‘Should do you, I suppose. Once it’s dry. Better come on up. Oh – if you’d like some tea, or—’
‘Don’t want to clatter around, do we. Heavens, I’ve messed you up—’
‘I’m not objecting. In fact, after waiting up half the night—’
‘That long?’
‘No. Suppose not, really. Seems – seemed so, but…’ Nervous? Tongue-tied? Shake of her head, the cloud of hair: he loved the scent of it. ‘See, instead of putting lights on…’
She had a torch. His room would be the attic one he’d used in February – second floor, passing her own and her mother’s, and the boards up there covered with linoleum, as they were down here, except that there were carpets too, carpet also on this first flight of stairs, but not on the upper one. Thinking of which he stopped, sat on the lower stairs to take his boots off while she focused the torchbeam on him. Her whisper: ‘Sodden, are they?’
‘Used to it. Just don’t want to wake your mum.’
‘Best not, if we can help it.’
Climbing again, torchbeam lighting the way, then on the landing, the sound of her tiny mother’s loud, whistling snores. Julia turning to look at him, a hand over her mouth as if to suppress giggles, then on up narrow attic stairs, the door of his room standing open, the other being a space they kept junk in. She lit the way into his, then followed him in, shut the door with great care and switched on the light.
‘Give me your wet things, I’ll take them down.’
‘Well.’ Looking at her uncertainly. The legs of his trousers were pretty well soaked. It was a very small room: iron bedstead, chest of drawers, hooks on the door for whatever needed to be hung up. You couldn’t have got a wardrobe in, the slopes of the ceiling barely gave standing room except in the middle. He muttered, ‘Can’t just – undress.’
‘I’ll turn my back.’
Turning away. Lovely little figure, the cotton gown a bit small for her. Probably had had it in her schooldays. Bottoms of striped pyjama legs below it. Figure almost as hour-glass as that Brazilian girl’s. Although you could bet she hadn’t worn striped pyjamas. Hand-downs from the cousins, maybe? He’d thrown off his jacket, was sitting on the bed to peel off rain-darkened flannel trousers.
‘Here you are. Thanks. Keeping you up all night…’
‘Not all night.’ Gaze still averted. ‘Want to use the bathroom?’
‘Might wake your mother. And even if you don’t mind me wandering around bare-arsed…’
‘Once she’s out it takes a lot to wake her. But – no dressing-gown, or—’
‘I’d have used the raincoat.’
‘You’ll be half-frozen. Look, wrap this towel—’
‘Oh, yes—’
‘Have enough light from here, will you? Leaving the door open?’
‘Perfect.’
She’d gone, taking the torch. He waited a moment, then crept down into the sound of snoring, which mercifully continued while he did what he needed to and then crept back up, hesitating first as to whether to shut the door – which he did – then whether to strip off and turn in or wait in case she was coming back up to say goodnight.
He discarded the towel, turned off the light, groped his way into bed.
Surprising she hadn’t said goodnight.
Then he saw the torchbeam and heard the door shutting, although he hadn’t heard it open. Hardly believing this: not daring to. Mind and body rising to the occasion none the less, accepting with surprisingly little hesitation a situation that was totally new, unthought of even in any passive sense, let alone pre-meditated or even hoped for.
New thought then, virtual body blow. Damn…
No. It was OK. Huge relief, after that flare of panic. In his wallet, which was in the jacket, which thank God she hadn’t taken downstairs with her. He had two in there, their ring-shapes visible through the wallet’s fabric; if he’d thought of it before departure from Liverpool he’d have left them behind, as indeed he had last time.
‘Julia?’
‘Sh…’
Sounds of the removal of navy-blue wrap and striped pyjamas. Incredibly alluring sound. Making way for her, flipping the bedclothes back, and then as she slithered in enfolding them around her, and one ultra-thrilling second later her warm breath in his ear: ‘Couldn’t have stood leaving you up here alone. Couldn’t…’
* * *
Dozing. Remembering again – he’d had time and good reason to think about it, recently – that two hadn’t been anywhere near enough. There’d been Saturday to follow, after all. He suspected that the ones he bought in Newcastle that morning, on the face of it getting aspirins for Julia’s alleged headache, might have included a dud.
It had been a weekend of contrasting sadness and excitement. Sadness genuine enough, certainly on her part, and he’d liked young Finney well enough to reflect it. Also, when on their own, her insistence that how things had changed between them shouldn’t be allowed to interrupt his work. No more weekends until he’d finished the course and won his ticket. While he’d wondered, on and off – and since then, too – what Mark Finney might actually have meant to her. There’d been nothing physical between them, he felt sure of that, but if only in her dreams – daydreams, he supposed he meant – well, whether she might have had notions of waiting, giving the lad time to grow up?
In which case his own aspirations mightn’t have come to much.
But you couldn’t blame anyone for their dreams. Or probably ever know the answer. Anyway, he’d been back at work in Liverpool on Monday 10 June, the day the Italians decided it was in their best interests to become allies of the Germans, and Churchill commented, ‘Only fair – we had them last time.’
5
August 7th. Quilla’s noon position of 54 degrees 52 north, 26 degrees 48 west was based on Waller’s morning sunsight and Andy’s meridian altitude, worked out by Elliot and found to be compatible with a run-on EP from the Old Man’s early fix from stars. Very much a joint effort, due to the fact that Waller had had a clearish sky for his morning sun soon after eight, whereas by the time Andy had been ready to take his an hour later the cloud cover had been total. It hadn’t broken up until shortly before noon. But based on this, speed-made-good over the past twenty-four hours had averaged a fraction under twelve knots, which seeing that the zigzag had been resumed at first light wasn’t bad.
He came back from the chart, told Waller, ‘OK. Enjoy your lunch.’
‘Wasn’t a bad shoot this morning.’
‘Wasn’t, was it, all things considered.’
Referring to the amount of movement on her. Andy had wanted to go ahead with it, Harve Brown had been opposed to it on grounds of danger to life and limb, but the Old Man had insisted that in anything but much rougher conditions than these, they had to be capable of manning and using the gun effectively – which meant they needed practice. As it turned out they’d hit their target with the second shot and dropped the third so close to it that on anything larger it would have been another hit; which was enough, Andy had thought – that the lads knew they could handle it, even from a highly mobile platform. He’d called the bridge over the sight-setter’s telephone and received the Old Man’s permission to pack up, secure the gun, by which time the target had in any case disintegrated.
Waller came back up to relieve him for his lunch just short of one p.m. Lunch was corned beef, mashed spuds and cabbage followed by stewed prunes with custard; Harve Brown’s comment: ‘Not exactly your regular gourmet’s choice, but OK if you’re famished.’
‘I’ve known worse.’
‘Well, sure…’
‘In the old Burntisland for instance.’
‘Christ, don’t remind me.’
He’d pushed his chair back. To return to the bridge, take over the watch again. ‘Head down now, Harve?’
‘Had crossed my mind…’
Had crossed the Old Man’s, too: what was known as a ‘one to three’, the afternoon kip or caulk. So Andy with Dixon and Quartermaste
rs Samways and then Selby had the bridge to themselves for the next few hours, Quilla thudding and rollicking along on mean course 240, zigzagging twenty degrees each side of that, under a sky that was virtually clear now, had only tatters of white cloud against brilliant blue. Idyllic, worth guineas per minute just to be here, if you didn’t have in mind that it could terminate very, very suddenly in the splitting crack of an explosion, upheaval of ocean and – whatever then, whatever…
Newton, though, Marconi man with the ginger sideboards, arriving from the wireless office complete with clipboard and anxious look. After one glance, Andy continuing his binocular search for a periscope you wouldn’t have a hope in hell of spotting in this expanse of broken sea. Hearing the man’s yell then: ‘Captain below, is he?’ and turning, lowering the glasses.
‘Another poor sod bought it?’
A nod. ‘Kids on board, what’s more.’
‘What?’
He read it out: ‘SS Sarawak – bombed by Focke-Wulf, fires out of control, one hundred and thirty-one children on board, abandoning in position…’
‘Dixon—’
‘Aye, sir!’
Children. Evacuees presumably, US-bound, being transported for their own safety from the Luftwaffe’s assault on Britain’s towns, ports, cities. But Christ, what a hell of a—
Well. Hope – pray – this one might be in reach. Dixon meanwhile breaking all known records for putting positions on charts and taking off range and bearing: a yell of ‘Sixty miles on 153, sir!’
Prayer answered, then. Surely. He told Newton, ‘Hang on’, and pressed the Old Man’s alarm buzzer. Thinking, Sixty miles, say five hours. Checking the time and gesturing to Dixon to resume his looking out. Old Man pounding up, seeing Newton and snatching the clipboard from him, Andy giving him time to scan it before telling him the bearing and distance-off.
Grim-faced, swiftly rescanning: eyes narrowed and lips compressed, muttering while moving to the chart, ‘Sixty miles…’ This time one did know what his reaction would be, although he was making certain of it, checking it out somewhat less rapidly than Dixon had done before returning to the bridge’s forefront, telling himself, ‘Sixty-five, call it’, and telling Selby, ‘Cease zigzag.’ Watching the ship’s head by gyro, as Selby brought her back to 240, then ‘Port fifteen, steer 155.’ Two-degree allowance for the fact she’d have wind and sea abaft her starboard beam. Andy thinking also that without the zigzag she ought to do better than twelve knots, and telling Dixon to switch off the zigzag clock.
Sarawak, though. Pacific origins, obviously. And carrying that number of passengers, an intermediate liner, most likely. Blue Funnel? Bibby? Wouldn’t have thought so from the name, but—
‘Dixon.’ The Old Man cleared his throat. ‘Ask Mr Brown and Chief Engineer Verity to come up, please.’
So they’d had their one-to-threes. Just gone three anyway.
* * *
On the turn, for a while with wind and sea directly on her beam, she’d really rolled. But it had been an alteration of eighty-five degrees, and now on a course of 155 – SSE, roughly – she was steadier than she’d been when heading into it.
To get there with a decent margin of time before sundown was important. Get there fast, anyway. The chief had consented to winding on a few more revs – notionally for a flat-out fourteen and a half knots, which in these bouncy conditions might boil down to, say, thirteen. Visions of a blazing hulk, 131 frightened children packed into open boats, and an hour or so at most between the soonest one could hope to get there and the onset of darkness. One wondered about the decision to send them – in an independently-routed, maybe somewhat antiquated passenger and cargo steamer, as like as not still crawling with cockroaches of Far Eastern origin. Decision presumably the Ministry of War Transport’s, basic requirement being for a ship with a good number of passenger berths – and if she could make fifteen knots or more she would be sailed independently.
But on a track southerly enough to be inside the range of long-range bombers from western France?
Where Quilla was now, in fact – and heading deeper into it. In U-boat waters still, with no time to waste on zigzags. The Focke-Wulfs’ primary function, one had gathered, being reconnaissance, locating convoys and reporting their positions, then acting as radio beacons for U-boats to home in on. But they also attacked and sank ships, especially solitaries – ships having as yet no effective defence against the bastards. That twelve-pounder on the poop for instance had no high-angle capability; all you had was the Holman Projector – grenade-launcher – next to useless, completely useless except against an aircraft passing directly overhead at something like masthead height.
Lookouts had been stationed, and boats were still turned out on their davits. All hands had been informed of the reason for the diversion, and Andy had stayed on watch an extra hour, relieved then by Waller, sharing the first dogwatch and part of the second between them while Harve Brown looked into alternative rearrangements of accommodation and victualling, provision from stores of such things as blankets and donkeys’ breakfasts – straw mattresses – and scope for the treatment of injuries, especially burns; he was mugging this up from the Ship Captain’s Medical Guide.
Brown asked Andy – in the saloon, over mugs of tea – ‘Know what it recommends here for toothache?’
‘Not off-hand.’
He quoted: “‘Piece of cotton wool dipped in creosote and pressed into the cavity often brings relief.’”
‘What if there’s no cavity?’
‘Might as well ask what if there’s no creosote. Is your St John’s certificate up to date?’
Every deck officer was required to have a St John’s Ambulance Corps certificate of competence in First Aid. Andy nodded, adding, ‘Not in dentistry, though. What’s the cabin situation?’
‘You’ll lose yours and share Waller’s. Chief and I’ll share yours. That guest suite’s an obvious place for an unspecified number of kids – two good-sized cabins and a bath and wc. Cadets’ll lose theirs, caulk in here, junior engineers as well. It’s all provisional, obviously, numbers could be anything from – well, from zero to – what, hundred or more?’
‘A lot more, could be.’
‘If they were all out of her and in boats and we found ’em and were able to pick ’em up. Yeah, could be.’
‘A hundred crew, say?’
‘In crew’s quarters. Bosun and donkeyman are working that out.’
‘Well – a hundred and thirty-one kids anyway, plus, say, a dozen adults looking after them; and the ship’s officers—’
‘Bugger them!’
You laughed or smiled, but nothing about this was at all light-hearted. A big hope was that there might be other ships assisting. Might even be one or more there already: oh, pray for that. Nothing further had come in over the air-waves, and the Old Man had vetoed any call from Quilla. She was in U-boat waters, the Focke-Wulf would have radioed a report of its attack on the Sarawak, and that on its own could have brought a U-boat in to finish the job off; in which case its commander might jump at the notion of adding a rescuer to his bag. In any case, you didn’t transmit if you could avoid doing so. Didn’t receive, either, except on certain essential maritime wavelengths on which the Marconi boys listened out round the clock; while private radio sets were disallowed, since apparently the act of tuning in caused oscillations on which direction-finding apparatus could get bearings. If sets were hidden on board and found, they could either be confiscated or ‘given the old hammer test’ – i.e. got rid of. But another angle on whether or not to let the Sarawak know help was coming was that since she’d said her fires were out of control, abandoning, who’d be likely to receive your message?
* * *
Wouldn’t make it in five hours anyway. At just after six p.m. Chief Verity came up to the bridge to tell the Old Man that a reduction in speed was essential. Bearings were running hot; he wanted to come down to revs for ten knots – which would leave her making-good no more than eight.
>
‘Sorry, but there it is.’
‘Essential, you say.’
‘To avoid breakdown, yes.’
‘For how long?’
‘Probably until morning. She’s no chicken, you know. We’ve been driving her flat out, and being in ballast there’s a tendency to race. Frankly, Nat, sooner the better – uh?’
‘All right.’
Since turning south three hours earlier she’d covered thirty-six miles by log, leaving her about thirty short of the position given by the Sarawak. So making-good eight knots now meant another three and a half, four hours. ETA in that vicinity therefore nine-thirty p.m. earliest.
Dusk. Darkness.
Harve Brown, on his way up at seven p.m. to stand the last hour of his watch, to give Waller a break for a ‘seven bells’ supper before the start of his own at eight, said ‘If what’s left of her’s still afloat and burning, maybe…’
* * *
He put his gear together, so if he did have to move out of this cabin he could do so quickly, or it could be done for him if things were happening during his middle watch.
Seven-twenty now. Brief kip maybe, before supper, in preparation for at least seven hours on the bridge. Aiming to be up there by about nine p.m., then on watch from midnight. Might still be searching then: in fact almost surely would be, and as like as not through the dark hours into morning. For one thing, boats would have drifted eastward, both wind and the mid-Atlantic current contributing to this. Six hours of drift, say, by the time one was on the spot, and drifting at just one knot would put them six miles east of the position given in the distress call. Between six and ten miles from it, say, and the current would be setting not due east but east-by-north or east-northeast. Gave one a biggish area to scour, for God’s sake, looking for lightless boats in a dark and lively sea. The sea had come up a little. At the lower revs she was rolling more, pitching less. Should have rigged the bunk-board, to jam a knee against; had thought of it earlier in the day but – hell, couldn’t be bothered to turn out now and fix it.
Non-Combatants Page 8
