Submariner (2008)

by Fullerton, Alexander

  ‘Sleeping late. She’s fine, yes. Abbie’s looking terrific, don’t you think?’

  ‘I was just remarking on it, actually.’

  ‘Actually, I’m a bit sad. Joan Dewsbury rang – oh, damn, did it wake you, Gravy?’

  ‘I was in the bath.’

  ‘She rang about my flat. Theirs isn’t ready, but they’re clearing out, got some other place to go – buckshee presumably. So I’ve no excuse for continuing to play cuckoo here. Much as I love you for all you’ve done for me –’

  ‘You don’t have to leave us just because you have a flat to go to, Abbie.’

  ‘I do. I’ve traded on your kindness long enough, I’m now restored to what passes for my right mind, and – look, might do church with you tomorrow, then scoot off?’

  ‘Vera’d be glad to take you.’ Mike patted the grey rump. ‘As long as she isn’t spoken for, we might come for you early afternoon –’

  ‘No need, Mike, we’ll do it in my old rattletrap. How about joining us at church, then back here for lunch?’

  ‘You realise, Mike, he’s a bulldog?’

  ‘Church here in St Julian’s?’

  ‘No – the Protestant one just off Savoy Hill. Abbie’ll show you, if you’re heading anywhere in that direction.’

  ‘Well – no, second thoughts. If you don’t mind, I’ll give church a miss and come straight here. That’s if you’re sure you and Greta –’

  ‘Certain. Bring swimmers. But off you go now …’

  ‘Not a churchgoer, Mike?’

  Vera had eased to a walk, on this pot-holed track leading to St Andrew’s. He told Abigail, ‘Have been known to attend, but not really as a priority. You’re keen on it, are you?’

  ‘Well.’ Thinking about that: and shrugging – devastating in her orange blouse. ‘Wouldn’t rate as a fanatic, but yes, I turn up, usually. Out here I think more than one did at home. Probably because the population’s a hundred and ten per cent Catholic, one’s inclined to fly one’s own flag, so to speak. Do you do anything about it at sea?’

  ‘Read a few prayers usually, entirely voluntary attendance.’

  ‘Any idea yet where you’ll be going this next time?’

  ‘No, I actually don’t.’

  ‘Meaning you wouldn’t tell me if you did know, but you truly don’t.’

  ‘Roughly that. But – subject of churchgoing – I would join you for it tomorrow, but the job I was to have been doing for Shrimp today, he might need some help with tomorrow. I think his guests will still be there, and if it suited him I could give it a couple of hours.’

  ‘Good decision, I’d say.’

  ‘I would actually like to be going to church with you. Thinking of your brother, mostly.’

  She kissed him, he kissed her back; and the kissing became serious. Vera plodding on, grey head nodding, moth-eaten-looking ears twitching against the flies’ attentions. There were people on the road ahead then, which meant the kissing had to stop for a while; Abbie close up against him, his left arm round her small, supple waist, reins slack in his right hand. Vera certainly didn’t need holding-in.

  ‘I suppose – well, obviously, you don’t yet know when you’re going, either?’

  ‘Only that it’s likely to be before the end of the week. When I know, I’ll tell you, right away.’ Level with those people now, he nodded to them and called ‘Sahha!’– a Maltese ‘hello’, actually ‘health’ or ‘cheers’ – and had the greeting returned, along with waves and smiles;scrawny-looking people who as like as not got most of their sustenance from the Victory soup-kitchens which Gravy had had set up in every village. Gone now, and spreading across the track again.

  ‘But Abbie, speaking of coming and going, all that – fact is, there’s something I really have to let you know about.’

  Eyes on his face: surprised at first, then worried, then just intent.

  ‘Let’s get it over, then.’

  ‘Yes. May rather spoil the day, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You’re not going to tell me you’ve left our lunch behind?’

  ‘Oh, nothing that bad.’ A glance at the bag containing corned beef and lettuce sandwiches, flasks of (a) coffee and (b) cold water. ‘Got that, all right – such as it is. Not exactly a Fortnum’s hamper. But, Abbie, after this next patrol –’

  ‘Sending you home?’

  ‘Good God – how on earth –’

  ‘Jimmy Ruck told the Gravies he didn’t expect to be left in peace much longer, and I know – knew – you and he were more or less level-pegging, so –’

  ‘So you just guessed.’

  ‘Had to be something of that nature. And I’ve wondered about it, how long we’d have. But listen, when you come back from this next one – last one – you’ll need a week or two, won’t you, getting ready for –’

  ‘For the off. Yes. We’ll have a week or two.’

  ‘Well.’ A shrug, smiling. ‘Make the most of it, I suppose.’

  ‘You’re great, Abbie.’

  ‘I wasn’t a week ago, was I. No idea how much good you’ve done me!’

  ‘Done nothing, except enjoy a few hours of your company. When d’you think they’ll send you home?’

  ‘Well – God knows. I could be applying now for special leave – you know, if my parents wanted me to – which as I told you I don’t think they will. And in any case –’

  ‘Wouldn’t get us far anyway.’

  ‘It wouldn’t, would it. Another aspect is that I do have quite a responsible job, whoever took over from me would have his or her work cut out getting into it – and need the languages. And with so much coming up in the nearish future … Ought to bear left here, oughtn’t we?’

  ‘Yup. Otherwise be doubling back towards Spinola … What all that comes down to, I suppose, is that how long they’ll want to keep you here has to depend on how things go in the desert – and so on, so forth.’

  ‘All that. Yes. Touch wood, it mightn’t be more than a few months. Could be a year – but once they don’t need me here –’

  ‘Devonshire?’

  ‘Dorset. And/or London of course, probably War Office. And you – you did tell me, but –’

  ‘Village called Deanshanger in Buckinghamshire, alternatively submarine headquarters – HMS Dolphin at Gosport, Hampshire … Just as well we aren’t going far, old Vera’s just about shot her bolt. Find some shade for her, when we get down there.’

  ‘Can we get down on the rocks there?’

  ‘I expect we can, with a bit of effort, but she can’t!’

  ‘Some shade wouldn’t do us any harm either. Old ruins or whatever. Quite a lot of those about. If we can find some such place –’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, Abbie, any place at all.’

  14

  Monday, the meeting-with-pongos day: disturbingly darkish early morning with a sirocco blowing, the overhead heavy with cloud and a warmish wind gusting down from the Valetta side – originally from the Libyan desert, rocking the submarines at their moorings and jostling the brows that snaked out to them and were easy, being only strings of small rafts, for a wind of any force to slam around. Although – head clearing now, at least to some extent – he’d only been out of bed a minute, was on the gallery in pyjamas – in this sheltered creek the disturbance arose less from the wind itself than from the surge and swell from outside, swell driving in between Fort Tigne and the St Elmo headland, splitting itself on the rocks below Fort Manoel and powering northeast into Sliema Creek and southeast into Marsamxett here. It was a disappointing, somewhat worrying change of conditions after Saturday’s calm and Sunday’s light southeasterly – recollection of blue sky with hardly a feather in it, Maddalena Bay a virtual millpond edged with a swirl of white on brown rock, its blue not a bad match for Abbie’s eyes.

  Abbie …

  He’d shut his own eyes – seeing her. Yesterday and Saturday, and the party on Thursday: before that, only a virtually chance half-hour on the Barracca. ‘Chance’ because if it hadn’t
been for Carmella Cassar he wouldn’t have called in to see her that Monday; had only done so to see if there was anything he could do to help in the aftermath of whatever the ‘hard knock’ had been. Just one week ago, and in that time several days when he hadn’t seen her at all, in spite of this the closeness between them developing as fast as measles. He’d said something to that effect in the letter he’d written to his brother.

  Working Monday now, though. Pongos, plans, precautions. Arrange to fuel and embark fresh water, have McLeod and the coxswain on the top line to store ship in a hurry. And pray the sirocco would be short-lived. Landings had more than once had to be abandoned on account of weather: the kind of canoe they were using nowadays being so light they’d float in ten centimetres of water – not of course with two men and their gear embarked; the problem then was they’d be lucky to find they had more than about five centimetres of freeboard. Which didn’t make either launching (‘floating off’) or paddling easy in anything more than a slight lop, could make recovery of a team already landed actually impossible.

  Siroccos however often were short-lived, though. As short as two or three days, even. In which case, no problem – weatherwise.

  Ursa looked happy enough down there, not all that much movement on her. She had a steel foul-weather screen around the outer forepart of her bridge which not many U-class did have, and this made her easy to identify even at some distance among her class-mates. Two of which had to be Unbending and Unseen – originally nameless, known only by their pendant numbers, respectively P.37 and P.51. Unslaked was another of that bunch: and Unsung, identifiable by her three-inch gun, which so far only she and Unbroken sported. She – Unsung – had carried out her folboat-launching and recovery exercises on Saturday after dark, had been on her way out with a party of 10th Flotilla commandos in her when Mike had got back that evening after dropping Abigail off at Pembroke House and returning Vera to her paddock – first giving her a good long drink and rubbing her down a little, with nothing in his head but Abigail;Vera could have bitten him without his noticing. He’d told Abbie this yesterday and she’d kissed him for it, admitting that she’d given him a thought or two before crashing out. Then in the mess he’d found Otto Stanley of Unbending, and Crawford who’d been David Wanklyn VC’s first lieutenant in Upholder before going home for his Perisher and eventually returning as CO of Unseen, and a few others including their own officers, and Hugo Short back from patrol in Unslaked – so Brodie had been there too, sans walking-stick and overjoyed at having got his boat back not only in one piece but with two new bars, one white and one red, on her Jolly Roger.

  After a few convivial libations Mike had expressed surprise at Shrimp not being there on the ‘first night in’ of three of his submarines, and was told that in fact he most certainly had been, had retired to his office to check over the patrol reports, have them ready for Miss Gomez to bash out on her typewriter on Monday morning. Mike therefore went along and made his offer of helping to entertain pongos instead of attending church, and Shrimp though appreciative told him it wasn’t necessary, he was actually shot of them for the time being. They weren’t staying in Lazaretto, but in billets in Floriana, and the senior one, Major Ormrod, was delivering a lecture to fellow pongos of the garrison and then lunching at RAF headquarters.

  ‘The RAF have some part to play in “Backlash”, apparently. That man Ferrand’s acting as liaison officer. Hugo Ferrand, Air Intelligence?’

  ‘Beanpole character who was at the Gravies’ on Thursday.’

  ‘Yes. He often is. Great friend of theirs. How was your day out with Vera?’

  ‘Best day ever, sir.’ He nodded. ‘Truly. In fact if I could persuade you to allow me a few more patrols –’

  ‘Neither patrols nor donkey-cart outings. For sound admin reasons – including Sam MacGregor’s report that Ursa’s overdue for major refit. That, Michael, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, is an extremely cogent reason. In fact I’m not saying you’re stale – not at all, I don’t believe you are, surprisingly enough – but it’s still in your own as well as your ship’s company’s best interests – and therefore the flotilla’s. You follow me?’

  ‘I – suppose … I mean I take your point, sir.’

  ‘How did she react when you told her you were off soon?’

  He thought about it, and remembered having felt slightly put out, for a second or two, then having challenged himself with well, what the hell, there’s no lifelong commitment here, not even a hint of one! He admitted, answering Shrimp’s question, ‘Actually, with a surprising degree of equanimity.’

  ‘Has her head screwed on, then. All right, Michael.’

  Sunday, thanks to Shrimp’s temporary disengagement from the military, had justified a late lie-in. Mike could have got himself to the church, except that Ursa’s starboard watch were returning from Mellieha at about noon and he felt inclined to be there to say hello to them. In the event he also ran into Melhuish, who was telling people how easy he’d found the float-off and recovery of folboats to be, obviously considered himself a natural at it, but – oh, look here, he’d heard there’d been pongos in the base yesterday, thought it was odds-on they’d be his passengers, and if so why hadn’t word of their presence been passed to him?

  ‘I wasn’t around, yesterday. But no reason they’d have been your pongos. Must be quite a few who aren’t. One piece of news for you, though – my next patrol is going to be my last. How d’you like that?’

  Blinking at him … ‘Your last from this base, you must mean. Well – more to the point, how do you like it?’

  ‘Don’t really care all that much. We’ve had a pretty good innings, it probably is about time to pack it in.’

  ‘What about the lovely lady with the funny name?’

  ‘If you mean Abigail French, what about her?’

  ‘Won’t be too happy, will she?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll miss her. Anyway, keep it to yourself for the time being, will you? Haven’t had a chance to tell my crew yet.’

  He thought Melhuish would waste no time in passing the news to Ann, and he might as well do the same. Not about Abigail, about going home. Phrasing the letter vaguely in his mind while fetching an air-letter form and taking it down to the boat, where half the ship’s company were drifting around smoking and drinking tea, waiting for the truck from Mellieha. Catch them all together, maybe, break the news to them too, before making tracks for Pembroke House.

  He drafted his letter in notes on a signal-pad before committing it legibly to the form;telling her he hadn’t written in the last week or ten days because he realised she couldn’t have had his last one yet and might be waiting to hear from him before she wrote, and maybe he should be waiting for that – unless she was being ultra-sensible and laying-off altogether now Charles was here. Which would make sense, for sure. For oneself too: despite a feeling almost of obligation to write now, and contradictarily enough a lot of the reason for that being the fast-growing relationship with Abigail, whom he would not mention, the two items of news to which she was more or less entitled being (1) that he’d been promoted, and (2) that in something like six or eight weeks she might expect that knock on her door.

  If when the time came one even approached her door. Pausing on that line of thought: with a sense of surprise at being unable to predict one’s own movements or intentions – impulses, maybe. Quite genuine surprise, genuine inability …

  Fudge it by substituting ‘two or three months’ for ‘six or eight weeks’?

  Other bits and pieces in any case: I’m writing now, anyway, since as you know there are frequent intervals when I can’t, so grabbing the chance while there is one … And – Have seen Charles a few times. He seems to be in good health and enjoying himself. Enjoying incidentally considerable success, as well. Wouldn’t be surprised if you were to get my great news from him as well.

  Not much of a letter, he thought. In fact, rotten. Racking his brain for a moment for some way to give it even a hint o
f the sense of excitement it so plainly lacked; then adding a PS – Please do write? Not much, but better than nothing, maybe. He sealed it, stamped it ‘Passed by Censor’, took it ashore to see it safely on its way, returning on board just minutes before the transport should have arrived. Since it hadn’t and for a while didn’t, he had McLeod muster the port watch in the control room, told them the next patrol would be their last in this flotilla, and warned them as the initially rowdy reactions quietened that it was possible they’d have only a few days at Mellieha, so make the most of it. Couldn’t say for sure, but orders for this last one might come at unusually short notice. None of them had seemed to care much about this – the rest-camps weren’t all that marvellous, especially with autumn on its way in now – whereas shaking the stone-dust of Malta off one’s feet – well, Jesus, hearth and home well before Christmas! Then the truck arrived and the sun-tanned starboard watch were crowding round to congratulate him on his promotion, at the same time receiving and enthusing over the big news right, left and centre.

  He was on his way ashore when he re-encountered the TI, CPO Harry Coltart, who’d emerged from the Chiefs’ and POs’ mess, on his way into the Torpedo Stowage Compartment. Turning as Mike stepped through the latched-back watertight door right behind him, temporarily filling it, as he had, the two of them being much of a size.

  ‘Er – Captain, sir –’

  ‘Yes, TI?’

  ‘Well.’Wave of an arm towards the upper reload racks port and starboard, from which the torpedoes had of course been landed. ‘Folboat stowage is it, sir? Special Op, this trip?’

  ‘Christ.’ Standing with a hand on the fore-hatch ladder, looking from the Chief to the empty racks and back again. A shake of the head. Back aft there he’d been saying he had no idea what they’d be doing this time. ‘Not easy, keeping secrets, Chief.’

  ‘Never was, sir. I won’t draw attention to it.’

  To Pembroke House then, covering some longish downhill stretches at the double. The Gravies had already returned from church and – well, wow, Abigail – taking his breath away …