The Cruel Sea (1951) (61 page)

They were picnicking, as she had said by way of excuse: the boat was a borrowed sailing dinghy, which was taking them, before a light breeze, from Hunter’s Quay to the head of Holy Loch. The early September afternoon could not have been lovelier: as sometimes happened in these bleak northern waters, the relenting sun shone down with spring-like fervour, warming the water, bathing the whole estuary of the Clyde in a comforting glow. Their tiny boat ran between brown and purple hills, leaving far astern the busy anchorage, making for the peace and solitude which were promised them at the head of the loch. Lapped in a lazy quiet, they seemed to be deserting the normal world, whose demands they knew too well, for a private realm which they could fashion to their own liking. He was proud to be taking her there – proud, and happy, and something else as well, something gently beckoning which he could not define, and did not want to. The occasion had, he could not help realising, all the elements of a ‘party’; she was a beautiful girl in a boat, they were alone on a picnic, he was already much aware of her as a woman. But like that first time, when he had not kissed her, so now the moment was not necessarily that moment, and need not become so. What they shared between them – the boat, the ripples that chattered under their prow, the sunshine, the hills – were clearly enough for her, and were thus enough for him.

Presently, breaking the companionable silence, she said: ‘About Nelson.’

He smiled, recognising in her a wayward but questing attention, and in himself a delight to be talking to her, on any subject under the sun, so long as her voice still linked him to her by its lovely clarity.

‘About Nelson,’ he repeated after her.

She leant back on the thwart, and the drops of water from her leg fell inboard again. ‘I should say,’ she remarked thoughtfully, ‘that he would have liked my hair, whether it was officially approved or not. He would have made any allowances for a woman, surely? Look at Lady Hamilton.’

Lockhart stiffened, in spite of himself, in spite of the moment. ‘What about Lady Hamilton?’

Julie was glancing up at the sail, whose shadow had just touched her face as the boat heeled. ‘Didn’t he come rather near to giving up everything for her – or at least, neglecting a lot of things which were really a great deal more important?’

‘Nelson?’ Lockhart drew in his breath. ‘He would never have done anything of that sort, never in his life.’ There was something in his tone which made her turn and look at him, and something in his face which surprised her when she saw it. ‘He wouldn’t have done so for anyone,’ Lockhart repeated. ‘He loved three things – the Navy, England, and Lady Hamilton. He loved them all very much – overwhelmingly, sometimes – but he always loved them in that order.’

‘Oh . . .’ Julie smiled, still watching him. ‘I only asked . . .’ But her curiosity continued. ‘I didn’t know he was a hero of yours. In fact, I didn’t know you had such things as heroes.’

He smiled back at her. ‘Certainly. I like dogs, too. And football matches, and beer, and life insurance. Every Sunday we put the nippers in the sidecar—’

She held up her hand, rather firmly. ‘Just you go back a bit.’

‘Yes, ma’am . . . He’s very much a hero of mine, as a matter of fact – a wonderful seaman, a wonderful leader, a kind man, a brave man, a lover whose mistress was perfectly content to bear his child, in or out of wedlock.’ Lockhart, in his turn, looked up at the sail, as if he might find there the words he wanted to use. ‘You know, there was a time when he held all England in the palm of his hand, and all Europe too: a single mistake at Trafalgar – the difference between saying “port” and “starboard” – might have been the difference between winning and losing, and could have changed the map of the world – and he knew it, and he was equal to it. He didn’t lose sight of that, and he didn’t lose sight of the rules he fought by, either.’ Lockhart paused. ‘If I were to give you the words of his last prayer, would you laugh at me?’

She shook her head. ‘Tell.’

‘”May the great God whom I worship grant to my country and for the benefit of Europe in general, a great and glorious victory: and may no misconduct in anyone tarnish it; and may humanity after victory be the predominant feature of the British Fleet”.’

Now she nodded. ‘That really covers everything, doesn’t it? Right up to date, too. Were those the last words he wrote?’

‘No. As far as I remember, he wrote to Lady Hamilton the last thing of all, just before Trafalgar, when he knew the French fleet was coming out and was going to fight. At least, he started the letter, and then stopped and said that he hoped to be able to finish it after the battle.’

‘What was it about?’

‘He just sent his love.’

After a moment, Julie said: ‘She must have been beautiful.’

He shook his head. ‘Not even that. Most people loathed her on sight: she had a lot of enemies – partly jealousy, partly because she was rather too candid and downright, and she was an easy person to sneer at – even her friends agreed that she wasn’t attractive to the eye by the time she met Nelson. Undistinguished, fat, rather blowzy.’

‘What, then?’

Lockhart shrugged. ‘She had something for him. She was the other half of him, emotionally, the person he had to have, to make up for the difficulty and strain of what he was doing. You know, it doesn’t really matter what a woman looks like, where a loving relationship is concerned. She’s either desirable, or she is not: if she is, her looks and her manners don’t matter, and if she isn’t, no amount of small talk and smart alec stuff will make any difference.’

‘Pity,’ said Julie despondently.

‘You should complain . . .’

‘But if he was so exceptional a person,’ she said, ‘I wonder why he needed a woman, anyway. People like that are usually entirely self-sufficient.’

‘I think it’s reasonable,’ said Lockhart after a moment. ‘He was a complete man – a man of action, a man of imagination, a man capable of love. England provided half of what he needed to fulfil himself, she gave him the other half.’

‘And they never overlapped, or got in the way of each other?’

‘No. That was the admirable part. He was dedicated to both, and there was room for both.’ Then he paused, and frowned. ‘I’ve an idea,’ he said after a moment, ‘that all this contradicts completely something I’ve said to you already.’

She nodded, and smiled, and sat up suddenly. ‘But I’m certainly not going to remind you, on this lovely day . . . Are we nearly there?’

They were nearly there; and presently the boat grounded on the rough shingle beach, and slid forward a few feet, and came gently to rest. As they lowered and stowed the sail, they looked about them at the strange secret world they had reached. They were five miles up the still water of the loch, and almost out of sight of its entrance; they, and the boat, were dwarfed by what lay all round them, but it was a benevolent dwarfing, as if they were held within some capacious natural embrace that would never press too hard on them, never fail to cherish. Behind them was the deserted stretch of water, before them a curved beach, a single pine tree, and a ring of silent hills; the sun was warm on their faces, the whole air enchanted. Their voices when they spoke seemed to fall into deep silence, challenging it for a moment, and then becoming lost for ever.

They slipped over the side of the boat, and paddled ashore. He might have carried her, he thought suddenly, but it did not seem a necessary thing to do: her body which he had never touched, her perfume which he knew only faintly, were not appropriate to the innocent moment they were sharing. But perhaps this thought of his had also reached her, for when they had spread their rugs and unpacked the picnic basket, and settled down side by side, there was an unusual constraint between them. It was the first time that their isolation had been so complete, so unguarded: it was the first time, also, that they had seen each other out of uniform, and the simple clothes they were wearing somehow made it easier for them to think of each other as a man and a woman, bringing nearer to the surface a sensual awareness of their proximity, associating, for the very first time and with the utmost significance, her loveliness, his masculinity.

They talked desultorily, but it had no flow, no ease: they lay silent, enjoying the sun, but it was a restless enjoyment: they looked fleetingly at each other, but the looks were complicated and unreal. At last she frowned, and sat up straight, and said: ‘This is quite different from any other time. Why is that?’

He might have guessed that she would thus present the problem for their joint inspection, promptly and candidly . . . He said: ‘It’s being alone, I think. In complete isolation. It hasn’t happened to us before.’

‘But surely’ – she paused, and frowned again – ‘why should we be shy, or ill at ease, over that? It’s not as if we were babies.’

Babies, he thought – why have I now only one image when she says ‘babies’ like that? What is happening to us so quickly? – or is it only to me . . . ? He spoke almost at random: ‘Julie, we’ve met five or six times in the past eight months. Each time we come to know each other a little better, and I think we enjoy it a little more.’ She nodded in agreement. ‘It’s been a process of exploration – very sweet, too. But it’s been progressive all the time.’

‘So it should be. That’s been the best part of it.’

He was becoming shy now, and, he noticed with faint alarm, rather breathless. Surely he should be past that sort of nervousness . . . I want her, he thought in confusion, looking at her breast and shoulders under the thin shirt: I knew that I would, but it isn’t as simple as that, after all – I want her in so many different ways, apart from the breast, the mouth that promises to be soft. I want her and must have her, on any terms she chooses. But the more closely bound, the better . . . He drew an uneven breath.

‘It’s still progressive,’ he said with difficulty, ‘but now we’ve come to the point when – you’re so lovely – I am a man—’

She said: ‘Oh!’ suddenly, and then: ‘I know very well that you are a man.’ He was aware of tension in her manner also: she was looking away, she might even have coloured slightly. Presently she asked: ‘Couldn’t that be postponed a little longer?’

‘It doesn’t feel like it.’

‘No, it doesn’t, does it?’

‘You know that I love you.’

She nodded her head. ‘Now I do.’

‘And you?’

‘Wait for a few moments.’ She was staring at the water, undecided, troubled as he had never seen her before. But already the air was lighter, the honest day more beautiful, because of what they had said. Now they knew, at least, where the margin of their delight was set.

She was silent for a long time, while the small waves lapped the beach and the sun blessed them; but when she spoke it was in a happier, more confident voice, as if she too were glad that the plain words and thoughts were now before them.

‘I wish,’ she said, turning towards him, ‘that there could be a straightforward “yes” to that question, but it wouldn’t be an accurate answer. We share a lot, don’t we? – that’s been true from the very beginning: we’ve seen it and we’ve felt it happening, and parts of it have been lovely.’ Her eyes, grave and tender, were now regarding him with every sort of honesty. ‘It began during that very first walk home from your party, when we came together at last after having to be apart for the whole evening. Probably we knew that this was the way it would go. You said’ – she smiled vividly – ‘”the walk made the party,” and then we said goodnight.’

‘I thought of kissing you, and then I thought not.’

‘That was the first thought we shared . . . Now we are here, suddenly peaceful in the middle of war: you love and want me, and I—’ She paused, and afterwards her voice was stronger. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘people are always asking me to marry them, or sleep with them.’ From her, in that firm and honest tone, it did not sound crude or awkward. ‘In a war, in my job, surrounded by lots of people, it’s bound to happen: no special merit is attached. Sometimes I think about the proposition, quite seriously, and then there is a false note, or the man is too quick, or the day is too dull, and I walk away from it again.’ For some reason, she leant forward at that moment, and touched his bare arm: her soft fingers were immensely comforting, so that the bleak and terrible thoughts of other men making love to her, which had started to devour his brain, melted away on the instant. ‘Now there is you,’ she went on, ‘and you are none of those bad things. There have been no false notes, you have matched my own pace, my own will, and no day with you is dull.’

He covered her hand with his own, and felt it move slightly. He looked up and said: ‘As long as we
both
tremble a little, I don’t think we need tell anybody about it.’

‘Oh, I can tremble for you . . . Look,’ she said again, ‘with you I am on the edge of love, the very edge. There are things about you I like, things about you I respect, things that I love already, other things that are surprising. This afternoon, we’ve discovered something else – or almost discovered it.’

As she paused again, he nodded, and said: ‘A new thing, but in line with the rest. The senses, the first stirring. It has been sweet.’

‘It has been frightening . . . I don’t mean that I’ve been afraid of suddenly looking up and finding you lying on top of me: I mean that it is altogether a new thing, and I have never felt it so strongly before.’

‘And with all that?’

‘With all that, the edge of love still.’