Unexpectedly, Vice-Admiral Hargrave stepped from the brow which crossed to Ranger’s deck and touched his cap to the ramrod stiff side-party. He paused to listen to the music, the muted buzz of voices from the wardroom skylight, and said, ‘Sounds like a good party, Ransome.’
Ransome said, ‘Sorry about the reception, sir. You caught us all on the hop, I’m afraid.’
The admiral smiled. ‘I didn’t expect a guard and Royal Marines band – I happen to enjoy informality!’
Ransome looked at the slender figure who followed the admiral across the brow. Like the admiral, she was all in white, the only touch of colour being the blue of her shoulder-straps; a second officer in the W.R.N.S.
‘This is Second Officer Rosalind Pearce, by the way, my flag lieutenant and guardian angel.’ He laughed loudly.
How like his son he was, Ransome thought. A bit heavier, but the same good looks, and the added confidence of age.
He looked at the girl. She was tall, almost the same height as her admiral, with dark hair showing beneath her neat tricorn hat, and serious eyes which were probably blue.
The vice-admiral added, ‘She wanted to see all you rough, sea-going types anyway – another experience, eh?’
They glanced at each other. Ransome could detect a closer relationship, the sense of understanding.
He said, ‘I’ll lead the way, sir.’
The wardroom was packed, and the guests overflowed into the passageway and at least one neighbouring cabin.
Hargrave pushed through the throng and then saw his father. ‘Welcome aboard, sir!’
Ransome saw his eyes shift to the girl.
Vice-Admiral Hargrave made the same introduction and again they looked at one another. Ransome suspected that the admiral said the same thing quite often. Explanation, or defence, he wondered?
Hargrave beckoned to a perspiring messman with a loaded tray.
‘A bit of a mixture.’
She said,’That one looks nice,’ but her eyes were on Hargrave.
Comparing, perhaps?
Ransome turned as a messman took the admiral’s heavily oak-leaved cap from him. There was the true difference. The thinning hair, the deeper lines around his mouth and eyes. His immaculate white-drill uniform with its double row of decorations did not hide the slight belly either.
The vice-admiral nodded to the officers nearest him and said, ‘At last we’re shifting my H.Q. to Malta, Ransome. Exciting, eh? After all the disappointments and the blockades, we’ll be back where we belong.’
The girl remarked, ‘I’ll not be sorry to leave that cavern under the Rock they loosely describe as our present H.Q.’
The vice-admiral grinned hugely. ‘You wait till you get to Malta, my girl! That dismal tunnel at Lascaris may be bombproof, but it’s like living in a sewer, believe me!’
Hargrave asked, ‘How long have you served with my, er – with the admiral?’
She regarded him thoughtfully. In the hard deckhead lights her eyes were violet, very relaxed, like a cat’s.
‘Six or seven months, I think.’ She had a low, well-modulated voice. Very self-assured.
A boatswain’s mate appeared in the door and gestured to the first lieutenant.
‘What is it?’ Hargrave was irritated at the interruption, just as he was confused. His father had never mentioned the girl before. She was quite stunning, with the looks of an actress, and, he guessed, an intelligence as sharp as anyone he had ever met.
The seamdh called above the din, ‘’Nother guest, sir! A civvy!’
The vice-admiral chuckled. ‘Good old Jack, never changes, thank God.’ He added, as he reached for a passing drink, ‘My guest actually – you’ll like him. He’s Richard Wakely. Heard of him?’
Who hadn’t? Right from the early days, the Phoney War as it was called by those who did not have to fight it, Richard Wakely had been a household name. As a BBC roaming journalist he had brought every aspect of the war to Britain’s firesides. When England had stood quite alone he had rallied every heart with his stirring words. Even before Dunkirk he had toured the front lines of the British Expeditionary Force, and visited the unbreachable Maginot Line, where he had enthralled his massive audience when he had described the nearness of the enemy in the Siegfried Line; the Huns as he had called them. He had disappeared after Dunkirk for a time, and had carried on his broadcasts in the USA.
Then when Britain stood firm and her friends and allies rallied from all parts of the world, Richard Wakely came back. From a Lancaster bomber above Berlin, or in the Western Desert even within range of German snipers there, he had told his listeners what it was like, regardless of the risk to himself.
It seemed strange that such a famous figure was about to enter their tiny, private world in Rob Roy.
The vice-admiral turned aside so that nobody else should hear. ‘I want you to meet him because the people at home need to be told about your war for a change. Just be natural.’ He added sharply, ‘I didn’t know be was coming too!’
Ransome saw Commander Bliss enter with the man he knew was Wakely. He heard the admiral mutter, ‘I thought he was at that damned meeting!’
The girl replied indifferently, ‘Must have finished earlier, sir.’ She watched him, gauging his mood.
Ransome watched Bliss being greeted by the admiral. What was it? Something from the past? He had assumed that Bliss was his choice; now he was not so sure.
Ransome took Wakely’s hand and shook it. It was surprisingly soft and limp.
Wakely looked a lot like his pictures. Tall, heavily rather than powerfully built, with wispy fair hair and a round, plump face.
‘I am really looking forward to this, Commander Ransome!’
Bliss asked, ‘Have I missed something, sir?’
The vice-admiral shrugged. ‘Mr Wakely has agreed to keep us company while he gathers material for his next series of broadcasts.’ He lowered his voice although it was quite unnecessary as the noise, which had faded at Bliss’s entry, had mounted again. ‘Operation Husky.’
Wakely gave a childlike smile, ‘All the way to Europe’s soft underbelly, as Winston calls it!’
Bliss nodded approvingly. ‘You honour us, Mr Wakely. I’ve often listened to your broadcasts.’
Wakely sipped what looked like an orangeade and blinked modestly. ‘Then the honour is all mine, believe me.’
Bliss nodded again, this time to Ransome. ‘Everyone here?’
‘All the commanding officers anyway, sir.’
The vice-admiral dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief, i’d like to speak with them now.’
Bliss was saying, ‘We’ll do all we can to make you comfortable in Bedworth -
Ransome held up his hands and the conversation began to die away once more. It was unfortunate because the vice-admiral’s voice was made to sound unnecessarily loud.
‘Richard Wakely is sailing with Rob Roy as it happens. It’s all about minesweeping, and bloody time too if you ask me!’
Ransome saw Lieutenant Commander Gregory, Ranger’s C.O., chain-smoking as usual, nudge his companion, Stranach of the Firebrand.
Hargrave had placed himself beside the Wren officer again. They made a handsome pair, Ransome thought. Did he think so too? Or was he pondering on his father’s morals, his mother and sisters in England?
Vice-Admiral Hargrave announced, ‘You will be sailing very soon now to play an important part in a moment of history. Sicily is a stepping-stone and the pace will be hot and demanding. Our success will mean the opening of the Second Front, with all that that implies, and the end result, with God’s help—’
Ransome saw the Wren officer’s perfect mouth quiver very slightly in what could have been a smile.