Ransome wondered about that, but Fallows had lost no time in clearing his own yard-arm.
‘Still brooding, Ian?’
Ransome smiled at the dusty glass. Old Moncrieff could read his mind. It would be good to have him along when they left for the Med.
‘Oh, I was just thinking, sir.’
‘The first lieutenant went over to R.N.B. to meet his father, Wee-Admiral now, no less! Something anyone of us might have done. There was after all, science’s latest triumph, the telephone, if things got out of hand.’ He tapped his thick fingers with the pipe-stem. ‘The Chief was aboard, so was Sub-Lieutenant Fallows, and the Gunner (T) was due back in the early morning. There was the duty-part of the watch, plus a very experienced P.O.’
Ransome looked at him fondly. He had certainly done his homework. ‘I know, sir. I suppose it’s my failing.’
Moncrieff glanced meaningly at the clock. ‘I’ve got to see Dryaden’s C.O. in a minute. But I shall say the same to him, and I’m sending his chief stoker away on a well-deserved course for promotion, and he won’t care much for that either!’ He held out his left hand. ‘Your failing, Ian?’ He looked at him searchingly. ‘It’s what makes you the best I’ve got.’
By the time he had returned to the ship Ransome had decided to speak with Fallows again, to try and fit in the missing piece.
He waited on the dockside for several minutes as he studied his little ship, his gaze taking in the new double-mountings of twenty-millimetre Oerlikons, an extra winch down aft and a powerful-looking derrick which had replaced the old one. New paint, even a different motor boat in the davits; they had certainly pulled out all the stops. Probably Moncrieff, he decided.
He walked quickly down the steep brow and saluted, then glanced at the duty-board by the quartermaster’s lobby. Apart from Lieutenant Sherwood and the Chief everyone appeared to be aboard.
He nodded to the chief quartermaster, the ruddy-faced Leading Seaman Reeves, the public’s idea of the true sailor, with his silver chain and call tucked into the deep V of his jumper. ‘All quiet, Q.M.?’
Reeves watched him warily. ‘Very, sir. The new doctor’s aboard, and the extra subbie will be joinin’ this afternoon, earlier than expected.’
Ransome looked directly at him. ‘What about Tinker?’
He shifted his feet. ‘We’re all sorry about ’im, sir. Nice kid, ’e was, too.’
‘What do you think happened?’
‘He requested to go back on leave to be with his dad, sir, his old woman bein’ dead, like.’
Ransome waited. ‘And?’
‘Well, it was refused, sir. Like I told the first lieutenant after it w as reported, I was on the gangway when Tinker went ashore. I asked ’im about it, and he said it was local leave, he wasn’t in the duty-part of the watch, y’see, sir. He told me that Bun – I mean Mr Fallows gave him permission.’
‘And you didn’t think to check on it?’
Reeves swallowed hard. ‘It was a bit difficult—’ He saw Fallows’s scarlet face when he had gone down to the wardroom later to tell him what had happened. P.O. Clarke had been with him.
The sub-lieutenant had been beside himself with fury, and barely able to stand.
‘How dare you speak to me like that? Stand to attention when you address an officer, damn you!’
In fact Fallows had been the only one unable to stand upright.
‘I did not see this wretched fellow Tinker, nor did I give him fucking permission to go ashore, see?’
Reeves had been amazed to hear his voice. Like one of their Scottish stokers on a binge.
Ransome nodded. ‘How was he dressed? Did he say anything?’
Reeves frowned. ‘I saw that ’e was carryin’ nothin’ but ’is gas mask, sir.’
‘Which was why you imagined he was going on a local run ashore?’
Reeves faced him. ‘There was somethin’, sir. He said, “They don’t really care, do they?” or somethin’ like that, sir.’ He dropped his eyes under Ransome’s grey stare. ‘I – I’m just sorry I can’t ’elp any more, sir.’
Ransome looked up at the tiny masthead pendant above the radar jampot.
i think you have, Reeves. Now put it out of your mind, O.K.?’
Reeves stared after him and exclaimed, ‘Christ, what a bloke!’ He looked at his hands, expecting to see them still shaking. Young he might be, but the skipper knew every bloody thing in this ship!
When stand-easy was piped, the tea-boat was already passing out mugs of tea in exchange for pence or barter, soap perhaps for the dhobying firm who would wash a sailor’s blue collar better than any housewife, tobacco or ‘ticklers’, and of course sippers of rum from those who were old enough to draw their tot.
Around the scrubbed table of Number Three Mess, the seamen sat in quiet contemplation. They sipped their sickly tea and watched Ted Hoggan, the killick of the mess, as he placed the dead sailor’s few personal effects on the table. It was not much, Boyes thought as he sat wedged between Jardine and a seaman named Chalky White, who had developed a nervous tic in one eye over his months of minesweeping. A new cap with gold wire inscription, a pusser’s knife or ‘dirk’ as they were known, a hand-made ditty-box from which Hoggan, as their senior, had removed some personal letters and a photograph of Tinker himself as a boy at HMS Ganges.
It was the first time Boyes had come up against something like this. He could sense its importance in the faces around him, tough, hardened ones for the most part, who had seen and suffered experiences he could only guess at.
Jardine leaned over and whispered, ‘We’ll raise a few boh from this lot, see? Then we ’as somethin’ to remember the lad by, an’ ’is people will ’ave a bit to put towards – well, things.’
Boyes nodded and opened the flap on his belt where he kept his money.
Jardine saw the ten-shilling note and said fiercely, ‘Not that much, Gerry lad! It’s a sort of token. Not a time to show off ’ow much you got.’
Hoggan tapped the table. ‘Well, mates, this here is a pretty good ditty-box – what do I hear?’
And so it went on until the table was cleared. Boyes sat staring at the knife which he had bought for two shillings. It was exactly a twin of his own, and yet it seemed special, had belonged to a boy like himself whom he had seen only for a few minutes before he had walked away from life.
Leading Seaman Hoggan tipped his tin on to the table and counted the contents with great care.
‘Four pounds, one an’ a tanner, lads.’ He looked at each of them in turn. ‘What d’you think?’
Someone said, ‘His old woman’s gone west, ’ookey, an’ to all accounts ’is dad ’as ’it the jar since.’
Boyes looked at their expressions, half-expecting them to laugh or dispute such a casual summing-up, but they were all deadly serious.
Hoggan nodded. ‘My thoughts too, Dick.’ He scraped the coins into ’is tin again. ‘We’ll keep it—’ he glanced at his world, Number Three Mess. ‘For the next one of us, eh?’
They all nodded and emptied their mugs as if it was a kind of salute.
Hoggan looked at Boyes and gave a sad grin. ‘Learnin’ some-thin’, kid?’
Boyes nodded. ‘Yes, thank you, Hookey.’
Nobody mimicked him this time.
Hoggan patted his arm. ‘You can take Tinker’s locker an’ sling yer ’ammock on ’is ‘ooks from now on, Gerry.’
Boyes stared around at the others and did not know what to say. Such a simple thing, some might say, but to Boyes it was like being awarded a medal.
To close the proceedings the tannoy bellowed, ‘D’you hear there? D’you hear there? Out pipes, hands carry on with your work!’