‘Pull in here.’ Pryce never said please. ‘I have a quick call to make.’
They stopped by a telephone booth, and Ross said quietly to Villiers, ‘Are you settling in all right?’ He saw the immediate caution in the young lieutenant’s eyes. Probably thinks Pryce told me to vet him still further. ‘You’re staying at a pretty posh hotel, I hear.’
Villiers smiled. ‘My uncle’s idea. He lives in Sussex, but he has always handled the company’s investments over here. Seemed a pity to turn it down.’
Ross watched some landgirls passing with rakes over their shoulders. A nation at war. Like the gunsites they had seen, concealed from the air by camouflage netting, and the tall poles in the fields, erected in the first year to prevent troops being landed by gliders. Things were very different now: Sicily had done that, as well as the Eighth Army’s victory in North Africa, with the invincible Rommel driven back across the Mediterranean. They were hitting back, instead of lying down and taking it. Yes, it was very different.
Villiers turned suddenly, his elbow on the armrest that lay between them. ‘Shall we be going to the Far East soon?’
‘I expect so. Ceylon as a first step – after that, well, I’m as much in the dark as you.’ He watched the changing expressions on Villiers’ face. ‘You miss it, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Despite what’s happened. Perhaps because of it. I grew up in Singapore and Malaya and, had I not come to England to finish my education, I’d still have been there when . . .’ He did not go on.
Pryce came back and slammed the door. ‘Some people have got seaweed for brains!’
Ross glanced at his companion and smiled. Pryce had only been gone for a few minutes, and yet in that time he felt he had at least begun to make contact with Villiers. He hoped that he might feel the same.
Villiers turned to watch two low-flying fighters as the car lurched on to the Portsmouth road again. Ours. After all this time, he still found himself clenching his fists when he saw aircraft close by. For some men, it had been the last thing they had ever seen.
He had sensed Ross’s scrutiny, his interest, which Villiers had thought genuine from their first meeting. Now he had discovered something else about this rather silent, reserved officer who wore the Victoria Cross: what he had taken to be a purposeful, distant, even aloof attitude he now recognized as a kind of shyness. Ross was an extremely courageous man, even if only half of what they had told him was true; there was no doubt about that. And, personally, he was not like any other regular officer Villiers had ever met. He gave a small, private smile. Especially those like Pryce. A pretty posh hotel. It made him seem like somebody else, unable to come to grips with his role and his rank, despite all that had happened.
Pryce said airily, ‘We shall drop off at the R.N. Hospital at Haslar. I have to see one of the cohort.’
The cohort. It was always that: something old-world, and vaguely patronizing.
Pryce was saying, ‘Captain Trevor Sinclair has performed several missions for Special Operations. First-rate chap.’ He chuckled. ‘For a Royal Marine, that is.’ He nudged the driver. ‘No offence intended, Brooker.’
The marine glared into the driving-mirror. ‘None taken, sir.’
‘Sinclair’s worked in Burma, with Combined Operations and with our people. He was wounded, but I’m told he’s raring to get back with us.’
Villiers thought of the hotel in St James’s. She had left a message for him with the manager, as she had promised, telling him she had got home safely. She had asked the manager over the telephone to thank Lieutenant Villiers for his help. Very correctly, the manager had asked for her name. Carol. That was all. And what more was there, or could have been? From a hotel window, he had watched her come to the decision to leave her would-be employer. He did not know her or anything about her, and yet he had been pleased that she had gone away in the taxi alone. But suppose . . . He watched the hedges and trees giving way to houses, barbed-wire checkpoints and the usual drifting throng of sailors.
Could he have told her? Made it somehow different?
He shook his head, unaware that Ross had turned to look at him. No. He would never share it. It would always be there, as if he had actually been at the house where he had grown up when the Japs had burst in. His mind could explore no further than that moment, even though he knew what had happened afterwards.
During his first interview, Pryce had barely touched on that part of his past. Only at the end had he asked, almost casually, ‘And would you go back to Singapore again, if it was suggested to you?’
It had been like listening to somebody else to hear the voice. So clipped and confident. ‘If I could do something – anything – yes, I would.’
The Royal Naval Hospital at Haslar might have seemed a strange location for a place of healing and peaceful recovery; one side faced the water where, daily and nightly, M.T.B.s and motor gunboats thundered noisily past from their nearby base at H.M.S. Hornet, on their way to the Channel and beyond to seek out the enemy in his own coastal waters. It was also only a short walk from Dolphin, the submarine base and instruction school where many of the Special Operations people had originally been trained. By comparison with Hornet, Dolphin was almost a silent, even sinister part of the harbour complex. Where Pryce had got his first command.
Pryce climbed down from the car and smoothed his jacket into place, not that it ever seemed to need it.
‘I have to see the P.M.O. More red tape, I expect.’ He looked at Ross. ‘An orderly can take you. Go and see if Captain Sinclair is all packed and ready. I want a word with him, then he can be driven back to his quarters.’ He shot the driver a searching glance. ‘Is that all fixed, Brooker?’
‘Yes, sir.’ It sounded like of course.
As Pryce strode away, Ross said to Villiers, ‘You keep with me. O.K. if I call you Charles?’ He smiled, and looked about five years younger. ‘I’m James.’ He paused, and again Villiers sensed the shyness. ‘Jamie to my friends.’ They solemnly shook hands, watched patiently by a white-coated orderly who eventually said, ‘This way, gentlemen.’
Villiers remarked, ‘Odd place for a hospital.’ Then he glanced out of a window and saw the water, so near that it appeared to be lapping the terrace.
Ross was watching him at that moment and realized that Villiers was not seeing Portsmouth as it was now, but another harbour which, like the hospital, had flourished in the days of tall masts and pyramids of sails. It moved him, when he had almost believed he was beyond that kind of emotion.
The orderly turned, instantly alert as somebody called urgently, ‘Nurse, nurse! Quickly!’
He said, ‘Number Ten, sir.’ Then he was gone.
Ross said harshly, ‘God, I hate these places.’
They looked at one another as, in the sudden silence after the brief commotion, a man’s voice shouted, ‘For God’s sake, you should tell me; I’m not a bloody mind-reader!’ There was silence again as Ross tapped the door. ‘Come in. Don’t be shy!’
The man was in khaki battledress, the rank of Captain, Royal Marines, on each shoulder.
Ross had the instant impression of energy and impatience, and charm. The face smiled warmly enough, his eyes flitting from one to the other with a kind of curious amusement. ‘Well, this is an honour! Two of you!’
Ross half turned to introduce his companion, and felt his mind click into place. Like those other times. When the timefuse on a mine was disturbed, the sudden tick as loud as Big Ben, when you only had twelve seconds more to live. Or the startled face of an enemy frogman rising beside you in icy water to grapple or to raise the alarm. The briefest second of all, when you know you will kill him. It was all there in Villiers’ face. Disbelief, surprise? No, Ross thought, it was shock.
The captain named Sinclair peered towards an open suitcase on the bed and said, ‘This is my wife, by the way.’
Villiers held out his hand and felt her fingers close around his, saw the fear in her eyes change to gratitude as he said casually, ‘
Charles Villiers. Pleased to meet you.’
A light flowered dress, but otherwise exactly as he remembered her, had thought of her. Except that she was wearing a wedding ring. She said, ‘We’re almost ready.’
Villiers tried not to watch her. Southsea, she had said. Of course. There was a big Royal Marines barracks there, at Eastney.
Ross said, ‘Captain Pryce wishes to see you before you leave.’ He looked briefly at Villiers, and knew he had guessed correctly.
Sinclair touched his moustache as if to make certain it was as it should be. ‘Captain Pryce, eh? Well, well. He was a two-and-a-half ringer when we last met.’ He felt the back of his head and added in a matter-of-fact way, ‘When I bought this!’
Ross opened the door. ‘I’ll send an orderly for the luggage.’ Then to Villiers: ‘You wait with Mrs Sinclair. There should be a car shortly.’
Then they were alone together. ‘I’m so sorry!’ She did not resist as he took her hand again. ‘So terribly sorry. I didn’t know it would happen like this. And – and you were so kind to me at the hotel . . .’
He squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t distress yourself. And thank you for leaving the message.’ He pulled out his wallet and showed her the page from the pad. ‘See? Carol.’ She was close to tears, and there was a strain on her face he had not seen before. He said, ‘I had no idea, otherwise I’d have made some excuse to get out of this.’
‘My husband will be serving with you, then?’ It was as though she were speaking of a stranger. ‘If only I’d known . . .’
There were noises outside the door, a wheelchair, or maybe a trolley for the captain’s luggage.
He said simply, ‘I’ve thought about you a lot. I saw you leave in the taxi.’
She stared at him, momentarily pleased, and then openly afraid. ‘Did you? I’m so glad.’ She glanced at her watch, but he guessed she did not even see it. ‘I should go.’
He said, ‘I must see you again.’
She shook her head, her dark curls brushing her neck. ‘Impossible.’ She was very calm, her eyes quite steady as she looked up him. ‘He would kill me.’ Then she nodded slowly. ‘I mean it.’ He watched her hand on his sleeve, her fingers on the wavy stripes. ‘But thank you. You’ll never know.’
He said, ‘Keep my card. If you ever need me . . .’
She shook her head again. ‘You’re a nice person. Find a pretty girl and forget. It was a dream. Just a dream.’
A porter banged open the door and peered in at them cheerfully. ‘Car’s alongside, Mrs Sinclair. Your husband is waiting.’ As she turned towards the door he looked at her bare legs.
Villiers wanted to hit him, and when the door closed behind them, he said aloud, ‘It’s not just a dream to me. Not any more!’
Ross was waiting for him. ‘Sorry about that, Charles. I didn’t know.’
Villiers swung on him, his eyes blazing, ready for the innuendo. Then he relented, ‘No, I’m sorry. I didn’t know, either.’
He felt Ross’s hand on his shoulder as they watched Pryce striding briskly out of the building. Then Ross said, ‘That posh hotel of yours. Do you think we might have an enormous drink there when his lordship gets us back to London?’
Their eyes met. It had been a damned close thing.
Villiers said, too casually, ‘Best suggestion I’ve heard all day.’
‘If you ever want to tell me about it –’
Villiers tried to smile. ‘Thanks. You can do the same, if you like.’
Pryce was back. ‘Must get cracking. Lot to do.’ But, for once, there was no bounce in his voice.
As they walked into the sunshine Villiers thought he heard her voice. He would kill me. She had meant it.
The severe-looking Wren officer, her chin resting in her hand, raised her eyes from her desk as the door opened slightly. It had been a long day and the air was humid and sticky, as the black-out blinds had already gone up across the windows, and there was no movement or even the hint of a fan.
‘Sorry, the office is closed.’ She shaded her eyes against the desk lamp and recognized the young R.N.V.R. lieutenant watching her. She relaxed slightly. ‘Lieutenant Villiers. Feeling a bit lonely with all the others gone?’
Villiers glanced at the other door. There was a light on there, too. ‘I was wondering if I might see the rear-admiral.’ He felt suddenly lost, out of his depth. It had been stupid to come. But she was right: it was different, now that Ross and the others he had met in Pryce’s ‘cohort’ had been spirited away. A fast convoy to Colombo, where everything had been set up to receive them.
Pryce had said airily, ‘You’ll be following in a couple of weeks. I want you to take charge of the last party coming down from Scotland. Good experience. Don’t worry – the war won’t end before you get to Ceylon!’
The Wren was saying, ‘It’s a bit unusual.’ She saw the strain, the uncertainty on his tanned face. Maybe he had changed his mind about returning to the Far East. She had read his file, and knew as much about Villiers as all the others. Who could blame him?
No, it was not that. As Villiers turned to leave, she said quietly, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
She found the rear-admiral, sleeves rolled up and his jacket hanging over the back of his chair, grasping a clip of signals in both hands with fierce concentration. He looked up, surprised that he had not heard her knock. ‘Ah, Jean – I was just going to call you. I still don’t believe it.’
‘What is it, sir?’
‘They want me back in Scotland! A whole new training schedule for Underwater Weapons is being fixed. The First Sea Lord has asked me himself.’
‘I’m very glad for you, sir.’ She was surprised that she felt it so badly. Just a few weeks since he had arrived in the newly-decorated office, hurt, baffled and lost. Now he was leaving. She repeated, ‘I am so glad. A lot of others will be, too.’
He rubbed his chin. ‘Fact is, it will mean a lot more work, new weapons, fresh trials to find the people to fit them.’ He looked at her keenly. ‘I’ll need an assistant, you know, a sort of flag lieutenant.’ He stood up, as he had that day when she had broken down in this same office. ‘Will you come to Scotland with me, Jean?’
She said, ‘I almost forgot, sir. Lieutenant Villiers is here. He wants a few moments of your time.’ She half opened the door and looked back at him. ‘Of course I’ll come. Just say the word.’
Villiers walked past her and sat awkwardly in a vacant chair. He had met Ossie Dyer several times since he had arrived and had been amazed by his incredible memory for names and faces, those he had met, trained, or merely fished or played golf with. A good man. A caring one, too, in spite of all the bluster to the contrary.
Ossie came straight to the point, even though he was still bursting both with the unexpected news and his Wren’s reaction. Scotland . . . soon it would be cold again, the lochs and the rusting depot ship as unwelcoming as ever. It would be like heaven.
‘You want to ask me something?’
Villiers said, ‘The others have left, sir.’ He saw him nod. ‘I’ve been trying to keep up to date with the officers who have joined the . . .’ he avoided Pryce’s cohort ‘. . . new section. Captain Pryce has taken most of the relevant information with him . . .’ It was no use at all. He felt like a schoolboy pleading an injured wrist to avoid football.
Ossie Dyer pulled open a drawer. ‘There is only one recent entry, and he’s not exactly new to Special Operations.’ He flicked through a small book. ‘Captain Trevor Sinclair, Royal Marines. But you know him, don’t you?’
Villiers said, ‘I met him at Haslar just before he was returned to duty. I don’t really know him.’
‘Oh, you will. A real goer, that one. His luck almost ran out during a raid behind Jap lines in Burma. Most of his men were killed, but he got back. He was in a bad way. A mine laid near the enemy installations they were going to destroy blew up and killed his sergeant and some of his chaps. Sinclair was wounded by splinters, the last of which were removed only last mon
th. I must say I thought he was going to spend the rest of his life in hospital . . . However, Captain Pryce has assured me that the P.M.O. is quite satisfied. Sinclair is fit and raring to go – if that is so he could be invaluable to your lot. He’s worked with the Army in Burma, even with the Chindits. A lot of hard experience for one so young.’ He sighed. ‘But everybody’s young to me nowadays.’
Villiers asked, ‘Is it possible he might not be completely fit, sir?’
‘Well, who can say, when you’ve gone through something like that. One splinter was about the size of a gramophone needle, can you imagine?’
Villiers remembered how she had told him that she had needed a job. She, too, must have believed her husband was finished, that he would be another wreck left over by the war. And the sharpness in the voice he and Ross had heard through the door at Haslar; the easy, disarming smile Sinclair had used to greet them. His this is my wife, by the way. Villiers could recall exactly when he had touched the back of his head and remarked in the same offhand manner, ‘when I bought this!’ And she was afraid of him, of what he might do, could do.
Dyer said, ‘Can’t offer you a glass, my boy. I want to get away – bomber’s moon tonight.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. It was good of you to . . .’
Dyer was struggling into his jacket. ‘Any time. I am very proud to have you in this section. After what you’ve been through.’ He looked around, but there was only the Wren in the doorway.
‘He’s gone, sir.’
Dyer dismissed him from his thoughts. ‘Come and have a drink, and I’ll tell you about the castle on the loch.’ He smiled, happy again. ‘Our castle. Old Slouch will take to you right enough, I can tell you! A bit deaf, like me, but only when he wants to be!’
She took down her tricorn hat, still thinking about Villiers. It had been a long day, and as she switched off the office lights she heard the distant wail of the first air-raid siren. Perhaps Ossie had missed something? Villiers was not the kind to disturb a flag officer without a reason.
It could wait, whatever it was. There was Scotland to think about now.
A Dawn Like Thunder Page 5
