‘Going to watch our carrier coming home, are you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Most of ‘em are down at King Point,’ the driver said. ‘Sure you want the Hoe?’
‘The Hoe,’ Hob answered. ‘I was in Furious. She’s badly damaged, coming home for repair.’
The grizzled head in the front seat nodded slowly: ‘I get it.’
The taxi jerked onwards, began climbing Lockyer Street. At the top, Hob stopped the cab. He got out and, fumbling for money, paid the driver off in silence.
‘She’s our ship, too,’ the cabman said.
‘Keep the change, then.’ They grinned at each other. The driver let in the clutch, turned, waved, then vanished down the side street.
Hob walked up to the crest of the hill, where the soft turf of the Hoe crowned the ancient city. As he neared the memorial to the dead of two World Wars, its grey granite tinged salmon-pink by the rays from the setting sun, he saw that the Hoe was surprisingly deserted. Along the edge to the Sound down below, by the Citadel and across to King Point, he could hear the murmuring of the crowds, the braying of car horns. He was glad he had come up here.
He saw the tugs, three of them, out in the Sound, darkened except for their navigation lights which were already pin-pricks of white, green and red… He found a corner by a group of shrubs, away from the few silent watchers. He sat down, hands clasping his knees.
The sun was dipping below the distant Cornish hills. The far breakwater was in the shadows now, the granite bastion a darkening thread where it merged with the indigo waters of the Sound.
Hob heard the murmuring from a group of watchers not far away. A child was pointing … and there she was, the great ship, slowly emerging from the dusk across Cawsand Bay. He could see her clearly now, bows-on, forging slowly ahead and still carrying her port list. Even from up here, high on the Hoe, he could hear her band, thumping out ‘Devon, Devon by the sea’ the strains of the music drifting defiantly across the Sound.
A woman was sobbing not far away. And, alone in the dusk, he allowed the pent-up tears to course down his own cheeks. As the carrier drew nearer, he saw the tugs nudging towards her, standing-by … and on she came, majestically, her band now silent. Old Chough had declined the tug’s hawsers and was bringing her in himself.
She was altering course around Drake Island. As she turned, down by the stern and still listing heavily, she showed her terrible wounds: the huge, jagged holes in her side and island, the charred paintwork and twisted steel, the damaged aircraft jumbled together on the flight deck. Her tattered battle ensign still flapped at her yardarm in the evening breeze, her rear-admiral’s flag fluttering proudly at the truck. It was a miracle that she had survived to reach her home port.
The cheering started down below, from the Citadel; then, taking up the chorus, the crowds along King Point joined the greeting, the noise echoing against the woods and shoreline of Trevol.
Her company was fallen in on the flight deck, her guard across the stern. The Royal Marines were splendid, immaculate in their number ones amidst the terrible damage. They stamped to attention us Furious slid past Admiralty House. Hob spotted John Bellairs at attention, in front of his side party on the saluting deck.
And then Hob saw the tall, stooping figure ambling from the bridge doorway.
Trevellion stood above the others, slowly and deliberately raising his hand to the peak of his cap. The captain remained there, alone, for a long moment. The cheers swelled, drowning the answering salutes from the tugs’ hooters. Then Trevellion turned, waved briefly to the people ashore, and walked slowly back into his bridge. Old Chough had come home.
Hob watched the carrier growing smaller, as she glided up-river towards Devonport: she must be in a bad way to go straight up tonight but the dockyard maties had turned out specially to take her in.
He rose to his feet, stared towards the darkening Channel to where Eddystone was blinking now. In the Sound, the escorting frigates were taking up their anchorages for the night, their cables rattling in the darkness. Hob turned slowly, began walking across the turf. He reached the path and strolled towards the monument. From the shadows a woman emerged, a child clutching at each hand.
‘Excuse me,’ she said softly.
She was a good-looker in a strong sort of way. Her black hair was partly covered by a bandage which a woollen cap, pulled down low, was failing to conceal.
Though tense and drawn, she’d be about twenty-eight, he’d guess.
‘Hullo,’ Hob said. He smiled at the kids.
‘I thought you must be from the carrier,’ she said. ‘You’re a pilot, aren’t you?
I saw the wings on your sweater.’
‘That’s right.’ He held out his hand. ‘Lieutenant Gamble -814 Squadron’.
She was hesitating, at a loss for words:
‘Mrs Fane; Gwendoline Fane.’ She spoke rapidly. ‘I’ve a friend in the ship.’ She was difficult to hear.
‘Yes?’ Hob waited, giving her time.
‘I want to know if he’s all right.’ She hesitated, then added shyly, ‘But you’d never know him in a big ship like her.’ She tossed her head towards the vanishing carrier. The children were tugging at her hands.
‘Can you give me his name?’
‘Osgood, sir. Thomas Osgood. He’s an aircrewman.’
She was staring at him. He turned from her; faced the sea. A gull mewed down by the Barbican.
‘C’mon, Mum. It’s cold,’ the boy said, tugging at her wrist.
He did not know how long he remained there, silent.
‘Did you know him at all?’ the woman persisted.
He swung back to face her.
‘I was his pilot. He was my aircrewman.’
She looked up, whispering the word, ‘Was?’ ‘Ozzie’s missing,’ he said softly.
‘He disappeared when we got out of our aircraft it was sinking. If it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t be here.’
She tried to smother the cry, but a moan escaped from the knuckles she had forced into her mouth. Her eyes stared up at him, wild, uncomprehending. She grabbed her children, turned, began hurrying from him. He ran after her, barring her way:
‘Mrs Fane!’
She released her children and fell against him, wracked by silent sobbing. He took the children’s hands.
‘I’ll take you home,’ he said. ‘Let me take you all home, Mrs Fane.’
He could barely catch her words. ‘To the hostel, please. They bombed my house.’
In the dark, four figures walked slowly to the summit of the Hoe: two children, a man and a woman. Above them, in the gathering darkness, the seagulls, squawking, white wings beating, flew inland towards the red fields of Devon.
Another officer had travelled down from London to watch the home-coming of HMS
Furious. In the gathering dusk Sir Anthony Layde, requesting from his host the privilege of solitude, stood alone in the garden of Admiralty House. Capless, he watched the night clouds building up from the west. In a few minutes, he would be joining the vice-admiral for dinner. Afterwards, Layde would put ‘him fully in the picture — the day’s developments were still secret until the Prime Minister addressed the nation after the news.
The hot lines had been busy all day: the Soviets were calling for a truce. In only ten days this war had cost the enemy the certain destruction of 233 submarines. Many more must be damaged and struggling to reach their home ports and the score of enemy surface casualties could only be guessed at.
The Soviets were still refusing to quit Norway. Yesterday they were threatening to annihilate the West’s cities if Nato did not agree to an immediate cease-fire at sea. Soviet Delta us, the Russian leaders asserted, could ‘take out’ our cities without even leaving the shelter of the Barents Sea or the Kuriles. Their SSBNS, the Kremlin claimed, were inviolable, unsinkable.