A Dawn Like Thunder (28 page)

But he was changed. Different, in a way that Ross could not define. Excited? Unlikely, and yet . . .

Tsao took each of them by the arm. ‘You will not have to wait as long as I thought.' His fingers were like steel. ‘Into the cabin. You will see from there.'

Ross almost fell in his eagerness to reach the cabin's only scuttle. With Villiers pressed against him, he peered through the salt-smeared glass, not knowing what he expected to see.

He tried again to define the change in Tsao's demeanour.
Triumph.
It was triumph, which even he could not conceal.

A great rusting barrier of steel almost blocked out the light as the tug pushed abeam of a moored freighter. The waterline was so thick with weed that it seemed likely she had not moved for many months. Then the sunshine came to greet them past the freighter's overhanging bows and
anchors, and he heard Villiers' sharp intake of breath as he, too, saw the other vessel, stark and vivid in the glare.

Ross was a submariner, but it did not require his professional eye to identify the shark-like, raked bows with the jagged net-cutter above the stem. Abaft the conning tower, the scarlet flag with its black cross and swastika hung motionless in the warm air. As if it had been waiting, just for them.

Victoria paused by a window, one of the few in the small headquarters building from which you could see the ocean, and watched the motionless trees and the haze of heat and dust which gave the only pretence of movement. It was unusually hot; even she, who was used to it, found it oppressive, like an open furnace. Ninety degrees. It was Saturday, and the place was deserted but for the small operational staff and the duty officers. The rest had probably gone swimming, or hitched into town in the search for pleasure. She plucked the shirt away from her body. A swim. Later perhaps . . . But she knew she would not. It was like being adrift, unable to concentrate.

She watched the hard blue line of the horizon, remembering the night he had sailed in the submarine with the lieutenant who had once lived in Singapore. It was as if they had vanished, as if they had never been. But she never forgot, and as the weeks had dragged by each memory had become clearer, more vivid: they were all that she might ever have. Except for the precious medal he had left in her care. She had looked at it every night before she had turned in, held it against her bare breast as if to bring him back, to hold on to the only link she had.

She turned away from the window and heard hammering somewhere. The fans had broken down again; no wonder it was so hot, so crushing. The rating by the door looked up
from his magazine, then covered it with his elbow. But not before she had seen the heavy-breasted nude on the cover.

‘The Captain's expecting you.' He grinned. ‘He's got company.'

She knocked and pushed open the door, knowing that the seaman was looking at her legs. She felt no anger or resentment. He had probably been out here so long that he had forgotten anyone he might once have cared for.

Captain Pryce stood, arms folded, by his desk. Commander John Crookshank from Operations Intelligence sat comfortably in one of the deep chairs. She glanced at the desk. No signal-pad, no envelope marked Top Secret. Her heart sank. Nothing, then.

Pryce said, ‘Glad you were aboard. Thought you should meet your new boss, so to speak.' He sounded vaguely uneasy, which was unusual for him. She realized for the first time that a Wren officer was sitting near Crookshank, clean and crisp in her white uniform, her eyes hidden in the slatted shadow thrown by the sun through the lowered blinds. Pryce said, ‘Second Officer Blandford. Celia Blandford.'

Victoria waited; it was hard to see her in the shadows. Slim, fresh skin and dark brown hair. At least she wasn't fair, as Jane Clarke had been. Victoria brushed her own hair from her forehead without even realizing she had moved. She had always envied Jane's hair and her English complexion. But she no longer missed her. It was like losing a friend: people came and went; it happened often enough these days. Nevertheless, she felt a strange resentment that a stranger was to take her place, to use the chair in the operations room that had remained empty since that terrible night.

Second Officer Blandford said, ‘We'll get to know each other pretty well, I expect.' She smiled briefly. ‘I
understand that you turned down the opportunity of a commission?'

Victoria answered, ‘It was my choice.'

Pryce said, ‘I think you were wrong, but I said as much at the time. You have to put the service first. It can't always suit your personal needs, you know.'

As usual, Crookshank remained firmly on the fence. ‘Well, of course, my dear, there are two sides to everything, right?'

‘Anyway,' Blandford continued as if there had been no interruption. ‘There won't be too many changes, not as far as I'm concerned. Smartness, punctuality, efficiency – what I've been used to.'

Victoria noticed how her lips formed into a smile during each sentence which vanished before the end of it. A nervous habit, or a calculated one to cover her true feelings? Celia Blandford was probably about her own age, a year older at the most, and yet there was something stiff and formal about her that reminded Victoria of a teacher she had known at the exclusive finishing-school in England, which her father had considered ‘only right and proper' for his daughter. Love, defiance, pride, it was a part of them all. How could she leave him? How could she have gone without waiting to see Jamie again?

Crookshank said heavily, ‘Some good news you should know about. Sub-Lieutenant Napier and P.O. Tucker are back.'

The Wren officer said in a sharp little voice, ‘I was going to tell her when it had been cleared.'

Victoria said, ‘I'm so glad. What about . . . ?'

Pryce interjected, ‘Telegraphist Rice didn't make it. They did a fine job before they were captured by the Japs. The Chindits got them out – bloody marvellous, when you think of it. I shall see Napier, and Tucker of
course, when they're cleared by the P.M.O. I've already put Napier down for advanced promotion and some suitable decoration.'

Crookshank went on gravely, ‘No news of Commander Ross, though. But early days. We should hear something quite soon.' That was as far as he intended to commit himself.

She heard herself say, ‘P.O. Tucker doesn't know about Commander Ross, sir.'

Second Officer Blandford eyed her curiously. ‘Should he?'

‘They are very close.' She felt sick, and angry with herself because of it. She saw the impatience and added, ‘Ma'am.'

Crookshank said, ‘Are you feeling unwell, my dear?' He looked at Pryce. ‘A chair, I think.'

She replied, ‘The heat. I'm all right, sir.'

Blandford said, ‘It is pretty close, I must say. Bit of a change from England.' The smile came and went just as quickly. ‘I'd have thought you would have been used to it, er, Mackenzie?'

She might have meant it either way. Victoria no longer cared. ‘I manage.'

Pryce looked at them with a mixture of disappointment and satisfaction. It was not going to work. It had been a mistake to send the new second officer without first consulting him. This was not the Royal Naval Barracks, or some operations section in a bomb-proof shelter deep under ground, where the war was fought with little flags and crosses on wall-charts.

The new officer turned to look up at him. ‘What happened to this man Rice, sir?'

Crookshank spread his plump hands. ‘It's all in the report. We were fortunate not to lose the whole crew. We
still don't know what happened to
Turquoise
, although there have been plenty of ideas bandied about.'

Pryce said curtly, ‘Rice was killed by the Japs. Beheaded.'

Victoria saw her new officer's hands clench into fists, the sudden tension. Pryce had caused it deliberately, for her sake, thinking she herself could not be shocked, not after Jane Clarke. He was wrong about that, too.

She asked, ‘May I go and see Mike Tucker, sir?'

‘I don't see why not. The P.M.O. will probably release him soon.'

Crookshank leaned forward in his chair. ‘Commander Ross's mission is
not
for discussion. Please remember that.'

Pryce glanced at him briefly, and with dislike. If he had said
Don't be such a bloody fool; everyone knows anyway
out loud, he could not have made it plainer.

‘I know that, sir.'
I love him, don't you understand?
It was almost as if she had shouted at them. ‘They'll be feeling it. You know how they are after an operation.' The words seemed to mock her. She had had plenty of time to observe their strange behaviour after Jamie had gone away. At Christmas, the place had been a madhouse of wild, drunken celebration, and the juvenile high spirits had been at their worst in the wardroom. The young subbies and lieutenants had gone through their usual destructive form of field-gun drill, using sofas as guns and the wardroom table as the barrier they were expected to surmount. The damage, like the mess bills, had been horrendous.

Then, only the following day or so it had seemed, the news of the sinking of the German battle-cruiser
Scharnhorst
had been announced. She had fallen to the guns of Admiral Fraser's
Duke of York
in the freezing seas off North Cape. The last of Germany's major warships, a
ship with a charmed life, which had outlived and outfought all the others.

But a matter of rejoicing? She had watched with astonishment as those same young officers had raised their glasses in salute, not to a vanquished enemy, but to a brave ship and her equally gallant company. She would never understand them.

So she was different after all. She belonged, but she did not fit in. Suppose she had chosen to accept the chance of promotion, had gone to England for it. She would know nobody, least of all her father's relations. They would never accept her, would blame her for ever as a symbol of Colonel Mackenzie's disgrace, and his removal from the Army List. Yes, she might meet someone else, but that was not what she wanted. She
knew
what she wanted. Surely she could not be so wrong again.

Pryce was saying, ‘I shall speak to them as soon as possible. Throw some more light on things.'

She reached the door and heard him add, ‘You should have a few days' leave before there's another flap.'

She looked at him directly.
Don't you understand either?
‘We're short-handed, sir.'

He watched her leave, her black hair shining as she walked past a window. As if to a signal, all the fans began to revolve. Until the next time.

Pryce closed the door. ‘Well?'

Second Officer Blandford took a cigarette from Crookshank and tapped it on the desk. ‘Good record. I can see why you chose her. Perhaps a bit free and easy. But we shall have to see.'

‘Your predecessor . . .'

‘Jane Clarke? A bit slack, was she?'

Crookshank sighed. ‘A lively girl. Had everything to live for.'

Pryce ignored him. ‘Everybody liked her.'

She said coolly, ‘Popularity isn't everything, sir.'

Pryce smiled for the first time. ‘Very true. I've always found it something of a hindrance!'

But he was still thinking of Victoria Mackenzie. He had noticed the shadows under her eyes, sensed her emotion when she had spoken from time to time about Ross.

He said abruptly, ‘Now let's get those restricted signals out again. We're in the dark. If we don't hear something soon, we'll have to postpone operations. Can't afford another unexplained sinking.'

Crookshank took out his reading glasses, something he tried to avoid doing in the presence of women. ‘The admiral wouldn't like that.'

Pryce gave him a pitying stare. ‘More to the point, neither would I!'

The hospital was a small one, and had been completely taken over by the Navy. It was mostly used for incoming convoy survivors landed in Ceylon after an encounter with the enemy. If a convoy outward bound from Britain suffered casualties they had to complete the remainder of the passage as well as they could, with men suffering from scalds, oil-fuel poisoning, and every sort of shock. Ceylon would seem like a piece of heaven for the lucky ones.

A medical orderly guided the girl along a well-polished corridor. A few injured men sat or strolled in the surrounding gardens, and several of them whistled at her as she passed.

The orderly said, ‘Your captain phoned to say you were coming.'

To say I was to be trusted
, she thought.

He added, ‘I'll fetch Petty Officer Tucker if you'll sit here. He's in pretty good shape, considering.'

She waited by the partly open door. It was a cool, white room, mercifully protected from the sun by long green blinds. There were just four beds, and each was occupied; the inmates were quite still, sleeping or drugged it was impossible to know.

She heard a step and saw Tucker walking towards her. He wore a dressing-gown, and apart from a plaster on his head he looked much the same. He stopped dead and stared at her. ‘I – I thought –' Then he smiled. ‘My God, girl, it's good to see you!'

He held her as she put her arms around him, her face against his shoulder.

Close to, the strain was very visible on his homely features, and the gashes and bruises made the enemy suddenly stark and real, not an indefinable menace far beyond that dark horizon.

He said gently, ‘I heard about Jamie Ross. He'll be all right.'

She hugged him. ‘He knew you were alive, Mike. Don't ask me how. He just knew.'

‘Well,' he said, ‘we go back a long way.'

She looked up at him, trying to understand what he had gone through, afraid to imagine it. ‘Captain Pryce is getting Sub-Lieutenant Napier a decoration, promotion too.'

He turned his head, as if he had heard something. ‘He's still drugged. Really been through it, poor little sod.' She was shocked to see the tears in his eyes. ‘All that way, hardly a peep out of him, trying to prove he was as good as his brother!' He stepped away and wiped his face with his cuff. ‘Sorry.' He took her hands in his. ‘When Jamie gets in, you hang on to him. You're so right together.'