She might still love her husband. Maybe she had never stopped. And even if …
“Yes!” A loud rap at the door. Perhaps he had not heard the first one.
It was a young seaman, in uniform, a webbing belt clipped loosely around his waist. One of the duty watch. Kearton was suddenly fully awake: he even remembered the man’s name.
“What is it, Lucas?” He could hear voices now.
“Saw your light was on, sir.” He almost glanced over his shoulder. “But the wardroom …”
“Tell me.”
“There was a boat, sir. A launch. We thought it was just passing, then it hooked on to the pontoon. We didn’t know what to do.” He was still staring at Kearton’s hand, which was gripping his arm. “Then I saw your cabin light.”
Kearton released his grip. We’re all going round the bend. “You did the right thing.” He remembered the sound, the hull moving slightly in the wash. The voices were distinct; he could see the shadows moving in the deckhead light. He did not even know what time it was, but Garrick he would know anywhere. No wonder the handful of men on watch had been taken aback.
He opened the door wide. He could remember Brice’s exact words. I’ll lay odds he’ll be shouting for you as soon as he hits base. Had that been only this morning?
Garrick strode to meet him, his cap almost brushing against the light, face in shadow. Behind him followed a much younger officer, a subbie, and for a moment Kearton imagined it had started to rain again; the subbie’s cap and shoulders were glistening with droplets of water.
Garrick must have seen his eyes.
“Just been showing him what small-boat handling used to be like, when it counted for bloody something!”
The young officer asked, “Shall I wait alongside, sir?”
Garrick stood in the doorway, one foot resting on the coaming.
“This is more like it!” He peered along the narrow passage. “Well sited, too—between the W/T office and the heads!” He seemed to hear the question and said sharply, “You can carry on, Mister …” He snapped his fingers. “I’ll call if I need anyone!”
The sub-lieutenant hurried away.
Garrick tossed his cap on to the bunk and sat down beside it.
“Some people!”
Kearton closed the door quietly. The seaman had vanished, and would soon be telling his mates all about the unexpected visitor, and how he had handled it.
There was a thin shaft of light from the wardroom, but no sound of life. Garrick was running his fingers through his hair, staring around as if to get his bearings. He had obviously been drinking.
“Sorry to barge in on you at this hour, er, Bob. Lot on my plate at the moment. But I wanted to see you, keep the record straight, so to speak.”
He coughed and dragged out a handkerchief, and for a minute Kearton thought he was going to throw up.
But he recovered. “Heard you had Max Hardy down here making his number. Good chap in many ways—knows his stuff.” He dabbed his mouth with the handkerchief. “Useful, too, if it suits him.”
“He knows about the repair work. Seemed interested.”
Garrick nodded but was not listening. “Two new boats joining our little group. At long, bloody last, eh?” He was suddenly serious, almost sober. “Both motor gunboats, not M.T.B.s this time.” He cocked his head as if to challenge him. “Any objections?”
Kearton leaned back in his chair, trying to relax, anticipating the next tack.
“We can do with the extra firepower.” He waited. “Are they arriving soon?”
Garrick unbuttoned his reefer.
“Christ, it’s like an oven in here.” He seemed to recall the question. “Next convoy. The convoy, which thanks to your merry men should arrive unscathed.” He swallowed hard. “Well, nearly. I could do with a drink. Bit pushy for a guest, eh?”
Kearton moved to the cupboard. Garrick was tough, a true professional. He had not come aboard in the middle of the night, or whatever time it was, merely to open the bar.
“I still have some of that Scotch you sent over with Lieutenant-Commander Brice.”
Garrick waved his hand. “Good chap, Brice, doing an efficient job in conjunction with our lot … Bit of an old woman at times, but knows where to draw the line.” He leaned forward. “Good stuff, Bob, malt, from the Isle of Islay. Impossible to lay your hands on it these days.” He tapped the side of his nose. “But R.H.I.P.!” And he laughed.
Kearton poured two glasses with care. There was a bottle of soda water left from Brice’s visit, but Garrick covered his glass with one hand.
“Don’t kill it!”
Then he said, “There’s a meeting planned for the day after tomorrow.” He raised his wrist and peered at his watch, as if he were unable to focus on it. “Tomorrow. Or soon will be. Chiefs of Staff, all the usual suspects.” He put down his glass; it was empty. “This time there’ll be someone from London. Things are moving at last. Explains why Max Hardy is here. So we must make the most of it.”
He watched Kearton refilling his glass and said suddenly, “Your Number One—Spiers, right? A good chap? Due for his own command.” He was fumbling for something, perhaps his cigarettes. “All in good time.” He looked up as feet padded overhead. “Caught ’em on the hop when I appeared, eh?”
He almost laughed, but checked it.
“I want you with me. Show the flag, make ’em understand what we’re trying to do. What we are doing.” He found the packet, seemed to change his mind, and nodded gently. “But for our handling of the enemy minelaying scheme, the next convoy would be scattered across the bottom of the Med.” His face was flushed beneath its tan, but he was still very lucid. “Not just armour and firepower, Bob, not at this stage. It’s people who will tip the scales. Individuals.” He smiled and said, “I think I’ve gone over the yardarm. Been a long, long day.”
He stood up and steadied himself against the side, but the hull was motionless.
“Better go to the heads.” He squared his shoulders and pushed open the door.
“Everything all right, sir?” It was Spiers, a duffle coat over his pyjamas. “You should have given me a call!”
Kearton touched his arm.
“Thanks, Peter. Try and get some sleep. Busy day tomorrow.” He thought of Garrick, his pride and his pain. “Today, as it is now.” He heard the sound of flushing.
Spiers heard it too, and said as he moved away, “Extra one for breakfast, then. He can see how the poor live!”
When Kearton returned to his cabin, Garrick was asleep on the bunk. His jacket had been neatly spread across the back of the chair, and the four gold stripes were very impressive in the deckhead light. His fine cap was placed meticulously nearby.
Would Garrick remember anything of what he had said? There must have been a cause, a reason.
He looked at the bottle. It was empty.
Why now, and why here? The Boss, respected, even feared, as head of Special Operations. There were doubtless a lot of people who would like to see him fall.
Kearton pulled a few spare blankets together and sat in a corner of the cabin. In a few hours it would be daybreak, rain or no rain, and Garrick might recall nothing about it.
But Kearton knew he would never forget. Once again, it was a matter of trust.
The master-at-arms stood up smartly, unhurriedly, from his table as Kearton was shown into his office.
“I got your message, sir.” His eyes did not seem to move, but they missed nothing: rank, and the blue and white ribbon on Kearton’s jacket, even the sawdust on one of his shoes. “I know, sir. Dockyard mateys. Few hours’ work, and a month of Sundays to clear up the gash they leave behind.” He smiled, but it did not reach the cold eyes.
The Jaunty, as he was known, gestured toward the room’s other occupant, a rating sitting at a switchboard and wearing headphones.
“He’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.” It sounded like a threat. His hair was cut very short, and was completely grey. A reservist, Keart
on thought, or a man who had had his retirement curtailed for the duration. But very much in charge.
He put on his cap and said, “I’ll be around, sir.” He left the door partly open.
Kearton sat down at the table and looked at the telephone.
He felt like death. Garrick, by contrast, had seemed unaffected by the night’s events. He had declined breakfast and gone ashore while most of the hands were still asleep. He had even paused at the brow to return the salutes and called, “I’ll walk back to the grindstone—do me good!” Just briefly, the Boss again. “Noon, then. Show our faces!” That was all.
He handed the slip of paper to the man at the switchboard. Although he wore headphones, he had one ear uncovered.
“Won’t keep you long, sir. It’s rather busy at the moment.”
Kearton glanced at the typed and pencilled sheets that seemed to fill most of the table. Working parties, or men listed as sick or unfit for duty. Defaulters, men under punishment. And a few shown as on leave. The Jaunty missed nothing.
He thought of Spiers, dealing with the dockyard workers, who would be in command until the repairs were finished and 992 was ready for sea again, and, if need be, for action. He pushed it from his thoughts.
What am I doing here?
He felt inside his pocket. He had found Garrick’s gold cigarette lighter wedged in a corner of the bunk. He really must have been drunk; he was never without it.
There was the meeting with the top brass. Maybe that was why Hardy was here. But Garrick should be used to that …
He closed his eyes for a second, fighting the dead weight of fatigue.
I’m not.
“Putting you through now, sir.”
Kearton picked up the receiver. She had had time to think about it. To reconsider. Or she might be away somewhere …
“Hello—who’s that?” A man’s voice, curt, impatient. For a second he thought he recognized it, but knew he was mistaken.
“Kearton.” He cleared his throat. “Robert Kearton.” He thought there were other voices, somebody laughing. A woman.
And then she said, “Hello, it’s me. What a surprise! I never expected …” A pause, and the other voices were silent; she must have closed a door. When she spoke again, the false brightness was gone; her voice was low, tense, intimate. She might have been beside him.
“So many things I wanted to ask you, and I know I can’t. I was worried—so many rumours. You know, the village …? I suppose you’re up to your ears in things again.” More voices, and he heard her say as though over her shoulder, “Not now. Can’t you see …?” Quiet again; she had shut the door.
He said, “I was hoping I could see you. Talk, without having to cut and run like the last time.” He could feel the silence, and was painfully aware of his own clumsiness.
“I’m not sure, Bob. You know how things are … Actually, you don’t know—”
He could imagine her shaking her head, her hair across her shoulders, like that day. After the air raid.
“You’re not alone, Glynis. I didn’t realize. I must have put my foot in it.”
He heard the man at the switchboard recrossing his legs, waiting to break the connection.
She said, “Just a few people, moving house. I thought I told you.” Her voice faded; she must have looked away. “I don’t want you to think … to believe …” Another pause. “Have you got something to write on?” She did not allow him time to answer. “This is the address.” She stopped. “If you’re—sure.”
He heard himself murmur, “It means a lot. To me …”
He pressed the telephone hard against his ear, scribbling with a pencil, shutting out everything but her voice.
“Got it.”
“Call me first. I don’t want anyone to think—to imagine—” She broke off. Someone was tapping at the door. Her door.
He said, “As soon as I can.” But the line was dead.
The master-at-arms had reappeared, and looked briefly between him and the operator.
“No trouble getting through, sir? Makes a change.”
Kearton guessed his previous call was no secret here.
He held out the piece of paper he had torn from one of the pads on the table.
“I don’t know my way around Malta.” He heard her voice again. The village …
The Jaunty peered at the scribbled address.
“Over in Sliema. A posh area, or used to be.” He looked up, business-like again. “Quite a step from here. You’ll need transport …” He seemed to be considering it. “Never straightforward, with all the fuel shortage an’ so forth. But when the convoy gets here, things should be a bit easier.” He made up his mind. “Leave it to me, sir.”
Kearton walked out into the frail sunlight. The convoy. So much for secrecy.
He had to find his way to the proposed meeting. It would give him time to think.
But he was no longer tired.
9
And Good-Bye
LIEUTENANT PETER SPIERS closed the cabin door with his foot, without getting up from the table. It was hard to think, and impossible to shut out the noise. And this was only the first day. A handful of dockyard workers and shipwrights, but it felt and sounded like a small army. The wardroom was out of the question: a lot of the side had been cut or hacked away and it now lay open to the waterfront, and anybody who cared to stop and gape at the progress.
Here, at least, he was undisturbed, except by the noise. He wiped dust from the large envelope which contained the duties for the remaining watch on board, and looked around the cabin again. In some ways he knew it better than the wardroom. He had used it when the boat had commissioned, and for their first long passage to Gibraltar. There had been other officers aboard, specialists, in case any faults had gone undiscovered or unreported by the yard where 992 had first tasted salt water. It still looked unlived in, which somehow made it worse: there were no photographs or personal possessions. In the wardroom, Ainslie was always ready to show off his snapshots of his girlfriend, if she was still the same one …
Ainslie was in the chartroom right now, as far from the noise as he could get, and although it was noon, he was probably snatching an hour or so of sleep. They split the remaining shipboard duties between them; Ainslie had been quite agreeable. Nothing ever seemed to get on top of him.
Spiers yawned, and felt grit between his teeth. Kearton was ashore at some meeting; Garrick would be there, but others more senior would be running it.
He thought about the action again; it was never far from his mind. Moment by moment, if he allowed it. Trying to recall the timing, the sequences of waiting. And then the brutal reality. Sometimes he saw himself like a spectator, listening to his voice giving commands. Seeing Kearton, as if in the flashes of gunfire, then that final explosion. Spiers had been in action plenty of times. The memories often overlapped, and only the faces changed. They all went through it, but some you always remembered. He thought of Kearton, in control, even when things had seemed unpredictable. Would you ever really know him?
He stood up and stretched. Perhaps they had a tennis court or club in Malta, war or no war. Or was that, too, for senior officers only?
There was a party on tonight aboard 977, Geoff Mostyn’s boat, and there would be some hard drinking, unless there was another air raid …
He looked at his watch. Kearton would send word when he was free to return. In the meantime, all the non-duty hands were ashore on local leave. Despite all the restrictions, Kearton had managed to find time to fix that. They had been cheering about it, until somebody had quelled the noise with threats.
He glanced around the cabin again, and reached for his cap. Like listening to excuses at the defaulters’ table; he had done that often enough.
It was not envy. It was jealousy.
Most of 992’s libertymen got no further than the wet canteen which was within sight of the mooring-place. Sailors were like that, believing in the devil you know. It was often safer.
A
few stayed alone. Knowing why, but trying to come to terms with it.
Leading Torpedoman Laurie Jay found himself at the far end of the jetty, beyond the pontoons. Deserted now, or merely avoided because of the din being made by the dockyard workers.
Jay had not intended to come here, just as, in his heart, he had known that he would. From the moment they had been guided to these moorings the first time by the pilot boat, he had accepted the inevitable.
There had been a submarine lying alongside, deserted, resting, only her ensign moving. And deadly.
The berth was empty now. The submarine had probably moved over the water to Manoel Island, north of Valletta, where they had their own workshops and headquarters, or maybe she was at sea again. Cruising at periscope-depth in search of a target, a victim. Or running deep, with all hell breaking loose above and around her.
He walked to the water’s edge and looked down at his reflection. Tall and smart in his best tiddley-suit, a pusser’s raincoat over his arm.
He could not get used to it. Accept it. It was like being somebody else, an imposter. Even now, if he passed another sailor with the coveted cap tally, H.M. Submarines, he somehow expected to know the face, or to be recognized. He was thirty years old, or would be in a few weeks’ time, and one of the oldest members of the crew, and in the flotilla. He should be over it, or have cracked up by now.
Everything was completely different. Which was why he had requested the transfer from submarines to Coastal Forces and M.T.B.s. Movement, light, noise. Able to breathe. To escape.
And just occasionally it hit back at you. In Gosport after he had completed his transfer, he had come face to face with a chief petty officer outside H.M.S. Dolphin, the submarine base. An old instructor, or a one-time shipmate. The link was always there.
But the name of his last submarine had been enough. H.M. Submarine Saturn. The look of pity, or the look that said, Why you, and not all those other poor blokes?
And again, recently, when they had altered course and risked their own safety to pick up the sole survivor from a U-Boat. He had gone below to see the survivor for himself. Wrapped in blankets, shivering uncontrollably as Pug Dawson was trying to pour some rum into him.
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