J. E. MacDonnell - 114

by The Worst Enemy(lit)

  Bentley halted his pacing. Almost certainly Ferris would have gone straight to his mess. Had he mentioned his unmerited treatment to them, the chiefs, the backbone of the ship's company? Bentley couldn't blame him. The memory of his sarcastic words flashed back to mock and trouble him. They were sound men; but only as sound as the man who led them. God, if only the dockyard would finish its repairs, and finish this blasted worry that was fretting his nerves raw. Things were starting to move up there, even before he'd left. Even now Dalziel might be faced by a superior squadron, or planes or a pack of submarines...

  The door opened. Jarrett came in with the slop bucket. His glance at Bentley was covert, cautious, and Bentley knew that he knew. It took not too much effort-a successful leader must be an actor, if only to convey the calm and certainty of achievement he did not

  feel-for Bentley to say, smiling:

  "Well, Jarrett, this is your lucky day."

  "Is it, sir?" Jarrett said warily. Under different circumstances he would have answered with something like: "Fine, sir. You're shooting me off on another fortnight's leave?"

  Bentley kept his smile on. "Yes. I'll be lunching ashore. Dining, too."

  In this, also, Jarrett was awake up. Every day the captain lunched and dined ashore. But if the hand was offered you took it, especially when there were four rings above it. So Jarrett matched smiles and said:

  "I'd better phone Mrs. Prescott, sir."

  "Eh? She knows I'll be there."

  "Yes, but she might have steak in mind."

  "If so, you bloody banana balancer," snarled Bentley, using the generic term for stewards, "it will at least taste like steak."

  Jarrett went into his pantry, relieved at this return to normalcy. Bentley put on his cap, took up the signal log and went out.

  Chance seemed to favour his second intention. It would have been too obvious, sending for Ferris and having Jarrett hear the conversation; as it was, he stepped from the ladder on the fo'c'sle deck and a few feet away Ferris appeared from his mess. His glance, too, was covertly wary. Bentley smiled; a brief normal gesture, just the right size.

  "There you are, Yeoman. Saves me the trouble of sending it along."

  "Yes, sir."

  Ferris took the log. Bentley cocked his head in a listening attitude. Faint but distinct, resonating from the keel up through the iron of her body, came the sound of tapping tools at work.

  "Well, they're on the job."

  "Yes, sir."

  Still careful, that tone. Bentley made his own easy.

  "Have you ever known this to happen before, in your experience?"

  "This" was the ripping off of Wind Rode's asdic dome against one end of an uncharted reef near Trobriand Island, some eighty miles from the northern coast of New Guinea's toe.

  "No, sir, it's the first time." But the face looking at Ferris now, burned and handsome and quizzical, was the old one he knew. Like Jarrett, he took the hand. "And the last, I hope. If that niggerhead had been a foot higher, we'd have had more than the dome torn away."

  "Nightmares, Yeoman, I can do without, if you don't mind."

  "Yes, sir."

  They exchanged grins and turned away, Bentley walking aft and Ferris mounting the ladder. Ferris had climbed past the wheelhouse before he consciously realised what his mission was: he grinned, widely this time, and went on to check the flags in their lockers.

  Bentley found the man he was looking for down near the tubes. Lieutenant-Commander Randall was on leave in Sydney, comfortably esconced in his captain's house with his wife Gwen, who happened to be Bentley's sister. Bentley halted beside the temporary first-lieutenant.

  "Well, Pilot, what's the news this morning?"

  Wind Rode was in dry dock close by one end of the Storey Bridge. Pilot had been watching the testing of a torpedo-loading derrick, trained outboard with its wire shackled to a hefty lump of iron on the dock floor. He came up from the guardrail with a start.

  "Good morning, sir." He saluted, as was the custom on first sighting of the captain each day: a very sensible custom, otherwise in a ship 350 feet long carrying 200 men, hands would be flapping up and down like yo-yos all day long.

  "The news isn't so hot, I'm afraid, sir."

  "Oh, God." Bentley had less need to dissemble in front of his second-senior officer. "What the hell's gone wrong?"

  "Nothing, actually. It's just taking longer than he thought."

  "The dockyard-manager?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I'll see about that!"

  Pilot had been with his captain a long time, and in other ships than this one. His hesitation was so brief that Bentley was still on the turn away when he said:

  "That mightn't be wise, sir."

  Bentley swung back. His stare fixed on Pilot's sober young face, demanding.

  "We've already had words about it, sir. They got a bit heated, in fact. McPherson's last words-and I quote, more or less verbatim- were: `I'm up to my bloody eyeballs in work. You come busting in here with a rush job. I take some of my best men off other work and I'm doing a bloody rush job. Now stick that up your bloody jumper and smoke it.' His metaphors might be a bit mixed, but he's really doing his best, sir."

  Disappointed though he was, Bentley had to nod agreement. Scotland produced fine engineers, and McPherson was provenly one of the finest. This wasn't the first time Wind Rode had received his attentions.

  "All right," Bentley murmured. "How much longer?"

  "At least three days."

  "What!"

  A couple of torpedomen painting the tubes looked around. Bentley turned his face away, feeling the flush of anger and frustration mounting in it. Then he remembered Jarrett and Ferris. This time the effort took much more-there are occasions when even the best actor-captains long to vent their feelings-but he managed to say in a fairly reasonable tone:

  "Oh well, that's it, then. We can do nothing about it."

  This time Pilot hesitated a bit longer. Then:

  "There's something I had in mind, sir."

  Bentley's eyes flashed at him. "About the dome?"

  "Not directly, sir, though it affects him. I was thinking of the first lieutenant."

  "What the hell... ? Talk plain, man."

  "Well, he's due to catch a plane back tonight. But if we're to be here another three days..."

  "You mean I should give him an extra three days? That bloody great loafing lummock? Guzzling my whisky, forcing himself to get up in time for lunch, my food, lounging all bloody day on the beach...! What the hell are you grinning about?"

  Pilot was not grinning; trouble was, he was trying hard not to. But Ferris held no monopoly on bravery.

  "I was thinking," Pilot pressed, "more of his wife... your sister."

  "I know she's my sister, damn you."

  "Yes, sir. A phone call, even a telegram would reach him in time. Your mother would like that."

  "Damn my... Ha hm! What's he got on you, eh? You owe him money or something?"

  Pilot pretended to ponder, fingers pulling at his chin.

  "No," he said at last, "you're quite right, sir. He should come back on time, as ordered. There's discipline to be considered, things like that. The other business shouldn't be given the slightest consideration."

  "What business?"

  "Nothing of any import, sir. Just his attitude when he gets back tonight and finds he could have had three more days with his wife, three days that you'll have with Doctor Prescott. I mean his attitude on the bridge. You know, when you're up there together in the dogwatches. I imagine it could last for three, maybe six months. And the wardroom, of course, will be hell. But then, like I said, orders are orders."

  Bentley was glowering at him. "You're biting the apple deep, me lad."

  "Yes, sir. Phone call or telegram?"

  "You don't phone a bludger on Avalon Beach, where he'll be right now, with my car and using my petrol."

  Pilot knew the car belonged to Mrs. Bentley. He said:

  "No, sir,
of course. I'll send a wire."

  "Two days."

  "But McPherson said..."

  "Two days."

  Pilot knew a shoal when he saw one. He backed full-astern.

  "Two days, aye aye, sir. He'll be delighted."

  "Now that's made my day!"

  And mine, Pilot thought, watching the big figure stride lithely past the tubes. Their dialogue had been vehement, malicious, and perfectly normal.

  "Thank God," Pilot muttered aloud, then turned back to the torpedo derrick.

  Perhaps because it was forced, and the worry still gnawed at him, Bentley's changed mood lasted only until he got ashore. Here, in front of the G.P.O., the actor was separated from his audience.

  His male audience.

  It was summer. Required by wartime regulations to be in uniform ashore, Bentley wore drills. The white trousers and jacket with its collar fastened at the throat-no tie-combined with the row of gold buttons and the four gold rings on each of his shoulder-pads to form an eye-catching contrast against the weather-hued brown of his face. And there was the white-covered cap, also golden around the edge of its black peak, set at the precise angle of tilt. Not too rakish, which would denote immature conceit. Here, said that angle, is experience.

  It was lunchtime. Here, said the swift, repeated glances of typists and office girls, is a man!

  Three girls-to be magnanimous in the matter of age-who knew little of typewriters or offices, swung happily up to him one after the other at intervals and intimated a desire to prove what they did know of their profession. To each of these Bentley offered a salute, and the information that he was waiting for his wife and children. They moved on quickly.

  And he was waiting. His meeting with Meredith Prescott had been set for twelve-thirty. Above him the big minute hand of the

  G.P.O. clock was arcing towards one-thirty. His thoughts turned northward, more than a thousand miles away from this safe, bustling street, to the dangers up there that could pounce from above and below the blue water, and now even men looked at him curiously, for the face under its golden peak was hard, almost savage with the force of his ugly thoughts.

  But his eyes remained unaffected, their sight independent of his mind's worry, roving restlessly. He sighted her at once in the hurrying mob on the opposite footpath, heading for the Courier-mail building and the pedestrian crossing.

  She walked fast-so she should, he thought, hearing the half-hour boom out above him-and he wondered why she came that way: the hospital lay in the opposite direction.

  Then the increased pulse rate throbbed for attention over his moroseness and his eyes fixed on her, feasting, his hunger drawing her close like Ferris' telescope.

  She wore a navy-blue frock with white piping, and everything else, shoes, bag, gloves, were white. Sleeveless, the dress showed her arms as brown as his own; flared at the waist, it swung with a purely feminine grace as she hurried and twisted her way through the crowd. Her head was bare, and even under the shop awnings he could see the gleam of her short brown hair, and the curl of it.

  He saw something else-the turn of men's heads as they looked back at her. This gave him a half-malicious half-proprietary pleasure. Look, boys, but don't touch...

  She stepped on to the crossing. A youth in a soiled blue singlet driving a huge garbage truck leaned out of his cabin and whistled appreciatively. Above the stopped and slowing traffic Bentley heard it clearly. She turned and smiled at the youth, inclining her head the tiniest amount. Bentley liked that, too; the cool assuredness of her. But then she was a surgeon as well as a woman.

  Halfway across and she saw him. Her stride lengthened, which made the dress flare more. She came up to him in a rush of blue and white and rising on her toes she kissed him.

  "Easy, there," he growled, but smiling a little.

  "Oh, damn the crowd. That's for keeping you waiting. I'm terribly sorry, darling, but it couldn't be helped. I have the most wonderful news!"

  Normally, he was an equable man. He felt for this lovely girl all the passionate strength of a first love. A day away from her seemed like years; time criminally wasted when there was so much joy with her, so much still to learn about her, all the tiny, trivial, wonderful things. He looked at her oval face framed by the curly hair he loved to ruffle, he saw the blue eyes wide with love and eagerness, and then...

  Surely, some time, you must have put on a big and carefully-prepared show when entertaining acquaintances, and yet for known, loved friends offered the most casual fare? Friends understand, you comfort yourself, they don't want a fuss.

  Certainly Bentley's men, for whose feelings he had shown such consideration, were more than acquaintances, but still hardly in the category of this girl whom he loved. And yet, goaded by that devil on his back, in answer to her brightly eager statement he said:

  "Nice to hear someone's got good news. I'm dry as a bone. Let's get a drink."

  Oscar Wilde wrote that each man kills the thing he loves... Bentley saw the light seep from her eyes, and her face wince as though he had struck her. Instantly he was filled with hatred of himself.

  "All right, Peter," she said in a small voice. "Where would you like to go?"

  The crowd bustled about them but he might have been on a desert island.

  "Merrie, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so bloody. Lately I've been so damned... What is this wonderful news?"

  "All right, Peter," she said again, "it can wait. You probably won't be interested anyway, not being in your line." She pointed. "That hotel over there has a passable lounge. Come on."

  She took his arm and they crossed the street. The men were different but they looked at her in the same way, and this time Bentley glared their eyes down.

  It was a small, crowded lounge, but he was lucky. Two journalists-they sometimes drink just like ordinary people-got up from a table for two near a window as he ushered Merrie in. She moved for it so rapidly that she was seated before he could help with the chair.

  "You have to be quick," she said in explanation.

  "Yes." Bentley knew something of conditions ashore. Damn near half the country was in barracks or overseas, yet congestion was worse instead of easier. He had no explanation for this phenomenon, nor any interest in it just now. "What would you like?"

  "Gin, I think."

  "Good, girl." He was trying to make up for his crassness. "That's the Navy's drink."

  Merrie smiled a little. "Then the Navy had better fetch it." She gestured to the busy blonde behind a small bar, hardly wider than the servery to Jarrett's pantry. "There's a war on, you know. And I suggest taking these, or we'll be stuck with them."

  "And sailors long to get ashore..."

  Bentley took the two dirty beer glasses. Her disappointment and concern at his reception eased away as she watched him walk across the room; the carriage of shoulders and brown-haired head, the quick light stride. He was going for drinks, but he might have been striding to front the devil.

  Merrie's fanciful thoughts took a more practical course. With hair like theirs the children should be brown-haired, she was musing fondly, when the table moved.

  It was not a bump of someone passing, more a shiver. Her head turned. She saw at first how big and thick-fingered the hands were, spread on the table, then she noted the dirty nails, and then she looked up. Heavily-set on a strong neck, the big burned face looked down at her with a leering grin.

  "What do you want?"

  The crisp hospital tone had no effect here.

  "What do you want, gorgeous," the big man said, leaning closer, "with a tailor's dummy like that?"

  Merrie smelt brandy on his breath, though he did not seem drunk. She glanced quickly at the bar. There was a man ahead of Bentley, being served beer. Bentley was watching the barmaid at her slow, disinterested work.

  "He's my husband," she said, unknowingly using Bentley's ploy with the prostitutes. "Please go away."

  Her ruse was less effective.

  "Husband, eh?" His hand slid on her
s, rubbing the fingers with a touch that revolted her. "Too stingy to buy a ring. Me, now..."

  Merrie had jerked her hand clear, was pulling on her gloves. He slapped his trouser pocket.

  "I got a wad here that'd choke an elephant. All I want is someone to help me get rid of it. Christ," he said, "you're a looker!"

  He was looking straight down the scoop-necked bodice of her dress.