He listened to the muffled chatter on the tannoy speakers, the obedient gales of studio laughter, another comic programme to give a lighter side to the war.
It was strange to feel the ship moving gently again after being propped in dry-dock, her decks snared by electric cables and pipes while the dockyard completed a hasty overhaul of the lower hull before refloating her. Tomorrow she would be warped out to the gunwharf for re-ammunitioning, and for further inspections by the armaments supply officers and fitters.
Now at least they were a ship again, the deck empty of boiler-suited dockyard workers who seemed to spend more time idling and drinking tea than working.
As Campbell had dourly commented, ‘If it’s not screwed down, the buggers will lift it!’
The whole fleet knew about survival rations looted from Carley floats and boats while a ship lay in the dockyard. There were worse stories too, of dead seamen trapped below after being torpedoed, being robbed of their watches and pathetic possessions before they could be cut free from the mess.
Hargrave glanced around the cabin until his eyes settled on the drawing. It was unsigned, and yet he had the feeling that Ransome’s unwillingness to discuss it meant there was much more behind it.
The ship’s company were either on home leave, or ashore locally, leaving only a small duty-watch on board for safety’s sake. Tomorrow the next batch would be packed off to their wives and mothers. More the latter in this youthful company, he thought.
He toyed with the idea of going to the wardroom. Bunny Fallows would be there, the Chief too probably. The rest were away. Even Mr Bone, whose home was in nearby Gillingham, was absent.
Hargrave decided against it. Campbell was friendly enough but kept very much to himself. Fallows, well – he stopped his thoughts right there.
The tap at the cabin door was almost a welcome relief. It was Petty Officer Stoker Clarke, a tough, dependable man who was said to have survived the sinking of his last ship by being blown bodily over the side after the explosion had sent most of his companions to their deaths. He was the only petty officer aboard, with Leading Seaman Reeves, the chief quartermaster, to assist him.
‘What is it, P.O.?’
Clarke stepped warily over the coaming and removed his cap.
‘It’s Ordinary Seaman Tinker, sir.’
Hargrave picked out the youthful sailor’s resentful face from his thoughts.
‘Not back from leave again? I told the commanding officer that—’
Clarke shook his head. ‘No, he’s back aboard, sir. He’s request-in’ to see you. Personal.’
Hargrave said, ‘I’ll see him when I take requestmen and defaulters tomorrow, after we’ve cleared the dock.’
Clarke eyed him stubbornly. ‘He says it’s urgent, sir.’
‘What do you think?’
Clarke wanted to say that he would have kicked the lad’s arse clean through the bulkhead if he had not respected his anxiety. But he said, ‘I wouldn’t have bothered otherwise, sir.’ He made to leave.
Hargrave snapped, ‘I’ve not finished yet!’
‘Oh?’ Clarke eyed him calmly. He had suffered too much, gave too much each day to conceal it, to put up with officers like the Jimmy who always seemed to want to go by the book. ‘Thought you had, sir.’
‘Don’t be impertinent.’ He knew he was getting nowhere. ‘So fetch him in now, all right?’
Clarke withdrew and found the young sailor waiting in the passageway. In his best uniform he looked even more helpless, he thought. Tinker was a good lad, always cheerful and willing to learn. Or he had been once. The whole ship knew about his mother playing open house while Tinker’s dad was away. Nobody joked about it. There were too many men in the navy who might be wondering about the faithfulness of their loved ones at home. Especially with all the Yanks and hot-blooded Poles running about the country.
‘He’ll see you.’ Clarke straightened Tinker’s neatly pressed ‘silk’ which was tied beneath his blue collar. ‘Keep yer ‘air on, my son. Just tell ’im what you told me, an’ no lip, see? Or you’ll end up in the glasshouse, and you won’t like that!’ He gave his arm a casual punch to ease his warning. ‘I wouldn’t like it neither.’
Tinker nodded, ‘I’ll remember, P.O.’
He stepped into the cabin and waited by the desk. The first lieutenant looked much younger without his cap, he thought.
Hargrave glanced up at him. ‘Well, what’s wrong?’ It sounded like this time.
Tinker said, ‘My dad, sir. He’s been out of his mind since – since—’ he dropped his eyes. ‘If I could be with him. Just a few more days. I’d make up for it later on, I promise, sir.’
Hargrave sighed, ‘But you’ve just had leave. Would you make another man give up the right to go home so that you can get extra time in his place?’
Tinker was pleading. ‘Able Seaman Nunn has offered, sir. He’s got nowhere to go, not any more.’
Hargrave frowned. Another undercurrent. A home bombed, or a wife who had been unfaithful.
He said, ‘You see, it’s not in my province to offer you something beyond the bounds of standing orders. Perhaps later on—’
The boy stared at the carpet, his eyes shining with tears and suppressed anger.
‘Yes, I see, sir.’
Hargrave watched him leave and grimaced. Tomorrow he would telephone the welfare section and speak with the Chief Wren therw, unless —
He almost jumped as the telephone jangled on the desk.
He snatched it up. ‘Yes? First lieutenant.’
There were several clicks, then a voice said, ‘Found you at last, Trevor!’
Hargrave leaned forward as if he was imagining it.
‘Father? Where are you?’
The voice gave a cautious cough. He probably imagined there was a Wren on the switchboard listening in to their conversation.
‘Next door at R.N.B. Thought you might care to join me for dinner. There are a couple of chaps I’d like you to meet. Very useful, d’you get my point?’
‘It’s just that I’m in charge here.’ He stared around the cabin as if he was trapped. ‘The captain is—’
‘Don’t say any more. Have one of your underlings take over. God, it’s only spitting-distance away, man!’
It was unlike his father to be so crude. He must have been drinking with his friends. Hargrave felt a surge of envy, the need to be with career officers senior enough to free his mind from the drudgery and strain of minesweeping.
His father was saying, ‘If any little Hitler tries to get stroppy, just tell him to ring me.’ He gave a husky chuckle. ‘But to ask for Vice-Admiral Hargrave now!’
Hargrave swallowed hard. ‘Congratulations, I mean—’
‘I’ll tell you at dinner. Must dash.’ The line went dead.
Hargrave leaned back, his hands behind his head. It was not all over after all. Strange, he had not expected it would be his father who would ride to the rescue.
Outside in the passageway Petty Officer Clarke said, ‘Well, we tried, Tinker. Be off to your mess, eh?’
Clarke watched the slight figure move to the ladder. Poor, desperate kid. He glanced at the door and swore savagely.
With some alarm he imagined that he had uttered the words aloud because the door opened immediately and the first lieutenant strode from the cabin.
He saw Clarke and said, ‘I shall be ashore, at R.N.B., this evening. Sub-Lieutenant Fallows will do Rounds with you.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ He tried again. ‘About young Tinker, sir.’
‘Look, it’s over and done with. Young he may be, but he knows the score as well as any three-badgeman. So there’s an end to it, P.O.!’
He strode aft towards his quarters.