A Prayer for the Ship (25 page)

Voices sounded outside, and the Quartermaster peered in.

“Officers' mail, sir, an' one parcel for the First Lieutenant. Registered.”

A silence fell in the wardroom as the seaman left, and all eyes were on the package in Carver's hands.

“Well, here it is. Open it, sir,” grinned Carver, and thrust it towards him.

Royce took it awkwardly, and turned it over and over in his grasp. Leach produced a knife, and he found himself tearing off the wrappings. He never knew quite what he had expected, but the article which suddenly came to light, left him speechless.

“Good God!” he gasped. “Look!” He sounded helpless, which he was. “I can't give her this. There's nothing of it!”

It lay on the polished table, across an open copy of Admiralty Fleet Orders. It was black, a thing of beauty, but almost transparent. In fact, as the round-eyed Leach leaned forward, he gasped, “Gosh, I can read the new A.F.O.s about fire buckets right through both sides of it!”

Carver was a little shaken, but did his best not to show it. “Well, that's it,” he said defiantly. “It happens to be the best that cash can procure. I didn't know the old blighter was sending me quite such a passionate outfit, but now that he has, believe me, any girl'd give her eyes for it!”

“Blast your eyes, this isn't any girl!” spluttered Royce. “She'll get the wrong idea completely. And now the shops are all shut till after Christmas! What have you done!” He sat down heavily, staring at the nightdress, while the others stood uncertainly by the table. Carver, as usual, rose to the occasion. “I think some very excellent pink gins are called for. And a great deal of thought.”

“Make mine a very large one,” said Royce weakly. “What are you going to do?” Leach was hopping with excitement.

Royce reached for the glass. “God only knows!”

“I can't imagine what you're worried about,” said Carver evenly. “After all, she won't be expecting a present at all, so you can say you got it in Ireland, that you won it, or something.”

“But I've never been to Ireland, and in any case, you don't just win things like this!” He reached out cautiously, and touched it. It was beautiful. In fact, the thought of Julia actually wearing it made his head swim. “Blast it!” he croaked. “I'll have to think of something.”

Funnily enough, it was Leach who settled the matter, when Royce had practically acknowledged defeat. “Why not tell her the truth? Tell her what really happened.”

The other two stared at him, and slowly their faces relaxed. It was a solution. Not quite what Royce was looking for, but a solution. The decision was made, the box and wrapping produced, and the contract was sealed.

The rest was up to him.

The morning of Christmas Eve was a memorable one, both for the weather, and for the spirit of friendly comradeship which hung over the boat. Normally, the idea of Divisions, and a church service, with all the necessary business of changing into best uniforms, and other forms of regimentation, is repellent to sailors serving in small craft, but today, as they fell in by watches on the long fo'c'sle, Royce sensed a feeling of oneness with these men, whom he led, and who trusted him. Curiously enough, he had never seen them all together on his own boat before for such a ceremony, as normally in harbour, Church Parties went to the Depot Ship, which boasted all the facilities, and he felt pride and affection, as he saw the Petty Officers, and Leading Seamen, reporting their men to Carver. Even Leach, immaculate in his new uniform, looked a different person from the tousle-headed boy he normally saw about his duties.

Carver had mustered the hands, and called them to attention. He turned smartly about and saluted. “Divisions mustered for Church, sir,” he snapped.

Royce returned the salute, and for a brief moment they stood eye to eye. Carver alert, and waiting for the next order, and Royce wondering what it was that the Navy had, what tradition or quality made these men, who had been raw amateurs like he had been, into part of the Service. Had made them a team, proud and jealous of their heritage, although if questioned, all would have denied it. He could not find the answer. Instead, he said, “Carry on.”

Carver turned, and carried on.

As the order “Off caps” was given, the Church Pennant broke out smartly from the yard, and a silence fell over the boat. Tucking his cap under his arm, Royce stepped forward, his eye taking in the scene as if it was a picture.

The seamen stood in their straight lines, rolling gently to the slight harbour-swell. Here and there, a blue collar flapped in the crisp air, and a lock of hair moved. Overhead, a high-flying gull screamed angrily, and somewhere, in the far distance, there was a rumble of cable, as a frigate dropped anchor.

His clear, steady voice gave strength and realism to the prayers, in which sailors have joined for many generations. He lifted his eyes from the book, as he came to the lines which he knew by heart, and looked at the lowered heads, and the proudly curling ensign.

“. . . be pleased to receive into Thy Almighty and most gracious protection, the persons of us Thy servants, and the Fleet in which we serve. Preserve us from the dangers of the sea, and from the violence of the enemy . . .” It was all there.

After the short service, he carried out his inspection, speaking to every man, and trying to fathom the mysteries of each moulded face. Raikes, the calm professional, compact and steady as a rock, and in the line behind him, Manners, looking more like a hippopotamus than ever with his bulging stomach. Ash, the ex-butcher's boy, Archer, the Newfoundlander, with his permanent grin, and Petty Officer Anderson, looking quite out of place without his overalls and grease-gun. Finally it was over, and the hands were dismissed, with a Christmas greeting, to go for their rum.

Royce stood in his cabin, eyeing his reflection in the glass. It was nearly time to leave for the station, and he could feel the excitement rising within him. He gave his jacket a final brush, and went on deck, where his two officers waited by the ladder.

“Motor-boat just put off from the railway jetty to collect you, sir,” announced Leach.

“Good luck,” smiled Carver. “Bring her back safely.”

“I'm going to need all the boat's share of luck, that you're always talking about,” said Royce, eyeing the distant railway. “Still, thanks all the same.”

The station was practically deserted, as all the people with Christmas leave had long since departed for their homes, and as Royce strode up and down the grimy platform, with nervous impatience, he wondered what stroke of fate had decided that he and Julia should have met on this very place, such a short time ago.

He stamped into the unheated waiting-room, with its smell of carefully preserved dirt, and looked unseeingly at the security posters. “Careless talk costs lives” announced one, and “A loose lip means a lost ship” said another. He frowned and looked at his watch, for the twentieth time. I wonder if—he pondered, and then he heard it, the distant, shrill whistle of the engine. He wrenched open the door, and watched the little train wheeze into the station, and stop with a final shudder. Porters shouted hoarsely, doors opened and banged, and several passengers alighted. A few workmen from the aircraft factory outside the port, some marines, several sailors, and then, when his heart was beginning to sink, he saw her step down from the end carriage, and stand quite still on the platform. For a full moment, he stood rooted to the ground, watching her, once again thrilled by her nearness, and filled with the desire to protect her from everything, and everybody. The next thing he knew, his legs were hurrying him towards her. She turned, and recognition forced the frown from her face. Instead, she smiled, and Royce, remembering their last good-bye, was, for a moment, completely flustered.

“Why, hello, Clive, I thought you'd forgotten, and I'd be left here stranded,” she laughed.

“I may forget a lot of things, but I'm not likely to do that,” said Royce softly.

“You look very well, Clive. It's nice of you to ask me down like this, although I'm quite sure I'm wrong to accept.”

Then seeing the look of consternation on his face, she smiled up at him.

“I'm only joking, I'm jolly glad I came. Really.”

He seized her by the arm, and picking up her case, steered her to the waiting taxi, the words falling over themselves, as he told her of the ship, the hotel, the fact that he wanted her to go aboard for lunch at once, and a hundred other things.

She was touched. He was so obviously pleased to see her, and so eager to make her happy. She had not known much happiness since the death of both her parents, and then her brother, but now, as she sat beside this taut, young officer, with the worried eyes, she felt in her heart that a real, warm happiness was returning.

“Here we are. The White Hart,” announced Royce, bundling out of the cab. “How long will it take you to get ready?”

“Give me ten minutes,” she laughed. “After all, a girl needs about that, after coming all the way from Scotland!”

He watched her being taken up the wide staircase to her room, unable to take his eyes from her, drinking in the easy grace of her body, as she stepped up the worn carpet, leaving the aged porter breathless. The landlord came out of his little office, and nodded a greeting.

“So she's arrived, has she?” He cracked his lined face into what to him meant a smile. “I hope you're going to behave yourself, although I wouldn't blame you if you didn't.”

Royce met his watery gaze. “Don't worry, I'm afraid you'll probably see more of her than I will. Look after her, won't you? I don't care what it costs.”

“Oh, the real thing, is it, young feller?”

“I sincerely hope so,” said Royce fervently.

The old man put his hand on his shoulders. “Thank you for saying that. You've done quite a bit to restore my faith in human nature. Come and have a whisky while you're waiting. She'll be half an hour, if she says ten minutes.”

Royce knew that it was a rare event for the landlord to “push the boat out,” and he knew too that he was now officially out of the mere “customer” status. The whisky was as genuine as the old man's good wishes, and he leaned against the bar, feeling the spirit warming his inside.

An army Lieutenant suddenly looked up sharply, and sucked in his breath, and the soldier, even as Royce was looking at him, put down his glass, nudged his companion, and said quite audibly, “Gosh, Tom, what a lovely girl!”

Royce turned his head casually, and froze. Julia stood uncertainly at the foot of the stairs, one small hand resting on the rail, looking round the large room. But a new, different Julia. He had never seen her in civilian clothes before, and had never really considered the matter. She had changed into a close-fitting green tweed costume, with a sort of yellow scarf about her throat. Her black hair shone and reflected the many bright lights in the room, and as her eyes found his, they lit up with such beauty, that he heard his own heart pounding.

She walked quickly towards him. Her whole body seeming to revel in the freedom from uniform. No one spoke, but Royce knew that every eye was upon them, admiring her, and envying him.

“There, fifteen minutes exactly. Well, twenty, anyway. I hope you didn't mind my changing?”

“Mind? Good heavens, no, you look marvellous,” said Royce loudly.

Colour rose in her cheeks, and her eyes softened. “Shh, Clive, you're as bad as you were at Rosyth, except that this time we're not drinking tea!”

“Shall we go, Julia?” he said her name carefully, like a jeweller handling a precious gem. “I'd like you to meet my friends.”

As they left the bar, the landlord refilled his glass, and drank it straight down. Then, refilling it yet again, he raised it to the swinging doors. “Happy Christmas to you both,” he said huskily.

The harbour made a brave sight in the watery sunshine, as they reached the jetty, and Royce was surprised to find the motor-boat already waiting for him. Carver was to be congratulated. As they swept up the line of mooring buoys, he pointed gaily to the M.T.B. which swung easily at her wires.

“There she is!”

“Oh, very tiddley, she looks quite big from here.”

They motored alongside, and the bowman hooked on. Royce guided her carefully up the ladder, and on to the deck. His own deck. Another surprise awaited him there, for Carver and the Quartermaster, both in their best uniforms, stood at the salute, while Leach and Raikes stood a little farther inboard, at attention. Obviously Carver was putting on a good show.

He now stepped forward, bowing slightly to the girl who stood at the gangway, an amused smile on her lips.

“Welcome aboard,” he said solemnly. “May I, on behalf of 9779, bid you greeting, and wish you a Happy Christmas, in advance.”

“This is my dreadful assistant,” grinned Royce, and waving the others forward. “And this is Colin Leach, the Third Hand.”

They shook hands warmly, and then Julia turned to Raikes.

“You, I know, don't I?” she said softly. “It's just like old times, isn't it?”

Raikes took her hand in his large paw, and studied her carefully. “It's good to see you again, Miss Harston,” his voice was gruff. “It'll be better'n old times now.”