‘The best there is,’ the young lieutenant concurred. ‘A five-thousand-ton black mistress! That’s what my girlfriend calls this beast.’
‘Jealous, is she?’
‘Hmmm. But they like to be jealous, don’t they, women?’
Andrew didn’t reply at first. He was very young, the lieutenant.
‘Planning to tie the knot, are you?’
‘No, not me. Not ready yet, sir.’
Truculent was less than half-a-mile ahead, aiming to pass a hundred yards to port. Tinker raised the binoculars again; the finely-chiselled face of Philip Hitchens stared straight ahead from the conning tower, cap pulled firmly down against the wind.
‘Come on, Phil,’ he breathed. ‘Give us a wave. You’re not making a movie!’
The two commanders had shared a ‘cabin’ at Britannia College, Dartmouth, and their careers had progressed in an undeclared spirit of competition.
It surprised Tinker they’d remained such good friends. Hitchens was so straitlaced he was a curiosity. He had breeding and style, yet often seemed overwhelmed by the responsibility of his work. His handsome features should have made him a ‘ladies’ man’, yet Andrew had never known him make a pass at another woman, despite his own wife’s questionable fidelity. Tinker found the mismatch of appearance and character intriguing.
Andrew saluted as the two black hulls passed one another silently.
‘The bugger!’ Tinker growled. ‘He’s not even acknowledging! Come on, Phil! What’s the matter with you?’
To ignore the salute of a fellow warship was very bad form in navy protocol. Tinker sharpened the focus of his binoculars. His friend of twenty years was studiously ignoring him.
‘Something we said, sir?’ the lieutenant suggested blandly.
Within the hour they were alongside the jetty in Devonport submarine base, astern of the lustrous black hull of a sister boat just out of refit. Standing on the casing ready to welcome aboard the Captain of the Second Submarine Squadron, Tinker realized how tatty his own vessel had become. The black paint had lost its sheen and there were patches on the fin where sound-absorbent tiles had pulled away, the adhesive softened by weeks of immersion. Tribune would need a spell in the dockyard before her next patrol.
‘Good morning, sir.’ He saluted briefly.
‘Morning, Andrew. Welcome home!’
Captain Norman Craig had eight nuclear-powered submarines in his squadron. He was responsible for the well-being of the boats and their crews.
‘Lovely day. Let’s get below for a chat. Won’t keep you long.’
Tinker followed him down through the hatch and into the wardroom where the stewards were pouring coffee. De-briefing was routine at the end of a patrol. The weapons and mechanical engineers would hand over reports on defective equipment so the mechanics at the shore base, HMS Defiance, could put it right. Personnel problems would be raised, and gossip exchanged, but the session was always kept brief. The members of Tribune’s crew who were due to take shore leave would want to get home.
The briefing over, the two men crossed the quay towards HMS Defiance, the Captain hurrying to keep pace with Andrew’s longer stride.
‘Patsy picking you up?’ Craig asked. Andrew looked at his watch.
‘She’ll be teaching. Home for lunch, I expect.’
‘My car can take you back if you want.’
‘You sure, sir? That’d be great.’
‘The driver can’t spend all day polishing it! It’ll give her something to do. What time do you want to leave?’
‘In about an hour? That’ll give me time to complete my paperwork.’
The black Cavalier was driven by a WRNS, a plump girl with rosy cheeks and a warm Devon accent. As she swung the car expertly out of the suburbs of Plymouth and into the country lanes, they talked of the fortunes of Plymouth Argyll football club, of which both were fans. But the more she talked the slower she drove, which grated on his nerves, so he pulled a folder from his briefcase and pretended to read.
Coming home always made him anxious, gave him a fear that his domestic life might have changed radically while he’d been away.
The lanes grew narrower as they approached the village where he and Patsy had lived for the past four years. They’d had four different homes; appointments had moved him round the country, but they’d determined to settle in the West Country. Two limestone cottages knocked together had created a home large enough. The three children were away at boarding school; eight-year-old Anthony was just experiencing his first term of separation from his parents. School had started five weeks ago, so Patsy had handled the boy’s last-minute tears on her own.
The red Devon soil glowed in the midday autumn sun. The car turned into a narrow lane and dived between banks and hedges. Soon it wound its way into the village of Yealmsford.
The vicar stepped out of the tiny post office carrying a newspaper, looked at the naval registration of the car, peered to see who it was, then waved in recognition.
He’ll be getting me to read the lesson again before long, Andrew thought. The vicar said he had a voice that made the congregation sit up and listen.
The Tinkers were well known in the village and Andrew was a celebrity. To command something ‘nuclear’ carried kudos in this part of the world.
Patsy was out. It irked him she wasn’t there to greet him. She taught in the mornings at the village primary school, but should have been home by now. He carried his small grip into the house — a submariner takes few possessions to sea.
The emptiness of the cottage alarmed him. With all the children away at school now, there were no toys littering the hall. He put his bag down and called out. No answer. Where the hell was she?
Then he heard her car.
‘Oh, you’re back!’ Patsy looked startled, as she came through the doorway. ‘I wasn’t sure when you were coming. Have you been here long?’
She dropped her briefcase in the hall and hugged him. Her copper-coloured hair brushed his cheek; it smelled of shampoo and the cigarette smoke from the school office. He squeezed her and lifted her feet off the ground.
‘I missed you,’ she purred, the way she always did.
‘Missed you too!’
‘You didn’t! You had your boat to play with!’
‘Not as much fun as playing with you!’
She pushed him away with a forced smile. It was stupid, but she always felt shy when Andrew came home. To cope with his long absences she’d made herself unnaturally self-sufficient. His homecomings were like the arrival of a stranger.
‘Have you had lunch?’
‘No, and I’m starving.’
‘I’m not sure what there is. You can come shopping with me later!’
He followed her to the kitchen. He was used to this; whenever he returned from patrol, Patsy seemed to feel the need to ‘house-train’ him again.
‘It’ll have to be a sandwich for now. With the children away, I haven’t been stocking up.’
‘I was worried something had happened. It’s so quiet in the house…’
‘I know…’
She looked pained. She would never tell him how lonely she felt at times.
‘How was Anthony when you took him to school?’
‘He howled all the way there, and I howled all the way back! But he’s fine now. I got a super letter from him this morning. We can have him home for a weekend soon. He’s dying to see you.’
Andrew watched her work. With Patsy having her own job, her own friends, and being life’s mainstay for their children, he sometimes felt himself an outsider.
‘I saw Sara this morning. She looked dreadful,’ Patsy said, slicing bread.