Downie heard more voices, but they did not seem to matter. His arm had become numb, and the torch had swung almost into the water.
He must have screwed up his eyes again without realizing it. When he looked again, he saw the brightly coloured cylinder bolted to the old varnished woodwork, the size of a small fire extinguisher. And a wire, also carefully stapled into place, leading perhaps to the skylight, perhaps the remaining funnel.
‘Sir!’
Lincoln seemed to come alive, his eyes staring, questioning. But still he did not move.
Downie shouted again. ‘Sir!’ He gestured towards the cylinder. ‘Stay where you are! I can get it!’
Two things happened at once. A piece of wood splashed into the slopping water, and the terrier followed it, mouth already open to retrieve the prize. Downie was already halfway into the water. It was surging around his body, running through his clothing, exploring his limbs, numbing all sensation. The explosion was almost incidental, uninvolved. The flash so vivid that it was white, colourless, and he knew he had been deafened by the blast. There was blood on the surface, all about him, and hands reaching out to seize his coat and drag him to safety.
But all he could see was the dead dog, still clinging to the piece of driftwood. Then there was nothing.
The Angel Inn was and always had been Chaldon St Mary’s only pub. It occupied the same street as most of the other major buildings but managed to remain apart, as the centre of local affairs. It had a garden which was lined with trees, beyond which the Channel was just visible. Social events were limited to space and timing. The Rotary Club’s Christmas dinner had always been considered special, the farmers gathered there for their N.F.U. meetings, and there was sometimes a wedding to celebrate, or the aftermath of a funeral. Almost anything which affected the village and the neighbouring farms had been decided here at the Angel. The war had changed everything. Children or entire families being evacuated, land commandeered by the armed services, troops billeted in homes left unattended; the locals soon found themselves a small minority. Many resented it. Some, like Ben Turner, the Angel’s landlord, accepted it as a blessing.
The two main bars were packed every night. Sailors and marines from the local establishment which had once been the old school, airmen and WAAFs from the barrage balloon sites, and gunners from the surrounding anti-aircraft batteries. Ben Turner had been forced to employ three extra barmaids to cope with the demand, and a pianist as well, and the pub was usually so noisy with songs and laughter that locals tried to gauge their visits accordingly.
There was one small, additional bar named the Snug, where the ceiling was so low you could touch it with your hand. There was the usual dartboard, surrounded by a protective motor tyre, and the notices about blackout regulations, air raid instructions, and being careful with glasses. Servicemen often found it difficult to believe that it was harder to obtain new tankards and glassware than to replenish the cellar. There was a war on . . . The Snug was quieter than the other bars, the predominant theme being cricket. The landlord had been a well-known cricketer, at one time captain of the local team. He had gone onto play for the county and had been on the final selection for the England team to play New Zealand, when the war had changed that as well.
A cricket bat, in a glass case and autographed by some of England’s greatest players, held pride of place near an open hearth with pictures of the King and Queen on either side.
At night, until the landlord had to use a megaphone to bellow, ‘Time, gentlemen, please!’ there was no privacy even here, and to attempt to be alone with a girl was just asking for trouble.
Ben Turner was leaning with both elbows on the bar, preparing for yet another battle with his friend the butcher. Rations, availability, delivery and so forth. It was a little past noon, although he made sure that the clock was always slightly fast, just in case closing time became too difficult. And it was quiet. A farmer was sitting by the log fire, his dog sprawled out asleep by his boots. The local postman was in one corner, sipping his ale, and apparently sorting his mail bag. Turner knew him of old. He was actually reading the postcards from God alone knew where, before he delivered them. The gossip king of the village. Postcards told him where such and such a serviceman might be, just as he would always know which wife or girlfriend was having it off with a sapper or some sailor from the inlet.
The butcher murmured, ‘Heads up, Ben!’
The door opened and closed; the dog raised one eye and shut it again.
Ben Turner was about to say that at quiet times like this, in the middle of the day, there was no point in opening the Snug for only two clients. The place had to be lit and heated; in wartime you had to consider these things.
It was a young naval lieutenant with an even younger Wren. The butcher nudged him, but he had remembered anyway. The girl had sometimes stopped outside the Angel in the big Wolseley staff car, either to visit the post office or to call at the garage for something. She was the one who had nearly been killed in the accident. As pretty as a picture; it was hard to believe it was the same girl. And the lieutenant, smiling but uncertain, looking round for reassurance. Turner saw the medal ribbon on his jacket. Maybe he was the one who had gone to help her? He noticed that the postman was looking up, interested. He would know.
‘Go into the Snug, will you? I’ll put a match to the fire.’
Foley smiled at him and took the girl’s arm. Gently: he had seen her frown with pain as her shoulder bag had swung against her body when they had been climbing over the gate from the cliff path.
She said, ‘I feel wicked, Chris. Slipping away from everything and everybody. I couldn’t believe it when you answered the phone just now.’
He waited for her to sit by the fireplace, watched her looking all around, the pleasure in her dark eyes.
The Snug bar opened, like two cupboard doors, Ben Turner’s head and shoulders filling the space.
‘What’ll it be, sir?’ He glanced at the Wren. ‘A gin an’ orange for the lady?’
Foley sat by the small table, hardly daring to move. He could hear music from somewhere, and the sounds of crockery being stacked in a rack. The fire was alight and crackling, but he had not seen anyone come in and put a match to the kindling.
He looked at the low ceiling, browned over the years by pipe and cigarette smoke. Here and there someone had written in the stain with a beery finger. Some of the messages had been wiped clean, and Foley could imagine why.
He said, ‘I’ve waited for this moment, Margot. Now it’s here, I can’t think where to begin. You see––’
The shadow loomed over them and two glasses appeared on the table.
‘Mild an’ bitter, an’ one gin an’ orange for the lady.’ He waved a big fist. ‘Take your time.’ He shuffled away and Foley somehow knew he was unused to waiting on table.
He reached out for the tankard, but instead covered her hand with his own.
‘Sorry, Margot. I’m not doing very well, am I?’
She looked at the hand on hers and said softly, ‘I’m not pulling away. I’ve thought about you a lot. Too much, I expect.’
‘A toast, then?’
She took her glass. ‘I’ve not had a gin since a chum of mine got promoted.’
He smiled. ‘To you, Margot. That day when it happened, I’ll never forget how I felt. How I wanted you to live, needed you.’
She twisted her hand to grip his. ‘To us, then.’
A clock chimed somewhere. Another world.
‘I had to see you. It’s important, you see.’ There was water running now, near the window, probably a hose swilling down the outside toilets. He heard another voice. The heads.
He found that he was very calm, as if all his fears were unfounded.
‘I’ve got a little present for you.’ Her hand moved, as if to protest, but he continued, ‘Tomorrow.’
She was watching him, his eyes, his face, his mouth. ‘Tomorrow?’
‘Trafalgar Day, the twenty-first of October
. Something else important happened on that date.’
She laughed, relieved, surprised, it was hard to tell.
‘Somebody’s been getting at you, Chris! Anyway, it was a lovely thing to do, but why not wait until . . .’ She put the gin aside and grasped his hand in both of hers. ‘Because tomorrow you’ll be somewhere else?’
He released her hand, and said, ‘You might not even like it.’
‘Show me.’ She watched him reaching into his jacket, a lock of hair falling across his forehead, glad that he could not see her face. She was back in her father’s ‘glory-hole’, hearing the war correspondent’s voice on the radio, but seeing this man out there, risking his life, leading his men, afraid only of showing fear. The same man who had blurted out I love you on that terrible line, when they had been cut off. Troubled now that he was making a fool of himself.
He had opened the little package on the table. He said, ‘I saw it there, and I thought, it will look just right.’
It was a small velvet case. She could feel his eyes upon her, perhaps remembering too. How he had held her, touched her, and through all the pain and fear she had imagined, believed that it was life or death, with him.
It was silver, a fouled anchor encased in the framework of a heart, with a slender chain attached.
It had been his last resort, the jewellery shop in a side street of Weymouth. The proprietor had been unhelpful to begin with, and had been about to produce something else.
The pendant had been sold in that same shop, shortly after the outbreak of war. A Norwegian ship had been detained by the Contraband Control guardship, and one of her officers had found his way to the shop. He had sold it, because he had no further use for it, or because Norway was about to be invaded. The proprietor recalled seeing the Norwegian pause outside the shop, as if he had regretted his decision.
She said, ‘It’s lovely,’ and unconsciously touched her tie and the crisp white shirt. ‘I shall wear it here, where I can feel it all the time . . . just as I felt you when you came to help me.’
The landlord was peering through the twin doors.
‘Mister Foley, is it, sir? Thought you might be. Seeing as you’re the only naval folk here today, for a change!’ He laughed but it made him look strangely sad. ‘Someone by the name of Claridge.’
Foley stood up, one hand still holding hers, afraid to let go. He had not even heard the telephone.
She watched him, somehow knowing he had been half-expecting it. Dreading it.
She held the little pendant and suddenly wanted him to see it on her. Put it around her neck. She clenched her hand. Not now. Not now. And tomorrow was the twenty-first of October. She wiped her cheek with her knuckles. And she would be twenty-one. There were voices; the telephone had been replaced. She stood up and faced him.
‘Is it to be here? Now?’ She did not even resist as he wrapped his arms around her.
He replied, ‘Yes.’ His mouth was against her hair. ‘You know, “a bit of a flap”.’
‘I love the pendant, Chris. No, don’t let go. You’re not hurting me!’
They both stood still, then she said, ‘For my birthday tomorrow.’ She tilted her face. ‘Kiss me!’
Ben Turner watched them leave the Snug together, the lieutenant holding the girl’s arm, some money in his free hand.
Turner shook his head. ‘On the house, sir. Call in again some time, eh?’ He knew that his friend the butcher and the postman were both staring at him, but he did not care.
Music was blaring out of the other bar, and Turner swung round angrily. The new potman was making too free with himself for his own good.
‘Stow it, will you!’
But the young Wren called back, ‘No, leave it, please!’
Foley opened the street door and felt the cold air on his lips where she had kissed him. It would be far colder across the Channel.
The music followed them into the street.
Foley had heard it before, in 366’s W/T office.
He felt her holding his arm very tightly.
Ain’t misbehavin’ . . . Savin’ my love for you.
11
Face to Face
The Operations Officer unzipped his worn tobacco pouch and proceeded to fill one of his pipes with thrusts of his strong fingers. He was the senior officer of the team and therefore smoked when he chose and not to suit others. And, as everyone kept remarking, it was going to be a long night.
He struck a match and glanced at the big wall chart through the smoke. He did not see the Wren who was standing on a small ladder as she moved a coloured marker wrinkle her nose with disapproval.
He had been across to the mess to get some extra pusser’s tobacco, and had waited just long enough to hear the Captain’s special dinner getting under way. Chavasse had even managed to obtain some Royal Marine musicians for the occasion. You had to hand it to him when it came to flying the flag.
Another marker had been removed: the local flotilla had put to sea. He had heard them earlier after the briefing, the backchat and casual observations from some of the young officers. They would be on their way right now. Over in the mess they would be too pissed to stand before the action even started. If it ever did. He cocked his head as a teleprinter clattered into life. Trafalgar Night. What would Our Nel have made of all of this?
The outer door opened and Masters pushed his way around the heavy blackout curtain.
‘All quiet, Tom?’ His eyes passed over the chart and the plot. Then he smiled as the Operations Officer handed him his pouch.
‘As a grave, David.’ They held the same rank, and had briefly served together in that same old training cruiser as midshipmen. A million years ago.
Masters lit his pipe. Seeing the neatly filed signals, the diagrams and the coloured markers, brought it all back. Just two nights ago Captain Wykes had relayed the build-up of information about German minelaying and the latest details of their midget submarines. No glossing over, but Wykes in his terse, impatient fashion had brought it into the room. Perhaps the intelligence departments of the three services had too much to contend with, or did not allow for any overlap of information, but Wykes had left no doubt as to his thoughts. I went straight to the top. Bloody man, couldn’t see his arse for his elbow.
Masters had looked over at the girl who had been sitting in one of the well-worn sofas. Coker had lit a fire, and she had kicked off her shoes, holding her stockinged feet to the warmth. She had smiled. She was used to Wykes.
The Germans had been moving equipment and supplies across France and out to the Channel Islands. Now some of it was just across the Channel in Seine Bay, where the local flotilla had already carried out fast forays of minelaying. Where some of them would be in a few hours’ time.
Foley, at least, would be with his small company. Doing something, instead of . . . He returned the pouch. It was getting to him again.
He opened the incident book, and faces fitted themselves to names and ranks. Like a private navy, stationed in strategic areas, ready for the first hint of a magnetic mine or some new kind of beast.
Everything was in hand, just in case. There was even a unit at Lyme Regis where some fishermen had caught a suspicious object in their nets. No chances. No heroics, as he had said to the new sub-lieutenant, Michael Lincoln. Lincoln was over in the mess too; at least he had been spared any emergency call-out. Probably hating it.
Even when he had told Lincoln that the remains of a homing device had been found aboard the wreck of the Latchmere, he had sensed little reaction. The evidence had already been dispatched to Vernon. It might explain why the E-Boat had been there, might even connect the discovery with the midget submarine at Portland.
Chavasse had been openly delighted. ‘Don’t you see? A feather in our caps for a change! I shall put this whatsisname Lincoln up for a decoration, a Mention if that’s all they can manage!’
Masters had told Lincoln about that, too. He turned his head as a burst of laughter and shouting penetrated the outer door.
Chavasse had been too busy to take it any further. He obviously still was.
Lincoln had saved his rating’s life, dragging him to safety. He was over in the sickbay now, bruised and recovering from shock and concussion.
When you worked so closely with one another it became something special. If not, another partner should be found without delay.
Masters had mentioned that Downie had more than proved his worth, and his courage, but that he had confessed he had always wanted to be a vet. It was obvious Lincoln knew nothing about it, nor any other aspect of Downie’s character. He merely said, ‘He should go on leave after this, sir.’
But Downie had nowhere to go. They had shared very little except danger.
He thought about Wykes again. He had said the Germans were using Russian prisoners of war as slaves in the Channel Islands. They were building the massive defences on the islands, part of Hitler’s ambitious ‘West Wall’ against invasion. Starved, beaten, and driven without mercy by their guards, the Russians often dropped dead at their work; their bodies were usually tipped into the new concrete of the defences. Wykes had remarked, ‘Some have been used for testing anti-personnel mines as well.’
Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) Page 19
