She said, ‘There’s another bottle somewhere. Captain Wykes knows all the right people.’
He poured two glasses; one had already been used. When he turned towards her he saw that she was sitting by the photograph of her mother. She took the glass from him and shook her head as he moved the light.
‘No! Not like this!’
He sat down beside her and very carefully put his arm along the back of the sofa, not touching her, but close, so that she would know it.
She said slowly, ‘My mother is dead.’ She shook her head. ‘Six months ago, and I’ve only just found out. She had been ill for a long time. I’ve been so worried about her . . . wanted to get her out of Guernsey somehow.’ Some of the brandy slopped unheeded over her knee. ‘It can be done, you know.’
It was destroying her. Masters tugged out his handkerchief and pressed it on her knee. He felt her stiffen and begin to pull away, then, abruptly, she covered his hand with her own.
‘My father had been smuggling letters through to me. He always claimed that she was all right. Improving. Things like that. Lies.’
He took the glass from her fingers and put it on the table. He could see what she was wearing now, the old boat cloak she had worn before, and underneath, some sort of dressing gown. She had been wearing slippers when she had opened the door for him, but one of those was now missing. Her bare foot outlined against the dark carpet made her seem broken, defenceless.
He said, ‘Tell me. It’s why I’m here. I knew something bad had happened.’
He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. ‘Tell me.’
She watched him as he lowered her hand again, then looked where he had kissed it.
‘Nobody forced me to go. I wanted to. I was born there, had friends. You know.’ She shook her head again. ‘I shouldn’t talk about it. To you, or anybody. But you know that.’
He said, ‘You went over to the Channel Islands?’
‘It’s not that difficult. Two agents were looking after me. I was supposed to meet my father, persuade him to defect, get away. It was all arranged. What we had discussed in the past.’ She looked at him with the same haunting directness. ‘But I think you knew about Commander Critchley? He promised me, do you see?’
She looked towards the window again, and he saw a pulse leaping in her throat where the dressing gown had fallen open.
Crump . . . crump . . . crump.
She said, ‘My father had already gone. France, maybe Germany. Perhaps another big contract.’ She spat it out. ‘With the enemy!’
She seemed to realize that his arm was behind her shoulders and said, ‘One of the agents was not all that reliable. He had links with the French Resistance. With them you need to be on your guard. Always. To them my father is a traitor, a collaborator – it is all they can see, all they can think. I was lucky. I have to tell myself that.’
She rose suddenly, but held up her hand as he, too, stood. ‘No. Hear me!’ She picked up her glass and walked to the window, the cloak swinging round her as she turned back to stare at him. ‘We met some patriots while we were there. They needed convincing. Some were women, local people, one I even thought I knew, from the past. But I said nothing. It was bad enough.’ Her voice was faint, tensed in anticipation of the memory.
She took a deep breath and walked towards him. ‘I think they enjoyed it.’ She pulled the shawl from her head and sat beside him. ‘My father was a collaborator, that was all they needed.’ She ran her fingers up through her hair. ‘They stripped and searched me – I don’t need to describe it. Then they did this, sheared off my hair, like they do to any whore who collaborates with the enemy.’
The chestnut hair he remembered, shining in the restaurant, or in the grim bunker at Portland, had been hacked crudely away.
‘I have washed it again and again. My body too . . . It will grow again. As I said, I was lucky.’ She swivelled round with her back towards him. ‘What do you see?’
She lowered the cloak and dressing gown from her shoulders, baring her back.
There was plaster, in strips, in the shape of a swastika.
She covered her shoulders. ‘A woman did that, with a knife. Then more of our people came, and I was suddenly free. The rest is history.’
She did not protest or resist as he put his arms around her, his face pressed against her hair.
Occasionally gongs rang insistently in the street, ambulances, fire engines; he neither knew nor cared.
Once, she said, ‘What time tomorrow, David?’ Then, ‘Can you set the alarm? I have a razor you can use.’ She was half asleep. Like a coma.
Another time, there was more flak, and Masters thought he heard shell splinters clattering over the roof, probably fired by guns which were miles outside of London.
She murmured, ‘I can’t let you go out in this.’
Perhaps it was the brandy, and what had gone before, but he doubted it. Shock, grief, fear, it would have broken most people, even the ones who were trained and hardened to their work.
He guided her to the other door, which was still ajar. There was a bedside lamp, an empty glass on the floor.
He said, ‘Get some sleep. I’ll doss down on the sofa, and get some tea for us in the morning.’
The bed had not been slept in, but there was lipstick on one of the pillows as if she had cried herself into forgetfulness.
She said, ‘Do you still have your pipe, and the lighter I brought you?’
He smiled. ‘Of course.’
She nodded, and felt her hair again. ‘I’d like some water, David.’ She was studying him, her eyes very like the sea in the mellow light.
He said, ‘If the raids come this way, you’ll have to lead me to the shelter.’
She touched his arm and said quietly, ‘I want you to know. To believe. Maybe we were lovers. But never in love. It matters, to me.’
Masters walked into the other room, his shoes soundless on the carpet. He had seen the kitchen when he had arrived, and found his way there, pausing only to pull a curtain aside and peer out. A few pinpricks of light, a long way off, south of the river, not even any sound or tell-tale glow in the sky.
Put that bloody light out! Don’t you know there’s a war on? But not this time.
He filled a glass with water. Utensils were scattered everywhere. He would have to find the things for making tea before he left.
Nine o’clock at the Admiralty. If it’s still there.
She was in bed when he returned, the sheet pulled up to her chin, watching him. No challenge this time. No defiance.
‘Thank you. I’ll have a sip later on.’
‘How’s your back?’
One hand emerged over the sheet and touched her hair again. ‘They say they can fix the scars.’ She took his hand, and then gripped it. ‘Kiss me, David.’
She must have found her perfume. It was on her cheek, her throat, and as she pulled his hand down, on her bare shoulder. ‘Now, David. Lie with me.’
He kicked off his shoes and unbuttoned his jacket, without realizing what he was doing.
He was beside her, the sheet and blanket gone, her body pressing his. She seized his hand and guided it over her breasts and down her body, pulling it hard against and into her.
‘Now. I can’t wait.’
There was nothing beyond these walls. Beyond his belief, beyond whatever he had imagined it might be.
He spoke her name but her mouth captured his; she arched her back, and gasped as he entered her and they were one.
When the All Clear sounded, much earlier than usual, it passed unheard and unheeded in the small quiet room near the river.
A different car was waiting for him at Dorchester, but the same blonde Wren he remembered from his last trip to London. He had been away three nights.
Somehow he had managed to reach the Admiralty on time for his meeting; he still did not know how. Like a barrier breaking down, and every inhibition gone. They had fallen into an exhausted sleep, and when the alarm clock had sou
nded, something he did not recall setting, they had clung to one another as if for the first time, and she had given herself to him with a fervour which had left them both breathless.
If the captain at the Admiralty had suspected anything, he had kept it to himself.
Masters was glad it was not Wykes. It was better shared with strangers.
The operation had a name, Pioneer. It had suddenly become real, a fact.
The captain had said, ‘All the new mines have been tested and stored. The Germans have no intention of continuing with experiments. They’re ready.’
Masters had recalled her anguish when she had told him of her father’s defection. He must have given the word. Why he had left Guernsey without knowing or caring about his daughter, and the lies he had told her over the past months.
‘If you have any second thoughts?’
He had shaken his head. It had become personal.
The blonde driver asked, ‘Good trip up the smoke, sir?’
What would she think if he told her?
Three nights. Learning one another, exploring, every intimacy shared.
He said, ‘It was fine. Is Leading Wren Lovatt back yet?’
She hid a smile. He did not want to talk about it.
‘Back tonight, sir. We were all so chuffed when we heard about her getting some leave.’ Their eyes met in the driving mirror. ‘So right for her – she’s a real sweetie.’ She frowned and jammed her feet on clutch and brake as a farm lorry backed out of a gate in front of her. ‘Idiot!’
Masters tried to relax, reflect on things he must do. First, speak with his replacement, a lieutenant-commander from Vernon. They had met a few times over the past months, but he would not know much about the individuals who would be under his control, temporarily or not.
He had once served under Critchley, but had requested a transfer. At the time he had wondered why.
He thought of their last night together. Lying side by side, making each moment last. And last.
She had spoken only briefly about Critchley. How he had promised to help her mother escape from Guernsey, to get proper treatment.
‘He was so convincing. He never seemed too busy to help, to advise.’ She had added bitterly, ‘And of course, he was my father’s good friend.’
There had been a long pause. ‘That night he was supposed to come to the house, to tell me the progress he had made. But as I discovered, he was with another woman, doing what he did best!’
The bedside light had been left on and she had raised herself on her elbow to study him, afraid perhaps that she might forget.
‘He made me ashamed, and when he rang me, I told him so. He just could not believe that I felt as I did. Like that woman in Guernsey said. A whore.’
Masters had touched her, in ways he would never have believed possible, and she had responded, matching every mood of his love.
And tomorrow he would be on his way to Plymouth; by car, the urbane captain had assured him.
The start of a new venture. Perhaps his last.
The car passed the Wrennery, and he saw the formidable Second Officer ‘Tommy’ Tucker glance at him without recognition. But she had arranged Margot Lovatt’s leave, had even seemed pleased in some way. The family . . .
Then he saw the gates, the master-at-arms’ portly figure hovering, ready to see him over the side. He was back.
Nobody would mention it. Nobody was supposed to know.
Even she had said nothing about it, although she must know or guess what was intended.
He was reminded of one of Bumper Fawcett’s favourite quotations.
‘The impossible we do at once. Miracles take a little longer!’
It was decided.
18
One Hand for the King
‘Stop, starboard! Slow astern, port!’
Foley stood in the forepart of the bridge, one hand resting on the rail below the screen as he watched the gap of choppy water narrowing, Firebrand’s dark shadow reaching over the jetty, and the sudden flurry of spray from the reverse thrust of screws. They had done and achieved so much in only a few days. There had been a sense of urgency from the moment they had run up the ensign for the first time, and any remaining faults or slip-ups had been instantly pounced upon by specialists, as if they, too, were under pressure from on high.
Bass was on the wheel, legs loosely spread, eyes moving occasionally to gauge the last approach, alongside the jetty. Any casual observer would think he had been aboard all his life.
Foley felt very much the same. On the passage from Falmouth he had sensed the strangeness wearing off, so that engine beats, shipboard sounds, even men’s voices, were becoming familiar, pushing any remaining reservations aside.
He saw a seaman on the foredeck, a heaving line already held easily in his hand, watching a group on the jetty, who in turn were sizing up the newcomer with professional interest.
Foley licked his lips, tasting the salt. After Falmouth this inlet seemed even smaller. Shabbier.
He looked over at the crowded moorings. He had been expecting it, prepared for it, but it was still a shock. ML366’s bridge was covered with paint-smeared tarpaulins, and patches of new timber stood out in the hull like raw wounds. They were taking their time, and he wondered how Allison was coping both with the work and Claridge, his new skipper.
He leaned over and saw the bow edging towards the point of contact. Lieutenant Kidd was there, pointing now, and a man with one of the big rope fenders.
‘Stop, port!’
The heaving line snaked over the guardrail and was neatly caught by one of the handling party, without anybody apparently moving. Down aft, Sub-Lieutenant Venables had been ready and waiting. Mooring lines were being hauled ashore, someone yelled a greeting, a Wren on her bicycle paused and dismounted to watch as Firebrand came to rest. Like cracking an egg, as Dougie Bass would have said.
Foley had even got used to her name, instead of a number on signals, requests and instructions.
Kidd had looked it up in his dictionary. Firebrand, kindler of strife, was one definition. When you considered her maximum speed and the racks, empty now, which would soon be loaded with mines, it suited her.
He wondered how the other experimental fast minelayer was progressing, and who might be her commanding officer.
Kidd joined him on the bridge, light-footed for so powerful a man.
‘All secure, fore and aft, sir.’ He hesitated. ‘She did well, I thought.’
‘So did you, Number One.’
They were getting there.
Kidd was watching a seaman who was leaning on the guardrails, a foot on the lower one.
‘Got the weight, have you, Brett?’ That was another thing about him; he never had to raise his voice. The offending seaman jumped clear of the rails to stand almost at attention.
Foley turned away. He was learning their names too, but more slowly. And as was normal, the ones he met and worked with more closely had become not merely faces, but individuals.
The Chief, down there now in his engine room, a motor mechanic named Morgan Price, did indeed come from Wales, and his pride and enthusiasm over his four-shaft Bristol motors had not diminished. The signalman now tidying flags in the locker was named Pottinger. A Coastal Forces veteran, he had been blown up twice, and had been one of four survivors when his M.T.B. had gone down. When Bass had asked him about it, the signalman had replied drily, ‘It was getting too damn dangerous, ’Swain. That’s why I volunteered for this little lot. Minelaying is a bit cushier, I reckon!’
Foley had heard them laughing about it.
He thought of Falmouth again, the day he had left Kidd in charge for an hour while he had gone with Margot to the station.
It had come upon them so suddenly. Like the excitement and disbelief of being together, always brief, never more than a few hours when they could talk and touch, sometimes afraid to think of, or believe in, the future.
He saw a leading seaman up forward by the newly hoisted
Jack and recalled his name. Irvine, Tom Irvine. They had served together in those early days. The rookie sailor and the newly minted subbie.
At the station she had leaned out of the carriage window, their faces only inches apart: so many things to say, but never the right words when you most needed them. Around them there were others, in the same moments of parting. But they were quite alone.
‘When you’re settled, Chris, let me know. If need be I’ll apply for a transfer to be near you. If it’s possible.’
They had held hands, oblivious to the stares and the knowing grins, then somewhere a whistle had shrilled and doors had started to slam; a few latecomers had burst through the ticket barrier. She had a seat by the window, and her case was on the rack. In it was the black nightie one of her friends had loaned her. It had been hanging on a chair in the cottage bedroom. It had remained there.
Another whistle, and with a jerk the train had started to move. Hands, then fingertips, and then just her face and arm at the window before the train had gained speed out of the station.
He still had her cap. She had asked him to keep it.
Kidd was saying, ‘I’ve a list of jobs I’d like to discuss, sir. I get the feeling we’re being rushed, so it’s really a question of priorities.’
The good first lieutenant, Foley thought. Probably just what he needed.
Someone said, ‘Messenger’s comin’ aboard, sir!’
He felt his muscles tighten. He should have anticipated it. But so soon?
A seaman, smartly dressed and in white belt and gaiters, marched across the deck from the newly rigged brow, his boots clumping noisily.
Leading Seaman Pottinger said harshly, ‘Look where you’re going in them big daisy-roots, mate – that’s fresh planking you’re stamping on!’
Foley glanced over towards his old command.
It was only another memory.
The lieutenant-commander looked up from his desk, and fixed the sub-lieutenant with a penetrating stare.
‘Lincoln, isn’t it? We’ve not met before, but you’ve been away on leave, right?’
Lincoln thought it sounded like an accusation. ‘Some of us were overdue for it, sir.’
Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) Page 31
