decision on the sensitive matter of rum – ‘In general, I advise holding to routines.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’ The coxswain hesitated. ‘Perhaps as it’s our last trip, you’ll join us in the Chief Petty Officer’s mess for a tot? A toast to a successful homecoming, sir?’
‘I’ll join you if it all goes right.’ Berthing a ship the size of the Quarrel was no piece of cake. Plenty of time to collide with another vessel or the dock wall. ‘And I accept your implied criticism, Crawford. A captain who won’t touch alcohol may be giving a moral example to his men, but it isn’t necessarily one they want or ask for. I do have my reasons, however.’
‘We get through tough times the best way we can, sir.’
Out of earshot, Crawford confided to the Chief Engineer, ‘I don’t get the captain. Doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke. Doesn’t you-know-what either, as far as I can tell. “Faithful unto death.” His wife must be something special.’
‘She’s a titled lady,’ replied the engineer. ‘They’re a demanding species.’
‘Aye, well, I’ve often wondered if the captain’s entirely human himself.’
Alistair’s demeanour as the Quarrel nosed into her berth played into such doubts, but it was a false impression. He was not immune to the passions of ordinary men, he just hid them better. The light irises that pointed to Scottish ancestry held a piercing quality and some in the lower decks fancied that their captain could peer into men’s souls. The prosaic truth was that Alistair knew how men were put together, could measure their courage and fear. He also knew every job on board and how it should be done. He was ice-cold with slackers. That, combined with a tough physique, had allowed him to imprint his personality on his ship and turn an ill-assorted tribe of men into an effective crew.
As they came alongside, the navigator stepped over and offered his hand. ‘Home and dry, Sir.’
The fo’c’sle party cheered and waved their caps in reply to the greetings from the jetty. It was eighteen minutes past six on a Monday morning and Alistair Redenhall and his crew had survived five-and-a-half years of hell. He scanned the quayside crowd. There were many female figures but not the one he longed for.
He handed over to his second-in-command and went ashore. He was welcomed at the Admiralty office by a petty officer, who informed him that no message had arrived.
‘In that case, may I make a telephone call? Long distance.’
He was shown into an office where he dialled the operator, gave the exchange as Whitehall and recited his four-digit home number.
‘We’ll put you through as quickly as possible, Sir.’
He settled down to wait. A city-to-city call required the cooperation of multiple exchanges to set up a line. It could take an hour or two. Or all day. Tightness crept into his gut. Minutes ticked by and when a staff member brought him a cup of tea, it tasted metallic. He got his line in just over an hour.
‘Putting you through, sir.’
His mind’s eye filled with the elegant interior of Ledbury Terrace. He saw the hall table with its vase of artistic twigs, a side-console studded with silver-framed photographs where the telephone would be screaming like an angry baby. He didn’t count how many rings, but surely there were enough for Fern to put on a dressing gown and come downstairs. He was about to hang up when somebody picked up.
Three words later, Alistair’s hopes of a happy homecoming were dead.
Chapter 5
Gilmore & Jackson, Solicitors
South Audley Street, W1
May 30th, 1945
To Cdr Redenhall RN
C/o Colonial and Overseas Club
Dear Sir,
We write in connection with the recent death of our client, Mr Wilton Bovary, for which we offer our heartfelt condolences. As a friend, he will be much missed. Your godfather died in February at the theatre bearing his name and it is in respect of the same that we request you attend our offices as soon as may be convenient to you. We have information of a beneficial nature to pass on.
Yours faithfully,
P Jackson
A week after receiving this letter, Alistair called in person at South Audley Street. Reeling from what he’d just been told, he walked from the solicitors’ officers to his club where he’d been staying since returning to London. Long. Evening light breathed gold over the weary streets, and he stopped to admire a magenta clematis that coiled around the brick pillars of a bomb-site. Today was the 7th
of June. It would be a summer of peace. Would he find it hard to live without the single-minded pressure of war? He cut through Green Park, where the vegetable plots that were cut into the lawns threw up ripe farmyard smells. An hour ago, Mr Jackson had informed him that he’d inherited ‘The freehold of The Farren Theatre, Farren Court, London and the controlling share of “The Farren Theatrical Company”.’ A leasehold property in Cecil Court WC2 was now his, along with chattels and residuary estate. In short, everything of his late godfather’s ‘with the exception of certain monies held in trust’.
To prove it, a heavy set of keys jangled in his pocket.
As he walked, Alistair tried to unravel his godfather’s motives. If you’re going to die and bequeath a theatre, who do you choose? Your sisters who were born backstage with you? Your nephew, a little shit, but also born to the greasepaint – or somebody who spends three hundred days a year at sea and doesn’t know one side of a stage from another?
‘Bo, your sense of humour lives on.’
At Pier Head, Alistair had evoked the heavenly powers to restore his marriage and had been given a theatre instead. What the hell was he going to do with it?
Two hundred miles north, at RAF Banff, Vanessa Kingcourt made her way to the cookhouse where she and her friends, Joanne and Peggy, groaned in unison at the familiar smells of boiled brassica and sweated meat.
‘Half-a-crown says its rissoles.’ Peggy Williamson’s voice was like a ribbon stretched tight, its edges folding inwards. They’d all had the day off, having completed an eleven-and-a-half hour shift on the previous one. The effects were still with them.
Vanessa agreed, ‘It’s Friday. Bound to be, unless it’s fishcakes from yesterday.’
A group of pilots made room for them at a table and, over a meal of mashed potato and the inevitable rissoles – fried corned-beef fritters – they talked about the NAAFI dance that evening. Finn Karlstad, a Norwegian pilot of the 333 squadron, with hair the colour of ash wood shavings, asked Vanessa to come as his partner.
She told him she needed to catch up on sleep. It wasn’t strictly true. Someone from the Control Office had given her a letter and she recognised her mother’s writing. Ruth’s letters were usually as spare as her conversation, but this one contained more than just paper. Hearing her intention to ‘grab an early night,’ however, her friends howled in protest. Kingcourt, missing a dance? The squadrons were disbanding now that the coastal and anti-submarine patrols were winding down and in a week, the Norwegian boys would fly home.
‘This will be the last dance ever,’ Finn said sadly. ‘It is your duty to be my date.’
‘I reckon she’s got another fellow.’ Joanne Sayer subjected Vanessa to close examination. They’d arrived in the same troop-van during the summer of ’43, and for a while, had been the youngest females on the base. Theirs wasn’t always a comfortable friendship. Joanne had been an actress before joining the WAAF; she had poise by the bucket, and liked to tease. ‘A new man is the only feasible explanation.’
Vanessa blushed. A reaction to being stared at, but that just made them press harder. ‘Can’t I curl up and read a letter in peace?’
‘Not on Friday night.’
‘Peggy stays in sometimes.’
‘Special dispensation.’ Joanne always had an answer. ‘Hair-washing is a religious duty for Peggy these days.’
Peggy Williamson was to marry soon. She preferred to stay in and knit socks for her fiancé, a pilot from nearby RAF Leuchars.
Vanessa caved in. ‘Fine. You win. But I’ll meet you there.’ Quickly finishing her meal, she made her way to the ‘Waffery’, the fenced-in huts that housed female personnel. As a Leading Aircraftwoman, she was spared dormitory living, sharing a room with one other. Flashing her identity card to the guardhouse sentry, she entered her quarters. Quietly. Her roommate was catching up on sleep.
Vanessa opened her letter and extracted one flimsy sheet and a piece of eggshell-blue card, folded in four. The card was a theatre playbill for The Importance of Being Earnest. The room was too dark to see any detail.
Walking over to the admin block, she knocked at her head of section’s door, saluted and asked to borrow a reading lamp. She was offered the use of the desk for five minutes. The head of section tactfully withdrew. Vanessa sat down and shone the lamp on the playbill.
‘Mr Wilton Bovary presents Oscar Wilde’s enduring and enchanting masterpiece . . . opening 27th January 1945 at – ’
The hairs rose on the back of her neck. At The Farren. Eva had whispered the name by her father’s grave, invoking memories of Sleeping Beauty, and a fairy in crow’s feathers and another in lilac gauze. Laying down the playbill, Vanessa read the accompanying letter which was every bit as brief as her mother’s usual offerings.
‘This was with your father’s things. Thought you might like it as a memento.’
Returning to the playbill, Vanessa scanned the cast-list. ‘John (Jack) Worthing . . . Patrick Carnford.’ The fair-haired man at the Bovary funeral had been called Patrick.
‘Algernon Moncrieff . . . Ronald Gainsborough. Lane, manservant to Algernon Moncrieff . . . Mr Wilton Bovary.’
Her scalp tingled as she read: ‘Rev Canon Chasuble . . . Johnny Quinnell.
Something finally made sense. Her dad had rushed out of the White Hart because he’d been due on stage at The Farren. ‘Curtain’s up in twenty minutes!’ He’d been performing alongside Wilton Bovary, who, according to the credits on the back of the playbill, had owned The Farren as well as taking stage roles. How had both men come to be buried in the same cemetery on the same day? If she’d been on time that fateful Friday, would her dad still be alive? If she learned nothing else in her life, she’d have the answer to that. But how?
Returning to her billet, she discovered her roommate was up and dressing. The girl eyed Vanessa’s crumpled uniform. ‘You’d better get a wiggle on if you’re going dancing. Can’t you hear the music?’
Vanessa hadn’t heard a thing. Which was inexplicable as the wail of saxophones played to a swing beat swelled across the compound, piercing the hut’s walls.
Her roommate made an offer. ‘Do my shift if you like; I’ll dance in your place.’
‘Sorry, I’ve a date.’ Vanessa grabbed her towel and tore across to the ablutions block where she washed and dashed cold water on her face. Dashing back to her room, she put on the shirt she’d washed and ironed earlier. Everyday clothes were forbidden on base, putting style beyond the reach of any servicewoman who hadn’t the good fortune to be tall and slender. They all did their best, shining their buttons, starching their collars, so that by the night’s end, they would all have chafed necks.
After knotting her tie, she put on her least-worn skirt and her parade jacket with its wings insignia and the ‘props’ badge that had come with her most recent uplift in rank. Breathing in, she pulled the belt as tight as it would go. Next, she drew on silk stockings. A violation of uniform, silk – whether as stockings or underwear - could get you put on a charge but it was worth it to fling off suffocating passion-killers for an evening. Black court shoes replaced her regulation lace-up “beetle-crushers”.
Using her powder-compact mirror, Vanessa teased curls on to her brow before pinning her cap at an angle. Eye shadow and a slick of cherry lipstick finished her preparations. She was ready to dance, grateful to the friends who had vetoed her night in.
‘Where were you?’ Finn demanded as she wriggled through the crush in the sergeants’ mess. A raucous trumpet proved that tonight they had a real, live band. He took her through the boiling mass of airmen, pilots and WAAFs to the bar where the reek of beer was stupefying and the floor was sticky.
‘What to drink?’
‘Whatever you’re having,’ she yelled and discovered she’d said ‘yes’ to a pint of beer. No such thing as ‘ladies’ measures’ at this bar. She wasn’t mad about beer, but a small sherry wasn’t going to hit the spot tonight. When Finn took her to dance, she surrendered
to the heat, to the music, to his arms, but couldn’t rid herself of the idea that, just as her life here was ending, another crucial choice was beckoning.
When the band took a rest and they all spilled outside, Vanessa located Joanne. ‘There’s something I want you to look at.’ Vanessa shone a borrowed torch on the playbill.
Joanne squinted. ‘The Importance— oh, The Farren! I worked there . . .’ she raided her memory, ‘1938, a spit and a cough part. “Very good, milady” and “At once, milord”. The critics went wild. Why am I looking at this?’
‘I’m hoping you’ll remember my dad. He’s in this play. Was, I mean.’ Joanne knew of Vanessa’s father’s death, though not the seedy circumstances.
‘Ooh, which part?’ Joanne accepted a cigarette from her dance partner, lifting her chin so he could light it over her shoulder. Dark-haired with slanting eyes full of the quality people call ‘it’, Joanne Sayer cut the most glamorous figure on base. She enriched the image with a gold cigarette holder between lilac-painted nails. Nail varnish was strictly forbidden, but apparently nobody had informed her.
Vanessa said, ‘He played Canon Chasuble.’
‘Miss Prism’s love-interest. “My metaphor was drawn from bees”. What was your dad’s name again?’
‘Clive Quinnell, stage name “Johnny”.’
‘Johnny Quinnell . . . of course. I’ve definitely heard of him.’ Joanne’s smile was a little too tactful. Vanessa knew she was lying.
She asked, ‘What’s The Farren like?’
‘Cosy – seats four hundred, which is nothing. Tucked away, you have to know how to find it. The same actors go back time and again because Mr Bovary, who owns it, is a sweetie. An old-fashioned actor-manager. A dying breed.’
A dead one. Joanne clearly hadn’t heard the news about Wilton Bovary. Staring out across a dark pelt of grass to where the concrete runways reflected the rising moon, Vanessa smelled the heady cocktail of moorland heather, sea salt and aviation fumes. Would she miss this place? Or just the friends? ‘Is it easy to get a job in theatre?’
The Wardrobe Mistress Page 5
