Coming Home (124 page)

Sorry all this has taken so long to tell you, but it's been such a special time. A bit like the Winter Solstice, cheering celebrations (the wedding) in the middle of a long, cold dark winter (the flaming war). I think it's done us all good to put depressing news, and boredom, and loneliness and anxiety out of our minds, just for a little, and simply enjoy ourselves.

As well, it has given me cause to think ahead, and to consider our own family circumstances. If the worst happens, and Molly and Bruce and Jess never return to us, then I think that you and I and Judith must make every effort to stay together. (In church, I thought about the day when she will be married, and I imagined you giving her away, and me arranging everything, and it seemed, all at once, terribly important.) She has got this enchanting house, and it is one certain thing in her life, so I don't imagine she will ever want to leave it or sell it. In which case, after the war, and when you finally retire, perhaps it would be a good idea for us to try to find somewhere not too far from Rosemullion. Maybe the Helford Passage, or Roseland? Where you could keep a little boat, and we could have a garden with a palm tree. In truth, I don't think I ever want to go back to Devon and Upper Bickley. The house is too full of memories of Ned, and here I have made friends, and a new life, and been able to come to terms — more or less — with the fact that Ned will never return to us. This is a place where I would like to stay, and after two and a half years, I think that I never want to leave. Would you mind, my darling Bob? Would you think about it?

My love. Take care of yourself

Biddy

T
rincomalee, Ceylon. HMS
Adelaide
was the depot ship for the Fourth Submarine Flotilla, a converted merchant cruiser, broad-beamed and with wheel-house aft. Her permanent berth was Smeaton's Cove, a deep inlet enclosed by two jungly promontories, and sitting low in the deep water, her steel decks simmering in the heat, and with a trot of submarines tied up alongside, she resembled nothing so much as a huge, exhausted sow, newly farrowed of a brood of piglets.

The Officer Commanding was Captain Spiros of the Royal South African Naval Reserve, and because his ship served in a purely administrative capacity, two shore based Wren Writers were ferried on board each day to work in the Captain's Office, type out the Submarine Patrol Orders and Patrol Reports, deal with Admiralty Fleet Orders, and amend the Confidential books. One of these was a languid girl called Penny Wailes who, before coming out to the Far East, had spent two years in Liverpool, in the Headquarters of the Admiral, Western Approaches. When she wasn't working on board HMS
Adelaide,
she spent much of her spare time in the company of a young Royal Marine captain, based at Camp 39, a few miles north of Trincomalee. One of his attractions was that he was possessed not only of transport (a Royal Marine jeep) but as well a small sailing boat, and he and Penny spent most weekends in this little craft, scudding, close-hauled, across the wide blue waters of the harbour and discovering inaccessible coves in which to picnic and swim.

The other Wren was Judith Dunbar.

Because of the apparent glamour of their job, they were much envied by their fellow Wrens, who were left to make their way, each morning, to humdrum establishments ashore. Naval Headquarters, the Offices of the Captain, HMS
Highflyer,
the Pay Office, and the Base Supply Office. But, in fact, Judith and Penny found theirs a fairly demanding existence, both physically and psychologically.

Physically, because their day was very long. The seamen worked in watches, on a tropical routine, which meant that the off-duty watch was finished by two o'clock in the afternoon, to doze the sweltering afternoon away in bunk or hammock or some shady spot on deck, and then at four, when it had cooled down a bit, to go swimming. But the two girls came on board at half past seven in the morning, having already breakfasted and made the journey across the harbour by boat. And they did not return to Quarters until the evening, with the five-thirty Officers' Liberty boat.

The long hours would not have been so bad had they had access to a shower and been able to freshen themselves up during the course of the day, but for reasons of space, close quarters, and the fact that the ship teemed with men, this was not possible. By the time they were done with their typing and duplicating and tedious amendments to Secret Orders, they ended up sweat-stained and work-worn, with white uniforms — pristine each morning — now crumpled and grubby.

The psychological problem stemmed from the fact that they were the only two women on board, and as well, ratings. This rendered them neither fish, fowl, nor good red herring. They were not expected — and indeed had no wish to be — on intimate or even informal terms with the Upper Deck, and the Lower Deck, starved of female company, resented their intrusion, dubbed them Officers' Bits, and watched warily for any signs of favouritism.

Neither Judith nor Penny blamed them. The small detachment of Wrens in Trincomalee had always been hopelessly outnumbered by the sheer weight of men, and now, with the war in Europe over, the ships of the Royal Navy were sailing out from the United Kingdom to join the East Indies Fleet. So scarcely a day passed when yet another cruiser or destroyer slipped through the boom at the mouth of the harbour, to drop anchor and send ashore the first Liberty boat packed with lusty sailors.

Ashore, there wasn't much for them to do except play football, have a drink in the Fleet Canteen, or watch some old film in the Service Cinema, a huge hangar of a place with a corrugated iron roof. They found no familiar streets, no pubs, no cosy picture houses, no girls. There were few European civilians, and the single local native village was no more than a cluster of palm-thatch huts, with mud lanes rutted by the wheels of bullock carts. And that, moreover, and for obvious reasons, was out of bounds. Inland, away from the white palm-fringed beaches, the terrain was unfriendly, infested with snakes, mosquitoes, and ants, all of which were likely to bite.

During the monsoon, matters deteriorated even further, for the football field flooded, the roads became red rivers of mud, and a visit to the cinema, with the rain battering on its tin roof, held about as much delight as sitting inside a drum. Consequently, the ordinary seaman, once the novelty of his new posting had worn off, thought little of Trincomalee. It was known as Scapa Flow in Technicolor, and that was not meant as a compliment.

No pubs, no picture houses, no girls.

The worst, of course, was no girls. If some good-looking and determined young rating did manage to catch the eye of one of the Wrens, and persuade her to go out with him, there was really nowhere to take her, unless she fancied a cup of tea in a dim establishment on the Harbour Road, called Elephant House. This was run by a Sinhalese family, whose idea of really sophisticated entertainment was to play over and over a terrible gramophone record called ‘Old English Memories’.

So, they could not be blamed. But it did not make for easy living, and so touchy was the situation that when the Supreme Allied Commander, Lord Mountbatten, descended on Trincomalee from his mountain eyrie in Kandy, and made an official visit to HMS
Adelaide,
Penny and Judith elected to stay below, in the Captain's office, and not line up on deck with the rest of the ship's company. They knew perfectly well that the great man, seeing them, would pause to speak, and they also knew perfectly well that such an occurrence could only stir up unnecessary ill-feeling.

Captain Spiros, reluctant to let his two Wrens have their way, finally saw their point of view and agreed. After the important visit was over, and the Supremo was gone, he came below to thank them both for their tact. Which was appreciated but not surprising, because he was a popular captain, and an officer of both good sense and charm.

The beginning of August now, and the welcome end of another broiling day. Judith and Penny stood on the Quarter Deck, waiting for the Officers' Liberty boat to take them ashore. As well, headed for a bit of night-life, were two of the submarine commanders, the first lieutenant, and three young sub-lieutenants, all of them looking unnaturally clean and formal in immaculate Number Tens.

In the shelter of Smeaton's Cove, HMS
Adelaide
still simmered in the heat. Amidships, the swimming booms were out, trailing rope ladders, and the deep sea churned with activity, as two teams of seamen engaged in a contest of water polo, splashing and cleaving through the water like so many dolphins.

Judith watched them, and thought about getting back to Quarters, tearing off her sweat-dried uniform and running down the path to the Wrens' own private cove, there to plunge from the swimming jetty into the cool, cleansing sea.

Beside her, Penny yawned. ‘What are you doing tonight?’ she asked.

‘Nothing, thank goodness. Not going out. Writing letters, probably. How about you?’

‘Not much. The Officers' Club with Martin, probably.’ Martin was the Royal Marine captain with the jeep. ‘Or perhaps Full Big Fish at the Chinese restaurant. Depends if he's feeling flush or not.’

The ship's boat drew alongside, held steady with boat hooks. In the Royal Navy, a ship was known by her boats, and HMS
Adelaide'
s were shining examples of white paint, scrubbed decks, and immaculately furled ropes. Even her crew, a coxswain and three deck-hands, had surely been picked for their good looks, for they were all bronzed, muscled, and handsome, barefoot, with pipe-clayed hats square on their brows. The Officer of the Watch gave the signal, and Judith and Penny, being the lowest rank, ran down the gangway and boarded first. The others followed: Lieutenant Commander Fleming, the captain of the submarine HMS
Foxfire,
bringing up the rear. The deck-hands pushed off, the coxswain opened his throttle and the boat swept away, in a great curve, bows rising, and a shining white wake, like an arrowhead, streaming aft.

At once, thankfully, it became cooler and Judith sat in a corner of the cockpit, on the clean white canvas squab, and turned her face into the breeze. From the harbour mouth blew in the fresh ocean air, and the boat's bows sent up curtains of spray, rainbowed in the late-afternoon sunshine, and she could taste the salt on her lips.

After a bit, they rounded the long, wooded promontory which guarded Smeaton's Cove, and now trees gave way to rocks and feathery palms and strands of white sand. The coastline receded and the harbour — that marvellous natural phenomenon, and one of the great anchorages of the world — opened up before them. In its sheltered haven lay the greater part of the East Indies Fleet. Battleships, cruisers, destroyers, and frigates; sufficient might to strike terror into the most aggressive and fearless of enemies. A cruiser, HMS
Antigua,
was the newest arrival from the UK, her quarterdeck shaded by spanking-white awnings and the White Ensign snapping at her stern.