So the rumour was gaining even more substance. Moncrieff added, 'The real thing this time. I want you to come with me. As my half-leader you might find the trip useful. You're used to the blood-and-guts of war; down in the command bunkers they see all that as mere statistics.'
Ransome had left Hargrave in charge. He had not warned him about responsibility again. If he had not learned his lesson, he never would now.
Hargrave had asked politely, 'Is something on, sir?'
'Yes, Number One. I can't tell you yet, but if you've any mail outstanding I suggest you take some time to deal with it.'
Perhaps Hargrave already knew; maybe his father had told him?
Moncrieff had been provided with a staff car and Wren driver for the trip, and as they roared through narrow lanes then on to the main road to St Austell, Ransome was conscious of the closeness of the home where he had spent just six days of his leave.
Moncrieff must have read his thoughts. 'I shall be a couple of days at least with Staff Officer Intelligence, Ian. You could take some time off. It might be a long while before you can again.'
Ransome had experienced something like guilt. I might never come back at all. He knew that he could not leave this time without at least trying to see the girl. But he said, 'I might take you up on that, sir.' It only made him feel more guilty.
Moncrieff slept for most of the journey, waking suddenly as the car pulled into a roadside inn where he had arranged for them to take lunch. The Wren driver declined the invitation to join them and Moncrieff said, 'Pretty little thing.'
Ransome thought he had never looked so wistful.
They reached Plymouth in time for tea, and while Moncrieff went off to make his number with the staff officer on duty, Ransome took advantage of his freedom to begin his search.
As he made his way through the city he was appalled by the extent of the damage. Great areas of buildings wiped out, streets marked only by their chipped kerbstones and pavements, the rest a blackened desert where people had once been born, gone to school and learned to fend for themsleves.
An air-raid warden directed him to Codrington House, the address she had given, and had assured him that it had missed the bombing. So far. Ransome had asked him why he should be so certain that one particular building amongst so many had survived.
The man had regarded him curiously. 'Well, it's a sort of halfway-house - like a hospital, isn't it?'
A taxi eventually took him there. It must have been quite beautiful in its day, with a long, gravelled drive curving amongst fine oaks to a pillared entrance, and a fountain around which cars, and at one time, carriages made their entrances and exits.
Now the grass was untended and the walls flaking, while the fountain was still filled with dead leaves. The once-impressive entrance was almost hidden by sandbagged barriers.
A woman of severe appearance in a grey costume watched him enter and asked, 'May I help?' It sounded like what do you want?
Ransome was at a loss. 'I understood that the Warwick family lived -'
She changed instantly, removing the mask and replacing it with welcome. 'Oh, Canon Warwick? Of course! Is he expecting you?'
'Well, no —' Ransome glanced round as three women in dressing-gowns accompanied by a tired-looking nurse crossed the great hallway. 'What is this place?'
She studied him, her eyes moving from his single medal ribbon to the rank on his sleeves. He looked far too young for both, she thought.
'Canon Warwick has an official role here as well as his religious duties.' She waved her hand as the little procession vanished into another door. 'Evacuee children, bombed-out families, people who have lost everything and everyone -' She shrugged. 'I don't know what we would do without him.'
'If I could leave a message -'
'Nonsense.' She picked up a telephone. 'He's in the building. What name is it, please?'
The girl spoke from the entrance doors. 'It's Lieutenant Commander Ransome, Mrs Collins.'
Ransome swung round and stared at her. How long she had been there he did not know. Like those times in the boatyard. Watching. Listening to his words.
She did not move as he strode toward her, and only when he put his arms around her shoulders did she show any emotion.
'I can't believe it. Your letter. Now you.'
He kissed her on the cheek, conscious of her warmth, the touch of her hair against his face. Like that other impetuous kiss when he had seen her leave. For the last time.
He said, 'Sorry about this, Eve. It was just a chance, so I took it.'
She slipped her hand through his arm and guided him towards the door again. The birds were still singing, and there was sunlight clinging to the treetops.
He wanted to look at her properly, but she held to his arm as if to prevent just that.
She said, 'I've dreamed about this. I wanted to write.' She shrugged. 'I was a bit afraid, I think. But when I got your address I made up my mind. I sat with the paper in front of me for hours.' She swung round and faced him, her hands in his. 'I was frightened you might have changed. When you answered my letter I knew —' She reached up and touched his hair. 'You look wonderful.' The slight catch in her voice gave away the lie.
He said, 'I've thought about you so much. My little girl in shorts and pigtails.'
She smiled. 'Not any more.'
Ransome studied her slowly. It was like a dream. Four years, and yet she was not so different. She wore a shirt and overall trousers, the latter daubed with dried paint.
She said, 'If I'd only known —' She ran her hands across her forehead to brush away some strands of hair. 'I'm a mess!' Then she laughed, with relief, or with joy, perhaps both.
'How long can you stay? I am sure they'll ask you to when -'
There was a footfall at the top of the steps and her father hurried down to meet him.
'It is good to see you, Mr Ransome — or should I call you Captain?'
He looked older, his face drawn to give him cheekbones where there had been none.
Ransome shook his hand, i hope you don't mind, Canon?'
'Call me Simon, eh?' He looked around at the trees and some more aimless figures. 'One does what one can of course.' He did not continue.
Instead he said, 'You must eat at our table. Things are a bit chaotic here, have been since the vicarage was destroyed. But still, God's work cannot wait for the war-damage repairs, eh?'
He looked at his daughter. 'You are a bit flushed, dear. Go and tell them we have a guest for dinner.'
Ransome tried to protest, but it was to no avail.
They walked together across the coarse grass where there had once been an elegant lawn. Canon Warwick wore a long black cassock with a small crucifix hung about his neck. His eyes were everywhere, probing, almost fanatical.
it's been bad here?'
Warwick considered it. 'Bad enough. It is an unending flow of people, searching for hope, loved ones, refugees in their own way as much as those who clogged the roads in Holland or Greece.'
He changed the subject. 'Not married yet? That does surprise me.'
Ransome looked away. / love Eve. I always have, and always shall.
But he said, 'There's never enough time for anything these days.'
Warwick seemed satisfied. 'Eve's been a real blessing since her mother -'
Ransome started. 'She's not -?'
Warwick tucked his hands into his cassock and shook his head. 'Betty had a lot of bad luck, poor dear. First the vicarage was bombed and she had a slight stroke. Then later on she was in the town at her stall — she helps the W.V.S., you know, selling tea and buns to the sailors, that kind of thing. There was a hit-and-run raid, and a bomb fell near to her little stall. Most of the servicemen who were queuing to be served were killed or badly maimed. It really upset her. She's still not herself.'
Ransome pictured the dead servicemen. It had probably upset them too.
He asked quickly, 'What does Eve do?'
'My daughter?' He smiled gen
tly. 'She shares her love of art with some of the patients here. But maybe you didn't know she could paint and draw?'
Ransome thought of the picture in his cabin. 'Yes, I knew.'
'It's worthwhile work.' He nodded to emphasise it. 'If she left to join one of the services, I'd be in a sorry state, I can tell you.'
'Is that what she wanted to do?'
Warwick did not seem to hear the question. He said, 'I'll show you the kitchen garden - we are almost self-supporting here.'
It was a difficult meal, Ransome thought. And yet he would not have wanted to be anywhere else.
Eve's mother, a frail, vague lady who seemed to laugh a lot, but looked very near to tears when she did so, fired questions at Ransome from start to finish.
And all the while he was conscious of the girl who sat opposite him, her eyes rarely leaving his as he tried to paint a picture of his ship, of Rob Roy's people. Although he answered her questions they were all directed at the girl named Eve.
The canon's wife looked fondly at her husband. 'He is so busy, Mr Ransome. He never spares himself for the good of others.'
Warwick jerked from his thoughts. 'Which reminds me. I have two hospital visits to do tonight.' He glanced at the clock. 'May I offer you a lift, Commander?'
Suddenly Ransome felt the girl's shoe press against his foot, saw the sudden anxiety in her dark eyes.
He heard himself reply, 'It's all right. I'm at the R.N.B. Devon-port tonight at least. I can manage.'
Why was it he could not bring himself to call him Simon as he had requested?
'Well, if you're sure —' He fumbled for his watch. 'I've asked the porter to attend to the black-out, my dear.' He smiled at his wife, but his eyes said that he was elsewhere. 'I'll be off then. Very nice to meet you again after all this time, er —' Then he was gone.
Ransome helped the girl to clear away the table. To Mrs Warwick he said, 'A fine meal. Made me feel really at home.' But she had fallen asleep in her chair.
In the kitchen, which appeared to be stacked with every kind of ration from powdered milk to corned beef, she faced him.
'I'm sorry. You didn't hate it too much, did you?'
He held her at arms' length. 'Of course not. I was sorry to hear about your mother. Your father feels it badly.'
'Oh, you noticed?' She studied him sadly. 'Many wouldn't.'
He tried to laugh it off. 'Believe me, my girl, when you command even a little ship in this man's navy, you either learn fast about folk or you go under!'
She did not smile. 'What you said - am I really your girl} Like it was, all that time back?' She shook her head so that her long hair flowed across her shoulders. 'I'm not a child any more. Please don't treat me like one.'
Then she pressed her face into his jacket and shook; the sobbing seemed to burst out of her in a flood.
He tried to pacify her, stroked her hair, held her against him, but it was to no avail.
Between sobs she whispered, 'You mustn't laugh, but I have always loved you. I dreaded seeing you in case you had met someone else.' She leaned back and stared at him, blinking tears from her eyes. 'You haven't, have you?'
'No. Of course not.' It came out so simply it was as if he had shouted his love from the housetops.
He added, 'I'm a lot older than you -'
She hugged him and shook her head again. 'I'm nineteen. Two days ago. So you see, I'm catching you up!'
They walked into another garden, the dishes abandoned.
It was a starry night, with a warm breeze to ruffle the leaves. Somewhere a wireless set or gramophone was playing a lilting Spanish tune, and a small night creature ran through the grass; searching for food, trying not to become it.
In the darkness it seemed somehow natural, he thought. His hand on her waist, her head against his arm.
As they walked he told her more stories about the people he served with. Moncrieff, the ancient mariner; Sherwood who had been with a famous firm which had built chandeliers. He left out the pieces about Sherwood's grief, which was slowly driving him mad. About Hargrave's ambition, for himself rather than the ship, of Midshipman Davenport who bragged to everyone about his upper-class upbringing, when in fact he had been to the same modest grammar school as young Boyes. Or about Fallows who had probably been the last link with life when Tinker had killed himself. Now Fallows was the haunted one because he could remember nothing at all about what had happened.
Above all, he told her nothing about the danger they faced every time they went to sea. Danger and death were things they knew about in Plymouth. For centuries. Since Drake had routed the Armada, and Nelson had sailed for the Nile, since the little Exeter had sailed home to Plymouth after beating the German Graf Spee into self-destruction. And now the bombing. Even here, on the outskirts, amidst the ageless oak trees you could smell the rawness, the scorched and shattered buildings. Oh yes, they knew all about that.
She said softly, 'We didn't choose the time, Ian. It was held out to us. For us.' She looked up at him, only her eyes reflecting the stars. 'It was not our choice!'
As if to some silent signal they both turned and looked through the trees towards the house. It was in darkness with all the black-out shutters and curtains in place.
She said, 'I'll have to go in soon.' The words were dragged from her. 'Mother doesn't like to be alone if the sirens start. Everyone goes down to the shelters now.' He felt her shiver and tightened his grip on her shoulders. 'I don't know if I'm really doing any good here.'
'I'm quite sure you do.' They walked across the grass again and he said, 'I'll be at the Royal Naval Barracks all tomorrow, maybe longer. My boss is having a few meetings with the top brass.'
'Can I ask where you'll be after that?'
He looked away. 'Overseas. For a while. I shall write as often as I can.'
'Yes, please.' Her voice sounded husky. 'Tell me your thoughts. Share them with me.'
They stood by the gates and Ransome wondered if he would find a taxi. Otherwise it would be a long hike back to the base.
She said, 'I'm not afraid any more, Ian. It seems so right. I feel as if a great weight has been taken away. You can't possibly know.'
She looked along the drive. 'I must go. She'll come worrying otherwise.'
Ransome turned her towards him. 'I wish it was broad daylight. I want to look at you all over again.'
She tilted her head, then wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. 'Kiss me. Please.''
Ransome touched her mouth with his. A quick, innocent kiss, like that time at the railway station.
She said softly, 'I'll get better.' She stepped away. 'I'll make a fool of myself any minute.'
Ransome turned once and thought he saw her standing beside the gate's tall pillar. Then she was gone.
He walked down the road, hearing the breeze in the trees, catching the first breath of the sea as he topped the hill. Waiting. Always waiting. Like a great force which could be evil or kind as it chose for the moment.
He did not have to walk for long; a jeep full of military policemen pulled up beside him.
One redcap asked, 'Where are you goin', chum?' Then, as he saw the gleam of gold lace, 'Care for a ride, er, sir?'
They dropped him at the gate of the barracks and vanished into the night in search of drunks or deserters.
Ransome found his small room, his shaving kit and spare shirt still packed on the bed. There was a flask too, some of Moncrieff's Scotch.
He sat on the bed and thought about her face across the table, the warmth of her lips, the strange sense of fate or destiny which they both felt, and no longer challenged.
If he stayed another night he would try to take her out somewhere. Away from the sea, from people. Just walk and talk as they had once been able to do.
He looked at the flask and smiled. He no longer needed it.
The Staff Officer, Operations, an RN commander, greeted Ransome warmly.
'Good of you to call, Ransome. I feel I already know you pretty well. You a
nd your flotilla have made quite a mark on the map!'
He sent for tea and biscuits and gestured towards a huge wall-chart of the Mediterranean.
He said cheerfully, 'Nice not to see any bloody swastikas on the North African coast any more, eh?'
Ransome waited while a neat little Wren brought a tray to tea to the room.
The S.O.I, said, 'It's to be Sicily, but I think you already know that?' He stood up and walked to the chart. 'Combined Allied invasion, with a vital role for the supporting squadrons.' His finger moved to Gibraltar. 'We've got quite a fleet here already. Big chaps, all of them. It will be no surprise to you that they can't even move an inch without you clearing the way for them. How does it make you feel - proud?'
'Useful, sir.'
'The main supporting flotillas will be combined, so that there are no foul-ups like we've had too many times in this war. Like the rest, you will have to be ready to change roles at a moment's notice. We must get the 'brown jobs' on to dry land, Ransome.' He eyed him grimly, if they get thrown back this time, well -' He sipped his tea instead of spelling it out.
He continued after a glance at the clock. 'A flag officer has been appointed solely for that task.'
Somehow Ransome knew who it was going to be.
The commander said, 'Vice-Admiral Hargrave. Good chap, knows his stuff.'
Ransome thought about it. It should not make any difference who it was. Yet somehow he knew that it did. He wondered where Moncrieff was, why he was not sharing this meeting.
'So be prepared for sailing orders, Ransome. You'll be routed with a convoy, that's about all I can tell you.' He grinned and looked human. 'About all I know!'
'Will Commander Moncrieff still be our senior officer, sir?'
The man pouted his lower lip. 'I was coming to that. Moncrieff is a fine sailor, but -'
Ransome stiffened in the chair. It would break his heart.
'He's used to the home patch, the War Channel, moulding a lot of fishermen into minesweepers. The Med is different. The flotilla will be commanded by a small destroyer, a headquarters ship which can direct and divert as the occasion arises.' He softened his voice. 'Commander Moncrieff will be in control until Gibraltar. That's it, I'm afraid.'
In Danger's Hour Page 14
