That evening I read through them all. There were a hundred and twenty-four of them. I was astonished by the frankness of some, by the desire for adventure of others and by the general absence of any realization of the cramped living conditions on board an L.C.T. And then I came to Mrs Dupont’s letter:
26, Doughty Street,
London,
W.C.1
5th July
Dear Sirs,
I understand from Mr Trevor’s article that you will be sailing in the Mediterranean. You are both men who have seen something of the horror of war. And I think, therefore, you will understand and do me the favour I ask.
I am an Englishwoman. I married a Frenchman in 1920. I had met him when I was driving an ambulance in the last war. We had two children — a boy and a girl. In 1940, when the breakthrough occurred, my husband sent Monique to his sister in Italy. A week later I heard that Pierre had been killed on the Meuse. Next day my husband was shot by a band of the Croix de Feu. I joined the stream of refugees to Bordeaux. And because I was English they took me off.
Since she left me in May, 1940, I have had no word of Monique. She was 16 when she went to Italy. Now she should be 22. But I don’t know even if she is still alive. It is horrible not knowing what has happened to her. My husband and my son — I know about them. Monique is all I have left in my life. The thought of her has kept me going through these long weary years.
I have worked to save enough to go to Italy. But recently I was ill and a typist’s savings soon disappear. I have never asked anybody to do this because I wanted to do it myself. But now I feel desperate and your pictures show you warm-hearted, adventurous men who might be willing to do something for a stranger.
She went to Signora Marie Galliani, Via Santa Cecilia 17, Napoli. I have written and cabled since the war — the cable came back marked ‘Whereabouts unknown.’ Attached to this letter you will find a photograph of Monique taken when she was fifteen. Please don’t lose it, for it is the only one I have of her. I enclose a stamped addressed envelope — if you cannot undertake this mission for me will you be kind enough to let me have the photograph back. I would come down to see you, but the truth is that I cannot afford the fare. Will you, therefore, please take the will for the deed and let this letter plead for me as though I were speaking to you myself.
I am sorry to burden you with a request that must come at a time when you have many practical matters to deal with. But you would be doing a great kindness to a woman who has only memories for company if you would find out what has happened to Monique.
Yours beseechingly,
Emily Dupont.
Pinned to the letter was a worn and faded photograph of a long-legged girl with an oval face and eyes and mouth that had a suggestion of laughter. I stared at it for some time, seated on the half-completed bridge as the slanting rays of the dying sun threw the shadow of the ship on the wet sands. I was thinking of the docks at Naples, of the narrow dirty streets below the Castello San Elmo, of Terracina, Cassino, Formia, and all the other towns where the rubble had been ground fine in the jaws of war. This photograph might be the likeness of a beautiful girl or the memory of a skeleton buried beneath a shattered building.
I wrote to Mrs Dupont that night and told her that I would do what I could. Then I locked the letter and the photograph away in the little jewel case that contained Jenny’s trinkets.
Two days later Stuart returned, just as we were starting to mix the concrete for the ward-room. He was nervous and excited. ‘Well, how did you get on?’ I asked. ‘Have you got a cargo?’
‘Come into the wheel-house,’ he said. From his suitcase he pulled out two bottles of Scotch. ‘Get one of those uncorked,’ he suggested, ‘whilst I get the glasses — and prepare yourself for a shock.’
‘Well, what is it?’ I asked, as he poured out two stiff drinks. I was feeling worried to the depths of my stomach. I realized then how much the ship had come to mean to me.
‘I’ll tell you the worst first,’ he said. ‘I’ve mortgaged the boat — £7,500. I should have wired you first. But I had a chance to purchase some Government transport and I didn’t want to miss it. At the same time I was able to get a lot of Bedford spares cheap, including tyres.’
‘You mean,’ I said, ‘we no longer own the boat.’
He nodded. ‘But look, David,’ he said. ‘We’re out to trade, aren’t we? To start trading you must have money and the only capital asset we had was the boat. I know you were expecting me to arrange for a cargo — ourselves simply to earn money as carriers. But I saw a lot of Italians in London and they all told me the same thing — Italy was short of transport and of spares “for the transport they had. At the end of the war they bought up large numbers of old Army lorries, mainly Dodges and Bedfords. Now they’re needing spares and tyres to keep them on the roads. When I heard that the Government was disposing of some W.D. transport I decided to act at once and get in first. I bought five quite good Bedfords and a quantity of spares. They’re garaged in a barn belonging to a friend of mine down on Romney Marsh and I thought of sending Boyd up to get them painted they’re in good running order, but they don’t look up to much. Now I’m convinced that I can sell them to an Italian in London on a payment on delivery basis. He’ll also buy the spares. I reckon we’ll make about 100 per cent profit. The spares can be stowed under the trucks and I thought we’d load the trucks with cigarettes which are in very short supply in Italy. Now does that sound a good proposition? We’ve got to risk something if we’re going to establish ourselves. And I’ve got export permits.’
I had to admit it sounded all right. His enthusiasm was, as always, infective. ‘What about payment?’ I asked. ‘Will they pay in sterling?’
‘No, in goods,’ he said. ‘Their difficulty is foreign exchange. If they could purchase direct they would have done so themselves long ago. That’s why there is a big profit in the deal if we can barter for a cargo that we can sell. Now I thought of opening a wholesale and mail order business in London for wines and liqueurs. Vermouth, Marsala, Spumante, Grappa, Benedetto, Strega, Triple Sec, Anisette — there’ll be some good stuff produced this season and cheap.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’ll be slow,’ he admitted. ‘But it’ll be profitable. Over the next twelve months I figure that we’ve got a good chance of making a profit of something over £10,000 and at the same time of establishing a sound business.’
‘Sounds too good to be true,’ I said.
‘Well, do I go ahead?’ he asked. ‘Or do you think of something better?’
‘You go ahead,’ I said. ‘If you’re prepared to take the risk, so am I.’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Now this is what I propose to do. I’ve found a friend of mine who’s got a job he doesn’t like. He has a little money put by and we’ll take him into partnership on the wine side of the business, the basis being that he runs it, we supply him at cost plus carriage and we split the profit three ways. Incidentally, he’s already agreed to the idea and furthermore he is prepared to quit his job forthwith and start canvassing the big stores for advance orders so that we’ve got an idea of how it’s likely to work in practice and what wines and liqueurs are preferred before we accept such a cargo in exchange for our lorries and spares.’