Ransome helped the girl to clear away the table. To Mrs Warwick he said, ‘A fine meal. Made me feel really at home.’ But she had fallen asleep in her chair.
In the kitchen, which appeared to be stacked with every kind of ration from powdered milk to corned beef, she faced him.
‘I’m sorry. You didn’t hate it too much, did you?’
He held her at arms’ length. ‘Of course not. I was sorry to hear about your mother. Your father feels it badly.’
‘Oh, you noticed?’ She studied him sadly. ‘Many wouldn’t.’
He tried to laugh it off. ‘Believe me, my girl, when you command even a little ship in this man’s navy, you either learn fast about folk or you go under!’
She did not smile. ‘What you said – am I really your girl? Like it was, all that time back?’ She shook her head so that her long hair flowed across her shoulders. ‘I’m not a child any more. Please don’t treat me like one.’
Then she pressed her face into his jacket and shook; the sobbing seemed to burst out of her in a flood.
He tried to pacify her, stroked her hair, held her against him, but it was to no avail.
Between sobs she whispered, ‘You mustn’t laugh, but I have always loved you. I dreaded seeing you in case you had met someone else.’ She leaned back and stared at him, blinking tears from her eyes. ‘You haven’t, have you?’
‘No. Of course not.’ It came out so simply it was as if he had shouted his love from the housetops.
He added, ‘I’m a lot older than you—’
She hugged him and shook her head again. ‘I’m nineteen. Two days ago. So you see, I’m catching you up!’
They walked into another garden, the dishes abandoned.
It was a starry night, with a warm breeze to ruffle the leaves. Somewhere a wireless set or gramophone was playing a lilting Spanish tune, and a small night creature ran through the grass; searching for food, trying not to become it.
In the darkness it seemed somehow natural, he thought. His hand on her waist, her head against his arm.
As they walked he told her more stories about the people he served with. Moncrieff, the ancient mariner; Sherwood who had been with a famous firm which had built chandeliers. He left out the pieces about Sherwood’s grief, which was slowly driving him mad. About Hargrave’s ambition, for himself rather than the ship, of Midshipman Davenport who bragged to everyone about his upper-class upbringing, when in fact he had been to the same modest grammar school as young Boyes. Or about Fallows who had probably been the last link with life when Tinker had killed himself. Now Fallows was the haunted one because he could remember nothing at all about what had happened.
Above all, he told her nothing about the danger they faced every time they went to sea. Danger and death were things they knew about in Plymouth. For centuries. Since Drake had routed the Armada, and Nelson had sailed for the Nile, since the little Exeter had sailed home to Plymouth after beating the German Graf Spee into self-destruction. And now the bombing. Even here, on the outskirts, amidst the ageless oak trees you could smell the rawness, the scorched and shattered buildings. Oh yes, they knew all about that.
She said softly, ‘We didn’t choose the time, Ian. It was held out to us. For us.’ She looked up at him, only her eyes reflecting the stars. ‘It was not our choice!’
As if to some silent signal they both turned and looked through the trees towards the house. It was in darkness with all the black-out shutters and curtains in place.
She said, ‘I’ll have to go in soon.’ The words were dragged from her. ‘Mother doesn’t like to be alone if the sirens start. Everyone goes down to the shelters now.’ He felt her shiver and tightened his grip on her shoulders. ‘I don’t know if I’m really doing any good here.’
‘I’m quite sure you do.’ They walked across the grass again and he said, ‘I’ll be at the Royal Naval Barracks all tomorrow, maybe longer. My boss is having a few meetings with the top brass.’
‘Can I ask where you’ll be after that?’
He looked away. ‘Overseas. For a while. I shall write as often as I can.’
‘Yes, please.’ Her voice sounded husky. ‘Tell me your thoughts. Share them with me.’
They stood by the gates and Ransome wondered if he would find a taxi. Otherwise it would be a long hike back to the base.
She said, ‘I’m not afraid any more, Ian. It seems so right. I feel as if a great weight has been taken away. You can’t possibly know.’
She looked along the drive. ‘I must go. She’ll come worrying otherwise.’
Ransome turned her towards him. ‘I wish it was broad daylight. I want to look at you all over again.’
She tilted her head, then wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. ‘Kiss me. Please.’
Ransome touched her mouth with his. A quick, innocent kiss, like that time at the railway station.
She said softly, ‘I’ll get better.’ She stepped away. ‘I’ll make a fool of myself any minute.’
Ransome turned once and thought he saw her standing beside the gate’s tall pillar. Then she was gone.
He walked down the road, hearing the breeze in the trees, catching the first breath of the sea as he topped the hill. Waiting. Always waiting. Like a great force which could be evil or kind as it chose for the moment.
He did not have to walk for long; a jeep full of military policemen pulled up beside him.
One redcap asked, ‘Where are you goin’, chum?’ Then, as he saw the gleam of gold lace, ‘Care for a ride, er, sir?’
They dropped him at the gate of the barracks and vanished into the night in search of drunks or deserters.
Ransome found his small room, his shaving kit and spare shirt still packed on the bed. There was a flask too, some of Moncrieff’s Scotch.
He sat on the bed and thought about her face across the table, the warmth of her lips, the strange sense of fate or destiny which they both felt, and no longer challenged.
If he stayed another night he would try to take her out somewhere. Away from the sea, from people. Just walk and talk as they had once been able to do.
He looked at the flask and smiled. He no longer needed it.
The Staff Officer, Operations, an RN commander, greeted Ransome warmly.
‘Good of you to call, Ransome. I feel I already know you pretty well. You and your flotilla have made quite a mark on the map!’
He sent for tea and biscuits and gestured towards a huge wall-chart of the Mediterranean.
He said cheerfully, ‘Nice not to see any bloody swastikas on the North African coast any more, eh?’
Ransome waited while a neat little Wren brought a tray to tea to the room.
The S.O.I, said, ‘It’s to be Sicily, but I think you already know that?’ He stood up and walked to the chart. ‘Combined Allied invasion, with a vital role for the supporting squadrons.’ His finger moved to Gibraltar. ‘We’ve got quite a fleet here already. Big chaps, all of them. It will be no surprise to you that they can’t even move an inch without you clearing the way for them. How does it make you feel – proud?’
‘Useful, sir.’
‘The main supporting flotillas will be combined, so that there are no foul-ups like we’ve had too many times in this war. Like the rest, you will have to be ready to change roles at a moment’s notice. We must get the ‘brown jobs’ on to dry land, Ransome.’ He eyed him grimly, if they get thrown back this time, well—’ He sipped his tea instead of spelling it out.