Tinker had been popular in the mess, indeed throughout the whole ship. But Boyes somehow knew that his name would not be mentioned again.
Rob Roy’s officers stood or lounged around the small wardroom and waited for lunch, the event of the day.
Lieutenant Hargrave sat in a well-worn leather chair and stared at a copy of the Daily Mail, although he found that his eyes remained unmoving more often than not.
He was still dazed by Ransome’s acceptance of his report. He had missed out nothing, had even admitted that he blamed himself for keeping Tinker from going ashore.
Ransome had listened without interruption and had said, ‘You’ll know better next time. If it’s any consolation I think he might have done it anyway. In view of your full, and I believe honest report, I think you acted correctly.’
It was probably the closest they had ever been, Hargrave thought. But he had no doubt of Ransome’s attitude if anything like it occufred again.
He glanced at the others, standing with drinks in their hands, bored with their stay in the dockyard while they waited for the rest of the leave party to return.
The Chief had just come in; he was wearing his best uniform, quite unlike his seagoing rig of boiler-suit or an ancient reefer with ragged and tarnished lace.
Bone the Gunner (T) sat massively on the fender and contemplated a large tankard of beer, his bald pate shining in the deckhead lights. For although they were out of dry dock, the scuttles were still masked by the jetty wall and Ranger on the outboard side.
Hargrave stared at Fallows until the sub looked at him, flushed, and glanced away. As well he might, Hargrave thought. He was even drinking tomato juice. At least Sherwood was still ashore, so there would be no friction for a while. Hargrave’s eyes sparked with sudden anger. If he comes the old soldier again I’ll cut him down to size, hero or not. He heard the midshipman’s incisive voice as he discussed his prospects of promotion with the Chief.
Campbell kept his alert face impassive. ‘I suppose being an old-school-tie type, you’ll soon be up the ladder, eh, Mid?’
Davenport sighed. ‘Well, it helps of course. My father wanted me to go into the army.’ He added vaguely, ‘One of the household regiments, actually.’
Campbell glanced at Hargrave, then walked across to him. ‘Drink, Number One?’
They eyed each other like duellists, then the engineer said, ‘If you will forget it, I can.’ He lowered his lanky frame into another chair and signalled to Petty Officer Kellett. ‘’Nother Horse’s Neck, or whatever it is, for the first lieutenant!’ He regarded Hargrave curiously. ‘What did the Old Man say?’
Hargrave put down the newspaper. ‘Nothing much.’ His own surprise was clear in his voice. ‘In his place I think I’d have hit the roof.’
The Chief grinned. ‘Well, you ain’t, sir! He raised his glass. ‘To a new start, wherever it takes us.’
Hargrave leaned forward. ‘Have you heard something?’
Campbell glanced across at Davenport, who was trying to interest Fallows.
‘Sometimes I feel I’d like to beat the shit out of that pompous little snob!’ He seemed to recall the question and tapped his nose with his glass. ‘I’ve got friends over in the stores. They’re breaking out shorts and fair-weather gear for the flotilla.’
Hargrave smiled. ‘In that case it could be the Arctic.’ They both laughed.
At that moment Sub-Lieutenant Morgan, who was O.O.D., drew back the curtain and entered with another young officer wearing a single wavy stripe on his sleeve.
Hargrave stood up to greet the new arrival. ‘Sub-Lieutenant Tritton? I’m the first lieutenant.’
He had noticed that both Morgan and the newcomer had been in close conversation when they had entered the wardroom. They must have known each other elsewhere. The navy’s way.
Tritton looked around. A pleasant, youthful face, with a ready and innocent smile.
‘I’m glad to be here, sir.’ He glanced at Morgan. ‘I was a snotty in his last ship. One of the reasons I volunteered for minesweepers, as a matter of fact.’
Fallows said irritably, ‘Don’t swing the lamp yet!’
Bone peered across his beer. ‘What’s yer name?’ For the Gunner (T) he was being remarkably friendly; his trip home must have done him some good.
‘Actually, it’s Vere.’
Bone nodded sagely. ‘That’s a queer sort of ‘andle to ’ave!’
Tritton looked at his friend. ‘Most people call me Bunny.’
Hargrave heard Fallows choking on his tomato juice and said, ‘Welcome to Rob Roy.’ He added, ‘Funny, we already have a Bunny in the mess.’
‘Really, sir?’ Tritton’s eyes were like saucers. ‘Well, of course we do breed quite quickly.’
Morgan slapped Fallows on the shoulders. ‘All right, Bunny? Cough it up, eh?’
By the quartermaster’s lobby Beckett heard the laughter and thought suddenly of Tinker. Heartless bastards.
The Buffer hurried along the side-deck and beamed at him. He looked ev£n more like a monkey, Beckett thought.
‘Time for yer tot, Swain. I’ll tell you about the party I picked up when I was up the line.’
Beckett grinned. ‘Why not?’ Tinker was forgotten.
Lieutenant Philip Sherwood wrenched open the door of a First Class compartment and stared with distaste at the occupants. He tried the next, where to his surprise there was a corner seat by the corridor. In the navy you learned to cherish privacy, even lying on a table with your cap over your face.
He slumped down and turned up the collar of his raincoat. It was early morning, with the clattering, lurching journey to the Medway towns and Chatham still stretching ahead.
It had been cool, icy even when he had left the flat in Mayfair. For once no sirens had split the night apart, and the barrage balloons, floating high above the beleaguered city, shone in faint sunlight, although on the ground it was still as dark as pitch. Sherwood had left early so that he could walk all the way to Waterloo. He had not realised how out of condition shipboard life had made him. He thought of the woman he had left sprawled across the bed, sleeping as if she was dead. Maybe when she awoke, she might wish she was.
Sherwood closed his eyes as an air force officer smiled across, as if he was about to open a conversation.
Sherwood thought of their night of passion. He was still not sure how it had begun. In her case it had been a release probably. He had taken her to hotels and restaurants she had only heard about. Even a red-tabbed general had turned to stare when a head-waiter had called Sherwood respectfully by name. It had reminded him of the staff officer he had knocked down with a chair. He still could not believe that he had changed so much.
Working within a hair’s breadth of self-destruction, defusing mines and sometimes huge bombs with delayed-action booby traps, he had taught himself to empty his mind of everything but the job, and the one after that. Even of fear, for himself and for others.
It had simply happened. He could place no time or exact reason. That final evening they had walked back to the flat, across Berkeley Square, then along Hill Street.
She had not spoken about her dead husband, and he had said nothing further about his family.
Once she had caught him looking up at a chandelier in one hotel restaurant, and he had found himself telling her about the company.
She had watched him closely as if she had been trying to remember every feature of his face.
‘What will you do when the war’s over, Philip?’
He had heard himself say, ‘Over? It’ll go on for years and years. I try not to think about it.’