The Gut, seven feet wide and five hundred yards long, was noisy and bustling. Music, a dozen different tunes, came jangling and discordant from the bars that lined the street. A sailor, already drunk, lurched towards them, waving his arms and singing. Andrew stepped aside as he passed and the lad fell to the deck, knocking his hat askew, still singing.
It was not until they had drunk eight pints between them and eaten a good dinner that they reached the halfway mark and entered the Golden Hind. The noise was deafening. Well-oiled by now, Greg called out, ‘This is more like it!’
The tables were crammed close together to leave a small area for dancing, but there was no space to dance for the floor was filled almost to bursting with sailors and girls.
‘Shame about you …’ Andrew was happy, not drunk. ‘Shame you’re too drunk to appreci … You know what I mean?’
‘Speak for yourself.’ Greg elbowed his way to the bar counter and said to Andrew. ‘Wanna rum?’
Andrew said, ‘My turn.’ Then, as he looked back, he saw the prettiest girl he’d ever clapped eyes upon. Her scarlet dress was pulled tight across big, beautiful breasts. She was smiling at him. Her hair was shiny black, long and curling over her shoulders. Big brown eyes fixed on him and her lips, glossy with scarlet lipstick, were parted in invitation.
He felt a familiar tightening as he spoke. ‘Care for a drink, miss?’
‘My name is Anita,’ she said in English. She came closer until the scent she wore filled the air around her.
‘Here–’ Greg turned with the drinks and handed the rum to Andrew. ‘Hey …’ He tried to slip an arm about Anita’s shoulder.
She shrugged free. ‘Not you. I like him,’ she said, and slid her hand across Andrew’s back.
Andrew grinned at Greg. ‘Sorry, Greg. I thought you had a date …’ Then, sotto voce, ‘Find your own.’ He put his free hand possessively on Anita’s arm and looked down, he hoped winningly, at the girl. She came only to his shoulder.
‘She’s a …’ Greg started to say, but thought better of it. Instead he said, ‘She’ll fleece you. She gets commission on everything you order.’
The girl pressed closer. Andrew squeezed her shoulder. ‘Want a drink?’
‘Champagne.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Greg was looking towards the door. ‘Bloody Pearce.’
Pearce elbowed his way through the crush towards the bar and came to a stop within feet of Andrew. He saw Anita and leered, showing brown-stained teeth. ‘Anita, my lovely.’
He was stinking, rotten drunk. Anita shrank back for a second then stuck out her chin. ‘I won’t go with you. I’ve told you before.’
Andrew kept a firm hold of her to protect her. ‘You heard what she said, Pearce. Sling your hook!’
Pearce swayed, his mouth slack, eyes bleary, voice thick as he said, ‘Bloody Stoker Mechanic Stewart, is it? She’s mine.’ His left hand shot out, fastened on the girl’s forearm and gripped tight, making Anita squeal.
‘There’s other bars,’ Greg urged. ‘She’s not worth it. Let’s get out.’
‘Like hell we will.’ Fury boiled inside Andrew. ‘Take your bloody hands off her,’ he snarled and gave Pearce’s wrist a sharp chop with the side of his hand.
As his hand fell Pearce muttered, ‘I’ll get you for this, Stewart. Striking a senior …’ but his voice was slurring.
Quickly Andrew shoved the girl towards Greg. ‘Watch her,’ he ordered. He had seen that Pearce’s left hand was low, weakened by the chop and in a poor starting point for a return blow, but he did not see Pearce’s right fist arriving with a mighty crack, square on to his ear. He staggered back against the wall of sailors, who pushed him upright again and, laughing and spoiling for a fight, urged him on: ‘Go for him!’
Only Greg had the sense to urge, ‘Leave him. Let’s get out!’
Andrew shook his head. Pearce was coming at him, his arms swinging wildly, teeth bared. It was an automatic reaction for Andrew to put his own fists up, to aim accurately. He felt the painful, jarring contact of his knuckles under Pearce’s chin, saw Pearce shake his head as if to wake himself up, then totter backwards against the bar.
Greg yelled, ‘That’s enough! You’re even now. Pack it in!’ as Pearce, still leaning on the bar, grabbed wildly for the brass rail. His hand fastened on to a beer bottle.
Andrew came forward, fists curled, ‘Stand up, Pearce, you bastard!’
Pearce stood, swaying drunkenly, spittle dripping from his lower lip as he hit the bottle against the brass rail. It bounced off. The music stopped. The crush moved back. There was nothing, no shouting, just air being drawn in and exhaled fast and greedily by the sailors at the front of the crowd. Andrew lunged with his right fist, caught Pearce a glancing blow on the jaw and felt the sharp stab in his wrist. And now the little crowd was starting to shift, to join in, calling out here and there, ‘Go on, sailor! Give it to him …’
He heard the splintering sound at Pearce’s second attempt to break the bottle but he did not feel the jagged broken glass lacerating his neck and throat. He was wild with anger, unaware of the blood that was pouring down his neck and chest. He landed another right hook under Pearce’s jaw and heard, behind him, shouts of encouragement. There was a coppery taste of blood in his mouth. Sweat, or tears, blinded him as he landed another hook under Pearce’s jaw and felt another shock go juddering down his arm.
Pearce was short of breath, his face purple and red, mouth hanging open with saliva dripping from his loose lips. He growled like an old bear every time he received one of Andrew’s blows. But Andrew knew he had youth and strength and stamina on his side, and he had drunk only enough to make himself merry, not drunk like the steaming, sweating Pearce. Andrew moved in fast, landing another blow on Pearce’s jaw.
The crowd moved back. Someone, probably the barman, called out, ‘Send for the police. They’re fighting like ruddy tigers!’
Andrew heard all this commotion at the same moment he felt the low thud in his stomach. His breath was being punched out of his lungs and he tottered, slipping on the bloody, wet dance floor. He did not feel Pearce’s boot cracking into the back of his head; he did not see Greg and half a dozen other sailors tackling his opponent to the deck before Pearce could land the second kick that probably would have killed him.
What he next knew was white light spinning in blackness and gradually, fuzzily, his eyes focused on the faces above him and he heard, ‘Call an ambulance. Take him to the Royal Naval hospital.’
‘Get him to the ship …’ Pearce’s voice ‘… before the provost marshal’s police get here. He’s not hurt.’
Then Greg: ‘You’ll be court-martialled, Pearce. If he dies …’
‘He won’t die. But if he squeals, he’s as good as dead.’
Andrew came to on the operating table of the Rutland. His throat was tight. His neck was a ring of pain and the medical officer, a surgeon lieutenant, annoyed that his own first leave in weeks had been held back while he stitched up a brawling stoker’s wounds, was impatient. ‘Sit up!’ he ordered.
‘Aye aye, sir.’ Andrew heaved himself awkwardly into a sitting position. The tiny room circled around him. He grabbed the edge of the table and held fast. He put his hand to his bandages and said, ‘What happened?’
‘You fought. That’s what happened. You’ll be charged. Drunk and disorderly. Causing an affray. Stand up.’
Andrew stood to attention. On the floor was his blood-soaked tunic. His white bell-bottoms were splashed and streaked red.
The medical officer said, ‘Get yourself cleaned up. The duty regulating petty officer will escort you to the captain.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ Andrew said as he was gripped and steered towards the door, his head heavy, hot and bursting with pain even as a cold chill ran down his back. The captain was Sir Gordon Campbell.
In his cabin, Captain Sir Gordon Campbell read the hastily written charge sheet. Andrew, the boy both he and Elizabeth had helped, would have to be punished. No excuses co
uld be made for bar fighting with the local Maltese, using broken bottles. Andrew Stewart knew the ropes. He had been in the service for a year-and-a-half.
While he contemplated Andrew’s punishment it gave him a shock to realise that two years had passed since the day he had taken the young lad out on to the Forth. He glanced at the silver-framed picture of Elizabeth that was attached to the wall and thought of how his own life had changed so drastically since that afternoon. He remembered the night of her birthday in January 1937, when he had gone home to Ingersley from Rosyth, the River Forth base in Fife.
After a successful tour of protection duty in the Med, where General Franco had ordered the shelling of a British steamer off the coast of northern Spain, Gordon had been given his first command: the Rutland, a bigger ship than he had ever commanded – a three-funnelled county-class vessel with Pearson General turbines and four propeller shafts. He had never had charge of so fast a ship and felt that he needed more briefing on their powerful engines. That week, his cabin was being refitted and he could take a few days’ leave.
He was anxious for Elizabeth, who seemed to be losing confidence in herself as her sight worsened. She had said, the last time they made love, ‘If you ever find a healthier, more desirable woman, I should not want to live.’
He’d been astonished and hurt, and back on board he knew he needed to reassure her of his love by seeing as much as he could of her. He rang home and spoke to Ruth, who naturally assumed he knew that a party was being arranged for Elizabeth’s birthday.
‘Can you bring some officers home with you, Gordon?’ she said. ‘The balance of guests is wrong.’
Gordon, though not contemptuous of hierarchy and ranking, did not follow the strict social rules of naval protocol. As well as the young lieutenant-commander, he would invite the chief engineer, a non-commissioned officer who held petty officer rank. Chiefie, as the chief engineer was affectionately called, could explain the ship’s mechanics to them both.
When they arrived at Ingersley his worries vanished, for Elizabeth was her old self. Wearing a mauve crepe de Chine dress that clung to her slender, graceful figure she greeted them at the door, shaking hands with his junior officers, accepting their birthday good wishes, smiling into their faces as if she could see as well as once she had. Her beautiful face and bubbling charm had his junior officers bowled over in seconds. She took his hand and climbed the stairs ahead of the others, her voice low and soft as she said, ‘Darling, I hope you don’t mind. Ruth asked if she might invite the doctor and his wife as well as the minister and the two Miss Stevensons. Poor Ruth doesn’t get many opportunities to shine socially.’
She slid her fingers gently against his thumb as she spoke. The scent of Chanel perfume drifted in the air about her and he felt the quick rising of desire for her. He forced his mind on to the waiting guests to avert embarrassment even as he returned the pressure of her fingers and whispered, ‘Later, darling …’
In the drawing room Ruth was obviously on good form, pink-cheeked, speaking earnestly to the doctor one moment, the next relaxing and acting the part of the lady of the manor. Ruth had social ambitions and he asked himself if he and Elizabeth were being fair to her sister, who ought to have a wider circle of friends than they could provide. He smiled to himself. The lieutenant-commander was a bachelor. Gordon took Elizabeth across the room to be near to Ruth then, since they no longer kept a butler, took upon himself the pleasant and now entertaining duty of serving drinks from a rather elaborate trolley that Ruth had given them at Christmas.
The guests were mingling well and the confident small talk and tinkling laughter of the ladies gave every indication of a pleasant evening ahead. Dr Scott was standing a little apart from the rest, by one of the windows where the curtains were not drawn, looking out over the frosty white park. It was as if he wanted to be out of earshot. Gordon went towards him. ‘What will you have? Whisky? Sherry?’ Then the doctor’s solemn look made him say, ‘How do you think Elizabeth is?’
The doctor gave a thin smile. ‘Whisky. I have to talk to you.’
‘About Elizabeth?’
‘Yes. Could you come to my consulting room in the morning?’
Gordon poured whisky into a crystal glass and handed it to the doctor. ‘I’m afraid not. But after dinner we can talk in my study for ten minutes. It’s the room directly opposite the drawing room.’
The cook had excelled herself. With the help only of the two housemaids, who also had to wait at table, Mrs Stewart had prepared a delicious game soup, which was followed by fish caught that very morning – whiting in a tangy sauce made from cream and capers. Next came Gordon’s favourite, roast rib of beef with vegetables from their own fields and the rich gravy that only Mrs Stewart, in all his experience, could make so well. Scotch trifle was the dessert and another of his favourites. He would go downstairs to thank her before she left for the South Lodge.
Elizabeth sat at the opposite end of the table and, watching her, Gordon had a return of his anxiety. She was overexcited, overreacting to the conversation, which had turned from the inconsequential bits of news of other families and church affairs in the little harbour town of North Berwick to highly charged talk about the Duke and Duchess of Windsor’s being welcomed by Hitler to Berlin. Elizabeth saw this as treachery. The Misses Stevenson saw it as peace-making. The doctor too was worried, for his eyes went frequently to Elizabeth down the long mahogany table.
It was nine o’clock before Elizabeth, with dear, devoted Ruth beside her, calmed down. His fears subsiding, Gordon nodded to the doctor and slipped away to the study. There he poured two brandies and waited for the doctor to speak.
The doctor accepted the drink and, unsmiling, came straight to the point. ‘Your wife is deteriorating,’ he said. ‘You may not be aware of it, but Elizabeth’s fits are increasing in severity and frequency. I have to advise you that marital relations should cease.’
Gordon stared at the reflected light that shimmered, golden, in the brandy goblet. He did not look at the doctor. Later, he’d recall every word, every inflection in the doctor’s voice as he continued: ‘Your wife will not tell you. She is naturally very afraid of losing your affection. She asked that I observe the code of confidentiality.’
Gordon kept his eyes on the glass, head averted as he said, ‘I see. You believe that the fits are aggravated …?’
‘Absolutely. The brain’s electrical balance is disturbed by the act.’
Gordon took a deep breath, looked directly at the young man and said quietly, ‘Thank you for telling me. I will respect your confidence. My wife will not be told that you have broken yours to her.’ He opened the door for the doctor.
When he was alone, he sat at his desk in a state of appalled disbelief. How was he going to do this? If he told Elizabeth that he had sought independent medical advice she would see it as a betrayal. She herself would never speak about their married love to anyone but himself. And how could he turn away her offers of love without explanation? He must make his poor darling understand that it would be as great a sacrifice for him as for her. But he could not do it tonight, with so many people in the house. He would speak to her before he left Ingersley in the morning. He drained the last of his brandy, opened the study door and saw that Ruth was speaking to Nanny at the far end of the landing. He beckoned her. She nodded acknowledgement, dismissed Nanny and came into the study.
‘Ruth, my dear. Has Nanny gone to her own quarters?’
‘Yes. I didn’t think Elizabeth would want her – with you here.’
‘Sit down, Ruth. I have to ask yet another kindness of you.’
‘Anything at all.’ An expression of cool calculation seemed to lurk at the back of Ruth’s wide blue eyes even as she said, hesitantly and tenderly, ‘What can I do, Gordon dear?’
Gordon glanced at the clock. It was almost ten. Everyone would understand if Elizabeth retired early – and in any case the guests were starting to shift a little, as if waiting for a signal that it was time t
o go. He said, ‘Take Elizabeth to bed. Tell her not to wait up for me. The officers and I have a lot to talk about. I will sleep in my own room.’
‘You want me to sleep with Elizabeth?’
‘If you will.’
‘In Nanny’s bed?’ Nanny always slept in Elizabeth’s dressing room when Gordon was away, in case she had an epileptic fit.
‘Yes.’ He had no intention of telling Ruth any more than this and he saw with gratitude that it was not necessary.
She patted his arm and said, ‘There is no need for Elizabeth to come downstairs to see the guests off. I’ll take her up to bed. And tell her that you and your officers will be talking all night. All right?’
‘Ruth?’
She turned at the door. ‘Yes?’
‘Gently does it. Tell her – I’m sorry …’
‘I understand, Gordon. I’ll give her some sedative medicine. She may need it after all the excitement.’
‘Thank you, dear.’ He watched Ruth go to Elizabeth, take her sister’s arm and incline her head, smiling as she bade good night to their guests. His wife gave the sweetest smile as if she understood perfectly and all was well.
Gordon saw Dr Scott, his wife, the rector and the Misses Stevenson to their cars in a flurry of thanks and polite handshakes and a crunching of tyres on frost-white gravel under the black bowl of a still night that was brilliant with thousands of stars. He’d give anything to have Elizabeth on his arm, her sight restored, sharing with him the wonder of the night sky. He remained a few minutes, gazing at the constellations Orion, Ursa Major and Cassiopeia. The very same constellations had inspired the legends of gods, poets and peasants, thinkers and dreamers, since man had first pondered the universe and his own part in it. He reflected too on the fact that even today, with the wonders of modern science, sailors still navigated by the same skies that early man had regarded.
Indoors, his officers drew up chairs in front of the drawing room fire, where the chief engineer made a splendid furnace of the logs that crackled and sparkled and threw shadows across the elaborate plaster ceiling. They talked long into the night in the otherwise silent house. It was three in the morning before the officers went to their rooms and Gordon to his old childhood bedroom that connected to his study.
Flora's War Page 7
