That evening Ransome left the ship. It felt like no other time. The emptiness, the stillness, the voices and daily routine already like another memory.
He waited in the dusk and looked down at her. Tomorrow she would stand upright in dry-dock.
Ransome turned and walked quickly towards the gates. But that was tomorrow.
Up the Line
The train from Waterloo’s mainline station seemed to wait for ages before it eventually moved off. Unlike the first part of the journey from Chatham when the train had been filled mostly with sailors, this one was crammed almost to bursting-point with a strong proportion of all three services.
Gerald Boyes was fortunate and had a window-seat, although with anti-blast netting pasted across the glass it made little difference, except that he was only being squashed from one side. It was a corridor train, and that too was packed. Boyes noted that he had not seen a single civilian climb aboard, or maybe they had been no match for the wild stampede of servicemen, partly rushing to avoid losing a precious minute of their leave; also by sheer weight of numbers some had hoped to crash through the handful of military policemen and railway inspectors to prevent anyone from discovering they had no tickets.
There had been a brief hit-and-run air-raid on London, someone said. Another complained that the train was too overloaded to move. Boyes glanced at his companions; curiously they were all sailors although he did not know any of them. It never failed to amaze him that they could sleep instantly, anywhere, and without effort.
He had seven days’ leave. His stomach churned with both excitement and uncertainty at this unexpected break. He had tried to sleep on the slow, clattering journey from Chatham through the Medway towns and finally to London. It was different from the last leave when he had been so full of hopes for his chance of getting a commission. He could still feel liis mother’s disappointment, as if it was some kind of slur on her and the family. But the events of the past weeks had changed him, although he could not understand how. When he had tried to sleep on the train he had found no peace, but had relived the terrible moment when he had seen Fawn explode and disintegrate. The survivors hauled aboard, some coughing and gasping, black with coal-dust and oil, others horribly burned so that had he wanted to look away. As a boy he had always imagined that death in battle had dignity. There had been none there on Rob Roy’s deck as Masefield the petty officer S.B.A. had knelt amongst them, working with dressings and bandages, his expression like a mask.
One badly wounded man had looked up at Boyes when he had carried fresh dressings from the sick-bay.
His face had been scorched away, with only his bulging, pleading eyes left to stare at Boyes. For that brief moment Boyes had felt no fear. He had wanted to help the dying man without knowing how. The Gunner (T) had dragged a bloodstained cloth over the man’s face and had barked, ‘Can’t do nothin’ more for this one.’ But even he had been moved by it.
Boyes glanced down at his uniform. Next time he would find a way of buying a proper, made-to-measure jumper and bell-bottoms like the real sailors wore. He turned his cap over in his hands after making sure that he was the only one awake. He had rid himself of the regulation cap tally with the plain HMS embroidered in the centre. He held it so that it caught the afternoon sunlight even through the dirty, net-covered window. In real gold wire, he had bought it from Rob Roy’s leading supply assistant, whom the others called Jack Dusty for some reason.
He felt a shiver run through him. HM Minesweeper. Pride, a sense of daring, it was neither. Or was it?
The corridor door jerked open even as the train gave a sudden lurch and began to move from the station.
Boyes glanced round and saw a girl in khaki peering in, a second girl close behind her.
She said, ‘No seats here either. God, my feet are killing me!’
She glanced along the sleeping sailors. ‘Looks as if they’ve all died!’
Boyes stood up, clinging to the luggage rack as the train tilted to the first set of points.
‘Take mine.’
The girl in the A.T.S. uniform eyed him suspiciously, then said, ‘A proper little gent, eh?’ She gave a tired grin and slipped into his seat. ‘I’d give you a medal if I had one.’
Boyes struggled out into the corridor where men clung to the safety rail across each window, or sat hunched on their suitcases. The lavatory door at the end of the corridor was wedged open and Boyes could see some soldiers squatting around the toilet, shuffling cards with grim determination.
‘She wasn’t kidding either. Poor Sheila has been on the move for days.’
Boyes faced the other A.T.S. girl for the first time. She was wearing battledress blouse and skirt, her cap tugged down over some dark, curling hair. She was pretty, with an amused smile on her lips, and had nice hands, both of which she was using to grip the rail as the train gathered speed.
‘Had a good look, sailor?’
Boyes felt his face flushing uncontrollably. ‘Sorry, I—’
Her eyes lifted to his cap and she gave a silent whistle. ‘Mine-sweeping – is that what you do?’
He nodded, his skin still burning. ‘Yes.’ He wanted to sound matter-of-fact, casual even. ‘It’s just a job.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘I can imagine.’
She had very nice eyes. Not blue, more like violet. She was older than he was, he decided. By a year or two. But who wasn’t?
She asked directly, ‘You going back?’
He shook his head. ‘No. Some leave.’
‘Lucky you. I’ve just had mine.’
She had an accent he could not place. He asked carefully, ‘Where do you come from?’
‘Well, Woolwich actually.’ She watched him challengingly. ‘Where did you think, then?’
’Sorry —’
She gripped his arm. ‘Don’t keep apologising. It’s the way I talk. Like you – we’re different, OK?’
Boyes was losing his way fast. ‘Your family – what do they do ?’
She watched him again. He was just someone to pass the time with. They would never meet again. And yet she knew he was not like anyone she had met. Not because he had given Sheila his seat, or because of his careful, posh accent. She shied away from it. Not again. It was too soon.
‘My dad’s on the docks. Makes good money with the war on, and that. Most of it goes against the wall, but that’s life, right?’
‘Can I ask, where are you going?’
She shrugged. ‘In the park, near Kingston. Know it?’
He nodded. ‘My home’s in Surbiton. Quite close.’
She said, ‘I belong to an ack-ack battery there. God, I wish I was in the bloody Wrens. I’d give anything to see the sea every day instead of a lot of randy gunners and the deer!’ She laughed. ‘Did I shock you?’
‘N – no. Of course not.’ He stared through the window. It was not possible. They were almost there.
He stammered, ‘I’m Gerald Boyes. Maybe we shall—’
She touched his arm, then dropped her eyes. ‘I’m Connie.’ She peered past him and said, ‘I must wake her up. We’re getting off here too.’
The next moments were lost in confusion as the train came to a halt and disgorged a living tide of uniforms on to the platform.
She said quickly, ‘I’ve only been here a month. I was in North London before. I suppose you know your way around in these parts?’
The other girl exclaimed, ‘Where’s my bloody cap?’
The girl called Connie laughed and pointed to her respirator haversack. ‘In there, you goof!’
Sheila said, ‘I see they’ve sent the old Chewy to fetch us.’