Not that it mattered. Owles seemed to have unfailing in formation.
Owles considered the question. “Well, I mean, sir, it stands to reason, don’t it? Where else?”
He pattered across the carpet, laying a place for tea on the table.
Drummond sighed, thinking of the next hours and days. Vigilance and waiting for the right moment. Commander Duvall must either have upset Beaumont on passage from Harwich or was now considered too valuable to use for flushing out a Spanish spy-ship, or whatever she was. Beaumont obviously considered it a good risk. Otherwise he would have stayed clear.
Owles asked, “Will the other gentleman be bedding down in here with Cap’n (D), sir?”
Drummond turned. “Other gentleman?”
Owles regarded him passively. “I thought you knew, sir. He’ll be from the Ministry of Information, an important gent, I expect, sir.”
Drummond stared at him. God, that’s all we need now. A bloody war-correspondent along for the ride. To get a bit of material for one of those sickening programmes. I’m speaking to you tonight from the front line. Or, Within yards of where I am sitting, the enemy are about to launch an attack. It always sounded as if the speaker was totally alone at the time.
He replied, “Well, I know now! Yes, put him down here. Keep him from getting in my way.”
Owles pattered back to his pantry, considering the captain’s sudden anger.
He liked Drummond, although he considered him too serious for one so young. And available. He thought of his sister in Rochester. Pity she couldn’t get her hands on the captain, he thought. But she had two blokes already. A petty officer off the Waxwing, and a Canadian sergeant who was based over in Wales. Christ help her if those two ever got leaf on the same day!
On deck, Sheridan sought out the chief boatswain’s mate to tell him about detailing hands for painting over the ship’s numbers. He saw the coxswain blinking in the late sunlight and trying to appear interested in what a seaman was asking him. Mangin took things easy in harbour and rarely went ashore, unless night leave was granted. He was wearing his usual off duty rig, old jacket, patched trousers and carpet slippers. As the seaman turned away, Sheridan saw that it was the quartermaster, Jevers. The one whose wife had gone off with a Yank.
Mangin sighed. “Th’ usual, sir. Askin’ about mail. Never gets one from ‘er, poor sod.” He dismissed it from his mind. “Lookin’ for the Buffer, sir? I’ll get ‘im for you. Got ‘is ‘ead down in the P.O.s’ mess, if I know Arthur Vickery.”
Sheridan leaned on the guardrail and stared down at the current swirling against the side. They knew everything. Security was a joke.
The seaman, Jevers, walked slowly towards the break in the forecastle and the main messdeck. At first it had been difficult, even frightening. Now, he could stand back and watch it all happening. Like being 3 spectator at a well-acted play.
Poor old Tommy Mangin, the coxswain. He shivered with that same fierce excitement. What would he say if he knew? Really knew. That his wife Janice was not having a fine old time with her Yank, but buried under a house in Hackney in East London. Even that memory had a new perfection. The roar of the exploding bombs, the crumbling walls changing shape in leaping shadows as incendiaries took hold and explored the wood and blazing curtains. And her mouth wide open like a black hole. She had been screaming, but he had heard nothing. Felt nothing, but the sickening crunch as he had brought the brick down on her skull. Over and over again. If she was finally discovered she would have been buried by now, with all the rest of those charred bodies. Merely another incident. One more air-raid. He would have heard by now if anyone had connected her remains with his bloody Janice. He screwed up his fists and tried not to speak her name. The rotten, stinking cow!
Leading Seaman Rumsey, the chief quartermaster, clattered down a ladder from the forecastle deck, a towel and swimming trunks over his arm.
He saw fevers and asked, “All right, mate?”
Jevers nodded, watching his own expression as be replied dully, “Yes, thanks, Harry. Just been to see if there’s any mail come aboard,”
He saw the way Rumsey’s eyes clouded over as he spoke. He turned away. It never failed. He was as safe as the crown jewels.
Sub-lieutenant Victor Tyson was walking along the other side of the ship, aft towards the quarterdeck. He was twenty-two., but already had the set lines around his eyes and mouth of a much older man. Apart from a general appearance of ill-humour, there was little to mark him out of the ordinary. His uniform, on the other hand, was always perfect, and his cap, minus grommet, was worn with a floppy, devil-may-care indifference which was quite at odds with the wearer. In fact, someone had jokingly remarked after the passing-out parade at the officers’ training establishment, “I say, who is that uniform which is wearing some sort of man!” It had been meant in fun. Tyson had been almost sick with fury and humiliation.
He had just come from the forecastle after checking the cable which held them to the forward buoy. Some seamen had been lounging in their swimming trunks, spread about like a lot of louts at Southend on a factory outing. He had put them squarely in their place, and he had enjoyed it.
He heard splashing alongside and paused to watch the swimmers who were flailing about close to the ship and a safety-boat nearby. He stiffened as he saw Midshipman Keyes bursting to the surface, shaking water from his hair before hurling a rubber ball to some of the other swimmers. It made Tyson feel sick. Keyes did not know he was born. Spoiled all his life, and came from a well-to-do family, from what he could discover, and yet he had no more idea of acting like an officer than the bloody gunner (T). At least Noakes knew about discipline, even if he was incapable of putting two words together in proper English.
Tyson leaned on the guardrail. “Mr. Keyes!”
Keyes turned and trod water, his eyes red-rimmed from salt as he peered up at Tyson’s silhouette.
“Yes?”
“Yes, sir! I’m officer of the day, remember?”
The other swimmers idled away, apparently very engrossed in the rubber ball.
Tyson shouted, “The swimming party is for the ratings, in case you did not know it?”
Keyes stared at him blankly. “I thought it was all right …”
It made Tyson angrier. This stupid innocence. He wanted to drag Keyes across the deck and kick his naked body until he did understand.
“Well, it’s not!”
“You the O.O.D.?”
Tyson swung round, fuming at this new interruption. Then he stared at the lieutenant-commander whom he vaguely recognised as an operations officer from the base.
“Yes. I mean, yes, sir.”
“I was beginning to wonder.” The officer’s eyes were without mercy. “I thought for a moment I had stumbled into an ENSA show!”
Tyson could not speak. He could feel the blood rushing to his head, blinding him, choking him, as if his collar had shrunk in size.
The staff officer added curtly, “When I come aboard I expect the O.O.D. to find me, not the other way about!”
He strode aft towards the lobby without another glance. Tyson turned towards the sea, his mind reeling.
“Clear the water! Swimmers return inboard!” It was all he could think of.
But when he looked again he saw that the swimmers, including Keyes, had vanished.
Only Leading Seaman Rumsey remained, and he was squat ting on the safety-boat’s stemhead.
He looked up at Tyson’s crimson face and remarked calmly, (‘ ‘Ot, annit, sir?”
Tyson retreated.
Down in the day cabin the staff officer shook hands with Drummond and grinned.
“That’s a right little bastard you’ve got up there, Keith.” He became serious again. “Now, this is the final briefing.” Drummond nodded, unable to keep his eyes off the thick envelope which the other man seemed to be taking an age to unfasten.