Non-Combatants

by Non-Combatants (retail) (epub)

  She was looking around at them, smiling slightly. ‘Hello…’

  Not shy, exactly. Lonely, maybe. Sad… One’s own age, or a year or two older, he guessed. Getting a chorus of hellos and good evenings, and smiling more positively; Harve pulling out a chair between the bearded Charlie Bridgeman, second engineer, and the Sarawak radio man. Bridgeman telling her she was very welcome indeed, and Harve putting in, ‘This fellow of course you know’ – meaning Searle – who agreed in his rather high voice, ‘Old mates, we are!’ The girl showing faint surprise and looking across at Andy. ‘I know you. You were on the net last night. Absolutely marvellous you were too!’

  ‘Pretty good yourself, I thought. All I did was give you a hand up out of the boat and you went up like a rocket!’

  She sat down. ‘I’d seen how you did it. And unlike you I wasn’t carrying any children, had my hands free. No, I mean it, all of you were splendid, but you actually were terrific!’

  Bridgeman advised her, ‘You’ll be giving him a swollen head, Miss Vaughan. Actually he’s not a bad fellow, but—’

  ‘Thanks for the kind words anyway.’ He’d interrupted Bridgeman easily enough because she was still looking at him, had ignored the interruption. He added, ‘Fact is, it was the children really were terrific. How’s the lad with the broken arm?’

  ‘Oh, William.’ Quick, happy smile. ‘He’s doing well. He broke it two days ago – fell down a companionway outside the children’s playroom. Yes, I remember you taking him from Doctor Creagh…’

  The doctor had passed him over, bawling over the surrounding racket, ‘Broken arm, this chap!’ Small, wild-eyed toddler with one arm strapped to him in bandaging almost like a miniature Egyptian mummy – a virtual parcel that had squeaked into his ear on the way up, ‘Mind my good arm!’, and he’d panted at him, ‘We’ll mind ’em both, old lad!’ He’d taken him all the way up, not handing him over until they were at the rail. Thinking at the time that it was probably the most perilous journey the boy would ever make: one slip, fumble it and drop him – with only one arm he couldn’t have saved himself or clung on. Or, down there between boat and ship’s side, lived very long.

  Best of reasons to make damn sure of not fumbling it. The basic technique had been to lean in hard against the net and the ship’s side, climbing as fast as possible when she was listing away to port, then stop and just hang on, wait, during the starboard roll. He said now, ‘Heck of an experience for a little kid. Bet he’ll remember it all his life.’

  ‘I know I will.’

  She dropped her eyes as she said it. He read the strain in them, the reality behind her pleasant, friendly manner. Eyes on his again: he nodded slightly, registering his sympathy, at least partial understanding, the background horror she couldn’t not have in mind most of the time, if not all. But how could one broach the subject without inflicting pain, maybe provoking tears…

  To what point anyway: what had happened had happened, you all knew it, and the last thing she’d want was to talk about it. In any case, Harve broke in at that point with, ‘Should have made introductions all round – sorry. The man you’re speaking to, Miss Vaughan, is our second mate, name of Holt. Believe it or not, a married man, as near as makes no difference.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He’s right. Getting spliced soon as we’re home. Name’s Andy Holt, though.’

  ‘I’m Samantha Vaughan, Andy. Usually called Sam.’

  ‘Great name for a girl!’

  ‘Not exactly girly, would you say?’

  Harve had cleared his throat, by way of interrupting this. ‘Continuing with introductions, if I may – the man on your right is Second Engineer Charlie Bridgeman, and opposite him Fourth Engineer Hobbs.’

  ‘Dan Hobbs.’

  ‘Howdy, Dan!’

  ‘While this one is our second wireless officer. Newton. Tommy Newton, isn’t it?’

  A nod, mouth full of pilchard.

  ‘Then we have two of the ship’s three cadets.’ Nodding towards them. ‘Dixon and Merriman. And at last, but perhaps not least, your pilchards.’ Steward Chumley smirking, murmuring, ‘Miss…’ and Samantha looking down at them: ‘What are their names?’

  Andy laughed, joined by a few others. She was lovely, he thought. Incredible, after that ordeal. Bridgeman asking her, ‘D’you do this job as a regular thing, Sam? Looking after kids on—’

  ‘Certainly not. Well – looking after children, yes. I help out in a nursery school in London, off and on. But nothing of this kind.’ Meeting Andy’s eyes again. ‘Actually I don’t think it’s all that sensible, shipping them out like this.’

  He agreed: ‘I’m with you there.’

  ‘Certainly’ – Harve Brown, pompously – ‘in the light of this terrible experience—’

  General discussion then, all in agreement: if whoever had set it up had had any idea of the danger, the number of ships that were being lost, whether in convoy or sailing independently – and how could they be that ignorant, wouldn’t you think someone at the Admiralty or Ministry of this or that might have put up an argument against it? Samantha saying quietly, ‘Despite the bombing getting so much worse – which it really is, you know. It’s become quite frightening. You can understand parents jumping at the chance to have their children out of it. Especially – well, father in the Forces, mother in some kind of war work, grandparents if still around maybe beyond coping?’

  Chief Engineer Verity arrived at that stage, bringing with him the gloomy-looking Chief Officer Barclay; they’d been communing with the Old Man apparently, would probably have had a tot or two of gin or rum with him. Verity was introduced to Miss Vaughan before moving to his usual chair at the other end of the table, with Barclay beside him and facing Harve Brown down the length of it, remarking that they might have found something more interesting than pilchards to lay on for their guests’ first meal in the saloon. Asking Samantha, ‘No doubt Mr Brown will already have apologised?’

  ‘Haven’t, though.’ Harve looked up with his eyebrows raised. ‘Happen to like canned pilchards.’

  ‘So do I.’ Samantha nodded. ‘Baked beans too. And look at what’s coming next – delicious peaches and cream, do I spy?’

  ‘Tinned fruit of some inferior kind and condensed milk, Miss Vaughan.’ Verity shrugged. ‘Never mind. Ten days’ time – New York, bright lights, and the fat of the land!’

  ‘For a day or two.’ Andy querying this with Harve Brown, ‘Or maybe only a few hours – land our passengers – including Sam, unfortunately – and scoot on out again?’ He asked her, ‘D’you plan to stay in America?’

  ‘Oh, no. Return passage guaranteed by the Ministry.’

  Bridgeman suggested, ‘Stay on board with us, then?’

  ‘Hardly.’ Harve Brown was answering Andy’s supposition. ‘Day or two in New York, I imagine. Land the children, take in fresh water and bunkers, store ship. Fresh US produce for the trip down to Nuevitas, Cuban then for the long haul up to Halifax, stock up there with Canadian. But’ – turning to Samantha – ‘I should think you’d get a berth home in one of the big liners. A lot more comfortable than in this old tramp, also quicker and much safer. Liners taking Canadian troops over, of course, but you’d be in first-class, cordon bleu and champagne, the lot!’

  Chief Verity sighed. ‘Take me with you?’

  She told him, ‘Love to. As it is I’ll have Dr Creagh with me, but join the party.’ Asking Barclay then, ‘You too, perhaps?’

  ‘Take what I can get.’ A shrug of the heavy shoulders. ‘Could be a mate’s berth going.’ Dull-voiced, dull-eyed, dispirited.

  Andy asked the girl, breaking an ensuing silence, ‘The doc won’t be tempted to stay this side of the pond then?’

  ‘Not on your life. He has a wife and daughter in Colchester and two sons in the army… I mustn’t stay down here too long, incidentally, he’ll be starving and the children will be exhausting him.’

  ‘But I was going to say’ – Chief Verity to Harve Brown – ‘changing the
subject slightly, while in New York I hope we’ll get ourselves some dockyard assistance. Dry dock, get the stern gland and shaft bearings bang to rights. I’ve raised it with the Old Man, he agrees.’

  Meaning, Andy thought, at least a week’s delay. Depending on how long they might have to wait for a dry dock, maybe longer. Thinking about that and the effect of it on Julia, her predicament, while Harve Brown waffled on to Samantha about the children – what might be the best time or times of day for exercise periods on the boat-deck; for how long, for instance, did they rest after lunch? She told him, however long they liked, or maybe not at all: they could rest if they wanted to, but she wasn’t insisting on it, for fear it would remind them of what had happened the last time they’d been sent for what Mrs Thompson had called ‘a nice lie-down’. Telling Andy, ‘Actually Tommy was an old darling. A bit starchy on the surface, but – sweet woman, truly adored the children.’ To Harve then, voice a little shaky, ‘I think, if you’d excuse me—’

  ‘I’ll see you up.’

  ‘Oh, but—’

  ‘It’s no trouble.’ Harve on his feet, looking concerned, and Bridgeman easing her chair back as she moved to get up. Andy also standing: Julia and the unwelcome prospect of delay still very much in his mind, as well as recognition of the degree of strain there had to be in Sam’s, and how well she was coping with it. A lot better than Barclay, despite the loss of 104 children who’d been at least partially in her care, and her two colleagues, the shock of the whole business. He’d mumbled – dimly enough, but for want of anything better, in the slight confusion, embarrassment even, of that moment – ‘See you tomorrow I hope’, and caught her surprisingly bright smile and assurance, ‘Oh, you will!’ Asking himself then how would they not see each other, since neither could exactly get out and walk… Chief Verity remarking as the door closed behind her and Harve, ‘A lot of young women in that one’s shoes would be having nervous breakdowns.’ Looking at Barclay then: ‘Pretty damn special, wouldn’t you say?’

  7

  So much for 8 August – a Thursday, which he was aware of because between enjoying half an hour of the old doctor’s company and getting his head down for some rest before his middle watch, he’d written a second letter to Julia and rewritten the one to Annabel, and in dating them had checked in his diary for the day of the week. Weekdays and weekends being very much the same as each other at sea, at any rate on a longish voyage such as this, one tended to forget which day of the week it was, thinking only of the date, as of course was necessary for navigational purposes. Sunday forenoons admittedly, ships’ masters usually read a few prayers and encouraged the singing of a hymn or two, either on deck or in the crew’s mess room, but in U-boat waters Nat Beale had preferred not to wander that far from the bridge, nor to concentrate so many off-watch officers and men in one part of the ship. Sundays therefore were no different from other days now, and you stood the same watches seven days a week.

  Anyway – Friday the 9th now, two-thirty p.m. Quilla’s noon position had been near enough 51 and a half degrees north, 34 west. Any U-boat encountered this far west really would be chancing its arm, but she was still zigzagging, either side of mean course 245; Andy and Dixon – Dixon absent at this moment – still intently searching a much less jumpy surface. You might spot the feather of a periscope in these conditions, if there should happen to be one, and with the swell so much lower there was a lot less motion on the ship. A slow waltz in place of a quickstep, as Dr Creagh had put it, hence the shrill cries of children at play on the boat-deck under the supervision of Samantha and cadets Merriman and Elliot.

  He’d sent Dixon to make the routine tour of lookouts’ positions, asked him now on his return whether his fellow cadets looked as if they were enjoying themselves down there. Dixon’s answer was, ‘Seem happy enough, sir. Third mate too.’

  ‘He there?’

  A grin. ‘Seems mostly Elliot and Merriman organising the sprogs, Mr Waller going strong with Miss Vaughan, sir.’

  Imagining it. Waller would come up to Sam’s waist, roughly. Unless she was sitting on the deck, allowing him to tower over her. Andy turning a laugh into a cough and glancing to his right, seeing that Dixon was still grinning as he put his glasses up. Dixon had been improving, he thought, in the last couple of days: his general attitude seemed a lot healthier. Ever since he’d torn him off a strip, in fact. Which was fine, justified one’s having done so.

  Or maybe the rescue operation had had an effect on him. A sense of having done something to justify his existence, finally?

  Waller, though. Hadn’t been asked to help with the children, and at this time of day would routinely have had his head down.

  Well – why not. In fact, best of luck to him. Sawn-off little sod…

  He’d told Julia in this second letter that there’d been a change which might mean his not getting back as soon as he’d anticipated; also that he begged her to forgive him, but he’d written to his sister Annabel explaining the situation and asking her in the very unlikely event of his not getting back (a) to get in touch with Julia, and (b) if she agreed to it, to inform the parents – hers and Andy’s. Only if she, Julia, agreed to this; Annabel could be relied upon to keep her mouth shut otherwise. But knowing they were the child’s grandparents and that he’d intended marrying her, they’d surely want to act like grandparents and help in any way they could.

  And if initially they didn’t, Annabel was perfectly capable of jockeying them into a better frame of mind. No need to mention this to Julia, but if there was any sort of battle to be fought, Annabel was the girl to fight it.

  My darling, this is only a precaution. I say ‘if I don’t get back’, but actually we’re a lucky ship, and don’t worry, she’ll stay the course. We’re a good team, tell you the truth, and the crew’s as sound as any I’ve known. I’m only taking this precaution – telling Annabel – because one has to face the fact that in war-time all things, including frightful ones, are possible – as you know so well – and I have an absolute horror of the thought of leaving you in the lurch, people having only your word for it that we would have married, and not just because of the circumstances being as they are, but because there’s nothing I’d have wanted more in any case. I love you desperately, think of you every day and night and pray to God not just to get me back to you but to make it SOON.

  I still think it would have been best to have told your mother. Please, if you begin to feel the need of her support – which she’d give you, I’m certain, as soon as she was over the first shock – darling, don’t hesitate, please don’t. Just square up to it, get it over, and you’ll be glad you did. If you haven’t by the time you get this letter, why not show it to her? Use it as it were to break the ice, sort of a preface to what you have to tell her – might make the telling easier? It must be an awful strain to be carrying on alone; and your mother’s a kind, understanding person, I’m sure it would be better to tell her than wait until she begins to suspect the truth?

  He asked Samantha at supper whether when she got home to England she’d be going back to work in the nursery school, and she said, ‘Probably. If they’ll have me. It’s in London of course, at least has been up to now, but whether it’ll carry on or simply close down – because of the bombing, I mean – who knows. If they’re carrying on they might have taken on some permanent replacement by the time I’m back. In fact I should think they might well have to. In which case’ – she shrugged – ‘just have to see what else.’

  ‘Wouldn’t take on another job like this one, I imagine.’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘How did it come about?’

  ‘It was offered, that’s all. A friend of mine was lined up for it, then had the offer of a part in a play just going into rehearsals – for the West End, which she’d been hoping for for ages. And sooner than just back out and let Tommy down – Tommy Thompson, who’d offered her the job – cruise, she called it—’

  ‘Asked you to take her place, and you did.’
>
  ‘Since no-one was offering me any parts – West End or anywhere else. And it was something new, bit of an adventure, I thought. Free trip to America, heaven’s sake!’

  ‘So you’re an actress too.’

  ‘Had a few parts. Always hoping. The nursery school was something to keep the pennies trickling in while waiting for the great break. Anyhow, I have an agent, of sorts, so…’

  Crossed fingers. He said, ‘I’m sure you’ll make it. Bound to. Henceforth I’ll scour the billboards and press notices for the name of Samantha Vaughan. And when it’s up in lights, one night you may find me waiting at the stage door with a bouquet of – roses, right?’

  ‘And your fiancée?’

  ‘Ah. Could be a snag…’

  ‘I’d have thought it could. Very few lights in London these days, anyway.’

  Charlie Bridgeman tapped her arm. ‘I have no fiancée, and I’d love to see you act. In London, would it be?’

  ‘Or Doncaster, John o’Groats, Aberystwyth—’

  ‘Where’s home?’ Andy again, mopping up the remains of bully-beef stew. ‘Parents, so forth?’

  ‘One parent only. Intrepid birdman. Well – Group Captain RAF.’

  ‘And where’s home?’

  ‘Real one’s in Kent, but it’s let to other people. Too big for us. Well, I’ll tell you, get this over. My mother died ten years ago, giving birth to twins, my baby sisters. I was twelve then, and I sort of helped bring them up. Now they’re at boarding school – summer hols right now so they’re staying with an aunt, my father’s sister, near Exeter. Her husband’s in the army, she has bags of room and loves having them, has me too whenever I want. And that’s more than enough about the Vaughans.’ She asked Bridgeman, ‘Where are you from?’