In the sudden silence Foley could imagine what the departing telegraphist would be thinking, remembering.
There were no words needed. Bush had already had a drink with him before the messdeck farewell. A good hand, one of the longest serving in this boat. His replacement was arriving some time today. They said.
He held out his hand. ‘You’re doing the right thing, Sparks. Good luck. It wasn’t all bad, was it?’
Bush grinned. ‘Thanks, sir.’ It was all he could muster.
Foley stood back in the wardroom and watched the bustling throng; they were making heavy going up the ladder, where either the Crusher or one of his regulating staff would be waiting to see Bush safely to his transport.
He rejoined Claridge and solemnly poured another drink.
‘He’ll be missed. It was bad enough when my Number One left.’ He shook his head as more shouts and laughter drifted down from the upper deck. ‘But his successor has done well.
Is
doing well, by the sound of it!’
Allison appeared at the door, his cap in his hand, his hair looking as if it had been combed with a rake.
But he was grinning. ‘Glad I missed
that
, sir!’ He nodded to Claridge. ‘Telephone call at the ship’s office. Lieutenant-Commander Brayshaw caught me as I came aboard.’
‘Did he say who?’
Allison shook his head. ‘Not a word.’
Claridge stood up as if to leave but Foley said, ‘Finish
the gin. I feel like opening another!’ In fact he did not. His head was pounding like a drum, and the brutal sadness of Bush’s farewell had touched him in a way he would have thought unlikely, something he could not afford to show.
For Claridge it would be worse. Four men killed, two wounded. They might be ordered to sea tomorrow, where a wrong move or some hesitant newcomer could bring chaos or disaster.
He arrived at the ship’s office slightly calmer, his head clear again. It was cold and still misty; probably far worse over the Bill, he thought.
Brayshaw was not in the office. A leading writer pointed to a telephone on the desk.
‘Might have been disconnected, sir. Lot of traffic today.’ He collected an empty mug. ‘I’ll leave you alone, sir.’
Foley picked up the telephone.
‘Lieutenant Foley here.’
It was quite silent, so that other noises seemed to intrude. Typewriters, and the monotonous clatter of a teleprinter. Somebody on another telephone. And then her voice, so clear that she could have been here beside him.
‘Chris, it’s me, Margot.’
‘Where are you? Are you all right? I heard . . .’
She laughed, or it could have been a sob. ‘Don’t talk. I’ve run out of time. I could hardly get through.’ She broke off, as if somebody had come in and was listening. When she spoke again he could hear her breathing, her lips touching the mouthpiece. ‘I’m being allowed back.
Tomorrow, or maybe the next day. It’s all fixed.’ Again the hesitation. ‘You are pleased, Chris?’
He said, ‘I can’t wait to see you.’ He tried again. ‘I can’t wait!’
Someone banged open the door, apologized and slammed it shut.
Foley heard neither. He said, ‘Are you recovered enough? They told me . . .’
She interrupted him. ‘I shall call you as soon as I can.’
There was a scraping noise on the line. He said quickly, ‘I love you.’
But the line was dead.
Paymaster Lieutenant-Commander Brayshaw entered the office and said, ‘Not too late, then?’ He smiled gravely. ‘I’m glad.
Very
.’
Foley stared around the office, unable to believe what he had just said. What would she think?
Brayshaw was saying, ‘I spoke to her for a few minutes while I sent someone to find you. She sounded fine.’
He thought of the day in that same car, when they had been waiting for Masters, and after the explosion when he had appeared, helping the young rating at the gate. He had thought then, a girl who would be easy to love, but probably a stranger to it herself. And after the crash, when he had watched them together. He had felt it then.
‘Light duties for a while, of course. But she told me she wants to drive again.’ He remembered her husky laughter on the telephone.
I don’t think they’ll trust me with an old Austin Seven after this, sir!
‘It might be too soon for her, sir.’
Brayshaw looked at the telephone as it rang again, from another extension this time.
‘She thinks not, Chris. And remember Trafalgar Day, will you?’
‘I’m sorry, sir?’
Brayshaw had his hand over the mouthpiece and was smiling broadly.
‘It’s her birthday, you see.’
Masters folded his arms and pressed his spine against the iron-hard chair. There were about thirty people present in the Vault, only a few of whom he recognized. He glanced over to the midget submarine where Rear-Admiral Bumper Fawcett was sitting, with an aide who was endeavouring to make notes in the hard overhead lighting. Seated on his other side was Sally, the Wren third officer who had often worked in the office at
Vernon
.
They had all met in the lobby and Fawcett had said casually, ‘Of course, you know Second Officer Kemp, don’t you? I was forgetting.’ He had turned away to snap something at his driver and Masters had said, ‘Congratulations on your promotion, Sally. You’re on his staff too, I see.’
There had been no time left, but Bumper had insisted they have a drink before joining the conference. It could hardly begin without him.
To proclaim a victory. A conquest. He had seen Fawcett’s hand on her shoulder while he was looking at some paper she was holding for him. The hand
had moved to her hip, and she had not protested or stepped away.
Masters said, ‘I’m not sure I should comment on . . .’
She had retorted, ‘Then don’t – it’s none of your business,
sir
!’ She had reached out unconsciously and touched his arm. ‘But thanks.’ She had let it drop to her side again. ‘Can we leave it now?’
He had always thought he knew Sally quite well. Obviously, he had been mistaken. It also explained why Fawcett was not sleeping at
Osprey
tonight.
Somebody coughed and that started a chain of coughs, like a protest.
He had touched one of the fat radiators when he arrived. It had felt like ice.
Osprey
’s Staff Engineer Officer was delivering his conclusions on the midget submarine. The electric power unit could offer five knots and no more, so that point-blank range would be required for any certainty of a hit when using the single torpedo.
The imposing surgeon captain had already covered the other risks taken by any one-man crew, exhaustion, lack of sleep, loss of direction, failure to find the target, oxygen supply breakdown.
He had seen several faces turn towards the other bench, but it was empty now save for a rolled white sheet and the wrist compass.
A mines expert spoke next, but he could add little to what was already known. The midget had been fitted with a container for carrying mines; the mechanism had already been sent to H.M.S.
Vernon
for the boffins to pit their skills against their opposite numbers in
Germany. He had disclosed one piece of intelligence. The mines were of a new type, small and therefore easy to distribute. More to the point, a fuse had been removed from the container, which was apparently fitted with a photo-electric cell. Masters had been aware of the eyes directed towards him. Another new fuse? One which might be sensitive to light, or even the passing of a shadow?
‘Then there’s no time to be lost, is there?’ Masters had not seen him arrive, but there was no mistaking the crisp tones of Captain James Wykes. He leaned forward but stopped, imagining for a moment that the light and shadows were playing tricks, like the first time he had seen her, in London.
She was standing by one of the concrete pillars, dressed in dark clothing, only her face pale in the glare. Her hands were invisible and he realized she was holding them beneath her armpits, and was shivering.
She was looking at him, had perhaps already seen him before the first speaker had taken up his position by the trestles.
With Wykes, or was she still in company with the French officer?
He beckoned, and saw her shake her head.
There had been a break; somebody was asking the speaker to repeat some figures for his notes. Masters stood up and crossed to the pillar.
‘You must be freezing. Come and sit over there. At least this will keep you a little warmer.’ He unbuttoned the greatcoat. ‘You can christen it for me.’
She seemed about to protest, then let her hands fall
as he draped the heavy coat over her shoulders. He sensed a sudden resistance when he touched her elbow and guided her towards the chair beside his own.
‘I had no idea you would be here.’
She might have shrugged. ‘I did not know myself, until the very last minute.’ She glanced at the bright gold lace by her chin. ‘Don’t you feel the cold, Commander Masters?’
He smiled. ‘Only when I’m being put in my place.’
She looked at him directly, as he remembered. ‘It was good of you. I thought they could afford some heat for the occasion!’
The lights came on even more brightly, revealing the worn stone and damp brickwork; people were on their feet, peering at their notes and one another. A few were gathering around the midget submarine which had somehow dominated throughout the conference.
She said, ‘I saw you speaking to that girl, the Wren officer, before I came into this ice-box!’
‘She used to work with me sometimes. Very reliable, too.’
She smiled faintly. ‘I know that look. I recognized it. I believe the young lady in question had rather deeper feelings than that for you?’
‘Ah, here you are!’ It was Wykes, this time in uniform, and in the ruthless lighting even more crumpled than when they had last met. The four gold stripes on his jacket were almost brown with age, and a floppy handkerchief flowing from his breast pocket added to the impression of a retired actor recalled to play an old and necessary role. He smiled and touched the
greatcoat. ‘Suits you, Elaine! I’m glad he’s taking care of you.’
A lieutenant hurried past but paused to murmur something. Wykes turned and gave a mock bow.
‘Good to see you, Keith! I thought we might get a speech out of you too, eh?’
Keith.
It was Bumper Fawcett, a grin on his face, and certainly no resentment at such casual informality. Masters also noticed that they made a point of not shaking hands.
Fawcett said, ‘James and I go back a long way.’ He beamed and touched the gleaming lace on his own sleeve. ‘But I made it – that’s the difference!’ He looked at his watch. ‘Must be off. I’ve some other business to deal with.’
He slapped Wykes’ arm. ‘We must meet, discuss things, what?’ He nodded to the others. ‘Business first!’ He strode away.
Wykes opened his cigarette case. ‘I saw the “business” just now.’ He shook his head. ‘He never changes.’
Then he, too, hurried away.
Masters said, ‘Are you really going up to London again tonight?’
She was looking past him, so that he was at liberty to study the chestnut hair, the high cheekbones. Beneath his coat she was wearing what appeared to be dark blue battledress, almost a uniform without markings.
‘I expect so. It all depends . . .’ She did not finish.
A voice called, ‘Drinks will be served in the wardroom, gentlemen.’ A pause. ‘And ladies, of course.’
Someone shouted back, ‘Quite right, too!’
‘I’ve got a driver somewhere. If I could drop you . . .’ He glanced up as a few flakes of cracked paintwork drifted through the glare like falling snow.
People were leaving now, some obviously relieved that the conference was over. The conclusions would be drawn later; others would make the decisions.
She had her hands up to the collar of his greatcoat, ready to slip out of it, to break the contact.
He said, ‘You’d be quite safe, with me, I mean.’
She nodded slowly. ‘I would make sure of it, Commander Masters,’ and looked past him. A lieutenant had appeared from nowhere.
‘A call for you, sir. In the commander’s office . . . sorry to interrupt, miss.’
Masters said, ‘Please excuse me, Elaine.’ He did not see her surprise, or her sudden concern. ‘Don’t go, please.’
Wykes joined her. ‘Getting along all right, Elaine? He’s a good chap, uses his brains.’ He touched the greatcoat. ‘Not his rank.’
‘He was just called away.’
‘I know. Bad news, I’m afraid. One of his team died – just now, as a matter of fact.’
She thought of the falling paint flakes. The look on his face. As if someone had shouted, and he had been the only one in the place able to hear it.
Wykes said calmly, ‘You’ll be working together, up to a point. If you can’t do it this is the best, maybe the only, time to say so.’
They walked in silence together, and when they reached the main building it seemed almost tropical
in comparison. But she did not remove the greatcoat; if anything, she held it closer across her breast, and the brooch that glittered there whenever it caught the light.
She saw
Osprey
’s commander standing by an open fireplace, gazing up at a huge painting of Nelson’s
Victory
breaking the French line at Trafalgar, although he did not appear to be seeing it.
The office door was open and she saw Masters by a desk, one hand gripping its edge.
She recalled how protective he had been; she had been surprised by her own reaction. She was not unaware of glances, or the casual touch of hands. Like the young Wren officer she had seen in the lobby, and later sitting beside the rear-admiral nicknamed ‘Bumper’. She could cope. Had coped, until her guard had dropped. And yet, just now, she had felt something like a challenge.
She saw him put down the telephone, with great care. As if it mattered. He turned and stared at her, but, like
Osprey
’s commander, she knew he did not see her.
She said, ‘I may have to go soon.’ She ran one hand up and over the gold lace. ‘You’ll be wanting this.’
She walked across the carpet, her eyes never leaving his.
He said, ‘A sub-lieutenant, one of the trainees. John Mannering . . . His father once served with mine, can you imagine?’