He had another whisky before eating then decided to push the boat out if it was going to be a dry ship after Hull. He ordered wine to drink with the cheese and, by the time he’d drunk most of the bottle, was amused to think that he wasn’t really pushing the boat out since he was already in it. Pinker joined him in a glass and he ordered another bottle.
The boat began to roll.
‘Are we far out do you think?’ Pinker asked. Some of the primrose yellow had drained from his face.
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ Paul said. ‘Not with the U-boats.’
He felt relaxed. He even regarded the thought of U-boats with equanimity. The rolling of the steamer and the heat of the dining room had a calming effect. Looking at the dull light playing on the wine in his glass, he wondered what it was he had been worrying about earlier.
‘Bit of a swell,’ Pinker said.
Paul dragged his eyes off the mesmeric tilt of the wine. ‘Might be a rough crossing,’ he said.
‘Too rough for U-boats, do you think?’
Paul shrugged. ‘I don’t think it matters if you’re under water.’
‘What?’
‘The U-boats — under water.’
‘Oh,’ said Pinker. ‘I thought they had to come up to — to, you know…’
‘Use their torpedoes? Oh, I should think so.’
‘Then it might be too rough for them, perhaps.’ Pinker offered a weak smile. Colour had returned to his face although now it had a tinge of green.
Paul poured himself some more wine. It seemed to him that if the man was afraid of U-boats he shouldn’t be travelling by boat. It wasn’t as if he was in the army and was obliged to take orders. Not like he was. Except he wasn’t exactly in the army anymore. Still taking orders, though. Tricky position to be in. Might have talked it over with Pinker — he didn’t seem a bad sort of chap even if he was in a bit of a funk over U-boats. But he couldn’t talk it over with Pinker. It was hush-hush and Cumming wouldn’t like it. Could have talked it over with Hart if the damned man had shown his face like he was supposed to…
He turned to say as much to Pinker but the commercial traveller was no longer there. His plate was, along with a few dried cold cuts and a piece of cheese that still bore his teeth marks. But the man had gone.
Paul became aware of feeling suddenly unsteady. He looked around and saw the steward, Turner, smiling at him. For a second, Paul’s head began to swim and the steward managed to duplicate himself. He needed some air, he thought. It had all been too much on an empty stomach. A couple of scones and a piece of cake was no way for a soldier to embark upon a sea voyage. The cold meat and the cheese hardly counted.
Pushing himself up from the table, he decided it might be as well if he didn’t finish the bottle. He made a vague gesture at Turner then walked unsteadily back through the saloon and out on deck.
The wind hit him like a bucket of seawater. He staggered a step and lurched towards the rail. The boat began to spin as if caught in a maelstrom. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment or two before cautiously opening them again. He breathed deeply. He was drunk. ‘Not very clever,’ he said aloud. Left himself wide open. Could have been tipped over the side like a sack of potatoes if Kell’s agent had spotted him. Could have done nothing to stop it. Just as well he’d left him in the alley. If he had.
Bed. Sort it out in the morning. Get up early and watch for the other passengers coming on board.
A priest, that steward Turner had said. Now how likely was that?
11
His head ached. In the fog of half-sleep he took it for the throb of the engines. Until he realised that the engines had stopped.
The boat wasn’t even moving.
U-boats? He freed his arm from the sheet and looked at his watch. It was nine-thirty and sun was streaming through the porthole. He groaned and flopped back on the bunk. They had been due in Hull before first light. They must have been tied up for hours. The other passengers would already be on board and he hadn’t seen them. He could picture Browning’s reaction, eyes to heaven, shaking his head.
Paul pushed the blanket aside. Cheap wine, obviously. The thought of alcohol made his chest heave and he had to steel himself momentarily against the nausea. He needed air. Coffee…
Pulling on his clothes he saw the top bunk was empty. Pinker’s bed was made and his belongings were tidily stashed away. Make a good soldier, Paul muttered to himself as the train of the previous evening’s thought ran on through his head of its own volition. He splashed water from the jug into the basin then on his face. He filled a tumbler and drank it down. He didn’t know if it was potable but how much worse could he feel?
On deck several large steam trawlers were tied up against quay. Beyond the dock he could see railway goods yards. Below, dockers were craning goods in roped slings over the side of the ship and into the hold. He tried to remember what they were supposed to be carrying but couldn’t. His head felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton wool while he’d slept. He breathed deeply for a few minutes, the air redolent of fish and cattle. Around him a couple of deckhands were scurrying about. The officers and crew, he had found, were Finnish except for the English Turner and one or two others. An officer leaning down from the bridge saw Paul and gave him an encouraging nod. Paul wondered what there was to be encouraged about. He trudged off to the saloon in search of coffee.
Pinker was there, sitting in one of the armchairs with a sheaf of paper on his knees, working his way down a column of figures. He looked up as Paul walked in and smiled brightly.
‘You were dead to the world, Filbert. Thought I might wake you for breakfast then decided to let you sleep it off. You didn’t half put it away last night.’
Paul dropped into the chair beside him.
‘Three whiskies and two bottles of wine,’ Pinker said.
‘Three?’ The man couldn’t count. Probably couldn’t add up his columns correctly, either. ‘Two, surely,’ Paul said. ‘And I didn’t finish the wine.’
‘I’m afraid Mr Pinker’s right, sir,’ Turner said appearing at Paul’s elbow. ‘I was going to keep the second bottle for you but it was empty.’
‘Coffee,’ Paul said. ‘Black.’
‘You missed a good breakfast, Filbert,’ Pinker chirped as Turner left to fetch the coffee. ‘And he was right about the parson. The name’s Pater and a queer old stick his is. All fire and brimstone if I know anything about parsons.’
‘And do you?’ Paul asked tartly.
‘What? Oh. Well I’ve met a few in my line of work. Not a cheery sort of chap, anyway.’
‘Who else?’
Pinker leaned towards him confidentially.
‘Two ladies. Aunt and niece. The old girl’s a dry old bird, if you know what I mean, but the daughter…’ He nodded suggestively and raised his eyebrows.
Paul wasn’t sure what he was supposed to infer and couldn’t summon the interest to ask. His coffee arrived and he sipped it, burning his tongue.
‘There was another chap expected,’ Pinker went on, ‘but he didn’t turn up. Your other two did, though. Bearded like you said and Russian or I’ll eat my hat.’
‘Russian?’
‘Couldn’t understand a word they said. All ovs and skis… Guttural sort of language.’
‘You didn’t catch their names, I suppose?’
‘Didn’t catch anything, old chap. They did say they were on their way back to Russia, though.’