There followed visions of Marjorie reporting herself (with a heroism that reeked of smugness to the lawless) for absolutely necessary speech in the dormitory. ‘Still a rule’s a rule, and I did break it and it would have been rotten not to report myself, even though I had to tell that new girl where the bathroom was, because she said she was going to be sick.’ Visions arose of Marjorie’s return, absolved from shame, though the owner of a conduct mark she had insisted on receiving from the Head Mistress – ‘She was jolly decent. I’m most awfully glad I reported myself. Do you know, she actually said…. No, I can’t tell you…. All right, then, I will…. She said it was… well, I mean she said I could consider it more of a decoration than a conduct mark!’
Still Marjorie, who had always had stores of pencils and india-rubber and blotting-paper, who could read a time-table as well as a genealogical one, whose suspenders never broke and whose folded clothes were as trim as piles of sandwiches, would be the very person to advise a returned desert-islander.
‘Tomorrow,’ said Commander Wrekin, ‘tomorrow, with any luck, you’ll see land.’
At last he had answered the question she had not dared to ask: the slow days aboard had taught her that queries were not encouraged.
She did not answer, for his words had given her a picture of the Needles, as she had seen them just after dawn one June morning. She remembered their mistiness and the shimmer of New Forest trees edging Southampton Water and the traffic of the wide sea-lane and how the magic of return had clutched at her though she was only coming back then from a holiday in the Channel Islands.
‘Yes, tomorrow you’ll see land again.’
An icy quiver ran down her spine, so, just like that she had thrilled to rare and occasional music, to the ice-clear voice of a chorister singing a carol in King’s College Chapel, to a Highlander piping up Regent Street, to Reveille after the fraught silence that follows the Last Post, to a thrush in November, to the new bleating of a lamb in spring and to the sound of bells across water.
‘Queer,’ said Miss Ranskill, ‘what a good word nostalgia is. It sounds like smells, I mean, one thinks of a nose at once, and it is by smells one remembers things best.’
‘It means “return pain’, roughly translated, and, God, how that hurts – the return, I mean, even more than the thinking about it. Don’t know why, but it does. England hits me again every time I come back.’
‘Pierces, I think,’ said Miss Ranskill, ‘if we’re being particular about words.’ She added, ‘I shall buy a dictionary first of all. No, a knife first, then a dictionary. It’s funny, I always used to read the lists of books that people made out for imaginary desert islands, but nobody ever put down a dictionary.’
‘Sir!’ the First Lieutenant interrupted, and after that Miss Ranskill, who was on deck for the second time only since her rescue, was left alone to plan her return to the land.
It was a blue-and-silver morning, and even the battleship-grey of the long line of ships had taken on a hinting of azure. The sun silvered the bellies of the barrage balloons and caught the wings of an aeroplane that zoomed above.
Miss Ranskill sniffed. A sailor, she knew, could smell the sea from a long way off, and she hoped to catch a whiff of land soon, for already the business of little independent fishing vessels hinted of harbours. They, she remembered, carried home-tangs with them, an accumulated reek of harbours – tar and rope, cork, and salty nets. But big clean ships only smelled of themselves – of paint and metal-polish.
Tomorrow she would smell England, but what was its characteristic scent?
Tomorrow she would watch the misty grey edge of the land absorbing slow colour as the ‘return pain’ smote her.
Next day, a dripping sea-fog made land and sea and ships almost invisible. The foghorns blared like sea-cows calving, as the destroyer, nosing into harbour, carried Miss Ranskill home.
CHAPTER FIVE
She was ashore at last. Her feet had touched not dry land but the slimy stones of the dockyard. There had been no great moment as she stepped from the slippery gangway into a place of slush and shouting. Mist and drizzle had stolen her own thunder. There was no colour anywhere but the gold stripes on the First Lieutenant’s sleeve and her own reddened finger-tips resting on it. Grey figures moved beyond a sheeting of fine grey rain. Grey shapes varied only in bulk and in tone according to their distance from her.
‘Filthy day,’ remarked the First Lieutenant. ‘But I think it’s going to ease up.’
The misty rain was thinning as they came near to the dreary building by the dockyard gates.
And now Miss Ranskill was dialling. Two – five – eight – Her fingers slipped on the last number and she began again while the First Lieutenant chatted to the policeman in a lowered voice and incomprehensible jargon.
She could hear the blaring of the telephone in, so she supposed, Marjorie’s bedroom. Then came a click, and at last a voice answered in strident cockney tones:
‘’Ullow! ’Ullow!’
‘Is–’ Miss Ranskill’s own voice sounded peculiar to her, ‘is Mrs Mallison in?’
‘Naow, she’s not.’
Miss Ranskill swallowed twice before daring to ask the next question.
‘Is she away from home? I mean, she still lives here, doesn’t she?’
‘Naow, but she’s out.’
‘Could you tell me when she’ll be in?’
A tooth-sucking noise was the first response, and then, ‘I couldn’t siy, I’m sure. Would you like to leave a message?’
‘Are you the maid?’
‘Ow naow.’ The voice sounded rather offended. ‘I’m styin’ ’ere.’
‘Then perhaps you could take a message?’
‘Righty ow! Ow, there’s the doctor just coming in. I’ll fetch ’im. What nime shall I siy?’
‘Miss Ranskill, Miss Nona Ranskill, but he won’t–’
The barking of a dog and confused noises interrupted. Presently a male voice spoke.
‘Yes, Doctor Mallison speaking.’
‘This is Miss Ranskill – Nona Ranskill – I don’t suppose you’ll have heard of me, but I was at school with Marjorie, and–’
‘I’m afraid my wife – I’m afraid Marjorie is out. Perhaps you could give her a ring later. The evening would be best.’
‘Yes, but–’ by now Miss Ranskill was almost shouting, ‘I’ve only just arrived. I’ve been–’ She hesitated. It was impossible to say to that remote voice, ‘I’ve been on a desert island for three and a half years,’ so she ended flatly, ‘I’ve been having rather a bad time, and–’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ the doctor’s voice sounded wary. ‘Well, Miss Rankin, I’ll certainly give Marjorie your message, and if you could ring up after dinner this evening or–’
‘Ranskill!’ she shouted. ‘R-a-n-s-k-i-l-l, Nona Ranskill. Marjorie’s sure to remember me. We were in the same form at St Catherine’s, and–’
‘Ranskill, yes, I’ve got that. I won’t forget: I’ll write it down, and now I’m afraid–’
‘Won’t Marjorie be in before the evening? You see – it’s all rather difficult – I – I haven’t been very well, and if–’
‘That’s bad luck.’
The words might be sympathetic, but the tone warned her as clearly as though he had said – ‘I am sorry as an acquaintance but not as a doctor. Sharing a schoolroom with Marjorie does not mean the free run of my brains and surgery. Not a bit of it, my good woman!’
Miss Ranskill interrupted his warning.
‘Oh! I’m all right, really, but I should have liked to see Marjorie as soon as possible.’