As the light blazed from the screen, he had seen her looking at him. Surprised? Curious? But then Boyes knew nothing about women.
Afterwards they had walked to the square in Kingston where the army had thoughtfully sent a truck for its army girls, a sort of liberty boat to get them back to camp safely.
They had stood in a shop doorway, and to hurrying passers-by it was just another sailor on leave with a girl in khaki. To Boyes it was something else. But he had had a sense of disappointment, not in her but in himself.
He had asked desperately, ‘May I see you again, Connie? Please?’
She had watched him, her eyes bright despite the black-out.
She had expected the usual wrestling-match in the cinema, a groping hand, the sense of shock when it touched her. Boyes was different. God, he was so different.
‘You’ve never had your own girl, have you?’
He had hesitated. ‘Not before.’
She had wanted to hug him. To weep for his innocence, his old-world sense of honour.
‘I’m free tomorrow, if you like.’
They had met in the warm afternoon, and had gone into a pub by the river for a drink. He had told her about the navy, about the ship, and all the while she had watched him, her bright lips around the straws in her port-and-lemon, her other hand close to his across the table. She had taken him to another cinema, a smaller one than the Regal, one which had been known as a flea-pit in his schooldays. It had been practically empty, and she had led him to the back row of seats. They were in pairs.
She had whispered, ‘Must have been a right lot of lovers in your neck of the woods, Gerry!’
During an interval he had blurted out, ‘I’m off tomorrow, Connie.’
She had straightened up, her eyes suddenly anxious.
‘Already? I thought—’
He had said, ‘I’ve loved being with you so much. I can’t tell you.’
She had waited for the lights to dim. ‘Kiss me.’
He had tried, but had pressed his face into her hair. ‘Sorry.’
She had stood up. ‘Keep my seat warm. I’m going to the Ladies.’ She had reached out and touched his mouth. ‘It was sweet. Just need a bit of practice.’ But she was not making fun of him.
For a time Boyes had imagined she had left by one of the fire-exit doors, but then he saw her hurrying up the aisle and felt her sink down beside him. He put his arm round her and kissed her again. She had her hand behind his neck and had pulled him against her, so that their mouths were locked until she opened hers and touched his tongue with hers. She had taken his hand and moulded it to her body. Her tunic had been unbuttoned, and he had felt the fullness of her breast through the shirt, her heart thumping as if to break free.
She had spoken into his ear. i got rid of the army-issue in the Ladies.’
He slipped one of the shirt buttons open and touched the bare skin beneath. Then another button until he had held her breast in his hand, the nipple hard between his fingers.
She had been gasping. ‘Don’t stop, Gerry! Oh, for God’s sake!’
He had felt her reaching for him in the same wild desperation, finding and gripping him until he could barely control himself.
When they had finally left the cinema and made their way to the same square where the army lorry was waiting, he had hugged her again.
She had pushed him away, her voice breathless. ‘Not here! Not like those others! Next time She had kissed him hard on the mouth, then had run through the night to the throbbing lorry.
Afterwards he had realised that he could not remember the name of the film or anything about it.
Sometimes now he would touch himself as she had done, and relive the moment when he had slipped his hand into her open shirt.
‘Ranger’s calling us up, sir.’
Mackay’s voice shattered his dream and made him stare around the bridge like a stranger.
The leading signalman’s mouth moved in time to the diamond-bright signal lamp across the heaving swell.
’Wreckage in the water at one-six-zero degrees, sir.’
Sherwood nodded. ‘Better tell the captain.’
‘I’m here.’ Ransome strode from the ladder and climbed into his chair to reach for his binoculars. ‘What was that bearing?’
Mackay called, ‘From Dryaden, sir. Shall I investigate ‘Negative.’ Ransome ignored the clatter of the Aldis lamp. ‘Alter course to close. Inform Ranger.’
‘What’s up?’ Moncrieff lurched heavily across the bridge. He looked as if he had just woken up.
‘Wreckage, sir.’ Ransome looked at him as if expecting an argument. Dryaden was better suited for these tasks. The point of her being here at all.
But Moncrieff merely said, ‘Right-oh.’
Boyes dodged aside as Sherwood crouched over the gyro repeater.
‘Port ten. Steady. Steer one-six-five!’
Up the voicepipe came Beckett’s harsh acknowledgement. ‘Course one-six-five, sir.’ He had taken the wheel without being called.
Boyes made himself small in case anyone ordered him from the bridge. Another drama. And he was part of it.
Ransome said, ‘Full revolutions.’
Boyes saw Sherwood glance at the captain’s back, the slightest rise of one eyebrow. But that was all.
As the revolutions mounted the ship headed slightly away from her consorts so that Boyes was able to see them from a different angle. Third in line, Fawn’s sister-ship Firebrand, an old Smokey Joe, was puffing out black clouds against the clear sky. It had caused quite a lot of friction with the convoy’s escort commander, until Moncrieff had seized the loud hailer and had told him to mind his bloody manners.
Hargrave had appeared on the bridge now, and raised his glasses to peer over the screen at the drifting spread of flotsam. Remnants from another convoy perhaps?
Ransome tried to lean back in the chair and relax his mind and body. Why had he taken Rob Roy from the formation when the trawler could have managed? Moncrieff would have been justified to question his decision.
It was a distraction. Anything better than the brooding, the regrets, the pain. He knew it was getting into him more deeply, had noticed how careful the others had been to make themselves scarce or busy when he was near. It wasn’t their fault, as he had tried to tell the first lieutenant. But it still didn’t help. He felt himself leaning forward again, the old dryness at the back of his throat.
‘Half ahead together.’ Would anyone ever be able to sum up the cost of the war at sea? Ships and men, material and hopes, the very balance of fate for friend and enemy alike.
Hargrave asked, ‘What do you think, sir?’
Ransome raised his powerful glasses again. It was all too familiar. Drifting timbers and odd fragments of canvas, packing-crates, an upended lifeboat, the whole sea littered with it. He trained his glasses on the capsized boat. He could just make out the port registry, Liverpool, painted on the hull. There was a lot of scum around the planking. It had been wandering with the aimless currents for a long time, probably weeks, the last reminder of a ship, perhaps a whole convoy which had fallen foul of a U-boat pack.
He heard a look-out remark, ‘Not much left in that lot!’
He snapped, ‘Well, keep looking! Any clue might be useful later on!’
He turned away, sick inside, angry with his inability to stay calm.
Sherwood said, ‘There’s a raft, sir. Red four-five.’
Ransome found it, his glasses taking in the scene as if he had actually been there. The roar of a torpedo, perhaps more, the sudden confusion, a shock of despair as the ship went over. This vessel may have been carrying explosives, and had been blown apart before the boats could be got away. Just the one raft. Low in the water, barely rising up to challenge each roller or trough. There were three figures on board. Spreadeagled across it, tied there like some grisly warning to those who risked the Western Ocean.