He clapped the steward on the shoulder. ‘Horse’s Neck, please. Large one!’ He saw the man grin. The story would soon go round, and would probably reach Dodger Long before the day was out.
And of Emma, whose husband was missing.
He recalled the sadness in her eyes when Edwardes had made his coarse remark about trousers. It was because she understood, too well, that all Edwardes had left was the memory. The rest was so much sham.
The forenoon passed better than Sherbrooke had dared to hope. A camera crew and several photographers roamed the ship, taking pictures of the upper deck, particularly the long grey barrels of A and B turrets, while working parties moved about their duties and became stiff and self-conscious whenever they found themselves being filmed.
Even the interview went reasonably well, conducted by a highly professional war correspondent who turned out to be an old school friend of Lieutenant Drake, Reliant’s young ex-barrister.
The day had begun badly with Sherbrooke fighting a nightmare, thrashing and crying out, and waking to find his pyjamas soaked in sweat, and Petty Officer Long’s hand on his shoulder, with a cup of black coffee on his tray.
He had had too much to drink at the vice-admiral’s party, and he was paying for it now. He also realized that his uniform, which he had thrown aside before falling into unconsciousness, had vanished, to reappear on a hanger, pressed and brushed, for today’s event.
Long had said impassively, ‘There was a shore telephone call for you, sir. Near six o’clock, it was. I told the caller to leave a number.’ He had given his pixie-like smile. ‘Mayfair number in London, sir. Very posh.’
It had obviously been Stagg, and he was equally sure that Long had known. The man would have made the perfect valet.
It was not easy to get a priority call through to London during the day, but he had told the O.O.D. to do what he could.
He saw Sir Graham Edwardes standing below a four-inch gun mounting, his eyes studiously grave and compelling as he completed an interview of his own. What had happened to the hero of Dover? His own father had aged, but had remained the same man until he had died . . . He rephrased the thought, brutally. Had been killed.
Commander Frazier was beside him. ‘I hope you’ll join us in the wardroom, sir.’
In theory, a captain was always a guest in his officers’ wardroom, although he had often wondered if any captain had ever been refused entry.
It seemed more spacious than usual, with some of the officers absent on this unexpected leave, and others ashore to beg, borrow or steal items for their own departments.
He had seen Emma Meheux come aboard with the others, but had not had a chance to speak with her. She had been wearing the same heavy coat as yesterday, but now, holding her own in conversation with several officers, she wore a plain green dress, and the Royal Engineers brooch.
The Canadian pilot was explaining something to her, his hands in the air, the others grinning at him. The only other women present were two Wren officers from the base, very smart and self-assured in a world they understood and shared.
Frazier coughed politely, and the others melted away, except Rayner, who said, ‘I was just telling Mrs Meheux how to cook lobsters, sir.’
She said, ‘Thank you, Lieutenant. I shall try and remember, if the opportunity ever arises.’
Sherbrooke said, ‘I hope they’ve all been looking after you.’
She looked at him directly, avoiding the polite preliminaries.
‘I think it went quite well, don’t you?’
So calm, so confident; no wonder the easy-going Rayner had been getting along with her so well.
‘I’m not really used to it,’ he said. ‘I suppose it does some good. Does it?’
She said, without smiling, ‘We hope so. It’s all some people have to hold on to.’
Was she really so assured, so in control?
He asked, ‘Are you staying in Scotland for long?’
She shook her head, and for the first time he realized how long her hair was. The colour of chestnuts, newly broken, the colour of autumn. She kept it tied back, almost severely.
‘No. I’m going back to London tonight.’
‘I had hoped to show you around the ship.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t. Perhaps some other time.’
She was ending the contact before it had begun. Any woman with her looks would always turn a lot of heads. A wedding ring was no protection in wartime, when loneliness was often the greatest hardship.
He said, ‘Do you like your work?’
She shrugged, and raised one hand to wave away another tray of drinks. ‘I’m a civil servant, that’s all. My father and brother are both doctors. I never had the inclination.’ She smiled. ‘Or the opportunity, either!’ She paused, perhaps considering whether to continue. ‘We lived in Bath, and so when I was appointed to my first proper post it was to the Admiralty office – where else? At Bath, of course.’
Just for those few seconds, Sherbrooke had glimpsed the young, untroubled girl. It was like sharing something secret.
She said quickly, almost curtly, ‘If I’d been doing the interview, I would have asked you some rather different questions.’
‘Tell me.’
She looked away. ‘About how you felt when you lost your ship . . . if you think we’ll win this war. I was watching you today when you were speaking with some of your men. Not when the camera was intruding, but the other times. And I thought, a great ship like this, and yet they seem to know you, as if the previous captain is forgotten.’ She faced him again. ‘There, I’ve said too much. Gin before lunch is never a smart idea.’
‘Excuse me, sir.’ It was the Officer-of-the-Day. ‘We have that call on the line.’ His eyes moved to the girl and back again. It would make a good story.
Sherbrooke acknowledged it, and said, ‘Don’t go until I get back, Mrs Meheux. Please. I’ll be as quick as I can.’
The O.O.D. said helpfully, ‘I’ve had it transferred to the lobby, sir.’
She watched them leave, and then glanced at her watch. Edwardes would understand, and anyway . . .
‘Can I get you anything?’ It was Frazier.
He felt drained, and vaguely sickened. Something had happened on this leave which had never occurred before. He had had a row with his wife, a hushed, angry argument, subdued out of pride and a regard for the thinness of the hotel room’s walls.
She answered, ‘I shall have to make my excuses, Commander Frazier.’
He smiled, trying to play the part. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Meheux. I haven’t seen the Captain so relaxed for a long time.’
She half-turned. ‘I like him. I’m surprised he’s not married.’
Frazier shrugged. ‘I don’t know the whole story, but the Andrew’s like a family, so I’ve heard some of it. His father was a serving officer for years, then he became ill and was forced onto the beach . . . and when the war came, he insisted on moving to Portsmouth. I suppose he wanted to be near the world he’d loved, or something like that. Then, two years ago – I expect you heard all about it – there was a series of air raids on the city, and a great part of it was destroyed. The Captain’s father was killed in one of those attacks.’ He hesitated. ‘The girl the Captain was going to marry was visiting at the time. She was killed, too. It must have been tough on him.’
She said, very quietly, ‘Thank you for telling me. It will go no further.’
Frazier said, equally gravely, ‘I know.’
The stewards were looking at the wardroom clock; some of the officers were already heading for lunch. A break in the routine was always welcome.
Sherbrooke strode back into the wardroom, and said, ‘Sorry about that,’ and to Frazier, ‘It was Rear-Admiral Stagg. Checking up on today’s event, needless to say.’
To the girl, he said, ‘Are you sure you can’t stay longer?’
‘I’m afraid not. I have a reserved seat at Edinburgh Waverley for the night train.’ She turned to speak to Frazier, but
he had gone.
‘He’s a nice man,’ she said.
‘John? Yes, he is. I don’t know what I would have done without him.’
She was looking round again, preparing her escape, he thought. She said, ‘He’s very fond of you, isn’t he?’
Then, in that direct manner, as she had spoken to him at their first meeting, she said, ‘He told me about your father. I’m very sorry.’
There was a silence, which he found difficult to break. At length, he said, ‘My last command was a Portsmouth ship.’ He glanced around the wardroom, a stranger again. ‘Like Reliant. There were many broken hearts after those raids.’
‘I think you’ve just answered the questions I would have asked in my interview.’
He said, ‘I’ll see you over the side, Mrs Meheux.’
‘Over the side. You even make that sound so polite.’ She laughed, but there was something in her eyes that revealed the lie.
He said, ‘I’ll make sure your transport is here.’ He watched her cross the wardroom to say goodbye to the vice-admiral, and to the Hero of Dover.
He was making an idiot of himself. Missing or not, she had a husband, and in any case she would barely remember this visit once she was back in London.
He walked out onto the damp planking and saw the quartermaster and side-party come to life. The O.O.D. was present, and there was a car waiting on the jetty, the driver chatting to a Royal Marine sentry.
He thought of Stagg’s interest in this interview, which had been so badly timed as to have happened in his absence. He was sure Stagg thought he would have done a much better job.
But the other aspect of it remained fixed in his mind, irremovable, like a fish-bone in the throat.
A woman had answered the telephone, her voice brusque, impatient.
‘Vincent! It’s the Reliant!’
On such a bad line, he could have been mistaken. Then he recalled the churchyard, the flag draped on the coffin. He was not mistaken. He would have recognized Jane’s voice anywhere.
He walked to the guardrail and stared down at the abandoned, rusty cables and piles of old armour plate, so much scrap now.
Reliant would be repaired and at sea very soon. Rosyth, like every other dockyard, needed the space.
He heard her shoes on the planking, and prepared himself to face her.
‘I hope we meet again, Mrs Meheux. I mean that. I might still get a chance to show you Reliant. Perhaps in London—’
She looked at him steadily, curious, defiant, guarded.
‘I think it would be unwise, Captain Sherbrooke. For both of us.’ She held out her hand. ‘Take care of yourself. I shall not forget this visit.’
He gripped her hand, and could feel, almost physically, the eyes of the side-party on every move.
He had offended her, or worse, she was embarrassed by his clumsy attentiveness, or his arrogance.
She released her hand, and fumbled with the collar of her coat.
He said, ‘Hold on to the rail. The brow is very steep.’
She looked sharply at him again, as if surprised by his solicitude.
She said, ‘It’s starting to rain again!’ She seemed to make up her mind. ‘If you really want to . . .’ She paused. ‘My office number is in orders.’
Sherbrooke saluted as she went down the side, very small against the grey steel and the welders’ blinding torches. She did not look up at the ship, but he himself watched the car until it was swallowed by the dockyard. And, somehow, he knew that she would know it.
7
Friends
Much to everyone’s surprise, Reliant’s repairs were completed at the promised time, although it took another day to work the ship out of dock and to a new mooring. Re-ammunitioning and the replenishment of stores began at once. That was the day on which Rear-Admiral Stagg chose to return, and from the moment he strode aboard, it was evident that he was in a foul mood. The talks at the Admiralty and with the chiefs of staff had solved nothing, as far as Stagg was concerned.
‘And all because of that bloody carrier, Seeker! She’s still stuck up there in Iceland – one damned delay after another. It might be weeks before she’s ready to join us! And their lordships are so shit-scared after the Minden affair that they want my flagship to escort another major troop convoy they’ve approved for next month. Australian and New Zealand divisions this time. Coming from Ceylon via the Cape. They’ve got raiders on the brain!’
Sherbrooke watched him, seeing the anger, the resentment.
‘I can understand their point, sir. If anything happened in those waters . . .’
Stagg snapped, ‘God damnit, Guy, you’re as bad as they are! I want a separate force, an active group – something that would have some significance at this stage of the war! The First Sea Lord made it plain that it’s this year or not at all for an invasion. I don’t intend to be used as a convoy escort. Any clapped-out battleship could manage that!’
He glared at his flag lieutenant as he rearranged the files of signals on his desk. ‘And I read your report about the bloody radar. Nothing wrong with it, they said, eh? They should have been there, eh?’
Sherbrooke did not understand it, either. A fluke, an unexplained temporary fault: after all, radar was still in its infancy.
The stark fact remained, that had they been using their radar at full strength, Minden might have detected Reliant’s position with their own form of r.d.f. Minden had not been in her expected position, nor had she been on the estimated course. But for Rayner’s sighting of the Arado seaplane and their sudden loss of radar transmission, the enemy might easily have fired the first destructive broadside. He recalled the answers he had given the untidy journalist. Luck, coincidence: that was often true. But this had been different. Like fate.
It was ridiculous, of course. He was tired, and Stagg’s mood of intolerance had done nothing to help.
Stagg was saying sharply, ‘But once we get Seeker in the group, things will be different, believe me!’
Sherbrooke considered the long haul south. Gibraltar, the South Atlantic, probably to relieve other heavy escorts at Cape Town. Away from the ice, the dark, angry seas.
Stagg said, ‘Oh, and this just came in. That chap you met, Sir Graham Edwardes.’ He took time to pick up a signal. ‘Two days after his visit to Reliant the poor old chap popped off, slipped his cable. Heart attack, apparently.’ He smiled sarcastically. ‘Must be the effect you have on people.’
Sherbrooke saw the flag lieutenant’s eyes moving between them. He had been aboard during the event: Stagg never seemed to take him anywhere of importance.
He recalled the vice-admiral’s warning that evening. He’s still pretty sharp. And now he was dead.
Stagg said, ‘You’ve been working your pants off since you took command. You haven’t had a break – I’ll lay odds on it.’ His humour was returning. ‘You know, Guy, I’m going to be pretty tied up, and as you made such an impression with your interviews and everything else in my absence, I think you should go south in my place. A sort of tribute.’
Sherbrooke stared at him. ‘A memorial service?’
Stagg almost winked. ‘Their lordships expect it. Always like a good piss-up. And I’d certainly appreciate your doing it for me.’
Sherbrooke heard feet marching across the quarterdeck, the ship asserting herself after the invasion of dockyard intruders.
The flag lieutenant said gently, ‘It’s at Portsmouth, sir.’
Stagg snapped, ‘Don’t fuss, Flags.’ To Sherbrooke, he added, ‘I shall see that the R.A.F. fly you most of the way. Least I can do, eh?’
Sherbrooke hesitated. ‘When will this be, sir?’
Stagg was tiring of it. ‘Thursday next. No problem. Fix it up, Flags. Then tell my secretary to come in.’
Sherbrooke walked to the door. It was true that, apart from Iceland and the dockyard, he had barely stepped ashore since taking command. Frazier could take care of things; he had done it before. He seemed to hear her voice again,
at the wardroom reception. He’s very fond of you, isn’t he? He had never seen Frazier in that light before. A perfectionist at his work, but always slightly withdrawn, on occasions quite remote, except for that brief moment on the bridge. Perhaps we’re all learning something.
Stagg said, ‘Meant to tell you, Guy. I saw Jane Cavendish in London. Took her out to lunch. She’s looking well, considering.’
Out to lunch. Petty Officer Long had told him that the first shore telephone call had been at six in the morning.
Sherbrooke heard himself say, ‘I’m glad she’s all right.’ It might have been a coincidence.
Stagg said indifferently, ‘Oh, she’ll get over it.’
Sherbrooke left the day cabin without risking another word. So it was true, and all he could think of was Cavendish sitting in his beloved car, with its engine running in a sealed garage.
She’ll get over it. But he had not.
Further forward in Reliant’s great hull were many of the ship’s offices, where everything was arranged from issues of rum and tinned coffee powder to protective clothing and station cards to give identities to new arrivals.
In one of these offices, Paymaster Lieutenant James Villar, the admiral’s secretary, sat at his desk, his legs crossed, while he endeavoured to complete a crossword puzzle. He was a late entry into the Royal Navy, with a background so unremarkable that he sometimes found it necessary to embroider it. He was thirty years old, senior when compared to most of Reliant’s wardroom, and had a dark, almost swarthy face with restless, penetrating eyes which missed very little. As officers and ratings came and went, to take courses for advancement, for promotion, or to fill gaps left by men who had died or deserted, he had watched them all. It was not merely a hobby; it was a dedicated pursuit. Officers of his branch, of the supply and secretariat section, distinguished by the white cloth between their gold stripes, were considered by the others to be necessary evils, and that was as far as it went. The executive officers, the gunnery types, and the fliers saw themselves on another planet.
Battlecruiser (1997) Page 11
