Battlecruiser (1997)

by Reeman, Douglas

  ‘Two days.’ He saw what he thought was disappointment in her face, or maybe he imagined it. Perhaps she was remembering the last time she had seen her husband.

  Then she said, almost urgently, ‘I know it’s all secret, but you’re off again very soon, aren’t you?’ She saw him nod. ‘I think about you and your ship. I feel I know both of you.’ Her eyes flashed a warning. ‘He’s coming back.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Easy-going, most of the time.’

  Sherbrooke said, ‘I didn’t know him all that well. Horrible first lieutenant or not, I can’t really remember him.’

  She laughed, and the tension drained visibly from her face. ‘He’s as jealous as hell of you!’

  Thorne was carrying a tray of glasses; there seemed to be about six of them.

  ‘Gin all round. Still, there’s nothing better here by the look of it.’

  A woman’s voice said loudly, ‘Why, Mrs Meheux, here you are!’ and Stagg’s wife joined the group, staring keenly from face to face. ‘Well, this is quite a meeting place! I’m so glad you came.’ She looked up at Sherbrooke with a little, arch smile. ‘You’re making quite an impression on my husband, Guy. Don’t let him have it all his own way!’ She gave the girl another lingering glance. ‘Take good care of her, Captain Thorne, won’t you?’

  Thorne gave a fierce grin. ‘I certainly will!’

  Sherbrooke watched Stagg’s wife moving through the crowd to join her husband.

  A lieutenant found Thorne and murmured something.

  Thorne downed another gin and exclaimed, ‘Bloody hell, they never leave you alone! I’ll be back in a second.’

  She said softly, ‘You’re hating this, aren’t you?’

  ‘I wanted to talk, be with you.’ Sherbrooke looked around, and she saw it in his eyes again. Trapped.

  The black-out shutters were up, and they had not even noticed. The room was becoming very stuffy and hot, and the food had still not made an appearance.

  She looked at Sherbrooke with something like defiance, and said, ‘There’s not much at my place, but I can make you a sandwich. I have some Scotch, too – Sir Graham gave it to me for Christmas. I haven’t touched it.’

  He took her wrist, but shielded her and the gesture from the others.

  ‘I would love that.’

  ‘But remember what we said. I don’t want to spoil it.’

  He closed his fingers gently on her wrist. ‘I’ve only just found you. I don’t want to spoil a single moment of it.’

  Stagg’s voice interrupted, ‘I don’t blame you.’ He grinned hugely at the girl. ‘See you tomorrow.’ He almost winked. ‘Remember the old ship’s motto, Guy!’

  Heads turned to watch as they made for the door. His cap was lying with others on a table. Beside it was a telephone, and Sherbrooke glanced at the Mayfair number. Very posh, Petty Officer Long had said. It was the same one. This was the place where Jane Cavendish had answered his call.

  She was saying, ‘What’s the motto? Tell me.’

  ‘“We will never give in.”’ He felt her slip her hand through his arm. ‘Don’t worry about it. He’s that kind of man.’

  She thought of Olive Stagg’s assessing eyes, and Thorne. With a few gins inside him, she would never hear the last of it. People could be so cruel, and already had been, to her.

  They found a taxi near the Dorchester.

  The driver, who was towing an auxiliary fire pump behind his taxi, regarded them without curiosity. ‘Chelsea, Squire? May ’ave to charge double fare if they needs me pump!’

  They sat in the deepening shadows and held hands, like any sailor and his girl, Sherbrooke thought.

  She whispered, ‘Please kiss me, Guy.’

  Uncertain, nervous, afraid it might begin something that knew no rules, and which, like the mysterious minelayer, could destroy them both.

  She withdrew, and he could taste the sweetness of her mouth on his.

  She said, ‘I was thinking . . .’

  The inside of the taxi lit up and Sherbrooke saw small pinpoints of shellfire, far away, probably in south London somewhere.

  The cabbie swore to himself. ‘I’ll drop you in the King’s Road. Best I can do.’

  They stood on the darkening pavement, and Sherbrooke heard the insistent drone of air raid sirens.

  He gripped her arm. ‘I don’t like this, Emma.’ But when he looked down at her, she was laughing.

  ‘It’s always like this, Guy. It’s not as bad as it used to be, but they still sometimes have a go.’

  She looked up and he saw the moon, very faintly above the river.

  She said, ‘Bomber’s moon, that’s what they call it.’

  ‘I see.’ But he felt like some innocent recruit.

  She guided him into a narrow street, and said, ‘It looks much nicer around here by daylight.’

  A bell jangled, and a shop door opened and closed furtively.

  She said, ‘Let’s try the off-licence. They might have some wine.’ He was aware of her sudden, delicious excitement, rather like a child’s. Perhaps they both were, for the moment . . .

  There was a man in an apron standing behind the counter, chatting to a tall, heavily made-up girl, whom Glander, the master-at-arms, would probably describe as a torn. She looked round and glanced at the girl and the officer, and then ignored them.

  The manager spread his hands. ‘Wine, lady? I’ll see what I can do, but you know how it is!’

  She murmured to Sherbrooke, ‘Now he’ll strike a bargain.’ Then she stared at him, her eyes suddenly wide, frightened. ‘What is it?’

  Sherbrooke wrapped his arms around her and pushed her into a corner.

  ‘Get down!’

  That was all he had time for. Then the world exploded.

  It was impossible to know how long it took for his senses to recover from the immediate blast. He was conscious of the pressure, his lungs unable to draw breath, and a total loss of balance. And yet he knew exactly where he was, and that he was holding her tightly in his arms although they were on their knees against some sort of wall, with dust, fragments of wood, and plaster falling all around them. The whole scene was made unreal and stark by the one remaining light bulb that had survived, even though its shade had been blown to pieces.

  Then, as his hearing returned, Sherbrooke heard the sound of shattering glass, someone screaming and screaming like a tortured animal.

  He held her face in his hands and used his sleeve to wipe some grit from her mouth, repeating her name over and over, although he did not realize he had spoken a word.

  She opened her eyes and stared at him, the first shock giving way to terrible fear.

  He said, ‘It’s all right, Emma. I’ve got you. I think it’s over.’

  He looked past her and saw the cascade of broken glass, the shelves emptied by the bomb, if that was what it had been. There was no smell of drink, and he guessed that most of the bottles had been empty and for display only, due to the shortages the manager had mentioned. He saw the man lying face down on the floor, groping amongst the glass and scattered debris as though he were blind.

  She whispered, ‘You’re filthy, Guy. There’s dirt all over you!’

  He knew they were both near to breaking down. He said, ‘Can you move? Give me your hands. I’ll help you.’

  They stood up together, their shoes slipping on splintered glass. There were voices now, the sound of a car engine, and the distant clamour of bells like those fitted to ambulances and police vehicles.

  She clutched his shoulder and exclaimed, ‘Oh, my God, that poor woman!’

  The girl they had seen earlier . . . Sherbrooke tried to clear his mind. Earlier was just minutes ago. The one the Jaunty would have labelled a torn lay with her legs apart, her skirt up to her waist, her eyes staring at the solitary light bulb as if fascinated by it.

  She said, ‘Help her, Guy. I think . . .’

  Sherbrooke bent over her and felt for a pulse, for a heartbeat. He could smell t
he perfume; it was very strong, like Stagg’s aftershave.

  He dragged her skirt down over her bare thighs and stood.

  ‘She’s dead, Emma.’ He held her again, knowing she was feeling the full effect of shock.

  She said in a small voice, ‘But she’s not marked. She was just standing there. Talking.’

  The manager staggered to his feet, shaking himself like a dog, then he looked at the damage and exclaimed, ‘Bloody hell! That was nasty!’ He picked a long needle of broken glass from his hand, and saw the dead woman for the first time. He looked at her for a long moment, and then said softly, ‘Poor old Mavis. Never did no ’arm to nobody.’

  Torches flashed, and helmets appeared in the sagging doorway.

  The first one was a policeman, who looked at Sherbrooke and the girl clinging to his arm and said, ‘You two O.K.?’ and then bent over the corpse. ‘Direct hit round the corner. The rest of the street is unmarked.’ He straightened his back and took out his notebook. ‘Hit-and-run. Probably going for the power station or the railway – they just follow the river on bright nights like these. But this time they drew a blank.’ He glanced down at the staring eyes, watching him from the floor. ‘Except for a few poor souls, that is.’

  A car squealed to a halt outside: reinforcements. The policeman said, ‘Got somewhere to go?’ and then, as though noticing Sherbrooke’s four gold stripes, ‘Sir?’

  She replied, for both of them, ‘Number seventeen.’

  He grinned. ‘Oh, well, that’s all right then. No damage there.’

  Figures passed them, ambulancemen carrying a stretcher with a red blanket, a fireman with an extinguisher. To them, it was all routine.

  ‘Let’s get out of here.’ Sherbrooke put his arm around her shoulders and guided her toward the doorway, shielding her from the sight of the dead woman being rolled onto the stretcher. A fireman put one of her shoes and a handbag under the blanket and covered her face. As they crunched out into the street, he heard one of the stretcher-bearers whistling softly to himself. His own gesture of defence.

  A hand reached out, and someone said, ‘Your cap, sir.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He had not even noticed it had gone.

  He jammed it over his unruly hair and felt the grit around the rim.

  ‘Can you make it, Emma? If not, I’ll carry you.’

  She looked at him, her face very clear as the moon showed itself again beyond the river.

  ‘Just hold me, Guy. Don’t leave me. Not yet.’

  There were people everywhere, when earlier the street had been like a grave, calling to one another, some laughing with relief when a familiar face showed itself.

  Sherbrooke walked through the crowd, knowing he would never forget this, his only experience of the civilians’ war. It was something which had always remained at a distance, reaching him only across a table when some rating lost his parents or wife in one of these raids, which were so frequent that they rarely got a mention in the press. Hit-and-run. Like that day in Portsmouth . . .

  Some wag called from the darkness, ‘Up the navy!’ Another gave a cheer.

  Sherbrooke called back something, although he could never recall what he had said, and no words, however jocular, could relieve what he felt.

  They stopped in front of an undistinguished house, and she said, ‘It’s all right, thank God. Just as he said!’

  He waited while she searched for her key in the darkness. Blast was a strange thing. The bomb had fallen around the corner, but in a narrow intersection the blast could have gone in any direction. These houses were untouched. He was reminded of an incident aboard Pyrrhus, when German bombers had attacked a convoy of empty ships returning from Murmansk. Strange that the memory had become lost, swallowed up by everything else that had happened, and that it should choose this night to return to him.

  Minutes before the air attack, he had been talking with a young signalman on the cruiser’s bridge. Another bitter, bitter day, when any contact between bare skin and instruments or fittings could end in frostbite. The signalman had been holding up an old magazine to shield Sherbrooke while he tried to light his pipe.

  Then the attack had begun, the air torn apart by chattering pom-poms and Oerlikon guns, so that the solitary bomb had exploded almost unnoticed between the bridge and B Turret. Sherbrooke had scarcely felt the blast, but the young signalman had been killed outright. His body was completely unmarked, like the woman in the wine shop.

  ‘Got it!’ She pushed open the door. ‘Come in and close it, will you?’

  She sounded breathless, as if it had only just happened. She called, ‘It’s only me, Ellen!’ There was no reply and she said, ‘She must be out. She has the other flat, you see. I feed her cat when she has to be away.’ Again, she was speaking fast, as if afraid she might break down.

  They climbed the stairs in the darkness, and he tried to imagine her living here or in some other temporary place, getting up and going to work, wondering each day if the flat would still be here when she returned. And Captain Thorne, sharing her official life while she thought only of her missing husband, a man she said she could hardly remember.

  Another door, and she switched on a light, her eyes moving quickly to a window to make sure that the curtains were drawn.

  She turned towards him, and said, ‘Your hand! What have you done?’

  He looked at his right hand, covered with blood, some already dry, but with a deep cut just below the cuff of his shirt.

  ‘Sit here.’ She led him to a chair. ‘I’ll clean it. It must have happened when you were looking after that poor woman.’

  Sherbrooke tried to ease the pain in his back; he seemed to ache all over. Then he raised his arm, afraid that some of his blood might stain the furniture. It all seemed so ridiculous that he wanted to laugh.

  She knelt by the chair and held out a small, dainty towel. ‘It’s only damp, I’m afraid. The water’s cut off. It often happens during a raid.’ Then she said, ‘What is it?’ and looked up at him, her eyes suddenly very calm, her voice steady. ‘Tell me.’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing.’ He tried to control it, but his hand was trembling so badly that he could not stop it. ‘I – I can’t . . .’

  She wrapped the towel around his bloody wrist and held it with both hands, and with great gentleness. He could feel himself giving in, breaking. Please, not now. Not in front of her. Please . . .

  She said, ‘Don’t talk, Guy. Don’t try to explain. Not to me. You don’t have to. It makes you more of a man, not less.’ She continued to grip his hand. ‘Do you have any cigarettes? I could light one for you.’ She saw him shake his head. ‘I don’t smoke, myself.’ It triggered off another small memory. ‘Not one of my vices.’

  He said, ‘I’m a pipe-smoker . . . used to be, anyway.’ He saw her reaching into his jacket pocket. ‘Splashed out and bought myself a really good one after I came out of hospital.’

  She looked directly into his eyes. ‘I know. I understand.’ She took away the rough bandage and said, ‘It’s stopped, I think. But don’t move. I’ll get something for it in a minute.’

  He watched her as she placed the pipe and pouch of tobacco on the floor beside her knees. Her hair was still hanging down her back, dishevelled by the blast. He wanted to touch it. To hold her very tightly, as he had in the shop.

  She was saying, ‘My dad smokes a pipe. I’ve done this for him a few times.’ She smiled, perhaps at another memory. ‘I like to see a man with a pipe.’ She held it out, pleased with her efforts. ‘There. Try that.’

  They shared it in silence, Sherbrooke holding her hand while she watched the smoke drifting up to the ceiling.

  He said, ‘I feel better already.’ He squeezed the hand he held. ‘Really.’

  ‘I don’t know whether to believe you or not. I promised you a drink.’

  She stood up, undecided.

  ‘I must go, Emma. If you think you’ll be all right.’

  As if to mock their anxiety, they heard the distant wa
il of sirens sounding the All Clear, and from nearby there was a spurt and gurgle of water as the supply was switched on.

  ‘That settles it,’ he said. ‘I’ll need to find a taxi.’

  She frowned, and came to a decision. ‘You can’t go looking like this. Give me time to clean up your uniform. I’ll wash your shirt – it will be ready before you leave. No arguments now. I mean it.’

  ‘I promised you this wasn’t going to happen.’

  ‘It won’t. Now go to the bathroom and take off your jacket and shirt. I’ll find the Scotch.’ She smiled at him. ‘Truce?’

  He washed his hands and then his face in the basin, and saw her personal things arranged on a shelf below the mirror, the carefully hoarded cologne, her cosmetics, a few yellow daffodils in a jug. He heard her call, ‘I’ve got an old robe you can put on. My brother gave it to me for wearing in the shelter – it’s miles too big for me!’

  Then he saw her reflected in the mirror, looking in at him.

  ‘What are those marks, Guy?’

  He swung round and took the thick robe from her, embarrassed, not wanting her to see.

  She asked again, ‘What are they? You never told me.’

  He glanced at his injured hand, but it was quite steady now. He answered, ‘When I was in the water.’ He let the blood and dirt flow out of the basin, not looking at her. ‘The ice.’

  She said, ‘Never be afraid to tell me . . . to show me.’

  He allowed her to take him back to the other room.

  ‘Let me hold you, Emma.’

  She did not resist as he put his arms round her, in a close embrace, like the moment when she had first realized what had happened in the shop. The screams and the falling glass, the staring eyes, the stretcher-bearer who had whistled in defiance of death.

  And here, in this room she still hardly knew, there was peace. The sense of what was happening, the danger it would bring, was replaced by yearning.

  She felt his hand on her spine, and imagined how it would be to make love with him. Strong, sensitive hands, holding, caressing, demanding of her . . .