“I’ve got to go and make a few phone calls. ” Salter studied his watch. “Meet you in an hour.”
Beaumont watched him go and then walked with Drummond out into the fading light. People were hurrying past, on their way from offices and shops, trying to get to their homes before the sirens wailed again.
Beaumont paused and stared up at a solitary barrage balloon which was lying motionless against the sky, holding on to the hidden sun like a sleeping whale.
“What times to be living in. It makes you feel grateful. Humble in some ways, too.”
Drummond watched his profile, recalling the burning ships, and all those other days and nights. Beaumont was either trying to forget that part of it, or else he really believed what he was saying.
He heard himself ask, “That girl’s brother. Did you know much about him?”
“What girl?” Beaumont turned sharply, the mood broken. “Oh, yes, I knew him vaguely. Not much bottle really.” He gave a huge sigh. “But he’s back there with the rest of the poor devils now, good or bad.”
Drummond fell in step beside him. Just for those few seconds he had caught a glimpse of another Beaumont. Unsure, even guilty. It had been there as plain as the look in Helen’s eyes.
Beaumont added, “But we’ll make the bastards pay for what they did to my ship, and all the others, too.” He smiled. “I can hardly wait.”
Lieutenant David Sheridan sat with his feet on the leathertopped fender and leafed through an old copy of Lilliput. He was conscious of a great sense of peace and laziness, brought about partly by the sunshine which played through the scuttle, and by several drinks, one of which was close by his elbow.
Apart from an occasional squeak from the pantry hatch, where a steward was patiently waiting to lock up the drinks until evening, Sheridan felt he had the Warlock, indeed the whole of Falmouth anchorage, to himself. Since Drummond had dashed off to London with Captain (D), the moored destroyers had enjoyed a complete rest. Other vessels moved fussily in and out of port, patrols slipped alongside oilers, took on fuel and put out to sea again, but the seven destroyers of Beaumont’s command remained happily idle. War quickly took an edge off guilt, and few of the destroyers’ companies cared much that others were working while they enjoyed shore leave and whatever else Falmouth had to offer. As Mangin had remarked more than once, “I reckon we’ve done our bloody share. Let some buggerelse take the strain for a bit.”
Sheridan heard footsteps moving along the quarterdeck and smiled. That was Sub-lieutenant Tyson, the O.O.D. Like the rest of the wardroom, Sheridan found it extremely easy to dislike Tyson, but as first lieutenant he had to find some way of concealing the fact. He reached out and sipped his gin. A long afternoon, with nothing much to do but check on the duty part of the watch which remained aboard. They were completing the new paintwork on the forecastle, their brushes usually working only half-heartedly as they sat almost naked in the bright sunlight, their skins browning while they peered hungrily at the shore.
It was strange about Drummond, he thought. It was four days since he had gone, and apart from the daily call from London, and that was made by some bored-sounding staff officer, there was no contact between them.
Local leave was to be allowed, and as often as possible, but apart from that the flotilla was on the shelf.
Sheridan had met several of his opposite numbers in the other ships, and a few of the commanding officers as well. Some, he suspected, were resentful that Beaumont had taken Warlock’s captain to London, even though this ship had been the one to capture the midget submarine. Everyone had been threatened with a fate worse than death if that particular secret leaked out, although if the ships remained in harbour much longer, Sheridan did not know how it could be prevented.
Tyson bustled into the wardroom, his face creased into a frown.
“Signal from the pier, sir.” He looked at the half-empty glass, his eyes disapproving. “A visitor requesting to come aboard. Officer of the guard verifies that it is in order.”
Sheridan looked at him thoughtfully. Tyson was all wrong. His attitude, his inability to lose an argument without his temper going as well, and most of all the fact that he seemed to make people turn against him.
“Better send the motor boat then.” He waited, seeing Tyson’s frown growing. “Well?”
“It’s a woman, sir.”
Sheridan dropped his legs and walked to a scuttle. “Is it, by God?”
“Yes. A Mrs. Kemp from the Ministry of Information.” Sheridan shaded his eyes against the glare. “Mrs., eh? Still …”
“I don’t think it’s right to allow women aboard. Not in wartime.”
Sheridan regarded him sadly. You wouldn’t. He said, “You’ve a lot to learn, Sub. Now whistle up the boat before the cox’n succumbs to his rum ration.” He walked to the pantry hatch. “Get some fresh glasses, Napier. I might want some sandwiches, too.”
The face in the pantry hatch was expressionless. “Well past time, sir. I’ve washed up all the lunch crocks.”
“Relax, Napier. I’ll take the responsibility.”
Sheridan walked to a mirror and straightened his tie. These four days had given him an even better idea of what a command could be like. Dealing with visitors from the shipyard or naval stores. Entertaining other officers, who like himself had been left stranded by their captains for various reasons. He had even been in Drummond’s day cabin to check the mail and the daily flow of signals. It was childish, and he knew he should have known better.
He heard the motor boat spluttering away from the side and wondered what this Mrs. Kemp would be like. Probably an intense investigator gathering more information about the war at sea. He would have to put her off, unless her authority forced a decision on him. He recalled the excitement when they had entered harbour, the awe on the faces of the working party which had been sent to offload their strange capture. As it had been swayed out to waiting transport he had seen the dead German staring out of his little cockpit, as if he, too, was amazed at all the fuss. But after taking on oil, Warlock had moved out to her buoy again, and had remained there. All her officers and ship’s company, apart from the usual handful, were ashore, and this unexpected visitor might help, if only in part, to explain their isolation from outside events.
He heard more feet overhead, and guessed that the quartermaster had roused himself to welcome the returning boat.
Sheridan picked up his cap and ran quickly up the ladder and into bright sunlight.
The motor boat was already lurching against the gangway, the bowman’s face flushed as he made two attempts at hooking on. Then he saw the visitor, the respectful way the motor boat’s coxswain helped her on to the short ladder, his eyes never leaving her legs. She was wearing a plain blue dress which left her arms completely bare, and carried only a small bag and what looked like a camera. The latter was interesting, he thought. She must have a lot of pull to be allowed to bring it into a restricted anchorage. He forgot all about the camera as she reached the deck and stood looking around her, as if searching for something familiar.
“I’m David Sheridan.” He held out his hand. “I don’t know why you’re here, but it’s good to see you.”
She smiled at him. Her mouth was the only part of her face which moved, for her eyes were completely hidden by a pair of dark sunglasses. She had a good handshake, but her skin was hot and moist, and for that brief moment he imagined the blue dress clinging to the supple body underneath.
She asked calmly, “Do you approve?”
“Sorry.” He grinned. “I’m a bit out of practice.”