'Group up, half ahead together. Open main vents.'
The boat trembled to the added power as the screws threshed at her stern. Plumes of spray spouted upwards as the vents opened. Her stern came up; the bows dipped. He crossed to the upper lid, the soles of his boots feeling for the rungs of the ladder. This was to be a deep diving test, but it was the final trial for Woolf-Gault. If he cracked, Farge would put him ashore before Orcus sailed in two days' time — whatever officialdom decreed, and by force if it had to be. He pulled the hatch shut over his head and slammed on the long-handled clip.
'First clip on!' he shouted. 'Take her down, periscope depth.'
Lorna thought he raised his hand to her, when the submarine slid past the slipway of the Kyleakin ferry. The black fin looked so close, the men on the bridge recognizable, as they concentrated on guiding their sinister submarine through this narrow channel. Her white ensign fluttered proudly, and at the front end of the boat, sailors and an officer were standing by the anchor. The submarine made no noise: just the hissing of the water along her waterline and the bubbling of her wake. And then she was moving away up Loch Alsh to anchor.
One of the ferry crew pushed past her to throw the mooring rope. The engines rumbled and the ferry was off, ploughing across the kyle to the mainland. She'd wait for Julian at the top of the hard where she couldn't miss him.
Lorna Prynne tried to suppress her excitement: since her mother had seen her off at Taunton and throughout the long journey and its wartime frustrations the tension inside her had mounted. And she had just seen him: tall, lean, cap slightly askew, standing apart on the bridge as he conned his submarine.
Kyle of Lockalsh, the bustling little port facing Kyleakin, grew larger with every second and then the ramp of the ferry was grinding across the concrete hard. Lorna had plenty of time, so waited for the cars to roll ashore. She strolled towards the road and found a corner in the sun by the wall where she could see up the loch: Orcus had turned and was pointing towards her. She watched the anchor splashing into the dark water, saw the Union Jack fluttering from the staff at her bows. Minutes later men were emerging from her hull and mustering on deck.
Lorna recognized the emotion of belonging to this mysterious, lone submarine. Those men, from the youngest to the captain, lived and worked inside that black hulclass="underline" they all had their fears, their loves, their hates; many must have families to care for, wives and children; perhaps there were some like Julian and her, cherishing a secret love; most still had parents, while some, she feared, would be enduring their own private despairs. But each one of them shared the common denominator: Orcus, their submarine. And any one of them, through carelessness, idleness, cussedness or fear could, in a brief moment, put at risk the lives of all the others. Submariners, like flyers, were different: each man depended entirely on his neighbour — one day, perhaps, she would understand them better, their independent, forceful decisiveness.
A black-hulled boat with yellow upper-works, a blue ensign at her mast, was nosing alongside the submarine's port side. Ropes were flung across and then ant-like figures were swarming into the liberty boat. But why didn't the tender leave the submarine? Why did she stick there, rolling gently alongside Orcus? Lorna took off the blue suede jacket she had thrown across her shoulders on leaving the hotel. It was hot here, out of the wind in the setting sunlight, even at six o'clock on this beautiful May evening.
'Oh — come on…' she whispered impatiently — and then she saw an officer saluting on the deck as the last, tall figure jumped across the gap. She caught her breath as she recognized Julian. He entered the boat's wheelhouse and she lost sight of him. The bows of the tender were slowly separating from the submarine; the gap widened; and then the liberty boat was forging towards her, its bow-wave frothing white on the placid surface of the loch.
It was ten minutes past six when Julian, the first to leave the tender, clambered up the ladder to the quay. She watched him as he casually surveyed the scene while two officers and the libertymen swarmed ashore. All were in uniform, neat and tidy, an animated, jolly lot. How young they looked! An older man with frizzled hair, a chief petty officer, stopped to chat with his captain. Julian returned the salute and then the Chief was off with several of his friends, striding towards the little town.
Gulls screamed about the quays; a fishing-boat was chugging in through the kyle, rusty red gear and a glistening, emerald hull. Fishermen were laying out their nets to dry on the quay; the Kyleakin ferry was tooting, announcing its imminent departure. Julian straightened his tie, picked up his grip and hurried along the quay for the ferry.
She had to run to catch up with him. They were closing the ferry gates as she jumped on to the ramp, already scraping from the hard. She could see him threading his way through the cars to reach the far end of the double-ended ferry. He had plonked down his grip; he was leaning on the rail and gazing towards the village on the opposite side of the kyle. She was still out of breath when she crept up behind him. People were glancing at her, amused, but she did not care. She edged to the rail, close to his side.
'Looking for someone?'
He did not speak as a slow grin creased his pale face. The hard lines vanished as he greeted her formally with the traditional salute of the sailor, but his eyes were telling her all she wanted to know.
'I was afraid you couldn't make it,' he said quietly, glancing over her head at the interested onlookers. 'Have a good trip?'
She nodded, pulling at her jacket when the breeze slapped the ferry's prow. She moved closer to him, her heart still racing, as in silence they watched the Kyleakin shore approaching fast. He gave a final glance up the loch towards his submarine and then they were hurrying up the hard while the cars groaned past them.
She pointed to the white-washed hotel sprawling across the neck of the little peninsular. 'They've got our rooms,' she said shyly. 'They're nice people.'
She ran up the few steps and he pushed open the door for her. He dumped his bag on the plum-coloured carpet.
'Lieutenant-Commander Farge?' the proprietress asked, sliding a registration form and the visitors' book towards him. 'Wartime regulations, I'm afraid, sir. Your room's ready for you in the annexe,' she added, glancing at Lorna.
Lorna stood behind him, watching his hesitation. 'Supper's at seven,' the woman said as he scribbled in the details. 'I've reserved a table by the window.' She was smiling at them both, 'I hope you'll enjoy your stay.'
Thanks. I'll get cleaned up for supper.'
'I'll show you to your room.' The 'kindly Scottish woman glanced across at Lorna.
'Don't bother, I'll take him across to the annexe.' Julian picked up his bag and Lorna led the way to the door opening on to the small courtyard at the rear.
'Number eight,' she said quietly as Julian unlocked his door. 'Mine's in the main building: room five.'
He dumped his bag on the chair and, taking her hands, drew her into the room. He shut the door and encircled her in his arms. He kissed her then gently pushed her from him. 'Let's eat,' he said. 'Then we can talk.'
Later, while the sun crept downwards across the Cuillins, they took the shore road out of the village. When they were clear of the houses, he took her hand. They strode along and for a while he spoke of mundane things: his trip up north, the difficulties of trying to find accommodation at Kyleakin. 'So I left it to you in the end,' he said, smiling down at her. There was a constraint between them which she did not understand.