‘Port Captain?’
A nod. ‘Go Montevideo.’
‘And what happened?’
‘One hour, switch off. One hour. Capitao da Tovar departing’ – Mendoza miming the flipping-up of a switch – ‘again, boom-boom-boom!’
‘Like now. Ever since.’
‘Si. All days, all nights.’
‘No one else tried telling them to shut up?’
‘Port Captain not here, so –’
‘How about Caetano?’
Surprise again: ‘You know Mario Caetano?’
‘Met him here last night. Introduced himself as Acting Port Captain. He was with his wife and someone called Ferras.’
‘Mario Caetano – you see, port enlargement, for make new berths, roads also, soon bridges –’
‘Engineer?’
‘What he is doing – yes, engineer. Now Port Captain not here, sure, he’s boss. Ferras is work for Capitao da Tovar, but he and Caetano very – like this.’ Two fingers entwined.
‘Buddies.’
‘Buddies. Yes.’ Mendoza leant closer. ‘I give you secret. Caetano is Nazi. I think also Ferras. You see?’
‘When might Captain da Tovar get back?’
A shrug, shoulders rising almost to his ears. ‘I not know.’
‘He’s not a Nazi?’
‘Not! Good man, he! Very small number Nazis here. In Brazil only small number.’ Silent, wide-eyed, thinking about that. Then: ‘You like cachaça?’
‘Thanks, but wouldn’t want more than this.’
‘Like meet Arabella?’
‘Yes – yes, but not tonight…’
‘Morrow?’
‘Maybe Wednesday?’
* * *
On gangway watch were AB Parlance and OS Clover: two men on the job so one could stay put and the other take messages or whatever. Andy asked them how they liked the Germans’ music, and Parlance said he liked it fine, he’d been practising the goose-step. Clover, he added, had tried but made a hash of it, on account of his legs being so short.
‘Low centre of gravity might yet stand you in good stead, Clover. Old Man turned in, I suppose?’
They reckoned he had. But there was a light burning in the day cabin, and he’d asked to be informed of developments vis-à-vis Cluny, certainly should be told about Caetano being a Nazi. Andy went up, knocked, found the master sitting in his vest and underpants writing letters.
‘Come in. Shut the door. See your South African, did you?’
‘Afraid not, sir.’ He told him about Cluny having to go up-country, to the mining district where maybe their ore came from, and not being expected back before earliest tomorrow evening, possibly not until Wednesday.
‘If I had to bet, I’d say Wednesday.’
‘Looking on the dark side?’
He shook his head. ‘Two-fifty kilometres each way, Manolo said. And Cluny’s ma-in-law’s in a state, apparently. He won’t get away that easy.’
‘You’ve been learning the facts of life, Holt.’
‘Learnt one other thing, sir. Our pilot, Mendoza, was there, we had a drink together and he said the so-called Acting Port Captain – Caetano – is a Nazi. His real job is the engineering works, port development. And the one who was with him last night, name Ferras, is an assistant to the real Port Captain, name of da Tovar. I asked when he was due back, Mendoza didn’t know. He thinks Ferras is a Nazi too.’
‘Place seems thick with ’em.’
‘But when the second mate and I went ashore last night, sir, they were clapping us in the street – on account of the Graf Spee, apparently.’
‘Mendoza have anything to say about the Glauchau?’
‘Only he’d no idea how long she’ll be here. Or whether she really is waiting for spare parts. I asked him – on account of the brass bands, that we wouldn’t mind some peace and quiet – and he just didn’t know. Doesn’t like Huns or Nazis, I’m sure of that, but he’d have to be a bit cautious, I suppose.’
‘With Nazis running the port, dare say he would.’ Frowning, fingering an unlit pipe. Then nodding. ‘Right. Find Mr Halloran, ask him to step up here. You get your head down. For your private information, though – since it was you started this – we’ll keep a dark-hours watch on the Hun. One man, monkey island’d be the place, dusk to dawn, maybe two-hour watches, to let me know if she looks like weighing. Torches on the foc’sl, sort of thing. If she did, I’d put a message out, pronto. Otherwise, we’ll wait for your man to deliver whatever it is he’s got.’
Andy nodded. A third mate didn’t comment on his skipper’s decisions – not unless the skipper asked him to. Skipper adding, ‘To square your yardarm, Holt, I’ll tell Mr Halloran you have a contact ashore, you’re pursuing it on my authority and meanwhile I’ve told you mum’s the word.’
* * *
Halloran asked him – Tuesday morning – ‘Some person the Old Man says you’re in touch with – that the girl you were on about?’
‘Wasn’t exactly ‘on about’. Answered your question, was all. But no – no connection.’
Halloran would most likely have resented Andy’s having gone to the Old Man with his story, of course, would have maintained that he should have passed it through him. On the other hand, the Old Man had approved his having gone to him directly: it was that sort of business – master’s business – as he’d have made plain to the mate last night.
No mail. None yesterday and none today. Martensen came on board on Dundas Gore business in mid-forenoon, when the chute had been hard at work on numbers four and three holds, filling the warm air with choking grit as well as deafening everyone within a hundred yards of it, and he’d have brought mail if there’d been any. None came later in the day either, which left only Wednesday itself. In fact it wasn’t bothering him now: letters would have been written, would be in the care of GPO London somewhere or other, would eventually turn up, while on the Northern Patrol and at Helensburgh glasses would undoubtedly be raised to him. Letters might be at the bottom of the sea, of course; but they still existed or had existed, one required no proof of it, and in any case they were no more than tokens of the bonds of affection that existed between the four of them.
It might have come to matter less, he realised, through the Glauchau business taking up so much of one’s thinking. The ship herself still lying out there with her black-and-grey, orange-spotted reflection shimmering in the river’s moving mirror-surface; deserted-looking, except for an occasional sighting of groups of men promenading on her upper deck, sometimes individuals trotting round, taking exercise. They were never at it for long: one only heard that such phenomena had been spotted; otherwise the ship’s inert appearance was discounted only by the noise reasserting itself when the chute was stopped for a breather, and for longer than that in early afternoon when the PollyAnna’s gangway was slung up clear of the quay, her breast ropes and wire springs shifted under Batt Collins’ eagle eye, while the tug that had annoyed Mendoza nudged her astern in readiness for the loading of the next hold.
Loading wasn’t going badly at all. Elevator roaring and clattering, leaking steam, chute’s body shaking like a dinosaur with palsy, its spout clanging and convulsing. Fisher shouted – on the poop, where the gunlayer and trainer, ABs Bakewell and Timms, were doing a maintenance routine on the gun, greasing and polishing – ‘Hope the Germans like the concert we’re giving them, eh?’
Couldn’t see the Glauchau from here, since PollyAnna’s superstructure blocked the line of sight. Had only to go for’ard or up to bridge level, though, and there was the Hun quartermaster on his chair as ever, starboard side amidships. Nothing any different, except that an hour ago it had been noticed that there was no boat at the foot of the Jacob’s ladder. Captain gone ashore, maybe, or a party landed for fresh stores – such items as milk, fruit, eggs, fish.
Hun skipper visiting Caetano, maybe.
Andy yelled in Fisher’s ear, ‘You don’t mind taking the duty again tonight?’
‘No, that’s O
K. Be ashore late, will you?’
A shrug. ‘No later than I can help.’
* * *
Cluny wasn’t there. Nor was anyone else he knew – except for Manolo. Whose name was not Manolo, Mendoza had informed him last night. Tonio had taken over the business from a fellow Spaniard called Manolo some years ago and retained the name for the sake of continuity; was quite happy that a lot of his customers thought it was his own.
‘Oi, Tonio.’ Andy had learnt this too from Mendoza; having heard the little waitress, Manuela, calling ‘Oi!’ to new arrivals, he’d asked him why she did it and had been told it meant ‘hello’.
He put the obvious question: ‘No Franco?’
Shake of the head. Seeing Tonio from certain angles and when he wasn’t smiling, one realised he had to be pushing fifty. He was opening a bottle that was either champagne or dressed up as such: passing it across the bar to Manuela – who a moment ago had blown Andy a kiss – and moving along this way now. ‘He return tomorrow evening. Was on telephone. Want beer?’
‘Cachaça, please.’
‘You learn our ways, eh?’
‘From Captain Mendoza. But just one, and I’ll be off.’
‘Cachaça, one.’ Bottle’s neck clinking on the small, thick tumbler. ‘You should try some time Caipirinchas.’
‘Say it again?’
‘Cachaça with lime juice, sugar, ice.’ Pointing with his head at a tall glass in a woman’s hand. ‘Tomorrow, uh? Want table reservation – your birthday, uh?’
‘Did I tell you that?’
‘You tell Franco. I think he tell me. Or I hear you tell him.’ He scooped Andy’s money off the counter’s glass top. ‘Thank you, senhor.’
‘I’m called Andy.’
‘Good.’ He tried it for pronunciation: nodded, finding it easy. ‘Want reserve table, Andy?’
‘I don’t think so. Don’t know what time or how many’ll come, anyway. It’ll be Dutch, by the way – not my party, all paying their rounds. And no food – sorry, but we’ll have had supper on board. You sure Franco’ll be here?’
‘Si. Sure. He swear it, he want be here. Excuse me…’
Manuela joined him then. She might have been waiting until her boss had moved away. ‘Oi, big boy.’
‘Oi, Manuela!’
‘How long you stay Vitoria?’
‘Just a few days. Come out with me one evening?’
She’d taken his free hand in both of hers, was kneading it. Dark eyes troubled, gazing up at him: ‘Somebody saying you like Arabella.’
‘Never met her. And I hadn’t met you the one time I did set eyes on her. Anyway –’
‘She very beautiful, eh?’
‘But you’re – you’re sensational, Manuela.’
‘Oh, you – you say –’
‘I mean it. Truly. You’re more than just attractive, you’re –’
‘What I?’
‘Just plain scrumptious!’
‘Scrumpuss nice to be?’
‘Why, certainly –’
‘Saturday I work here lunchtime, evening I am free. You like – Saturday – go ozzer place?’
‘I’d love it, but I don’t know I’ll still be here. It’s likely to be the day we’ll finish.’
‘Friday, finish here eleven.’
‘Well.’ She was facing him, arms round his waist, leaning back to look up at him, moving to the music’s beat. He said, ‘I could take all-night leave –’
‘Sure.’
‘How much?’
‘Huh?’
‘Quanto?’ Another of the half-dozen words he’d learnt. She glanced back over her shoulder, calling a snappy-sounding reply in Portuguese to some people who were clamouring for attention. Back to him then: ‘Not to ask quanto in this place, por favor.’ A husky laugh. ‘Only bring plenty.’
* * *
Wednesday 20 December – a date which for a long time had seemed a distant prospect but had now suddenly arrived. Twenty-one years since he’d come crapping and howling into the light of day. Actually he’d been born in the afternoon, so wasn’t quite there yet. Manuela though, Friday night: in the early light in his cabin she was smiling at him as she had been in Manolo’s, when it had occurred to him that he could just about have had her there and then. Would anyone have noticed? Yes – the bunch at that table who’d been getting ratty, demanding service – they would have. Given them food for thought, if nothing else. Manolo –Tonio, rather – had said to him sotto voce across the bar some minutes later – Andy having told him he’d be making tracks now – ‘Mario Mendoza is saying last night maybe you like fix up with Arabella. Most beautiful young lady in Brazil, uh? But two night now we not seeing her, I guess she plenty busy. Maybe tomorrow, but –’
‘Doesn’t matter. Truly doesn’t, Tonio. In fact I’d sooner you didn’t say anything if she does come in.’
Tonio had shown surprise. Andy actually surprising himself, too. Turning down that vision, that raving beauty – even if she were to be available? Tonio shrugging his thick shoulders: ‘OK. OK…’ Andy explaining to himself that having settled for Manuela he didn’t want to hurt her feelings; and that in any case, a bird in the hand – or virtually in hand…
Friday, he thought, turning out, realising that he had been looking forward to this birthday, was now more keenly anticipating Friday night. Liking her, as well as – all the rest of it… Shaving then, and showering, speculating as to how things might have gone by the time Friday came. No doubt at all they’d still be here – and for a day or more after that, since loading wasn’t likely to be completed before Saturday noon – afternoon, maybe – whereas the German might up-anchor at any time. That was one factor – inescapable, and nothing one could do about it if it happened – and the other was what Cluny had to tell him. The skipper was taking it seriously enough now – enough to have waited up for his return from shore last night. Andy had found him smoking a pipe on the gallery outside his cabin, leaning on the rail and gazing across the shine of dark water to where the Glauchau was virtually stern-on to them, her riding lights seemingly close together because of that angle, the nearer of them slightly to the right and lower than the one on her foremast. Lower by fifteen feet, for sure, in compliance with international regulations for a ship of her length lying at anchor: Messrs Janner and Gorst could have told one that – rattled a whole chapter of it off by heart.
‘Skipper, sir?’
‘Holt? Your man turn up?’
‘No, sir –’
‘Damn!’
‘He’d telephoned, though, and his boss is certain he’ll be there this time tomorrow.’
‘Then you will be too, I take it.’
‘Certainly will, sir.’
‘Reasonably sober even though it is your birthday. Reminds me – a drink in the day cabin at twelve noon. I’m inviting Halloran and chief to join us.’
‘Thank you very much, sir.’ A nod towards the German’s dark shape. ‘I was thinking, Hun crew must be going loco. No shore-leave, and that racket –’
‘Our lads wouldn’t put up with it, that’s for sure.’
* * *
Over breakfast, with the chute’s noise already at full blast, everyone was wishing him a happy birthday or many happy returns. Glauchau still there: tide flooding, so no view of either her watch on deck or the motorboat. Fisher said over his eggs and bacon – very small Brazilian eggs, you needed three or four of them – ‘This should be your lucky day for mail from home.’
‘Time we had a mail in any case.’
‘Say that again.’ Dewar, the senior wireless man – still pale and flabby-looking – ‘Last I heard, my sister was expecting a happy event. Imminent, mother said. That was five or six weeks ago!’
‘Is a war on, Bill.’
‘Take a chance on it, call him Uncle Bill.’
He liked that: chuckling, jowls wobbling. ‘Like to know what it was – is – that’s all.’
‘And how she is, you’re supposed to ask.’
> ‘Well, it’s her third, she’ll be all right.’ Glancing up as his number two, Starkadder, arrived. Circling the table, patting Andy on the shoulder: ‘Congratulations. I mean –’
‘I know what you mean, Frank. Thanks.’
‘Kind of dramatic news just came in, though.’
‘Well?’
‘The Graf Spee’s captain – Langsdorff – shot himself last night.’
‘Oh, Christ…’
‘In Buenos Aires. Wrapped himself in a German ensign, then – pow…’ He stooped to the pantry hatch: ‘Four eggs please, Jackson.’
* * *
Andy reported to the skipper in his day cabin at noon precisely and had a glass of gin and water in his hand by the time Halloran and the chief engineer arrived at a minute past the hour. The skipper poured more gins and proposed, loudly enough to be heard over the surrounding noise, Third Mate Andrew Holt’s long life, happiness and success; they all drank to it, wished him luck and so on. There was some talk then about the non-arrival of mail from home, and various theories to account for it – misdirection, enemy action, GPO making sure of their getting it by sending it to await the PollyAnna’s arrival at her next port of call.
‘Do we know where that’ll be, sir?’ Halloran, chancing his arm.
Hibbert observed, ‘Hun’s got his ensign at half-mast, I see.’
‘Has indeed.’ The skipper raised his glass. ‘No one else is obliged to drink this one, but – to that poor devil’s immortal soul.’
They all drank to it. Skipper then asking his engineer, ‘The Glauchau’s a motor vessel, diesel, twin screw I’d say, a smidgin bigger ’n PollyAnna – six-five GRT, say, dead-weight nine-five. What speed would you reckon?’
The big man ran a hand around his jaw. Small shrug. ‘Fifteen?’
‘All right. You won’t have heard about this, Chief, but these two have. If or when that bugger sails, I’ll be letting the powers that be know about her. Don’t know what ships the RN still have on this coast, and it’s anyone’s guess what course she’ll set, but guessing her speed near enough, they might catch her with a Vignot curve of search – uh?’
Westbound, Warbound Page 14
