Goss recovered himself. ‘I know that.’
The deck gave a delicate tremor, and Lindsay wondered if Fraser was already in his engine room, testing some machinery or the new generator.
He said, ‘Well, carry on, Number One. We’ll make an early start after lunch.’ He saw Ritchie peering in the door and added, ‘Come in, Yeo.’ He watched Goss stride past Ritchie and wondered why he could not face the inevitable.
Ritchie said, ‘New batch of signals, sir.’
‘Thanks.’ He flicked over the top one. ‘Good leave?’ He looked up, seeing the distress on the man’s round face, cursing himself for his stupidity. ‘I’m sorry. That was bloody unforgivable.’
Ritchie smiled. ‘S’all right, sir.’ He added, ‘I’m not sorry to be back.’ He glanced around the cabin. ‘I stayed at the Union Jack Club. Better’n nothing, I suppose.’
Lindsay thought of his own leave. The endless walking, the visits to the Admiralty. The nights when he had at last made good use of Boase’s pills. Now, with the ship needing him once more, he wondered what the first night would bring. Perhaps he would be safe.
Ritchie said, ‘Signal ‘ere from H.Q., sir. Ops officer comin’ aboard at 1400.’ He added quietly, “E’s bringin’the commodore with’im.’
Lindsay looked up. ‘Kemp? I thought he was staying at Scapa?’
Ritchie shrugged. ‘You know ‘ow it is in the Andrew, sir. They give you tropical rig and sends you to the Arctic. ‘Train you for torpedoes and make you a cook!’ He grinned. ‘They call it plannin’!’
Lindsay smiled up at him. It was good to see him again. Something familiar. To hold on to.
‘We shall just have to see what it is in our case.’
‘There’s another signal about A.B. McNiven, too.’ Ritchie leaned over to open the pad. ‘A shore patrol caught ‘im breakin’ into a chemist’s shop. Poor chap probably thought ‘e could cure a dose with stickin’ plaster.’ He became formal again. ‘An’ Mr. Aikman’s replacement is due this afternoon.’
Jupp entered the cabin and hesitated. ‘Pardon, sir.’
Lindsay stood up. ‘I think we’ll have a drink.’ He looked at Ritchie. ‘What about it, Yeoman? Just to start things off again.’
Ritchie grinned. ‘Well, if you say so, sir. Never bin known to refuse.’
Jupp darted a quick glance at Lindsay and saw the smoother lines around his mouth and eyes. The tablets had done some good then. He looked at the petty officer as he stood beside the desk, pleased yet awkward with the captain’s invitation. He thought too of Ritchie’s family photographs in the P.O.‘s mess and wondered how he had endured the past three weeks.
He straightened his stooped shoulders. ‘Comin’ right up, sir. An’ as we’re safe in ‘arbour, the best glasses!’
Immediately after lunch, while the cranes dipped and swayed back and forth overhead, the ship’s company turned to for work. There was a keen wind across the port and they needed little encouragement to make the business of loading stores and ammunition as brisk as possible.
On the outboard side an oiler nestled against the fenders while the pulsating fuel hoses pumped Benbecula’s life-blood into her bunkers, her skipper already watching other ships nearby with signal flags hoisted to show they too were demanding his services.
Throughout the ship, above and below decks, officers and ratings busied themselves with their allotted duties, their faces absorbed as they relived some incident or memory of their leave.
Fraser stood by the guardrail above the oiler, his gloved hands on his hips-as he watched the chief stoker checking the steady intake. He had done it so often, in so many ports, he could gauge the fuel supply almost by the jerk of the hoses. He was thinking of his family in Dundee. It had all turned out to be quite different from what he had expected. For years he had been almost a stranger in his own home. A man who came and went, season by season. Back and forth to the other side of the world, a life which he could share with no one outside whatever ship he happened to be serving.
But this time he had been shocked to find his wife was suddenly growing old. And his two children had seemed like strangers, even embarrassed by his forced familiarity. There had been no tours around the pubs as in the past. No quiet anger on his wife’s face as he staggered home in the early hours. For three whole weeks he had tried to make up for it. Had tried to rediscover what he had never known he had possessed. She had understood. No arguments. No quarrels about other ships’ officers who lived in the district, whose wives had always told her how well their men were doing. Better ships than Fraser’s. Promotion, more opportunities, fancy jobs on shore or in some harbour authority.
It had been a close, warm Christmas, and unlike any other leave when New Year had been involved, neither Fraser nor his wife had budged from their fire. As they had listened to the welcome to the New Year on their radio they had held hands, both realising perhaps that it was not merely the end of a year but also of this leave.
He had heard himself say, ‘If anything happens to me, will you let young Jamie follow the sea if he’s so inclined?’
Their son was eleven but had seemed so much older this time.
She had replied, ‘Don’t talk like that, Donald. It’s not like you to fret so. What have they done to make you like this?’
‘I didn’t mean to worry you, lass.’
She had poured him a full glass of whisky. ‘Drink this, Donald. Jamie’s like his father. I’ll not stop him.’
And when he had made to leave he had stared around their small house as if trying to remember everything at once. Then he had kissed her and had gone down the path without looking back.
The chief stoker squinted up. at him, his eyes red in the wind. ‘That feels better, eh, sir? The old girl‘11 take us anywhere!’
Fraser regarded him dourly. ‘She’d bloody well do just that, Usher! I’ll. not forgive her, if she conks out now!’
Above on the boat deck Lieutenant Maxwell was staring up at the twin mounting which had appeared abaft the bridge superstructure.
His assistant, Lieutenant Hunter, was saying, ‘I’ve checked the communications, sir, and the siting of the mounting is quite good, too.’ He was careful to say little, knowing how scathing Maxwell could be.
Maxwell bobbed his bullet head. ‘Good. Fine. As it should be.’ He had hardly heard a word Hunter had said.
He still could not accept it. It was like a bad dream which refused to be broken even when the sufferer was endeavouring to burst awake and free himself from it.
If he had telephoned first he would never have known. He felt the sweat gathering under his cap, hot in spite of the bitter wind. He rarely bothered to telephone or send a letter about leave. Decia, his wife, always seemed to be home anyway. She had money of her own, plenty of it, thanks to her rich father, and was quite content to entertain her friends rather than go visiting.
It might have been going on for months. Years. He felt the anxiety and disbelief churning his insides as if he were going to vomit.
On the last link of his journey down to Hampshire the train had been held up for several hours because of a ” derailment further along the line. Without lights or heating, the occupants of his, compartment had satin resentful, shivering silence. Then when at last he had reached his station there had been no taxi or hire-car available. The aged porter had said sourly, ‘Don’t you know there’s a war on?’ Stupid old bastard.
Maxwell had been almost out of breath by the time he had walked the five miles to his house. His case had been heavy, filled mostly with duty-free cigarettes and a length of silk which he had obtained in Liverpool from an old contact. For’Decia.