‘Might. But I wouldn’t see you.’
‘Not as much, no. A weekend, now and then.’ His toes massaged her hips. ‘Not that I’d trust any Free Frenchman farther than I can spit—’
‘Oh, silly!’
‘—But I’d know you were safe, my darling. When I’m not here—’
‘When you’re not here, do I know you’re safe?’
7
Amongst his mail – some of which had been here when they’d got back from patrol, but another batch had arrived yesterday – were two air-letters from Elizabeth. She’d asked him in the second whether he’d developed paralysis of the right hand – Or what?
Underlined. Or what?
Being no kind of a fool, of course. Possessed of considerable intelligence and at least the standard ration of intuition. So perhaps one didn’t need to tell her: at least, to spell it out brutally in black and white?
Last night in the Greek restaurant he’d asked Lucia a question that had been in his mind for the past six weeks. His hand covering hers on the blue-checked cloth… ‘Lucia - why me?’
‘Quoi?’
‘Why me? You could have any man you wanted. You must know that, even if you pretend you don’t. So—’
She’d shrugged, asked him in return: ‘Why you me?’
So there was no answer. At least, no shred of logic in it. He was thinking about it while he shaved, in his cabin in the depot ship. Seeing her far more clearly in his mind than his own lathered face in the washbasin mirror. Candlelight flickering in her brown eyes, turning them to gold. She’d been wearing a green silk dress with a light wrap – striped Egyptian cotton – over it. They’d walked part of the distance to the taverna, and the evening hadn’t been all that warm: autumn coming, the fleet would soon be changing from whites to blues. The intention had been to walk all the way; then he’d seen her shiver and pull the wrap up around her shoulders, and stopped: ‘You’re cold. We’ll get a gharry.’
‘Why not a tram?’
They’d been close to Cleopatra Station; from here it would be one stop to the Sporting Club station – beside the grandstand of the racecourse – then one more to Ibrahimia, which was the nearest to the restaurant. Lake Hadra was in fact a stone’s throw to the south, just over the Ramleh Road, and it was probably this southerly breeze coming across the lake that was making her shiver. Anyway, by luck he’d seen a gharry at that moment, and hailed it; Lucia had then accused him of extravagance.
‘When the station’s right here and trams are quicker and much cheaper – and not at all crowded at this time of night?’
He helped her up, told the gharry driver, ‘Nico’s restaurant. Rue Alexandre Zamar.’
‘Shokran, Effendi!’
Sitting close to her, sliding an arm around her. ‘What did he say?’
‘He was thanking you. Knows a big spender when he sees one.’
‘My darling, the tram’s no quicker if you have to wait for the damn thing. Stations are cold, and anyway you’re not dressed for it. As for extravagance, I’d have taken you to the Auberge tomorrow if I could have. I’ve been saving money hand over fist.’
‘Are you rich, Ned?’
‘Are you joking?’
‘You spend too much on me, anyway.’
‘Once in a blue moon—’
‘I suppose they pay you quite well.’
‘The hell they do. Our forces are very badly paid, always have been. One of the glorious traditions, don’t you know. But I don’t have to live on my pay entirely, I have a few piastres in the bank. Lucky there, too.’ He kissed her ear. ‘But talking of filthy lucre, there are some rich people in this town, huh?’
‘Like my uncle Maurice, you mean. Yes. Some of them have become very, very rich. It shows, too, doesn’t it – when so many are so desperately poor.’
‘Right. Those beggars—’
‘Oh God, those…’
Some had no legs or arms and others were blind, some hideously so. He’d seen one with empty and uncovered eye-sockets, crawling with flies. Josh Currie had told him that at least some of the deformities were induced deliberately – surgically, if that was the word for it – by their own parents, in infancy, to equip them to earn a living.
But the mention of Maurice Seydoux had reminded him of another thought he’d had, at some stage when she’d been asleep. ‘Lucia – Ettore tends to show up at the Seydoux house, doesn’t he. Are you going to tell them he’s threatened you?’
‘I don’t know. I might talk to Solange, perhaps.’
‘He’s Bertrand’s chum, isn’t he. Bertrand might be asked to make a choice – whose side’s he on?’
‘He’d say no side. That he has nothing to do with Ettore’s politics. The families have business connections; for Uncle Maurice, that’s – you know, his life’s blood. How he’s become so rich, I suppose.’
‘But you’re their cousin, and blood’s thicker than water – supposed to be. You wouldn’t want to meet Ettore in their house, and surely it’d be natural for you to warn them about it. Might even help – come to think of it – if he found he was being frozen out socially? Not exactly a resolute character, is he?’
‘You could be right, Ned. When I’m back from Cairo I’ll talk to Solange.’
* * *
By the time she was back, he thought, he’d most likely be at sea. So getting in touch with Josh Currie was an absolute priority. She’d be back by Tuesday at the latest, she might be in danger from that Wop bastard and his friends.
She’d made light of whatever danger she might be in – for his sake, perhaps, realizing there wasn’t much he could do? Or if Ettore was primarily a bullshit merchant and she knew it, if he was only trying to make her take him seriously – might have tried it on at some earlier stage, and she’d rejected him?
In any case, if Angelucci and his friends were in communication with the enemy, someone had to be told about it. Even if it was known to the Intelligence people already – as it might be. Mitcheson knew he was still very much a newcomer to this scene – this ‘whore of a town’, Currie had called it, and he’d know one when he saw it – was well aware of his own ignorance of the undercurrents, political as well as sexual.
Over breakfast in the depot-ship’s wardroom his first lieutenant told him that the repairs were well in hand, completion forecast for Monday evening. Meanwhile there were several things requiring his attention: for a start, two requestmen, a telegraphist – Harris – applying to be recommended for advancement to Leading Tel., and one of the Asdic operators – Piltmore – requesting to be allowed to go through for H.S.D. – Higher Submarine Detector.
‘It’d mean losing him, I suppose.’
‘Afraid so, sir.’
‘Can’t be helped, can it. If he’s eligible. But are you telling me I’ve no defaulters to see, just two requestmen?’
‘That’s all, sir.’
‘Well, splendid!’
‘One bit of bad news, though’ – Forbes reached for the butter – ‘is we’ve lost Gilbey, I’m sorry to say.’
Gilbey – Able Seaman – was the gun trainer, a key member of the three-inch gun’s crew.
‘How, lost him?’
‘Landed sick, sir. Got a dose. He saw the quack yesterday forenoon.’
‘What a bloody nuisance.’
‘Thought he’d have known better, wouldn’t you. Darned good trainer, too. Anyway – that’s it. We’ve a replacement from Spare Crew who’s done the job before, an A.B. by name of Churchman. You’ll want to see him, I imagine.’
‘Yes, please. And we’ll need to practise gun-action when we get out there. McKendrick could start with a dry run on his own, meanwhile.’
‘He could indeed.’ Forbes glanced at others sitting near them, then murmured, ‘Brings to mind one other item… I’d like a word in private, sir. If you could spare a minute, after brekker?’
Mitcheson nodded, glancing at him. ‘Next-door in – five minutes, say?’
The loss of the gun-trainer
was bad news indeed. And plain carelessness. French letters – capots Anglais – were issued free, in some ships even handed out to libertymen as they filed over the gangway. There was no excuse at all for not wearing one. Gilbey was more than a damn fool on his own account; he’d potentially reduced the submarine’s fighting efficiency by removing himself from the team.
When he’d finished breakfast, Mitcheson found Forbes waiting for him in the anteroom; he led him out on to the shelter-deck where they could talk in private.
There was a fine view from here. Early-morning mist still lingered around the big ships at their moorings, and the barrage balloons being hauled down on their wires were disappearing into its upper layers here and there; but the sun was a furnace burning its way up over the docks and town and – beyond the destroyer moorings and the destroyer depot-ship Woolwich – tinting the walls of Farouk’s palace a pale, hazy gold. The Alexandrian dockside aroma – compounded of manure, wet hides, garbage – seemed to be coming mostly from that direction. Perhaps a hint of rosewater in it too. Shopkeepers splashed rose-water over the smears of ordure on pavements outside their shops or stalls. Whatever other components there might be, it was a distinctive amalgam which someone had suggested might be useful navigationally: if you got lost out there, just sniff the wind.
He looked round at Forbes. ‘All right – let’s have it.’
‘About young McKendrick, sir. Getting above himself. Bloody cheeky, in fact. It’s taken all my self-control not to thump the little bastard, once or twice. I’d appreciate it if you could – well, read him the Riot Act?’
‘Yeah, of course. Another bloody fool. Give me some examples to go on, will you?’
* * *
Spartan, on the big ship’s other side, was a mess. To start with she was lying at a steep bow-down angle; they’d flooded her forward main ballast tanks so as to bring her stern up out of the water and facilitate work on the defective shaft-gland. Then, inside her, all the battery-boards had been taken up; this meant the deck, effectively, in the control room and accommodation space. And here in the fore ends – Mitcheson let himself feet-first into the fore hatch and swung down, barely touching the ladder – two torpedoes had been hauled back out of the tubes on steel cross-girders while maintenance routines were performed on them under the supervision of C.P.O. Chanter.
‘Morning, T.I.’
‘Morning, sir!’
‘These the first, or the last?’
‘Middle pair, sir, three and four. Five and six to do, then.’
‘Then back in the tubes – reloads coming when?’
‘Gunner inboard says Monday forenoon, sir. Why I wanted this lot done while we’ve room to swing a cat round, like.’
‘Right.’
‘Sir,’ – Drake, torpedoman, broad, bow-legged – ‘is it right we’re out again Monday night?’
‘Is it?’
Drake looked surprised. Mitcheson said as he turned aft, ‘Could be. Could well be. Nobody’s told me, though.’
There was a laugh behind him, as he stepped over the doorway sill – watertight door, when it was shut – into the accommodation space, and Leading Torpedoman Hastings’ West-Country drawl: ‘Always first with the news, is Sir Francis.’
‘Morning, sir!’
‘Morning, Cox’n.’ With the boards up, there were only the steel joists to tread on. He asked C.P.O. Willis, who was in the Chief’s and P.O.s’ mess working on what looked like a list of stores, ‘How’s the battle?’
‘I’m losing it, sir. Can’t get any bloody thing I want, inboard.’
‘Inboard’ meant in the depot-ship. Mitcheson nodded sympathetically. ‘Persevere, Cox’n. You’ll beat ’em in the end. Hart, how’s the gyro?’
The gyro had been erratic ever since the depthcharging, when it had ‘toppled’. The Electrical Artificer told him glumly, ‘Sweet as a bird, sir. Can’t find nothing wrong.’
Frustrating. There had been something wrong, and if you didn’t find it the defect might rear its ugly head again, at sea.
‘Try ill-treating it. Make it topple, then re-start and watch it like a hawk.’
‘That’s an idea, sir.’
‘Morning, Second.’
‘Morning, sir!’
Lockwood, the Second Coxswain – heading for the fore hatch and followed by his winger, Ordinary Seaman Wyatt. Wyatt was a small, wiry man, well suited to working inside the casing. Lockwood called him his ferret. Mitcheson picked his way slowly aft. L.T.O.s were crouching over the battery cells, shining torches down in search of cracks or evidence of leakage. The two cells which were known to have cracked would have been hoisted out by now. All 112 cells stood in a tank – actually two tanks, fifty-six cells in each – which was designed to contain any spillage of electrolyte, in the event of this kind of damage. It was equally important that no salt water should find its way into the sumps, where its mixture with the electrolyte would create chlorine gas, which was of course a killer.
Teasdale was at the chart-table, across the gangway from the wardroom, with practically nothing to stand on and bedlam all around him, correcting charts. Nearer, Able Seaman White, the gunlayer, was crouching over the hatch that gave access to the three-inch magazine. The new trainer – Churchman, Forbes had said his name was – was below him, had just ducked down into the machinery compartment – the size of a smallish dog-kennel. The magazine led off from it.
‘Tell him I’ll see him when you’re finished there, White.’
‘Aye aye, sir!’
Muffled voice from below. In a gun action, shells were passed up not through that hatch but through a round hole in the deck. White was calling down through it, ‘Right, chum. Now count the A.P., eh?’
A.P. for armour-piercing. As distinct from H.E., high explosive. Mitcheson asked Teasdale, ‘Much correcting to do, Pilot?’
He nodded, glancing round. ‘Big batch of Notices, sir. Worst luck.’
Notices to Mariners; in other words, chart corrections. The positions of new wrecks accounted for a fair proportion of them. But it was a finicky, time-consuming job, and virtually never-ending. You had to carry a lot more charts than you ever used, and the whole lot had to be kept up to date.
Glancing back into the wardroom – which coming from forward had seemed to have no-one in it – he saw McKendrick. The boy was actually on Mitcheson’s bunk, surrounded by dozens of buff-coloured cardboard files with paperwork spewing out of them. And the ship’s portable typewriter was on the wardroom table with paper and carbons in it.
McKendrick was Correspondence Officer, as well as Gunnery, Torpedo, Casing and Boarding Officer. And it was fair enough that he should have perched himself up there, since there was virtually no deck at the moment.
‘Morning, sir.’
‘Morning. I want a word with you, Sub.’ He looked round. ‘In the bridge, in five minutes’ time. I’m going aft now. Is Chief back there?’
‘After ends, sir. Just about taken root there.’ Teasdale said it. With a glance at McKendrick that was speculative, slightly mocking.
It was a pity, Mitcheson thought as he went on aft. And with a youngster like McKendrick who undoubtedly did have a streak of insubordination in him, a mild rap over the knuckles wouldn’t achieve anything either. He’d have to know you meant business, that whatever threats you made would be carried out. And there was really only one threat he’d give a damn about. It was also unarguable that he was an efficient torpedo officer, better than most at directing his three-inch shells on to their target, a thoroughly reliable officer of the watch and – on the whole – a good messmate. By and large, therefore, more than worth his salt.
Needed to be kept in line, that was all. Reminded that he was not indispensable.
The after periscope – the small, ‘attack’ periscope – had been taken out, he noted. They’d had problems with that gland too, and found after the depthcharging that the periscope itself wouldn’t rise. Forbes had mentioned during breakfast that there was a spare available and
that it was to be fitted either later today or tomorrow, after the gland had been attended to.
Back aft, he found Matt Bennett in a throng of artificers, Spartan’s own and some from the flotilla engineering staff. Bennett looked as if he’d been in an oil-bath: Eton wouldn’t have known him, that was for sure. But they were making good progress, he reported: might finish by Monday noon, even.
‘Barring accidents.’
‘H’m. Don’t let’s have any of those, for God’s sake…’
It wasn’t so funny, but it raised chuckles.
‘Get any sleep last night, Chief?’
‘Oh, yes, sir.’ An oil-stained grin. ‘Plenty.’ He added: ‘Thanks.’
He looked about all-in. Mitcheson nodded. ‘That’s all right, then. Well done, meanwhile.’
He went back to the Control Room, called, ‘Sub – I’m ready for you now,’ and climbed up into the bridge. The sun was well up, the Egyptian oven warming fast: there was no breeze here at all, in the big ship’s lee and with heat reflected down from that sheer steel side. The boat inside Spartan, the minelayer, was embarking stores, crates and sacks being passed from hand to hand down the long gangway from the depot-ship’s well-deck and over the submarine’s plank, thence along her casing and into the fore hatch.
Spartan would store ship on Monday, he supposed. If they were to be rushed out as soon as she was fixed up. Monday would be a busy day: stores, torpedoes, water, oil-fuel…
‘Sir?’
McKendrick. Mitcheson swung round to face him: stare down at him – at that provocatively flat-eyed, bull-terrier look of his.
‘Tell me, McKendrick. When the first lieutenant gives you an order, what do you do?’
‘I – obey it, sir.’
‘Obey it how?’
‘Well – promptly, sir?’
‘Another adverb, as well as “promptly”?’
That seemed to have stumped him.
‘Cheerfully, McKendrick. Promptly and cheerfully. Right?’
Love For An Enemy Page 17
