He glanced at the safe and thought about the little package, and the girl who might never see it again.
Masters was quite alone, and when it came down to brass tacks, his was the only decision which would mean success or disaster, life or death.
He sighed. Once before, he had seen envy on Masters’ face. But now he knew what it felt like for himself.
He picked up a shovel from a fire-prevention bucket and used it to hammer the radiator until the banging in the cellar stopped.
He murmured under his breath, ‘I’ll be seeing you.’
17
Second Thoughts
True to his word, Gilbert Tregear had his latest creation afloat and alongside the pier without fuss or ceremony. A new keel would be laid down before another week had passed, and work begin all over again.
Builders and mechanics became fewer, and naval uniforms took over.
Chris Foley was aboard early on this particular morning. It was not just another hull, not any more. Gear was properly stowed, guns cleaned and trained fore and aft, all lines flaked down. Even the new paint was dry and had lost its smell. The hull had suddenly become a naval vessel in her own right. Almost.
She even felt different in the water, he thought. Nearly a hundred tons of her despite her rakish appearance; he could compare the motion with 366’s livelier behaviour even in harbour.
And this was the day. Once again he glanced along the length of his new command, at the men he would soon know as well as they would him. A few older hands this time, with good conduct badges to prove it; badges for ‘undiscovered crime’, they called them. And their collars were scrubbed pale to distinguish them from most of their small company, whose collars were still dark blue like their best uniforms, which they were all wearing today. Foley had done all the necessary signing to make the handover official, and tried to remain composed, outwardly at least, while Tregear and the officer from the contracts department had countersigned each document.
‘Standing by, sir!’
Foley heard the first lieutenant acknowledge the shout.
Dougie Bass had arrived in Falmouth the previous evening. Even he had been unable to hide his surprise at the speed with which things had moved after his request for a transfer.
Must ’ave influence in ’igh places, sir! And he was here, on this special day. No longer a killick coxswain but a petty officer now, with the crown and crossed anchors on his sleeve to prove it. As an acting P.O. until his new rate was confirmed he still wore his seaman’s square rig.
They had had a drink together and Bass had confided, ‘Never thought I’d leave the old girl, sir. But then, when you left, I asked meself, ’ow will ’e manage without me?’ As ever, he knew exactly just how far he could go.
Kidd saluted. ‘Ready, sir.’ His strong features were expressionless. Perhaps thinking she might have been his own command? The sea was his life. This might be his last chance.
Foley looked over his shoulder and saw a rating right up in the bows, the Jack carefully folded over his arm, the halliards ready and in place. Aft, another seaman was at the staff, a brand-new White Ensign clipped into position. Two leading hands stood to one side, their silver calls raised, moistened on their lips to prevent any last-second discord.
He saw that a crowd had gathered on the shore, as close as they dared to Tregear and the officer from the contracts department. There was also a full commander who had come from Plymouth to represent the admiral. Yard workers, who had seen it all before, some women from the canteen, three small boys who must belong to somebody. And right there by the office where he had taken her call was Margot, the only woman in uniform here today. When he had left her it had still been dark, and he had hated to let her go. You ought to be right there, beside me.
She had hugged him again, her body still hot against his. I shall be. She had pulled his hand to her breast. In here, I shall be with you all the time.
Foley realized that Kidd was still waiting, perhaps weighing up the one man who might change his whole life.
‘Make it so!’
As Kidd wheeled around to call the hands to attention, Foley saw the new plate below the bridge. Every other boat he had served in had carried just a number. Nicknames perhaps, but never a proper title in the true naval tradition.
‘Pipe!’
As the calls trilled in unison it seemed as if a signal had been passed to the entire boatyard. Even the gantry came to a sudden halt, a hoist of timber still swaying from its tackle. Sailors aboard a harbour launch to one of the bigger ships in the anchorage were waving their caps, their cheers drowned by the blast of a tugmaster’s siren. On the rickety pier some of the workmen were also waving, and two of the older men had removed their hats and stood at attention, perhaps remembering.
Foley stared at the gleaming new ensign as it reached the truck and broke out to the cold wind. Behind him, he knew without looking, the Jack would have been hoisted at exactly the same time.
And she was sharing it with him. I shall be with you all the time.
‘Carry on!’
The calls trilled again and then there was silence.
H.M.S. Firebrand was in commission. And she was his.
Another secret signal, and the towering gantry began to move once more, as the crowd broke up and men went about their work. Some remained to watch a little longer.
For they had built her, and would probably never see her again.
‘Dismiss the hands, Number One.’ He looked at the small masthead pendant. ‘They did pretty well, I thought.’
Kidd smiled, the deep crow’s-feet around his eyes very noticeable. ‘Aye, sir. I think I can smell some of Nelson’s Blood in the offing!’ He saluted again and faced the waiting company. Larger than 366’s, thirty in all. He could imagine what Bass would be asked, and how he might answer. ‘Old Chris? Good as gold if you keep yer nose clean and do yer job proper!’
He turned and saw her walking towards the hastily rigged brow, small and erect, oblivious to the stares and occasional whistles.
Foley said, ‘Someone I’d like you to meet, Number One.’
H.M.S. Firebrand’s first guest had arrived.
Gilbert Tregear paused by his office door. The official visitors were hanging about, waiting for the bottles to be opened, he thought grimly. Something every new commanding officer had to expect. The builder, too.
He saw the pretty Wren with the dark hair pause at the top of the brow and salute, the side party responding equally smartly. But he saw the smiles, could almost feel the warmth of it. So young; let them have a few moments on their own.
‘Now, if you’d step into my office, gentlemen, I’ve got something rather special I’d like you to taste!’
He closed the door. It never failed. They were ready and waiting.
Until the next time.
Masters sat on the edge of the bed and waited patiently for his call to be transferred, then transferred again. The hotel which was to be his home for three nights was smaller than the previous one, on the fringe of Chelsea, and close to the river; he had caught sight of it from the taxi. He did not know London well, and felt completely out of his depth.
Eventually a bored voice took his message, and yes, he would be expected at the Admiralty tomorrow. At nine o’clock. They obviously did not believe in rushing things.
The hotel was yet another commandeered place for officers either on passage somewhere, or those who were actually employed here in London. He had seen several senior officers downstairs, some with red tabs on their jackets, others equally high-ranking from the R.A.F. It seemed he was the only guest from the Royal Navy.
Perhaps he would take a stroll. Maybe have a quiet drink somewhere, if there was such a refuge. But first . . . He picked up the telephone again. He had to check his notebook before he could tell the operator the number; it reminded him how infrequently he had called the house with its damp wallpaper.
He was surprised when Petty Officer Coker answered it himself.
/>
‘Just thought I’d check up with you, make sure it’s all quiet.’
‘Glad you rang, sir. I was wonderin’ what I should do.’
Masters tensed immediately. Coker rarely got rattled about anything. Never, as far as he could remember.
‘What is it?’
‘Just after you left, sir. I called the station, but you’d already gone. The lady rang. Wanted to talk to you. Worried about something, she was. I couldn’t tell ’er where you’d gone – it’s supposed to be secret. And in any case . . .’
Masters said quickly, ‘But she’s all right?’
Coker considered it. ‘Upset. Sorry she couldn’t speak to you. I told ’er I’d give you the message when you got in touch.’
He was sounding calmer. The buck had been passed.
He added suddenly, ‘She left a number . . . just in case.’
Masters was on his feet. She was alive. Safe. And she had called him.
‘You did fine, Coker. Give me a second and I’ll jot it down.’
He thought for a moment that Coker had hung up, or that they had been disconnected.
Then Coker said, ‘I can do better than that, sir. I’ve got the address – it’s the same number.’
Masters found he was nodding, trying to follow it. Coker wanted to impart something, even though it went against his code of doing things.
‘Tell me. It means a lot.’
He watched the pencil as it moved across the page. He did not write the last part. It was Chelsea. A flat, perhaps not far from this hotel. She had mentioned the Thames to him, he could not recall in what context.
He heard Coker’s heavy breathing and said, ‘Thanks very much. I might bump into her.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The gentleman’s gentleman again. In control.
‘You know where I am if you need me. Leave a message, will you?’
He put down the telephone, Coker’s last words still in his mind. Be careful, sir.
He looked out of the window, but could see nothing. The hotel was in a small square, no sounds, no traffic. You could die here and nobody would know.
He glanced at his case by the bed; Coker had packed that, too. Then, very deliberately, he put on his raincoat and reached for his cap.
Coker had kept the address for some reason. When she and Critchley had been lovers?
He felt the lighter in his pocket. She had probably walked from her flat to that other hotel, when she had been going out with Lalonde. She might not be there. She might refuse to see him. She did not even know he was in London, let alone the reason for his being here.
Downstairs he found a young woman sitting behind the reception desk, unravelling a khaki jumper and rolling the wool into a ball ready for reknitting. Probably some uncomfortable service garment, sent home by a husband or boyfriend, but real wool, a common enough arrangement with the clothing ration so strict. She had a radio behind the desk for company, with music playing.
She eyed him with some amusement.
‘Taxi, sir? Round here? At this hour? Like gold dust, they are!’
He told her the address, but she had to call the elderly porter who was polishing shoes in the adjoining office.
He was more forthcoming.
‘Down towards the bridge.’ He saw Masters’ expression and added impatiently, ‘Chelsea Bridge. Dead opposite Battersea power station.’ He grinned, and accepted half a crown without a blink. ‘If it’s still there, o’ course!’
Masters stepped out of the hotel and turned up his collar. The air raid notice was not on display.
When he reached the river it was easier, and there were plenty of people in the streets. Almost everybody seemed to be in uniform, and he caught snatches of conversation in languages as varied as the uniforms: Free French, Polish, American, and others he did not recognize.
One taxi rattled past but it was towing an auxiliary fire pump, another part-time job. Like so many of the people to whom he had spoken, air raid wardens, firewatchers, first aid workers, and of course the Home Guard, bemedalled veterans from the Great War. And all of them would have to be back at their regular jobs or homes tomorrow. If, like the bridge, they still existed.
Masters looked up at the sky. It was clear enough, except for a few patches of cloud. But still no sirens.
A few more cars passing now: some people, doctors among them, still managed to get a petrol allowance. He looked across the river; even in the darkness he could see the towering chimneys of Battersea power station. And here was the bridge. He turned his back on the water and walked swiftly across the road.
Someone shouted, ‘Wot’s up with you, mate! Got a death wish?’ A car surged past him, and he heard laughter. Not a doctor that time.
He saw some figures hurrying down a side street, carrying blankets and, he thought, sleeping bags. The Underground stations were said to be full every night; men, women and children, afraid for their safety, not wanting to be alone when the raids started.
He stopped and looked up, as if somebody had called his name. The old porter knew his Chelsea. This was the address.
There was a little porch, and at a guess about six expensive flats, with separate letter boxes and bell buttons. It was too dark to tell one from another. He groped for his lighter again, and halted.
It was still not too late . . .
He clicked the lighter. In the darkened porch it was like a flamethrower.
There it was, Number Seven. De Courcy. He closed the lighter, but not quickly enough. A slurred voice yelled, ‘Put that bloody light out! Don’t you know there’s a war on?’
It seemed an age before her voice reached him from a heavily meshed speaker.
‘Who is that? I can’t come down.’
He touched the protective mesh. ‘It’s me, David.’ There was no sound. ‘David Masters. I got your message.’
‘David? How can that be? I was told . . .’
He said, ‘I want to see you. I know I should have warned you.’ He got no further.
‘It really is you! I – I thought for a moment . . .’ A buzzer intruded noisily. ‘Come up, David. Top floor, I’m afraid. You’ll have to forgive me . . .’
She was silenced by the door clicking itself open.
He saw a handrail and gripped it. There was a tiny shaded lamp on the first landing and he saw a stirrup pump and a bucket of water beside the nearest door. He was still holding the lighter in his hand like a talisman.
Right on cue, the rising wail of sirens followed him.
He was almost at the top of the stairs when he saw the flash of a torch playing against the wall. He was not even out of breath. All those walks from his quarters around Vernon, and later whenever he could find the time in Dorset, had served him well. Even though on so many occasions it was because he had been unable to sleep.
She was holding the door open, her face very pale in the reflected torchlight. The rest of her merged with the shadows, a dark cloak, and some kind of shawl over her head and shoulders.
‘Come in – you must be cold. I’ll get some extra heat going. It was clever of you to find this place . . . so dark everywhere.’
Upset, Coker had said. Masters waited for her to close and lock the door, and all the time she was speaking in the same disjointed sentences.
‘I’m fine. Really, I was worried about you, Elaine.’
Perhaps the use of her name triggered something. She moved a small table lamp and gestured to a chair. ‘Have a seat. I’ll make some tea, or perhaps a drink would be better.’
He wanted to hold her, like that other time. Wait for whatever it was to settle, or leave her.
With only one light it was difficult to see the room itself. There were a few pictures, a figurine, of a ballet dancer, on top of a cabinet.
He said, ‘The sirens went off just now,’ and glanced at the windows. ‘Trouble with the blackout?’
She moved past him and did something to an electric fire.
‘No. Nothing like that.’ She put her hand up
to her face. ‘I’m a mess. I didn’t want you to see me like this.’ She added almost sharply, ‘Where have they put you this time?’
‘It’s called The Warwick.’
She brushed past him again. ‘Oh, that dump. It’s quite a walk, or did you find a taxi?’
He watched her, feeling the tension like something physical. ‘It did me good.’
She had not heard him. ‘As soon as I phoned I knew it was wrong. Unfair, to both of us, I suppose.’
‘I’m very glad you did.’ In a minute she would ask him to leave, make some excuse. And then what?
He said quietly, ‘I didn’t bring the jasmine brooch. It’s tucked up in Philip Brayshaw’s safe. If I’d only known . . .’
She was behind him now, and he could smell the perfume, but only faintly, as if it was some emanation of the room. He could hear her breathing, fast and unsteady. If he moved now he knew he would ruin everything.
‘How could you have known?’ She had her hand on his shoulder. ‘My mother gave it to me. Just before we were separated, and I came over here. When I got a job with Captain Wykes’ people. Eventually.’ The hand moved away, and then returned to his shoulder. As if she was trying to decide something.
She reached out with her other hand and tilted the table lamp slightly.
‘That is she.’
It was a photograph of a young and beautiful girl, posed in her ballet costume, not unlike the figurine on the cabinet.
He said, ‘I can see where you get it from, Elaine. She’s lovely.’
‘That was Swan Lake. Before my time.’
A window pane quivered, and the familiar crump . . . crump . . . crump of anti-aircraft fire intruded.
She half turned. ‘Not near. If we went on the roof we could see it. I keep a little garden up there. In tubs, that sort of thing . . .’
She walked to a window and adjusted the curtains. ‘In the cabinet, David, do you mind? I was having a shower when you got here. I must have had a dozen since I got back. The landlord will have something to say about that.’
Masters bent and opened the cabinet. There was a half-empty bottle of brandy and some glasses.
Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) Page 30
