Heart of War (37 page)

Hoggin said, ‘That Joint Select Committee's just about to report that there's never been any hanky-panky in the food business, an' we're all honest, patriotic blokes, just like them.'

Bottomley said, ‘My article will be timely, then … I shall urge them to turn their energies elsewhere … such as getting
business
men into the government, like you, or me.'

‘That they should,' Hoggin said – thinking, not bloody likely, when there's so much money to be made outside.

The waiter carried away the plates and brought steamed canary puddings. They ate those, and the waiter brought Angels on Horseback savoury for Hoggin and Soft Herring Roe on toast for Bottomley. The waiter brought fruit, port, sherry, madeira. And coffee, balloon glasses, cognac, and a huge box of cigars. Hoggin lit his cigar slowly, puffed thoughtfully in the direction of the ceiling, then fished in the pocket of his tailcoat and brought out a fat envelope. ‘Our address … details of the H.U.S.L. shop you're going
to look at, a little something for expenses …'

Bottomley picked the envelope off the table and slid it out of sight with a dexterity obviously born of much practice. Five thousand quid was in there, Hoggin thought; well, it was worth it.

He leaned across the table. ‘The young lady's been well taken care of, 'Oratio. You just take her home.'

‘Only one? What about you, my dear fellow?'

‘Oh, me, I stick to my old trouble and strife. Don't know why …'

The head waiter appeared, a vision of female loveliness close on his heels – a young woman with golden hair, a retroussé nose and cold, blue eyes, radiant in a daring gown of electric blue.

The two men stood up. Hoggin said, ‘Allow me to introduce you to Miss Jenny Jenkins, star of the musical comedy stage … Miss Jenkins, Mr Horatio Bottomley, editor and owner of
John Bull
'.

She sat down in the chair the head waiter had pulled back for her. Hoggin caught her eye. Another hundred quid gone there … it was worth it; and she'd earn it, with old Bumley belching and farting on top of her half the night, and probably with whisky cock, too.

The Americans seemed to be going at it hammer and tongs, Cate thought. Since the dates when each election would be held were known ahead, the campaigns could begin as soon as any candidate chose. Indeed, it sometimes seemed that the country was in a permanent state of election fever, politicians and statesmen concerned with getting themselves re-elected rather than with the business of the country. He thought Mr Wilson would probably win this coming election on November 7th, partly because a president in office seemed to have a big advantage over there, and partly because – for all Mr Roosevelt's excoriations about ‘abstract cowardice' – he had kept the United States out of the war, thus saving many lives and making much money for many of his countrymen. Neither situation held true in England, where holding office was rather an invitation to be judged, and removed, by the people and one's fellow politicians; and – as of this moment, certainly – for a
politician to advocate peace by negotiation would surely result in his defeat, even disgrace. England's blood was up … that diminishing reservoir of it not spilled and still spilling on the heights above the Somme.

He returned to the paper:

Ah, Cate thought – the war in the air! That is something new, and different. There they die, too – as Boelcke had, and as Guy might – but meantime, what an epic, fought over new horizons, with hitherto unknown feelings, emotions, and powers! Some day a great poet would write a new Iliad about that long-drawn-out seesaw struggle in the skies over France, and these names – Mannock, Bishop, Boelcke, Ball, Guynemer, Nungesser and even Rowland, would be as familiar in legend as Achilles, Agamemnon, Hector …

Tom Rowland stepped down onto the platform and stretched. The wartime Flying Scotsman was not a fast train, or a comfortable one, and today it had arrived half an hour late at King's Cross. He had been travelling over twenty-four hours now, first the ferry to the mainland at Dingwall, then the over-crowded little train to Inverness … change … change again at Edinburgh … here at last, nearly half-past six o'clock.

He beckoned to a porter – they were getting fewer every time he came ashore, and some were women. This was a man, but so old and frail Tom felt ashamed to indicate his suitcase on the rack in the compartment, and say ‘That's all, and I want a taxi, please.'

He settled back as the taxi wound slowly south and west through heavy traffic toward his flat in Half Moon Street. He'd been wondering for months now, ever since the dates of this leave had been firmly fixed, what he was going to tell Jones about Charlie Bennett. Jones was the ‘gentleman's gentleman' who ‘did' for him three hours every morning. Tom had not been paying him while he was at sea, except for a fortnightly visit to dust and check that the flat was in good order. Jones had had no difficulty in finding another employer, for people were coming and going far more than they used to – because of the war, of course. He would not be there now … nor would Charlie, but in the morning … He scowled out of the taxi window at the muted lights of wartime London – he almost hoped for a Zeppelin raid so that he would know what it felt like. Perhaps he'd say Charlie had saved his life and he was rewarding him with these few days in London. Jones would not be fooled. So, did it matter? Yes, damn it all, it did matter. How could he hold his head up, speak directly to Jones ever again if the man knew that he was a … damn! damn! damn!

The taxi drew to a halt. The driver came round, saying,

‘'Ere y'are, sir.' It was seven-fifteen.

Tom hurried up the stairs and let himself into his flat. Everything looked in place … there was the group of his term at Osborne … an enlarged photograph of H.M.S.
Agincourt
, in which he'd served a commission on the Mediterranean station … the reproduction of ‘Whistler's Mother,' another of Turner's
Fighting Temeraire
… a copy of Hoppner's
Nelson
.

He took off his cap and hung it up; then his greatcoat. Charlie was due at eight. Should he change first? Charlie would be in uniform – had to wear it when travelling. If Tom stayed in uniform it would be hard for either of them to forget that they were a commander and an ordinary seaman, from the same ship of His Majesty's Navy. He went into his bathroom, turned on the bath, and began to undress quickly.

Clean at last, he stepped out of the bath and began to dry himself. The doorbell rang. He stood a moment, frozen: then swallowing and suddenly trembling, he wrapped the towel round his waist, went through the drawing room into the little entrance hall, and opened the door. Charlie Bennett stood outside, in uniform, his duffel bag resting beside him. He came to attention, his eyes widening and said, ‘Sir …'

Tom cut him short – ‘Come in, Charlie.'

He closed the door behind the young man, then led to the drawing room. In the middle of the room he turned, his hands out. The words he wanted to say would not come. All he could get out was ‘Charlie …'

‘Sir …' Charlie had let go of the duffel bag. His hands came up to meet Tom's, his eyes shining.

‘Tom's my name,' Tom whispered.

‘Tom …'

They held each other tight, cheek pressed against cheek. Then Tom broke free – ‘I'll run you a bath … that's your room … undress … would you like a drink? There's some beer in the pantry … whisky there … the siphon …'

‘Ah'd reet love a bo'l of beer, sir, Tom,' Charlie said shyly. Heavens, his Geordie accent was strong, Tom thought; no one's going to believe we can possibly have anything in common, except – this.

He fetched the bottle of beer, and sat on the bed, developing
a powerful, slow firm, erection, while Charlie undressed, drinking Bass from the bottle neck, until at last they both stood naked, and erect, embracing.

Next morning they sat in the drawing room, both wearing civilian clothes – grey trousers, shirt without tie, odd jacket. Tom kept his in the flat while Charlie had brought a set down with him in his duffel bag, after spending two days with his parents in Dipton, County Durham – having first told them that his leave was very short, instead of the ten days it actually was.

Tom raised his glass of sherry toward Charlie, who was drinking Bass, this time out of a heavy cut glass tumbler – ‘To the Immortal Memory.'

Charlie looked puzzled and Tom motioned toward the picture of Nelson – ‘It's October 21st, Charlie – Trafalgar Day,'

‘Aye, of course,' Charlie said guiltily. ‘I knew it was about now.' He drank and lowered his glass.

Tom said, ‘People don't understand the conditions of modern naval war. At Trafalgar they went into action at two miles an hour. Once the fleets had engaged, they could not disengage until one or the other was defeated. At Jutland we were closing at forty miles an hour. A ship could be out of range or back in the mist before you'd have time to bracket.'

Charlie nodded, but Tom wondered whether he was really listening. Did he care? Did he have the education to understand what was being said, and the implications of it? He continued – ‘Modern fire at long range is always plunging – like throwing a stone over a high wall, to land on a saucer the other side – a moving saucer … which was throwing stones back at you.'

‘The Germans gave our battle cruisers a good hiding,' Charlie said.

Tom said, ‘I'm afraid part of the trouble is that our battle cruiser design has been at fault. There's not adequate protection against flashback down the barbettes to the magazines. That's what happened to all three of them –
Queen Mary, Indefatigable
, and
Invincible
.'

‘Some of our shells was duds, too,' Charlie said. ‘Same in the army. My brother's in the Durhams out there, and he says that a lot of our shells aren't exploding, on the Somme.
Cor, that's a battle, innit? Been going on over three months now … proper slaughter house, that is … D'ye think the Germans'll come out again, sir? … Tom?'

Tom said slowly, ‘I don't, though it's always a possibility. That's why we'll have to keep the Grand Fleet in being until the war ends … I have a feeling our next battle isn't going to involve the big fleets at all. The German leaders will see that if they devote all their naval energy to making more U-boats, and concentrate on our sea trade, they may bring us to our knees.'

‘Bluidy submarines, skulking under water,' Charlie muttered. ‘Wish I could get my hands on some of them buggers.'

The clock on the mantel chimed six. It was dark outside. They had had a quiet day, not leaving the flat, at lunch eating some cold meat which Jones had gone out to buy for them. Jones had kept his face impassive – called Charlie ‘Mr Bennett' – acted just as though Charlie had indeed been a friend of Tom's own age and class.

‘Well, what shall we do now?' Tom asked. ‘Too early for dinner,' he added hastily, remembering that the lower deck liked to eat at ungodly hours. With his parents at Dipton Charlie had probably had high tea at five or soon after, and then a bite of supper before going to bed.

‘I've never been to London,' Charlie said. ‘I'd like to see Buckingham Palace and the Tower of London and Madame Tussaud's and the Crystal Palace, and …'

‘So you shall,' Tom said, smiling affectionately at the young man's enthusiasm. ‘We'll start sightseeing tomorrow … and go to the theatre, too.'

‘I'd like that!' Charlie said, jumping up excitedly. ‘A real theatre!'

Tom said, ‘I'll see what's on.'

They sat in the gallery at the Villiers, high above the upper circle, peering steeply down at the distant stage through the haze of tobacco smoke. Tom had never sat in the gods in his life – always in the dress circle, or stalls, near the front; and always in evening dress. But Charlie had never thought of going elsewhere – he had been to the theatre three times, repertory in Newcastle-on-Tyne. Tom was learning much that he did not expect to when he arranged to spend this
leave with Charlie. Charlie's view of Buckingham Palace was reverent, but practical – ‘Cor, Tom, how do they get all those windows cleaned, without the window cleaner gawping in at the King and Queen, eating their suppers, maybe, or getting into a bath?' And, at the Tower, scorn for the Beefeaters – until one of them told him sharply that he had been a Chief Petty Officer in his time. Tom was learning how the ordinary people of England really felt, and acted, close to, being for the moment one of them, not one of their masters.