‘Yes. I think we may.’ She regarded him as if coming to a decision. ‘I am Elaine.’ She turned up the collar, the rain still sparkling like diamonds, as if to prove that they had spoken only for a few minutes. ‘Elaine de Courcy.’
Masters watched her leave, imagined her getting into a car with the French captain. And later . . .
‘Your cognac, sir.’ The waiter had returned.
‘Thanks.’
Just in time.
He looked at the empty chair, seeing her there. Imagining her with someone else. How it would be.
Why was he making an idiot of himself, when he needed all his senses? Perhaps it was Wykes’ way of involving him completely.
She had the same name as the collaborator. She wore no rings; in any case she was too young to be his wife. Daughter, then? The glass was empty. He signalled to the waiter, but the little man shook his head and said sadly, ‘I’m afraid that will have to suffice for tonight, sir. I’m so sorry . . .’
Masters touched his arm. ‘I know, my friend. The war. I’ll just have to wait until tomorrow!’
They both laughed, but this time no one turned to stare.
He picked up the lighter and thought of her hand, so close, holding it out to him.
And it mattered.
As soon as the train pulled into Dorchester station Masters sensed that something had changed. It had been a long, slow journey, one of those special trains that seemed to move only at night. The powers-that-be obviously thought it a good way to avoid feeding anyone.
At Poole he had hurried from the train while some troops were being offloaded and checked by their NCOs, and attempted to telephone the base. He had been unsuccessful, and most of the telephone kiosks had been occupied in any case.
The town was even busier. He was tired and uncomfortable and needed a shave and a clean shirt, if only to make himself feel normal again. There was an unfamiliar car and driver waiting; he had been expecting it, but somehow it still came as a surprise.
The driver, another Wren, was very different as well, with short blonde hair poking out from beneath her cap
and a cheeky, pretty face which, he noticed, was quick to respond to the whistles that came her way.
But she saluted and took his suitcase, her eyes taking in every detail of his unshaven appearance.
Masters had stood in the train’s corridor for the remainder of the journey after Poole, having given his reserved seat to a young A.T.S. subaltern who had been sitting on her luggage. She had looked worn out, and her brilliant smile of gratitude had been worth the apparent resentment of his seated companions.
‘Has something happened while I’ve been away?’ He watched the Wren toss his case into the back of the car, half expecting it to fly open. He was no match for Petty Officer Coker’s expertise.
She stared at him, wide-eyed, obviously pleased that she had found somebody who had not heard the news.
‘It was on the wireless, sir! Our midget submarines have clobbered the battleship
Tirpitz
!’ She flushed. ‘Sorry, sir. I meant that they exploded their charges under her.’ But the excitement was irrepressible. ‘Right up there, in the Norwegian fjord where she was holed up!’
Masters recalled Bumper Fawcett’s interest, perhaps even involvement, with the midget subs, X-Craft as they were officially known. And they had done it. But at what cost? He might even know some of those who had taken part. It was hard not to compare, or to remember.
Tirpitz
was Germany’s last true battleship, probably the most powerful in the world. While she had been lying in her fjord, out of range of most air attacks and safe from surface damage behind her booms and nets, she was
a constant menace. If she had broken out and reached the Atlantic no convoy would be safe; no escort could hope to survive her massive armament. And while she was ‘holed up’, by her very existence she had tied down capital ships and, more to the point, the many desperately needed destroyers and cruisers which were required to screen their heavier consorts.
Nobody needed reminding that her sister ship,
Bismarck
, had broken out of her lair just over two years ago, and had sunk the battlecruiser
Hood
with the loss of all but three of her company. She had also put the brand-new battleship
Prince of Wales
to flight;
her tail between her legs
, the German press had gleefully announced.
Bismarck
had been sunk before she had been able to reach an Atlantic coastal base, but it had taken the skill and courage of the pilot of an elderly Swordfish torpedo bomber and half the Home Fleet to achieve it.
Masters recalled what Fawcett had said about Italian frogmen and their explosive motor boats. Courage and determination could bring down a giant.
He got into the car, an old Humber this time, while the little blonde Wren held the door for him. She smiled broadly as two army warrant officers marched past and saluted, although there was no need at this crowded station.
One, a regimental sergeant-major with a moustache like a brush, said as he passed, ‘That’ll show ’em, sir! Well done!’
It was the uniform.
A part of it.
Something they all wanted to share.
He noticed that there were several dents in the car’s
doors and wings, which even the camouflage paint did not disguise. She slipped behind the wheel and he wondered idly how she managed to see over the long bonnet. The clutch went in with a jerk, and he felt the ache in his back which rarely troubled him any more.
‘Sorry, sir!’ She was watching him in the mirror and must have seen his expression, and slapped her fist on the horn as an armoured scout car pulled out of the yard in front of her. She murmured,
‘Idiot!’
The other driver put out his hand in a brief but obscene gesture.
Fortunately, as far as he remembered, it was only five or six miles to the coast.
He turned to watch a group of sailors spilling out of the station, looking around for their transport and loaded down with bags and hammocks. Joining a ship somewhere, and obviously all strangers to one another. But the same infectious excitement had already drawn them together. On the plans and maps at the Admiralty’s command bunker the effect of the X-Craft attack on
Tirpitz
would already be measured in careful statistics. More escorts freed for the vital convoys to North Russia, and capital ships, spared from their endless vigil in case the great battleship should break out of Norway, to lend their support in theatres of war where they were truly needed. But to the ordinary seamen it was more personal. For the
Hood
, and all who had died with her.
Or, as the sergeant-major had remarked,
‘That’ll show ’em!’
He saw the first hedgerows as the car turned onto the
familiar road; it seemed impossible that he had been away for so short a time. Dry branches scraped along the side of the door and he winced, and felt his stubble catch on his collar. He knew from experience that things could change very quickly, and it was still less than a month since he had taken this appointment. He confronted it once more. Since he had replaced Critchley.
He had gone over the London visit again and again in his thoughts. He had not seen Wykes before he had left, but had received a scribbled note of thanks from him, ending with
Will be in touch.
Perhaps nothing would come of it. But he had thought of the woman called Elaine de Courcy more than he cared to admit. He had not seen her, either. He tried to shrug it off. Nor had he seen her escort, Capitaine Lalonde.
But he could not forget how she had looked, her direct manner of speaking . . . testing him perhaps, for Wykes, or for reasons of her own?
He saw the farm gates and then the old house as it loomed above the ragged trees.
He said, ‘I’ll not be long. I need to change and make a couple of phone calls.’
The little Wren nodded.
‘I’ll be here, sir.’
Petty Officer Coker had the door open before he could climb the worn steps.
‘Heard you were coming, sir. The R.T.O. called from Dorchester.’ He took the case, glancing at the Wren by the car. ‘Made it without killing anybody, did she?’
Masters walked into the hallway. It was as if the house had been waiting for him. So still. Waiting.
Coker was saying, ‘I’ve got a bath running, and some coffee on the go. You’ll feel as right as rain, sir.’ He took Masters’ jacket and studied it critically. ‘A quick press, I think.’ Then he beamed, ‘What about
Tirpitz
, sir? One in the eye for Jerry!’
Masters walked into the other room and looked at the telephone on the desk. There was a long envelope which Coker must have propped beside it, with Philip Brayshaw’s name and rank printed in one corner.
He loosened his tie and perched on the arm of the chair. He dared not lie down.
He heard Coker bustling along the landing, whistling to himself. Glad to have things to do again. Glad to be in charge.
The envelope contained one signal pad flimsy, written in Brayshaw’s fine, almost copperplate hand.
A full report of the MLs’ action was waiting for him, with details of damage, if any, and casualties. All three boats were once again ready for operational work with the countermeasures team. He had already heard about the war correspondent who had been killed aboard Lieutenant-Commander Brock’s boat; there had been a long and solemn announcement after the B.B.C. news, just before he had met Elaine de Courcy in the hotel restaurant.
His mind lingered on the last item. A new officer was joining the Land Incident Team. Eventually he would replace Clive Sewell at Portland . . . Masters felt his head drop but roused himself with effort.
He was joining today.
Coker was waiting for him when he emerged from the bathroom.
‘That was quick, sir!’
Masters buttoned the clean shirt. In submarines you soon learned to wash and dress standing on a pocket handkerchief.
‘In the past, did you ever have a young woman named de Courcy visit here?’
Coker fenced the question. ‘Would that be a foreign lady, sir?’ He shook his head. ‘A few ladies did come here, from time to time. Commander Critchley’s friends – guests, that is.’ He was clearly uncomfortable.
Masters glanced at the wardrobe mirror, where the uniform had been hanging.
‘You’d remember this one, all right.’
Coker was polishing the peak of Masters’ cap with a duster. ‘Of course, sir, it’s not for me to say, or speak ill of the dead, but Commander Critchley had quite a way with the ladies. Nothing serious, of course, he an’ ’is wife were like one person together.’
Masters took the cap, vaguely satisfied. Coker had dropped an aitch.
He swung round as a clock chimed somewhere in the house; he recalled seeing a tall grandfather clock when he had first arrived, but he had never heard it strike.
Coker grinned. ‘That young seaman, Downie, he’s been a tower of strength while you’ve been away, sir. He’s made things work which I’ve
never
seen in use – he even repaired my old watch. He’s a marvel with anything electrical or mechanical.’
Masters walked to the stairwell. No matter how big
the war became, the small, personal touches remained. And they mattered.
He could still hear Downie’s despairing cry.
He was my friend.
He started down the stairs. ‘Could you call that army hospital for me? Find out how our Wren Lovatt is getting on?’
Coker watched him pause to examine the old clock. He called, ‘She’s bin moved, sir. I called meself, yesterday.’
He heard the car roar into life as the front door closed behind Masters’ shadow.
He thought of the talks he had had with the kid, Downie, while he had worked on some repair job or other. About the officer who had been killed. Not like hero worship, but the kind of deep friendship you rarely discovered outside service life. Some might sneer at it; others might be more suggestive. But Coker had stood at so many tables and listened to his various charges, his officers, that he had learned not to fall in with the easy smut.
And Masters, who seemed to have no life of his own beyond duty and authority, could still find time to care about the lonely ones like Downie. He smiled. He should think a little more about his own troubles.
He studied the telephone, which was linked to the one downstairs. Where he had last seen her. It must be the same woman; she had been enough to turn any bloke’s head. He had thought so at the time . . .
He heard one of his messmen clattering about in the ‘galley’, as the P.O. chef called it, and looked at his
own sleeve.
Get three gilt buttons on your sleeves, and a chief petty officer’s badge, and you can say what you like. Until then, keep your thoughts to yourself.
He heard the car roar out of the gate. Lieutenant-Commander Masters would have to watch his step. After that other telephone call, he had never seen Commander Critchley again.
The Officer-of-the-Day was in a bad mood. The whole thing had got off to a really foul beginning. It had started at Colours when the captain, of all people, had noticed that some ratings out of the rig of the day had been loitering near the quarterdeck, a couple of them not even bothering to salute when the ensign had broken out in the stiff breeze. You could never be too careful with Captain Hubert Chavasse, especially when you were the O.O.D. He stared out of a window, hating what he saw. A silted-up creek, half cluttered with wrecked or damaged vessels. An old school building and some bricked-up cottages, and yet Chavasse insisted on treating it as if it was Whale Island’s gunnery school, or some other crack establishment. It took more than barbed wire and the White Ensign to perform miracles.
He saw Jowitt,
the master-at-arms, watching him from his own little lobby. The Jaunty would be enjoying it, seeing an officer all screwed up at the start of his day.
He looked at the clock. Masters would not be back for an hour. The Operations officer was adamant.
We have to deal with it. There’s a flap on.
There usually was in this damned place, he thought.
The master-at-arms was speaking with his subordinate, the regulating petty officer, the crusher, as his breed was known on the lower deck. He saw Jowitt nod, his heavy face giving nothing away. Then, unhurriedly, he marched down his little path and waited for the officer to open the door.