Gerald said good evening and put on his own cap; it gave him rather startlingly the appearance of a chauffeur. Then he joined the others over by the door. A bell sounded and the little procession moved in.
Three chairs had been left in isolation for the Midshipmen. They seated themselves and waited in the ominous hush for something to happen. Mr. Biddle, a mass of medals and gold lace, was occupying the centre of the platform, and on his right with a little more lace even than Mr. Biddle, sat a Sea Lord specially sent from Headquarters for the induction. On the table in front of them lay the ceremonial sextant and compass, anchor and log.
Gerald absorbed them as part of the whole scene. Somehow or other he did not think of them as funny. Even Mr. Biddle in his robes did not now seem funny. With a roomful of grown men all taking it perfectly seriously only an outsider could have laughed. And Gerald was no longer an outsider. He was already as much in the Order as if he had solemnly taken the oath. The instruction classes and the cap and the final letter of summons from Headquarters had done their work.
Mr. Biddle rose for his address.
“My Lord, Fellow Mariners and Midshipmen,” he began. “I think that everyone present would agree that a meeting such as this is an occasion for rejoicing.” There was an awkward, unintentional pause, and Mr. Biddle was forced to glance down at his notes. “A nation without children,” he resumed, “so we are told”—he had found the quotation in a pocket manual on Public Speaking—“is like the Seasons of the Year without the Spring. And to-day those of us who have grown grey in the service of the Order see the youngsters, the children, coming forward.” He paused and cleared his throat. “We are just birds of passage,” he went on. “We come and go, but the Order remains. Long after everyone here to-night has gone into Harbour for the last time … ” But Gerald wasn’t listening any longer. He was going over in his mind the events of that day when he had taken Alice down to see Dr. da Leppo. It was still as clear as yesterday, and the memory of it gave him a sudden desperate desire to be with her again: he wished now that he had stayed on in the small waiting-room at Rosecroft just so that he could have known the very moment there was anything to know.
But Mr. Biddle had sat down. It had been a long speech and he felt exhausted. Moreover, he had felt very much moved. He had seen a lot of young men enter the Order and he had always imagined the day when his own son would be sitting there, a little red in the face under the plain, peaked cap, ready to pay his guinea’s sailing money. Things hadn’t worked out quite that way. There was no son. But now, against all odds, in Gerald he had got the next best thing. With Gerald in the Order and Alice’s baby coming he felt at that moment that he had got about all he could want out of life.
Gerald looked at his watch. It showed eight forty-five. There must surely be some definite news waiting for him at Rosecroft by now. They said he could ring up again during the evening—if only he could have slipped out just for a second and phoned. In his impatience, he began shuffling his feet as he sat there.
The Sea Lord, an elderly, unhurried man, had risen to his feet.
“Midshipman Sneyd,” he said, “why do you wish to follow the sacred calling of Mariner?”
Gerald started.
“Because—because,” he began, “because by so—by so doing—I am reminded by night and by day—both by night and by day … in storm and in calm of His infinite mercy towards—and loving protection towards all men,” he struggled on. (For all he knew the Matron herself might be inefficient; she wasn’t so young either.)
“What are your duties?” the Sea Lord continued from the platform.
At that moment Gerald didn’t care a damn what his duties were. In a sense, he supposed his first duty was towards Alice and not towards the Order at all. And if he were doing his duty he would now be telephoning to Rosecroft to see if he were wanted and not be sitting there with a bus conductor’s cap on his head going through a catechism. For a few seconds he did not reply. He just sat there turning the problem over in his mind.
“What are your duties?” the Sea Lord repeated patiently.
Gerald tried to pull himself together. He knew the answer but somehow could not think of it. There was a deep hostile silence throughout the room; he could not help being aware of it. It was like sitting in an ice safe. The assembled Mariners seemed even to have stopped breathing. The only sound was the noise that Mr. Biddle’s fingers made; he was drumming on the table like a pianist, and sitting there with clenched teeth. Quite suddenly Gerald remembered the words.
“At – all – times – to – remain – at – my – post – fearing – neither – seen – peril – nor – unseen – aiding – those – who – are – in – distress – and – turning – towards – port – only after – life’s – voyage – is – done,” he said in a rush.
Mr. Biddle passed his handkerchief across his forehead.
The Sea Lord turned again towards Gerald: he was beginning to feel doubtful about this young man.
“What are your privileges?” he asked.
“To … to be … to be aided when in danger, to be guided when I am in danger, to be guided when I am lost … ”
But the Sea Lord had stopped him.
“What are your privileges?” he repeated. His voice was a little colder this time.
Gerald swallowed. He was aware that every man in the room was watching him. And Mr. Biddle, in particular; he had pushed his Commodore’s cap on to the back of his head and was staring at Gerald in amazement.
And Gerald meanwhile was silent; utterly silent. On the subject of privileges his mind was completely blank; and on the subject of the Rosecroft Nursing Home it was completely full. He swallowed again and said nothing.
The Sea Lord repeated the question for the third and last time. He gave Gerald the statutory five seconds and then he rang the ship’s bell.
“Midshipman Sneyd,” he said, “you have been truly and openly examined in the mysteries of the Order and you have been found wanting. It remains my duty to exclude you from the Oath and ask you to withdraw. You may present yourself again at the Midsummer Sitting.” He picked up the slip of paper in front of him. “Midshipman Weeks,” he said.
There was absolute silence as Gerald left the room. And even those who had not been watching him before now took the opportunity of having a real good look at the spectacle of the Midshipman who had been formally excluded. There was no false sentiment about it, either. The Mariners in the front row got up and turned round to see him better. Mr. Biddle was the only man who did not look.
What they didn’t see was what happened when Gerald got outside. The two gentlemen on the Night Watch were completely unprepared for anyone to leave so soon. They hadn’t even time to grab his Mariner’s uniform from him as he shot past them and sprinted down the corridor.
He was still wearing his cap and gloves when he got to the phone box in the front hall of the Lord Macclesfield.
“Tally-Ho 8896,” he dialled; he was trembling all over.
“Rosecroft Nursing Home,” the voice said.
He could feel his heart thumping somewhere up near his throat.
“It’s Gerald Sneyd speaking. Is—is there any news?”
“I’ll ask Matron,” the voice answered.
She was away from the telephone for perhaps thirty seconds. He felt himself sweating again: his whole body was covered with little prickly points of heat. The mirror in the side of the box showed a pair of anxious, idiotically staring eyes under the shiny, black peak of the cap.
Then the voice came back.
“It’s a little girl,” she answered. “They’re both doing nicely.”
There was a pause during which he could not speak. Then he pulled himself together.
“O.K.,” he said.
Cutting from the Daily Telegraph for the twenty-fourth of July.
Family man, Mariner, seeks post where steadiness
and reliability an asset. Quiet, loyal, dependable. Write Box. XXX 3425.
/> THE END
A Note on the Author
Norman Richard Collins was born in Beaconsfield, Buckinghamshire, on October 3, 1907. By the time he was nine years old, at the William Ellis School in Hampstead, he displayed a talent for both writing and publishing. In January 1933, when he was twenty-five, he became assistant managing director in the publishing house run by Victor Gollancz. In 1941 Collins was forced to move to the BBC due to increasingly poor relationship with Gollancz, who resented Collins’ talent and saw him as a rival. During this time he became known for his innovative programming which included Woman’s Hour, which still airs today on BBC Radio Four. He rose to Controller of the BBC Television Service, later leaving to co-found what is now ITV after deciding a competitor to the BBC’s monopoly was needed.
Alongside his busy career, Collins wrote fourteen novels and one work of non-fiction in his lifetime, most of which were popular successes, published begrudgingly by Gollancz. Collins also became well known for his innovative programming at the British Broadcasting Corporation during the late 1940s, and later for advocating and leading the movement toward commercial television broadcasting in Great Britain.
An unmistakable mark of Collins’ power of application and creative energy was that he continued to write fiction throughout such an active working life. Although never a full-time writer he was a fluent and prolific author with sixteen titles and two plays to his credit between 1934 and 1981. An autographed edition of twelve of his novels was published during the 1960s.
Discover books by Norman Collins published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/NormanCollins
Anna
Bond Street Story
Children of the Archbishop
‘I Shall Not Want’
Flames Coming out of the Top
Little Nelson
Love in Our Time
The Bat that Flits
The Facts of Fiction
The Governor‘s Lady
The Husband‘s Story
For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been
removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain
references to missing images.
This electronic edition published in 2014 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square,
London WC1B 3DP
First published in Great Britain in 1939 by Collins
Copyright © 1939 Norman Collins
All rights reserved
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make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means
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printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the
publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication
may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The moral right of the author is asserted.
eISBN: 9781448214143
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Love in Our Time Page 21
