Then my grandfather would nod towards the back door, and when it banged shut behind us, he would lean against the brick wall, grin a theatrically wry grin and pretend to wipe the sweat from his brow. ‘Phew. Narrow escape, sailor.’
I would wipe the sweat from my own brow and salute. ‘Yes, sir. Phew, sir.’ I was going to be a sailor when I grew up. On the submarines. No question.
His stories were mainly about his time on the wartime subs as a stoker, then on the ships, destroyers. Atlantic convoy. The same stories over and over, but that didn’t matter to me, then. They were precious, like gifts, and he didn’t tell them to anyone else. At bedtime, he’d sometimes open the desk in the middle room, bring out a tattered brown envelope from the back of a drawer, and take out a line of medals on a silver pin. He’d fix them on my dressing gown. If it was a fine evening, we’d dash across the street to the allotments, my grandfather in his donkey jacket, me in my dressing gown and slippers, medals and all. We might sit in the shed for a while, but soon, he would check his watch, ‘Bloody train’s late again, Maidie Tovey.’
Behind the shed, out of sight of the other allotments, I’d stand on the taut bottom wire in my slippers, lifting myself a few inches off the ground, holding the top wire between the barbs. Looking out across the railway land to the garages and the derelict factories beyond. I’d lean out as far as I could, listening, watching the track curving silver towards the marshalling yards. You could always hear sounds from up there: a constant clank and rattle of couplings, the screech of metal on metal. The sound changed when the coal train was coming, unravelling its own rhythm as it snaked down the line towards us, the beat getting louder and louder until suddenly there it was; a wave from the driver, then the rush and cough of truck after truck thundering past for what seemed like hours. And that’s when he shouted his stories in the end, so his words were caught up and rattled away down the valley as he banged his hand up and down on the swaying fence post.
I was fascinated by that hand. The skin was pinched and puckered round what was left of his little finger, moving as the other fingers moved as though there was a ghost finger still there, one that couldn’t quite leave the others. He said he couldn’t feel it now. But back then, he knew about it, alright. He’d shout it over the coal train: ‘Caught the bloody thing in the escape hatch, must have. Did I tell you about the time I used this gear, Maidie Tovey? Did I tell you how I lost my finger?’
Yes, he had. Many times. Getting out of that submerged sub, crippled on her maiden dive, one of only a few to make it. Owed his life to that rotting escape gear. They all did, the ones who got out with him. His best mate, Terence Bambrick, with his shock of red hair, who gave all the torpedoes names. The boss, Leading Stoker Matthews, a married man with two kiddies, who they called LSM. William Shuttleworth, a bit of a mummy’s boy who couldn’t hold his drink. All for one and one for all, they all escaped together. I saw their four dark shapes in their Davis gear rising through a grey sea in a slow, underwater ballet, my grandfather leading the way, holding his rubber apron sheet out at first to slow the ascent, then fists upraised, punching through the surface, ‘Air, Maidie Tovey. There’s air for you, lovely girl.’
He woke me, that last summer. I was eleven, my grandmother gone at least two years, and me still staying whenever I could wangle it at Gwilym Terrace, as always. It was nearly dark. ‘Forgot to tell you your story,’ he said, handing me my dressing gown. I reckoned I was getting to old for his stories, but I didn’t say so. He crossed over to the bedroom window, parted the curtains and peered out into the street. He looked down at the road, then up, up at the sky. He was silhouetted against the window, against the streetlights like he was on a stage. I had this stupid feeling that he was going to open the window and jump out.
On the allotments, there was enough light left to pick out a few men packing up at the garages the other side of the railway, the old factory buildings rising behind. There was the smell of a bonfire. No sign of the train. Just the sounds of the marshalling yard in the distance, as usual: engines labouring, chains clanking, the screech of wheels. Gathering the night coal train together. I stood by the wire, yawning, waiting for my grandfather. He’d gone to his shed.
Then his voice, different, calling me. An urgency. ‘Davis gear men, five minutes.’
I had held the thing before, never worn it. It wound itself round me, weighed me down, hung off me, breathing tube dangling by my feet. The smell of it rose round my face like a gas. He checked his watch. ‘Bloody train’s late again . . .’ as we moved back to the barbed wire, me feeling a strange mix of pride and horror at what I was wearing.
‘Steady. Keep your movements slow, Stoker Tovey. Save the air.’
The smell was awful. I wanted to take it off, didn’t want to hurt his feelings. ‘Grandpa, I . . .’
‘Don’t speak, Tovey. Conserve the air, man.’
There was a crash then, something falling, it sounded like a pile of corrugated iron sheets, maybe, something, from over by the factories. My grandfather jumped. ‘Hear the bulkheads shutting down back there, Tovey? Poor buggers.’
‘Poor buggers up front.’ I knew from the stories that the sea gushed into Nymph through the torpedo tubes up front.
I stood on the bottom wire, leaning out, leaning further, the thick rubber a buffer against the barbs. My grandfather right behind me. Each time I moved, it seemed to release something from the gear.
‘Save the air. Stoker Bambrick has passed out again, Tovey. See that?’
It was a still warm late evening, hardly a breath of a breeze coming down off the hill. My grandfather stood close behind me, his hand on the fence post. ‘We’ll leave him, shall we? Step over him, Tovey. Mind your feet, man.’
I wanted to tell him I’d heard this one, how Stoker Bambrick was lying on the floor, like he was just asleep. How they had to step over him to get anything done, then my grandfather kicked him hard and he woke up, came round, ready.
The sounds from the marshalling yard ironed themselves into the steady clank, clank of the coal train, getting louder as it approached.
‘Hear that, Tovey? Mavellous sound, must be a diver, banging the hull. The best sound in the world. Find something, Tovey, man. Don’t just stand there gawping, let them know we’re still here — bang on the side.’ His hand thumped the fence post.
‘Bambrick’s a fool, Tovey. Silly lad doesn’t move slowly, like we’ve been told. Does unnecessary things. Remember? He’s gone around collecting up his photos. Stuck on the two diesels, and the electrics. His sister Edie, his little piece, Bren. Gives everything names, daft bugger —even the bloody torpedoes. Man’s a fool.’
The train was coming closer. It had rounded the corner, the sound was clearer, rising, pushing the night towards us down the valley.
‘It won’t be long before they get through. The rescue squads. They’ll be throwing chains round, hauling us up any moment. Taken their time about it.’
I was tired. The gear stank. I wanted to go back to bed.
‘Get a spanner, Tovey. Anything, man. Bang on the side. Let them know we’re here.’
Then his voice picked up, sharpened. Panic–edged. ‘Right. Check Davis gear. You’re in charge of the gear for us all, Tovey.’
I coughed.
‘Save the air, lad. How’s it looking, Stoker Tovey? Answer me, man. Give that spanner to Bambrick — he’s awake at last. Good sleep, Bambrick? Tovey! Concentrate. The gear. How’s it looking?’
I tried to join in. ‘It’s OK, Grandpa?’
‘No, it’s not bloody OK, Tovey. Look, will you. Use your eyes. They’ve taken out the Davis gear, piled them somewhere else. There’s only one here, pushed behind the torpedo rack. Look, man. One between the four of us.’
I shook my head. This wasn’t the story. ‘But . . .’
He ignored me. ‘How’s your head, Stoker Tovey?’
I said it was f
ine. Then my grandfather started really shouting, and the coal train was there, just there. ‘No! It’s like this!’ And he grasped my head from behind, squeezing, his fingers digging into my temples. ‘You haven’t got enough air. There’s too many men in here. It’s like bloody boulders on your chest.’ He put his arms round me from behind, squeezing.
‘Grandpa — I can’t breathe.’
But my voice was swallowed. There it was, the train, the engine, the driver didn’t look down, didn’t wave, and I wanted him to wave, to see us. The first trucks loomed into the dark, there was the rush of wheels on the track, the rattle over the joints, one after the other, truck after truck. The din. The smell, heat and grease, and my grandfather shouting over my head: ‘Shuttleworth, keep calm. That’s Leading Stoker Matthews. LSM. Hear that? He’s tired.’
I half turned, but he pushed me back round. ‘LSM’s talking to you, Tovey. Listen, man. Concentrate, Tovey. Stoker Bambrick, keep up that signalling. Shuttleworth, take half an hour’s sleep. LSM’s keeping his voice low, slow. But that’s him, alright. William Shuttleworth’s crying now, sniffling like a baby. Can you hear him?’
‘Will we be alright, Sir? I can’t breathe right, Sir.’
‘No one can, Shuttleworth. LSM says we’ll be fine if we keep calm. Listen, Shuttleworth, calm down lad.’
My grandfather’s voice was hoarse. ‘We’ve been down here for too long. There’s not enough air. Our heads, our chests are like lead. Hot. It hurts to think. I am so tired. I am sick. Are you tired, Tovey?’
Yes. I was tired. The train wasn’t fun at night. Just noise after noise. The trucks clanked over the joints. Clank, clank, clank, clank. My grandfather was shouting, ‘That’s Terence Bambrick beating on the side, Tovey. With that bloody spanner! Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Hear that?’
The trucks, one after another. Clank, clank.
‘Listen, Stoker Tovey. Hear that? Beautiful sound. Answering noises from outside the sub. Clunk, clank. Best sound in the bloody world. LSM says we’ll be fine. They know what they’re doing, lads. Just a matter of time.’
‘LSM says we just have to sit it out. They’ll be lifting us up, just you wait. Just you wait.’ I wanted someone to come from the allotments. But there was no one to come. We hadn’t seen anyone at all.
‘What’s happened to the spanner? LSM’s shouting. Where’s Bambrick? It’s dark now, lights flickering, only. Electrics are failing, blast them. He’s shouting, Stoker Bambrick? Stoker Bambrick? Tell him Tovey. Tell him. He’s spark out, Sir. Tell him.’ He shook my shoulders. ‘Tell him.’
I shouted, ‘He’s spark out, Sir!’
‘Spark out. Spanner still in his hand, look. Too much exertion, that’s the thing. Shuttleworth is asleep too. There’s LSM leaning against the bulkhead, eyes closed. Still hear the banging from outside. I don’t like this. I don’t want to be the only one awake. Let’s wake Shuttleworth.’
He shook me harder. ‘Tovey! Shake LSM too. Tell him I can’t wake Shuttleworth.’
‘Grampa!’
‘Insubordination, Tovey? Bloody tell him. You’ll have to shout.’
I shouted at the train, ‘I can’t wake Shuttleworth, Sir!’ My voice seemed to billow, there was no beginning to the train, no end.
My grandfather slapped my back, hard. ‘LSM’s got a plan. Listen. OK. We’re going to draw lots for the Davis gear. Tovey. Sheet from a notebook, four pieces — you know the drill. Pencil. 1, 2, 3, 4.’
Then he wasn’t shouting any more, put his mouth close to my ear, hissing, talking into me, ‘We know, don’t we? Only the man with that first slot will make it, Tovey. Only that first man. LSM’s closed his eyes again, sitting back against the bulkhead. Shuttleworth not moving, on his bunk. Bambrick in and out, now. Four names. Four little folded papers. Four numbers. Draw, Tovey. You draw. Number one gets the gear. Go and shake them, Tovey. Wake them. Bambrick’s drawn. LSM’s drawn for Shuttleworth. You drawn, Tovey? Good man. LSM takes the last for himself. Unfold your numbers. Shuttleworth’s snivelling again. He’s drawn number two. Not good enough, Tovey, Not good enough. LSM’s out again. So’s Bambrick. Let’s open, Tovey. Three. Bloody three. You’ve drawn three. What’s Bambrick’s number, Tovey? Bambrick’s got it. The one, Tovey. The bloody one.’
My grandfather grabbed the breathing tube, jerked at it, made a movement with his hand, inside the rotting rubber. Held the mask right to my face. Yelled, right in my face, ‘Help me put the gear on Bambrick. Help me, blast you. Like dressing a bloody sandbag!’ He held me fast, hissing into my ear, ‘Blast you, Bambrick.’ But then he grabbed at it, started tearing it off me.
‘No Grampa! It’s me, I’m Bambrick now. It’s mine.’
But he didn’t listen. Dragged it over my head. My face covered in the thing.
My lips moved against the rubber. Every breath I took filled my chest with bad air. I pulled at it, tugging it back down, trying to keep it. It was mine. I was Bambrick. But he was stronger, manoeuvred it off, pulling my hair, hurting me, pulling the thing down finally over his own shoulders, and he tied the old straps in a knot, panting, his breath coming in bursts.
‘Are you Bambrick now, Grampa?’
‘He’s out of it. Spark out. We’re going instead, Tovey. Pull that lever.’
His hand beat on the fence post. There was a shrillness in his shouts now. ‘Pull that lever, Tovey. Pull the thing.’ He clutched the rotting mouthpiece close to his face. Drew the straps tighter.
The last trucks thundered past.
And my grandfather kept on shouting. ‘We pulled that lever, Tovey didn’t we? Turned the wheel to the escape hatch over our heads, opened the thing and climbed up. Dark up there wasn’t it? We pulled the hatch shut, put on the mask, turned on the oxygen, ready. Tried to turn the valve on the outer hatch. It wouldn’t budge, we weren’t strong enough, too long without proper air. Then the inner hatch moved again, remember? Slowly, ever so slowly pushing against our boots. And Bambrick’s red hair pushing up into the chamber, his face looking up, his eyes half-closed, his voice, weak as anything. ‘Air, Tovey?’
‘We stamped on that red hair, didn’t we? Stamped on it until he fell back down, nearly out. Pushed the hatch back down, pushed against him, knelt on the thing to shut it, and it did, it shut, catching, tearing my finger. Crushing. I couldn’t feel my bloody finger . . .’
My grandfather’s voice wrapped itself loud round the night. The coal train was away down the valley, the guard’s van just visible now. The sky was the deepest blue, over there above the hill. No stars. Security lights at the factories.
I felt the ground damp through the soles of my slippers and the night chill against my face. I saw the Nymph a dark shape in a dark sea. I saw shadows rising in their slow ballet, my grandfather leading the way, pulling ahead, then shadows melting back into more shadows. I saw my grandfather punching through the surface. Blood and seawater streaming down his arm. I saw him tearing off the mask, taking great mouthfuls of the day.
I remember backing away then, stumbling over something, falling. But my grandfather took no notice, didn’t even turn round. He was bent over the fence post. I remember the sound of his breathing, strange, laboured, through the rubber mask. The glow of the guard’s van disappeared down the line. The sound of the train retreated, got fainter and fainter, until it was just an echo, insistent, carried on the night.
An Arm in a Blue Sleeve
MAJOR MAITLAND KEPT his rank, although the war was years ago. He never saw action — mind you, they needed some brains behind the ops.
He and his wife prided themselves on being totally non-judgemental. They made it an art form. Kept up their own standards of course: no weeds in their lawns, never any stone cladding, no hanging baskets, no curtains hung with the pattern outwards, no ersatz statuary, no personalised number plates. They owned a succession of very clean large cars which they replaced with smaller equally clean models as Charles M
aitland’s age overtook the pride of having a more imposing vehicle than his neighbours. He watched his wife polish his medals every evening before bed. She was rightly proud.
When eventually Charles stopped driving, the church was close enough to walk to each Sunday. Margaret Maitland sat in their pew quietly and planned what vegetables to have with the small but fine roast she put in to cook before fetching her coat. They sat at a decent distance from the front, and Charles did not sing too loudly, nor too softly.
One Sunday, Margaret did not get up after the final blessing, but remained kneeling, head bowed onto her hands. Her breathing had stopped totally unobtrusively, and for this Charles was grateful.
Charles Maitland did the right thing with his wife’s belongings, packing them neatly, taking them to a variety of charity shops which were, he was sure, thankful for their unusually high quality. He had her bed taken away, leaving him with the other single bed, the mattress of which was the exact firmness for his arthritic back. He was, if anything, grateful for the additional space around him, and it did not cross his mind to worry why a thirty five year marriage could dissolve like a small white aspirin in a tall glass of water, leaving a clearness he could see straight through.
He re-arranged the photographs in the sitting room, bringing some to the front and putting others away. He put his medals on display, carefully, on the mantelpiece, where they would be seen should anyone call in. No one did.
He walked into town and bought new frames for two old old photographs he found at the back of his desk.
In one, taken on the day he started at boarding school, aged seven and feeling lost, he was in a new over-large school uniform, a cap covering his newly-cut hair, his mother’s arm at the top right corner of the image. She had been reaching out to say goodbye with a handshake.
In the other he was younger, playing with his terrier on the lawn below the terrace. He had his arms round the dog, his cheek pressed against its neck. Out of focus, in the picture quite by accident, his parents stood several feet apart on the terrace behind him, unsmiling. These were the only images that remained of either of his parents, and indeed, if he tried to recall them, all he saw was an arm in a blue wool sleeve, and two stiff blurred figures like something out of a silent movie.
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