It was easier than he had dared to hope. It was not like writing to her. It was as if she was here, listening to him, or sitting with her bare legs tucked beneath her chin in the old boatyard where it seemed as if the sun had always shone.
My dearest Eve, We did not have that walk together which I had promised for us, but I walk with you every day, and we are together…
Apart from Sub-Lieutenant Fallows, Rob Roy’s wardroom was deserted. Even the old hands like Bone and Campbell who had little to say in favour of the Rock’s attractions had gone ashore, and aboard Ranger tied alongside the situation was the same.
Fallows decided that he would go ashore tomorrow, perhaps before the wardroom party. He glanced down at the single stripe on his shoulder strap and considered his future. A second ring very soon now, but what then? You needed a push, a friendly word in the right places, and Fallows was not so much of a fool that he did not know his own unpopularity. But it had not been easy for him. He had nothing but determination and guts. Even the captain had seemed satisfied with his work and would have to say as much in his personal report.
He thought of the others. Bone and the Chief did not count, but young Morgan would do well because of his navigation qualifications if nothing else. Even the newcomer Tritton – just thinking of his name made Fallows burn with anger and humiliation. Bunny Tritton. He too seemed so full of confidence. Fallows had never got to know Sherwood, but then he suspected that nobody ever really knew him. On the face of it he should have had everything. He felt envy replacing his anger. Sherwood came from a prosperous family, should have had the world at his feet even after his family had been wiped out. Suppose my own family were killed? Fallows swallowed his neat gin and coughed.
He did not need to seek an answer, not if he had been in Sherwood’s shoes. Sherwood had known the life Fallows had only dreamed about. Cruise ships, and luxury yachts, good hotels and women probably eyeing him whenever he passed; Fallows could imagine it all. With his background, and especially when he had tempted death to gain the George Cross, second only to the VC, he could have found a safe and comfortable billet anywhere he chose. And after the war, he would never have to work again.
Fallows avoided thinking of Hargrave. He had sensed his disapproval, dislike even, from the start. Another one who had it made, no matter how things turned out. A naval family, his father a flag-officer, and right here in the Med to offer a leg-up as soon as it presented itself – no, he would get nothing out of him.
He saw the duty messman watching him. He was a seaman-gunner named Parsons who chose to act as a steward rather than work another part of ship when not employed on ‘A’ Gun. As gunnery officer, Fallows had been instrumental in getting him what was both a soft number and a lucrative one.
‘Another gin, Parsons.’ Fallows never said please or thank you to a rating, £le thought it was beneath him.
Parsons fetched the bottle and, while he measured the gin, watched the ginger-haired sub-lieutenant as a milkman will study a dangerous dog. The big shindig would be tomorrow. They would be working fit to bust, he thought. Ted Kellett the P.O. steward would have all his work cut out. He couldn’t be everywhere at once. With the place packed with officers all downing free gins it would always be possible to fake a few records. There would be some bottles going spare, unaccounted for, and Parsons always knew where he could sell duty-free at the right price for a nice, handy profit.
He put down the glass. So Bunny was drinking again. That was something. He was a bastard, one of the worst Parsons had known, but he had eyes like a bloody hawk when he was sober.
Parsons began warily, ‘I was wondering, sir, if we could clear up the accounts before the party?’
Fallows frowned, his train of thought disturbed. ‘What d’you mean?’
Parsons had been a pub barman before the war in Southampton. Like the milkman and the dog, he could usually spot the signs. He said in a wheedling tone, ‘It’s not me, sir, you know that, but the Jimmy the One has been riding all of us a bit over the mess bills, an’ things.’
’And?’ Fallows stared at him. He had not taken a real drink for so long it was making his mouth and tongue numb.
‘Well, sir, you didn’t sign your mess chits—’
Fallows slammed down the glass. ‘What the bloody hell are you yapping about? I always pay my bills—’ He contained his anger and asked sharply, ‘When was this anyway?’
‘In Chatham, sir. You’d been working very hard, and Jimmy the One landed you with extra duty—’
Fallows smiled gently. ‘Don’t crawl, man, it doesn’t impress me!’
Parsons licked his lips. ‘There’s ten quid to cover, sir.’
’What?’ Even Fallows lost his practiced calm. ‘At duty-free prices, how the hell could that happen?’
Parsons persisted; it was all or nothing now. ‘It was the night when young Tinker came down to see you, sir, when you told him—’ He did not go on. There was no need to.
Fallows stood up and dragged at his short-sleeved shirt as if it was clinging to his body.
‘I told him what?’
Parsons watched him. Just for an instant he had thought he had gone too far, chosen the wrong moment. But now… He said, ‘Tinker asked to go ashore, sir, because of what had happened.’
Fallows sat down heavily on the club fender and pinched the crown of his nose between finger and thumb as he tried to remember, to make the picture form in his mind.
It was like a terrible nightmare. You knew it was bad, and yet you could never make any sort of form or sense out of it. He had been plagued by some vague, distorted memory about Tinker.
Parsons added, ‘You shouted at him, sir.’
Fallows looked up. ‘Did I?’ The admission seemed to stun him. ‘Then what happened?’
Parsons could scarcely believe it, but the old in-built caution flashed its warning. Like the drunk in the bar who takes one too many, who picks up a bottle, thirsting for blood.
‘You were worn out, sir, like I told you. You shouldn’t have been on duty that time.’
Fallows nodded like a puppet. ‘That’s right. I do remember. Number One—’ He checked himself just in time, and asked curtly, ‘What did I say to Tinker?’
Parsons took a deep breath. ‘You told him he was not going ashore, that he was a disgrace to the ship and his uniform. Things like that.’
Fallows eyed him like a man who has suddenly lost his memory, afraid of what he might be or do. ‘There’s more?’
‘You told him that his mother was an effing whore, sir, that it was the best thing that could have happened to her.’
Fallows stood up and walked to the side and back again. He felt sick, trapped by the nightmare he could still not recognise or break.
He said, ‘I have to do Rounds in a moment.’ He looked vaguely at the letter-rack. ‘First I must go to my cabin.’
‘About the money, sir.’
Fallows fumbled with his wallet. ‘How much was it, ten pounds?’
Parsons took the notes. They were damp from the officer’s sweat.
‘Thank you, sir. We’ve all got to stick together in some things.’
But Fallows had thrust open the door of the officers’ heads and Parsons heard him vomiting helplessly.
He folded the notes inside his paybook and smiled.
‘Bloody little bastard!’ He poured himself a tall measure of brandy and swallowed it in one gulp. As he topped the bottle up carefully with water he added savagely, ‘Now you’ll know what it’s like to bloody well crawl, Mr Bunny!’