It had ended there, or almost. His mother had started on about the reduced rations, how hard it had been to get enough even for this welcome-home tea party. They should have more consideration for those who had to stay at home and take it.
His father had got out his Daily Mail War Atlas. ‘In my opinion, we should never have trusted the Froggies. It was just the same in the last lot. No guts, the lot of ‘em.’
Dancy had recalled Lindsay’s face at the burial parties. His quiet voice. And all at once he had not wanted to tell them anything. To share what they could never understand because they did not really want to.
Stannard came out on the wing and screwed up his eyes to search for the aircraft. It was almost abeam, parallel with the port column of ships.
‘He’s flaming confident.’ He looked sideways at Dancy’s grim fate. ‘I hope he runs out of gas without noticing!’
They lapsed into silence, watching the Focke Wulf until it was hidden by a freighter and the overlapping superstructure of the leading troopship.
Dancy said uneasily, ‘With an escort like ours we should be all right.’
‘Too right. The destroyers can cope with the subs. And the big cruiser can beat the hell. out of the captain’s raider.’
‘is that how you see it?’
‘The raider?’ Stannard shrugged, remembering with sudden clarity Lindsay’s agonisedd voice on the telephone as he relived the nightmare or whatever was trying to destroy him. ‘Every man has to have something in a war. Something to hate or hope for. A goal, personal ambition, who knows?’ He glanced round quickly to make sure the nearest lookout was out of earshot. ‘Sorry I couldn’t give you a ring, Sub. Got a bit involved. You know how it is. Still, I expect you had some little sheila to keep the cold out, eh?’
Dancy tried to grin. ‘I did all right.’ He did not want to think of his leave. Or how hurt he had been when Stannard had failed to call him on the phone. Just for a drink. Anything. He watched Stannard’s clean-cut profile. Lucky devil. There was something about him. A sort of carefree recklessness which would appeal to women very much, Dancy decided.
The closest he had got to female company had been a friend of his sister. They had made a foursome, which had of course included his sister’s boy-friend. He was not in the armed forces but employed on some reserved job, in an aircraft factory. Plenty of money, a loud laugh, and his sister appeared to adore him.
The other girl had been called Gloria. They had gone to a local dance, and Dancy had been so desperate for enjoyment that once again in his young life he had mixed his drinks. Recklessly he had invited the girl back to his home. His sister and her friend had vanished halfway through the dance so he had the sitting room marked down in his mind as a suitable place for improving his relationship with Gloria. She was young and quite pretty and had giggled nervously when he had said casually, ‘We’ll have a tot together. Some of the real stuff I brought back with me.’
The warmth of the fire, the scent of her hair and body, the gin, all seemed to combine against him. When he had kissed her it had still appeared to be going well enough. When he had put his hand on her breast she had pushed him frantically away, jumping up with such force that the gin and glasses had scattered over the floor with a crash loud enough to wake the dead.
It had in fact awakened Dancy’s mother. He could see it all clearly in his mind as if it was happening this very instant. Feel the humiliation and embarrassment as his mother had switched on all the lights and had stood in the doorway in a dressing gown, her hair in curlers, as she had snapped, ‘I don’t expect this sort of thing in my house! I don’t know what sort of people you’ve been mixing with in the Navy, but I’ll not stand for filth under this roof!’ To make it worse, Gloria had been violently sick. Altogether it had not been a successful leave by any standards.
Stannard raised his glasses and studied the ammunition ship for several seconds. ‘Check her bearing again, Sub. I think she’s off station.’
He heard Dancy return to the wheelhouse and sighed. I must be losing my touch, he thought. He had never believed in coincidence, love at first sight, we were meant for each other, and all the other sentiments he had heard voiced in so many ports of call.
But it had happened to him. Just like that. There was no future for either of them. It was hopeless. Best forgotten. Equally he knew he was involved completely. No matter which way it ended.
He had had a couple of drinks at the railway hotel before getting a taxi to the flat. It was all exactly as he had remembered. As he had nursed it in his aching mind throughout the patrols and the freezing watches, the sights of death and pitiful survival.
But another girl had opened the door. When he had identified himself she had said calmly, ‘Oh, she left some weeks back.’
Stannard had been dumbfounded. No message. Nothing. Not even a goodbye.
The girl had said, ‘But if you like to come back in an hour I’ll be free.’ She had smiled, and in that instant Stannard had realised his dream had been something more than he had bargained for. ‘We’re kept pretty busy you know.’ She had reached out to touch his shoulder strap. ‘But. for a nice lieutenant like you I’ll break all the other appointments, okay?’
He had left without a word, his mind a complete blank.
As he had reached the stairway she had called after him, ‘What d’you expect? Betty Grable.or something, you stuck-up bleeder!’
And then, a few days later, as he had been walking aimlessly down a London street searching for a bar he had visited some years before, an air-raid had started. Within minutes, or so it had seemed, bombs had begun to rain down, the far end of the street had been filled with dust, smoke and crashing debris. With vague, scurrying figures he had run into a shelter, amazed that he had seemed to be the only one who did not know where to go or what to do.
The All Clear had sounded thirty minutes later. It hadg been a hit-and-run raid, a warden had said in an authoritative tone. ‘Lost ‘is bleedin’ way more likely!’ a disgruntled postman had suggested.
But when Stannard had emerged from the shelter it was almost dark, and as the other strangers had melted away in the gloom it had begun to pelt with rain.
It was then that he had noticed her. She had been standing under the doorway of a bombed shop clutching a paper bag against her body and staring at the rain in dismay. Without hesitation he had taken off his greatcoat and slungitacross her shoulders before she could protest.
‘Going far? Well, I’ll walk you there, if you like. We’ll be company for each other if there’s another raid.’
And that was how it had all begun. She lived at a small house in Fulham, close to Putney Bridge. At the door she had looked at his dripping uniform and had said quietly, ‘Would you like to come in for a minute? I owe you that at least.’
Her name was Jane Hillier, and she was married to a captain in the Royal Armoured Corps.
As Stannard had given her his jacket to hang by the fire he had seen her husband’s picture on the sideboard. A nice looking chap standing with some other soldiers in front of a tank.
‘I’d offer you a meal but I’m afraid I’ve only got some Spam until the shops open tomorrow.’
She was dark and slim, and very attractive. She had opened the rain-splashed parcel and taken out a small, brightly coloured hat.
‘I was being extravagant. I wanted everything to be just right.’
Stannard had glanced at the photograph but she had said quickly, ‘No, he’s all right. It’s not that. But he’ll not be coming home. Not yet anyway. He’s in the Western Desert. I’ve not seen him for two years.’
Stannard had walked to his suitcase. ‘I’ve got something better than Spam. I was bringing it for…’