All The Nice Girls (24 page)

‘It’s working, Frank,’ gloated The Bodger. ‘It’s working!’

‘It seems so. I often wonder where he takes her. We never see him during the afternoons.’

‘I don’t care where he takes her, provided he conducts himself in a seamanlike manner.’

‘That remark is what I would call a
double entendre
, Bodger.’

The Bodger and Mr Tybalt would both have been surprised if they could have seen Dagwood rowing Caroline in a small boat along the Oozemouth Union Canal. For no reason at all, the Union Canal had become one of Dagwood and Caroline’s favourite spots. In its heyday the Union had been part of a network of canals connecting Oozemouth by water to Manchester, Birmingham and London but it had long since ceased to carry traffic and was now used only by people like Dagwood who had the leisure to hire a boat and row for a few hours up the canal as far as the first disused lock. There, by the derelict lock-keeper’s cottage, was an inn called the ‘Barleystorm.’ It was a dark and rather smelly little pub but Dagwood remembered it with affection. There seemed no logical reason for a public house at that spot. The clientele for whom it had been built had gone and the only approach to it on land was by a rough lane which stopped at the front door. There were no houses, not even a farm, within three miles. The landlord seemed to be aware of his isolation and his superfluity and made no attempt to encourage business. He served Dagwood grudgingly, barely waiting to take Dagwood’s money before returning to the television set in his parlour. The only programmes Dagwood ever overheard from the parlour were westerns and in time the crash of gunfire, the whine of ricocheting bullets and the clatter of galloping hooves became for Dagwood as much part of the background of the ‘Barleystorm’ as the marshes and the poplar trees which surrounded it.

There was a wooden seat placed by the tow-path, facing the canal, and beyond it were the marshes, a line of poplar trees, and on the far side, meadows bordered by a tall beech- wood. Dagwood and Caroline often sat there on fine evenings, listening to the gabble of ducks in the canal, the song of a skylark high overhead and somewhere the lonely cry of the marsh birds while behind them the interminable western reached a routine climax.

‘ . . . Looks like he’s telling the truth, Marshal . . .’

‘Ya gotta believe me, Marshal, ya gotta . . .’

Dagwood picked up a stone and tossed it among the ducks, who were temporarily ruffled, looked at Dagwood reproachfully, and then ignored him.

‘Say something, Dagwood.’

‘What shall I say? You’re so easy to talk to? Do you come here often? All men are little boys at heart? London can be a very lonely place? You look lovely when you’re angry? I don’t want to talk clichés with you. I keep those for people like Fiona. I wonder if there’s such a thing as duck etiquette?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I was just looking at those ducks. Some of them seem to be taking precedence over each other. I expect the drakes have an order of precedence and the ducks take the same place as their drakes. Quite right and proper too. What a wonderful life, to be a duck. No worries, no cares, all you have to do is paddle along and look for grub. Sometimes you won’t even have to do that. If you hang around long enough people will throw it to you.’

Dagwood drained his tankard and stood up. ‘I’ll just go and see if old Rawhide in there will serve us the other half.’ When he came back, Dagwood said: ‘I interrupted at a critical time. I reckon the only way to get service in that place is to go in and fire a six-shooter through the roof. It’s the only frequency that man operates on.’

‘Did you go into the office this morning, Dagwood?’

‘I looked in to see the mail and then phoned you. It’s a funny thing, I look forward to telephoning you. I get all keyed up inside, I don’t mind telling you.’

‘Gracious, should I feel flattered?’

‘I don’t know. Are you?’

‘No.’

‘Good.’

‘Dagwood, you’re the
meanest
man I know. Just as I think you’re going to say something nice you go and pour cold water all over it.’

‘Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright. It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night like a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear. How’s that?’

On which note, they sat in companionable silence for a time. From the parlour window a hoarse voice whispered ‘You work around to that rock, Jess. I’ll cover you from here.’

‘Why did you join the Navy, Dagwood?’

‘Blessed if I know. They asked me that when I joined and it seemed a reasonable question at the time but damned if I could think of a sensible answer. Why do you ask?’

‘You’re just not the sort of person I would have imagined being in the Navy, that’s all.’

‘I’m very sorry my dear, but I’ve shaved off my beard and I’ve left the binoculars and “Don’t give up the ship” expression at home.’

‘That’s what I mean. You seem to treat the whole thing as the biggest joke you ever heard.’

‘So it is. As someone was telling me the other night, it’s nothing more than the biggest confidence trick ever played on the nation. That’s the only way to treat it. If you take yourself seriously you have one of two futures. Either you become an admiral or you wind up in a nut-house. And as there are many more beds in the nut-house than there are vacancies for admirals you can see which is the more likely. The chances are they’ll come for you in a plain van long before they make you a Sir. That happened to a friend of mine.’

‘They
didn’t
make him an admiral! ‘

‘No, they came for him in a plain van. He was as crazy as a warthog. He was quite convinced he was a ‘Confidential’ stamp. Whenever he saw papers lying about he would leap up and do a sort of highland schottische all over them.’

‘He
didn’t!
’

‘That wasn’t the end of it. After a time he upgraded himself to ‘Top Secret,’ locked himself safely up in a steel cupboard, and it took a whole team of men with hacksaws and burning gear half a day to get him out. After that there was nothing for it but to wheel him away. You get like that after you’ve been in the Navy for a little while.’

‘How long have you been in the Navy, Dagwood?’

‘About seven or eight years. Nearly eight years, actually. What were you doing eight years ago, Caroline?’

‘I was still at school. A girls’ boarding school called Forest House.’

‘Where was that?’

‘Gloucestershire.’

‘Forest House,’ said Dagwood, pensively. ‘Was a Miss O’Malley there when you were there?’

‘Miss O’Malley! Of course! She used to teach us scripture and free movement. How on earth do you know her?’

‘I don’t actually know her. I know of her. She’s an old crony of my mother’s. My mother goes and has tea with her when she comes to London.’

‘She used to make us sit with our palms flat down on our desks and recite. She used to say ‘In unison, ladies, in unison’ and we would all chant ‘Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus,
Numbers
, Deuteronomy, Joshua, Judges,
Ruth
,’ and so on through the Bible. I’ve forgotten all the books of the Bible but I still remember her.’

‘Where were you during the war, Caroline?’

‘We were all over the place. Daddy was almost always away. We went to Scotland and then down to Cornwall and then to Ipswich and everywhere. I loathed the war.’

‘I loved it. I thought the whole thing the greatest fun in the world.’

‘You would. I was terrified during the air-raids. I remember one early in the war, during the blitz. I remember it vividly. Mummy and I were in London, I can’t remember why. It was a lovely day and we were standing in front of D. H. Evans and suddenly the sirens went and a man said to me “That is not yours. The next one will be yours.” I don’t know what he meant but I felt cold all over.’

‘Do you know, that’s a very funny thing. I remember going up to D. H. Evans one day. There was a rumour that I might be evacuated to America and my mother and I went up to London to buy me some underpants. I remember my mother saying they didn’t have proper underpants in America. It was a lovely day, too. I
wonder
if it could have been the same day? How about that?’

‘Well, did you notice a little girl with blue shoes and a dress with cornflowers on it and a small hat?’

‘Did you notice a small boy in a red school blazer and a red school cap and grey shorts on? And I had a black eye! Do you remember that?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t remember it, Dagwood.’

‘Never mind. It would have been too much of a coincidence. But I bet it was the same day! ‘

‘Oh, I meant to tell you, I met a friend of yours at a party in London a few weeks ago.’

‘What was his name?’

‘Gavin something or other. He said he knew you.’

‘I should think he does know me! That must have been Gavin Doyle. He’s just served with me for two years. What did you think of him?’

‘He wasn’t a bit like you. He was smooth.’

‘Thank you very much.’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean anything disrespectful. He was too smooth. He got me in a corner ...’

‘
Did
he?’

‘...And told me all about women.’

‘And did he know all about women?’

‘He knew a bit.’

‘He should. He’s had enough experience.’

‘I rather gathered that. He looked me up and down and told me I’d make an excellent naval wife. I didn’t know how to . . . Why are you laughing?’

‘I ... I was just thinking of Gavin talking about naval wives! Did you know he’s the
Arch
-bachelor? He’s the President of the Bachelors’ and Grass Widowers’ Mutual Protection Society! ‘

‘Strikes me he’s the sort of man who takes lots of pretty girls out and then marries some very nice, plain girl with a face like a taxi. I don’t expect he’s ever been in love in his life.’

‘But you don’t have to love a woman to marry her! It’s far more important to like her than love her.’

‘Why Dagwood, what a very profound thing to say! It’s either very profound or very cynical, I don’t know which.’

‘It’s neither, but it’s true all the same.’

‘Well, I’m not sure ...’

‘Of course it is! It’s only very recently that any idea of love has entered into marriage at all.’

‘
Dagwood!
This is not like
you
at all. Who’ve you been talking to about this?’

‘Nobody.’

‘Bet you have. You’d never have thought of that on your own.’

‘All right then. But you can’t blame me for not knowing much about it, because the Navy doesn’t agree with its officers getting married. They’d stop it if they could. There used to be a saying about marriage. Lieutenants should not marry, Lieutenant-Commanders may, Commanders should, and Captains must. You see the idea? You can only marry when you’ve reached a stage where you need a hostess.’

‘What a dreadfully cynical outlook! ‘

Dagwood’s mind went off at a tangent. ‘You know, Caroline, it seems funny to think of you eating three square meals a day . . .’

On the first day of July the strike ended and Mr McGillvray resigned his position with Harvey McNichol & Drummond’s. The first event Ollie and Dagwood received with a mixture of surprise and relief; the second they found quite incredible.

‘Your cousin must have got the names mixed up, Chief Stoker,’ said Ollie. ‘McGillvray was one of Sir Rollo’s blue-eyed boys.’

‘It’s true enough, sir. There was a bit about it in the local rag last night.’

‘Did it give any reason?’ Dagwood asked.

‘Ill-health, sir.’

‘Ill-health!’ Ollie snorted. ‘He was in “The Smokers” with me last Friday lunch time and there was nothing wrong with him then. Nothing wrong with his drinking arm, anyway.’

‘Perhaps he went sick when he heard the news, sir?’

‘I’ll bet,’ said Dagwood. ‘He’s got the sack, that’s what it is. How about that, Ollie. A chap who’d be equivalent to a four-ring captain in our racket gets his cards on a Friday night just like any other hired help. I wonder what
really
happened?’

Dagwood did not waste any time casting around for opinions on the end of the strike or McGillvray’s dismissal but went straight to get the inside story.

‘As it happens I can answer both your questions,’ said Mr Tybalt. ‘The strike was ended by Lady Drummond herself.’

‘What!’

‘Yes, she arrived at the yard after packing-up time on Friday. Drove up in her Rolls, pavilioned in splendour and girded with praise, and demanded to see the Board of Directors and all the Union leaders. There was a great coming and going while they hauled various people out of pubs and telephoned their homes and stopped all their weekends. The old girl sat in the boardroom for over an hour, drumming her fingers on the table and no doubt rehearsing a few choice remarks, while they got the lads together. Unfortunately I wasn’t there myself, I would have given a month’s pay to have been a fly on the wall, but Happy Day told me the meeting only lasted about four minutes by the clock and old Lady Drummond did all the talking after which she swept out and away. Sir Rollo and the union boys appeared a bit later, all looking a bit green, and announced that the strike was over and the men would go back to work, pending negotiations.’

‘It must have been like a visit from Mount Olympus,’ said Dagwood. ‘When was the last time the old girl visited the firm?’

‘1926, I think, during the General Strike.’

‘So the strike’s finally over.’

‘Yes. The original dispute’s not settled of course, but if you ask me there’s another reason why they wanted to come back. They’ve got their eyes on their summer. holidays. They’ve suddenly woken up to the fact that unless they pull their fingers out and turn to pretty dead sharpish they won’t have enough money to take their wives and kiddies to the seaside. I expect some of them will be a bit skint by now in any case.’

‘But if the whole strike was on a matter of principle then holidays shouldn’t matter.’

‘Dagwood,’ said Mr Tybalt wearily, ‘I’ve warned you about this naivety before.’

‘But
surely
sir, if the whole thing’s as irresponsible as that, isn’t there anything the firm can do? This strike must have cost them thousands! There must be somebody they can get for it, somebody they can serve a writ on? I should have thought they could have got them on a charge of conspiracy or something.’