by Milly Adams
Forcing her mind away from ration books, policemen and cheats, she thought of the hay-making, the children, Francois – his long tongue lolling, his eyes almost smiling. Finally, as she drifted off, she allowed herself to think of Sammy. Was Jake right: had Sammy meant it? Could she ask him? But how, when she didn’t know where he was, or the name of his new submarine so she could trace him through the Navy? But even if she could find him, and she asked him, and he was still just a friend, she ran the risk of losing him entirely, and she couldn’t think of a world without Sammy being in her life. She knew her thoughts were just going round and round but here, in bed, she had no work, no children, to stop them. Until sleep finally claimed her.
In the morning she woke feeling stiff and cold, but this time she knew where she was. She was in Miss Featherstone’s kitchen again with Francois, who had arrived at the back door in the early hours, having chewed through his tether. She turned, and there was Jake asleep on the sofa with Francois on the floor by him. She stared at them both. It wasn’t going to work, here at Miss Featherstone’s.
She’d just have to try to find a cottage to rent after all, because this boy needed the dog, and clearly Francois needed him, and that was that. The door creaked open, and Miss Featherstone entered, wearing her dressing gown, carrying a similar tartan blanket over her arm. She looked from Phyllie to Jake, who was still asleep, and came to sit at the head of the table. ‘This can’t go on,’ she whispered.
Phyllie nodded, and she too spoke in a whisper. ‘I know, and I understand, so I’ll find somewhere. Perhaps in the local town, though I noticed that there’s a little cottage near St James’s Church that looks empty. Do you think I could rent it? I know the windows are broken, and the garden derelict, but I could patch it up. I can’t separate them again, especially with Ron and Bryan …’ She ground to a halt. Miss Featherstone was holding up her hand as though Phyllie was a runaway bus.
‘My turn, Phyllie. One thing a headmistress, or indeed a WI president, should learn is to know when she’s beaten. We will keep Francois. He will sleep in the boxroom on this blanket, but not on the bed.’
There was a noise behind Phyllie. It was Jake running at Miss Featherstone, throwing his arms around her. ‘Thank you, from Francois too. She’s kind, isn’t she, Phyllie, really kind?’
Phyllie grinned. ‘Indeed she is, and I think perhaps you’re rather good at acting fast asleep.’
Miss Featherstone patted Jake’s back, and rested her head on his, just for a moment. ‘Now, I think that’s quite enough of that, young man. Breakfast and then church.’ She stopped. ‘Though perhaps you don’t go to church, Jake?’
Jake shook his head, easing himself back towards Phyllie. ‘No. I don’t go to synagogue either, not until my mum is back. I just sort of can’t.’
Phyllie put her arm around him. ‘Let’s go for a walk instead and thank God for the sky above us all.’ That sounded rather dramatic. She waited for the reprimand but it didn’t come, Miss Featherstone merely nodded, and smiled.
‘Indeed. A similar sentiment got me through the last war, too. One has to hang on to something, hasn’t one.’ It wasn’t a question.
Later Phyllie, Jake and Francois walked along the lanes, breathing in the soft air. Jake threw sticks for Francois to bring back, which he did sometimes, but just as often he chewed them to bits. They came to a pond, or was it a lake? It was huge with the right-hand corner fenced off. She saw that the wire was tied to trees, either side, top and bottom. Ducks and moorhens dithered about amongst the reeds. Yellow irises grew all around the edge. They passed a sign. Mitherton Pond. Ah, so a pond it was.
They stood and stared into the water. Minnows dodged. Phyllie told Jake how she and Sammy used to catch them with bent pins, in the slow-running stream at the bottom of the allotments. They’d put them in jam jars, to release them at the end of the day, and as she said it she could picture Sammy’s face as he peered into the jam jar. The water would run into his rolled-up shirtsleeves, just as it ran into the sleeve of her dress. Now she saw his face, close to hers as he wiped some dirt from her cheek that hot summer of 1932 just before her father died. ‘Your mum will fuss,’ he’d said, then ripped off his socks and waded in.
‘Come in, Phyllie,’ he’d called. She hadn’t because her mother wouldn’t have liked it. Instead, she’d watched as the water swirled around his legs. He’d always loved the water. He could swim like a fish. Oh God. Bring him back. Bring both of them back.
Francois barked, again and again. They swung round, and saw Andy Bartlett walking along the lane, holding the bridles of two shire horses in his one good hand. ‘Hold Francois very tightly,’ Phyllie said as Andy looked up and saw them.
He glowered and yelled, ‘Survived then, the mutt? Dad said he’d come hightailing it back to you so we didn’t come looking.’
Jake gripped Francois’ rope with two hands. ‘You’d have shot him, if he had, I spect. So you just keep away from him, from us. Miss Featherstone said he can stay, so there.’ Phyllie was astonished at Jake’s bravery, then pleased, because now this appalling young man would see how strong Jake could be.
Andy was alongside them now. He glared at Jake, and said, ‘Maybe I should have shot him when I had the chance.’
Well, that was just too much. Phyllie stepped forward. ‘You need to watch your tongue, or grow up. You may be in pain, but if it makes you a bully, stay inside because when you’re well, you’ll be embarrassed at the harm you’ve done. I know you were injured, and we’re grateful to you, and others like—’
‘Shut up until you know what you’re talking about,’ Andy interrupted. He pulled the horses on. Phyllie and Jake set off back to the village, neither speaking because Andy was right, she knew nothing about how it must have been.
Phyllie spent most of the afternoon sitting in the garden knitting khaki socks with Miss Featherstone, Miss Harvey, Mrs Speedie and Miss Deacon. Melanie stayed with the women, but Jake, Dan and Tony, who was staying with Mrs Speedie, headed off to the skittle alley behind the pub. After an hour, as the talk circulated, Phyllie made tea from the mint that Miss Featherstone asked her to pick from the herb bed. As she passed the cupboard with the sugar she opened the door. The sugar had gone.
She returned with a tea tray, on which were homemade biscuits made with honey. Mrs Speedie was speaking of her husband who was a prisoner of war and Miss Deacon told of her eldest nephew who was at Catterick now that he was back from Dunkirk.
Mrs Speedie then said, ‘That Andy’s not much better, tongue like an axe, but not to be wondered at—’
Miss Featherstone sliced across her friend, midsentence, ‘The strawberries are what we should be discussing. Up at five tomorrow to pick them from the allotments, if you please.’
The air was thick with tension, momentarily, but then Miss Harvey placed her drained cup onto the garden table and picked up her needles again. ‘Such a relief that Joe’s kitchen is now officially designated the area’s Preservation Centre. We must keep a close eye out for wasps in the jam as the season progresses; I hooked two out of yesterday’s batch.’
Mrs Speedie slapped the arm of her chair. ‘Wasps, the very idea. You must have a little chat with yesterday’s team, as you’re the one who’s been on the course.’
The afternoon drew on, the shadows lengthened and for this moment of time it was almost as though the war did not exist and all was well with the world. Phyllie sneaked a look at Miss Featherstone. Joe Bartlett’s son had said she knew nothing about anything and Mrs Speedie had been shut up very smartly.
Chapter Five
Monday 24 June 1940, Submarine Base in Scotland
DAWN CAME EARLY this far north in the summer and later, much later, in the winter. Scottish weather was not a million miles different from the conditions in the Norwegian sector, but Sammy didn’t want to think of that bastard area. He and Isaac strode along the quay towards their submarine, their small canvas bags slung over their shoulders. Behind them they heard a dockyard train
clanking along rails. A crane loomed over the dry dock. The 1st lieutenant, Lieutenant Roges, who had travelled from Canada when war was declared, strode ahead of them onto the gangway, and then onto the casing. The crew was disappearing down the forward hatch as Isaac said, ‘We’re not late until we’re behind the captain and he’s way back.’
Sammy followed Isaac onto the gangway, feeling it spring slightly with each step. Once on the casing he stared up at the sky, and breathed in several times, deep into his lungs. He loved the smell of the salt-laden wind, the slurp of the sea around the boat, the feel of HMS Vigorous moving beneath him. It was a moment he would never hurry, not even with the captain, Old Tom, heading down the quay, hot on his heels. Isaac stopped at the hatch, his foot on the ladder. ‘Sammy, get down here, enough with the breathing. You’ll fill your lungs again, of course you will.’ He disappeared into the bowels.
Sammy moved now, heading along the casement, throwing his small bag before him into the darkness, and sliding through the hatch and down the ladder into the smell and the semi-darkness. Old Tom wasn’t ancient – he was twenty-seven, which was on a par with most of the captains – and he wasn’t a captain either, but a lieutenant. But a year in the Norwegian waters made old men of those in charge of a submarine.
It was an area that cursed the submarines with virtually twenty-four hours of daylight in summer – insufficient darkness in which to surface reasonably safely to recharge the batteries. There was no place to hide in the translucent seas as planes patrolled and gave directions to hunters. Losses were absurdly high. The winters froze the bollocks but gave the gift of darkness.
Add to that, no sleep, just constant stress and danger, and was it any wonder many captains had to be posted ashore, their nerves shot? Old Tom wasn’t too far from that, especially since his brother had been shot down and paralysed just before they came in for repairs.
Sammy’s eyes grew accustomed to the low electric lighting far more quickly these days, and his ears to the noise of men shouting and rushing along the passage on floor plates. Beneath these, the provisions had been stored and as the patrol continued and the food was eaten, the floor plates would lower. As well as this was the rumble as the engine-room artificer, John Halford, whom everyone called chief, played silly buggers with the engines. The boat smelled like home, so what did that say about his life, for God’s sake?
Sammy followed Isaac who was shouldering his way along the narrow passageway, where pipes, wires, dials, cupboards and hammocks holding bread delighted the eye. They swung themselves through hatches, all of which could be locked tight against gushing water, should they be hit at the fore-end, or aft-end, and God help all buggers if they were caught amidships.
They squeezed past others heading in the opposite direction, grinning at the curses hurled at them, and cursing in return. It was a zoo, or the underground at rush hour. ‘It Don’t Mean a Thing if it Ain’t Got That Swing’ was playing over the speakers, too bloody loud. ‘You need to tell young Davy to keep it down,’ Sammy grunted to Isaac. ‘You’re the radio leading seaman, for God’s sake.’
‘He’s been told. He will be told again. It’s Old Tom’s favourite, as you know, so it’s young Davy’s homage, or so he says. I’ll speak to him yet again when I make it my business to head to the radio shack. Calm, my friend.’ They reached their billets in their mess, which was merely a widening of the passageway.
Sammy started to shove his bag into a cupboard near his excuse for a bunk, which stood three inches off the floor, but there was already a large bag in there, taking up most of the room. He pulled it out, and slung it to the floor, saying, ‘I don’t care what you say, Isaac, Old Tom doesn’t like it so loud. You know that and we need to take care of the bugger.’ He shoved his bag in. ‘Who the hell put this bloody great trunk in here, anyway? Where did he leave his brains?’
He straightened, and looked around. All there was space for on board was a toothbrush, a book or two, pencil and paper, a few pants, socks, plimsolls and top clothes, all of which stank of diesel, sweat and filth, in spite of being boiled senseless. These were kept for boat use only. In the washroom there was water for teeth and face, or they could do battle with the seawater faucet and end up sticky with salt, and still smelly. Once they’d left dock they’d change into this slop order. Sammy grimaced. ‘Can’t be seen to let the side down ashore, can we, Isaac? Got to look smart and pretty. Reminds me of Ma Saunders.’
Isaac grinned. ‘You’ll never do pretty, my fine friend.’
Coxswain Peters was swinging himself through the passage hatch and stopped beside Sammy, rubbing his hands together. ‘Got a youngster for you, Sammy; he’s taking Frank’s place. It’s his first patrol and green he most certainly is. Hot bunking with you, Sammy, ain’t you, boy?’ A child in a pristine uniform clambered through the hatch after him.
‘For God’s sake, he’s twelve.’ Sammy shook his head at Peters.
Peters grinned. ‘Eighteen if he’s a day, and done the Asdic training – ain’t you, boy? – so he’s your responsibility, as leading seaman, Sammy, my lad. Stand behind him on first watch, then you take the second. Be a good lad, now, Adrian. Don’t pick your nose, Sammy won’t like it.’
Adrian was looking at the bag tossed onto the bunk. ‘That’s mine.’
‘It’s too big. You only need a couple of changes. I know Mum’ll be cross when that smart little outfit gets creased after you’ve rammed it into that bag, but that’s the way it is. I’ll find room somehow, but not again.’ Sammy felt his stomach twist. Eighteen was too young. The minute they left harbour they were in danger, and not just from the enemy, but from themselves and their mistakes, and from the sea, and its storms, and … For God’s sake, how were they going to keep these little buggers safe?
He moved closer to the coxswain, asking, ‘How’s Frank doing, then?’
‘Getting there. He’ll not be sent back to sea, that’s for sure.’ Peters nodded and moved forward to the bow. All the time men had been easing past, some with bags, some with provisions, and ‘It Don’t Mean a Thing if it Ain’t Got That Swing’ was still playing its guts out. Why the hell did Old Tom like Ellington’s music so much?
‘Frank?’ the boy asked Sammy.
‘Got ill,’ Sammy said, exchanging a look with Isaac who was sitting on the edge of his bunk, the one above Sammy’s, his back bent to avoid the one above him, and his legs tucked in to keep clear of the passage. There was no room to turn over in the bunks so they could only be used as perches, even when it was chow time.
Frank had found the last depth charging too much, seven bloody hours of terror, noise, chaos and injur-ies as they were tossed like a load of rag dolls by the percussion, only to be drenched on top of that by the water bursting through seals. The whole bloody performance had given the chief hours of fun as he and his crew tightened, tightened, tightened throughout the old girl. Old Tom had dived deeper and deeper, trying to escape. The boat had creaked and groaned all the while as the water pressure threatened to squeeze and squash them. Finally, and not for the first time, it had come to a choice between imploding or rising.
Old Tom brought her up, steady, steady, a peg or two, then more, with the charges rocketing about the damned place, and Sammy had watched as the captain checked the dials as though his life depended on it. It did, all their lives did. God bless him, he found a thermal, a layer of water that was a different temperature to the one they were in, a layer that acted as a protective ceiling and bounced away the enemy’s Asdic signal so the skimmer – which is what they called the surface ships – couldn’t detect them.
He had judged it just right, and stopped the boat, trimmed – or stabilised – it, by using the men, moving them barefoot for silence, from one end to the other until Vigorous was balanced and stable. He had waited, and then suddenly engaged the electric engines, moving to the west, silent running with no speaking, no noise, no movement, all the time keeping under the ceiling. It was then that Frank’s screaming had started. Coxswain Pe
ters was many things to many men on board, and also a medic. He gave Frank morphine and tied him to the bunk as they headed home for repairs. It left them all wanting a bloody large drink at the first pub they saw.
Sammy hoped to God Frank recovered, as some did, though some didn’t. He grinned at Isaac but it was a mask. ‘Reckon I prefer Ellington’s music to Frank’s dulcet tones.’
Isaac’s eyes were as sombre as Sammy felt. ‘I know I do. Your name again, young man?’
‘Smart, Adrian.’
Sammy was stowing Adrian’s bag, and when he stood he said, ‘Well, Adrian Smart, let’s hope you are smart. We share this bunk. When I go on watch you come off, and into my pit.’
Adrian nodded. ‘I’ve done a training patrol. I did hot bunks then, too.’
‘Good, then that’s one thing we can cross off the list. Watch your back.’ A rating passed with a smoked ham on his shoulder, heading for the galley. Ellington’s band stopped abruptly. Instead, ‘Captain on board’ boomed out from the speakers. The music was muted, for just about a minute more before it ceased. Old Tom would be smiling.
‘Now the captain’s on board, we’ll power off, so let’s get to where we should be. You’re taking first watch but I’ll be there, all the time, just to settle you in.’
The Asdic shack was just by the control room, amidships, though it wasn’t a shack, it was just an open-fronted cubbyhole. Isaac’s radio shack, just along from Sammy’s, was similar. Word came that the torpedoes were loaded, the ammunition stowed, and the stores. The second coxswain, Roddy Goad, came round with next-of-kin forms, which had been late reaching the depot ship and had finally caught up with them here. Old Tom was staring at the dials, his face rigid with fury; they should have cast off by now. Sammy filled out his form and grabbed a sheet of paper on which he usually jotted any Asdic notes for the log. On this he scribbled a will, which Adrian and Isaac witnessed without reading it. He shrugged at Isaac’s curious look. ‘I know I’ve already done one, but that’s cancelled. I need to know she’s provided for.’
