Deep Water (13 page)

‘Something frivolous and selfish, I hope,’ said Andrea, finding Peter’s sudden enthusiasm for Mike embarrassing and unwelcome. ‘Too much dash and heroics can soften the brain.’

Peter chuckled to himself. ‘For God’s sake, don’t tell
him
that. Rumour has it that he’s just won the
DSO
.’

‘Doesn’t he wear it?’

‘And give the whole game away? Tsk, tsk.’ Andrea watched her husband limp to the bedroom door, where he paused and sniffed appreciatively. ‘Mmm! That smells delicious. I must be one of the few men alive who actually likes kedgeree.’

‘Let’s hope Commander Harrington is another.’

‘My liking for it even survived the terrible stuff they passed off for the real thing at school.’

‘Perhaps his school was better.’

‘In terms of cookery, quite possibly,’ conceded Peter, whose loyalty to Uppingham amused Andrea, not because she knew much about the precedence of English public schools, but because the
intricate
web of trivial distinctions which differentiated these extraordinarily similar institutions for their alumni had always struck her as humorous. Given the universal awfulness of most English food, the quality of a school’s kitchens probably conferred kudos in inverse proportion to their merits. It was strange to think that, though she had been living in England for a decade, she had made little
progress
in the art of placing Englishmen in whatever positions in the class hierarchy their socially aware
countrymen would instantly pigeonhole them. Mike Harrington was a case in point. His accent, an occasional diphthong apart, was very like Peter’s – but whether this reflected badly on one, both, or neither, she could not tell.

The round table in the dining room was small but just large enough for them all to squeeze around. The boys were euphoric after their sail, and Mike Harrington was generous with his praise for their ‘hard work’. Andrea was immediately struck by the way Justin looked at him – attentively and without any of the reserve he displayed when talking to Peter. The boy wouldn’t like him, would he, unless Mike was a sympathetic person?

While they were drinking Rose’s vegetable soup, Justin begged Mike to tell them about fighting in
MGB
s.

‘It might bore everyone else.’

‘No, it won’t,’ exploded Leo.

So Mike gave a deliberately vague account of the cat and mouse tactics employed against E-boats in the North Sea. If the navigator’s calculations for direction and speed were even fractionally wrong, the enemy’s boats would be missed by many miles. When the boys had finally stopped pestering him to describe being hit by bombs, Peter said quietly that he was working on a weapon that would make air attacks on small warships much less likely.

‘Tell us about it, dad,’ cried Leo.

‘Of course I can’t. But I do promise Mike will be pleased when he gets one.’

‘How soon will that be?’ asked Mike, smiling.

‘A couple of months if you’re lucky.’

While they were all eating their kedgeree with
differing
degrees of enthusiasm, Peter asked Mike how he had first become involved with coastal forces.

‘I was teaching at King’s, London, but when war broke out I joined the Crown Film Unit. One of my first jobs was to make a short film about the motor torpedo boats at Great Yarmouth. I was hooked from the moment I went out in one.’

Peter said, ‘I’ve often wondered what they ask on their selection boards?’

‘Nothing too esoteric.’

Peter laughed. ‘Stuff like, do you know about navigation?’

‘Exactly. I said yes, but they weren’t impressed. So I said I’d rowed for my college – which was a lie – but as soon as I’d said it, they took an immense shine to me. One of them held up a large optician’s card. “Can you see those colours?” “Would they be green, blue and red, sir?” “Good man. You’re definitely officer material.”’

‘A triumph for informal selection,’ choked Peter, with his mouth full of food.

‘Disgraceful,’ said Andrea lightly, still surprised by Peter’s obvious liking for Mike.

‘You’re right, Mrs Pauling, I’m still ashamed of myself. But joking apart,’ continued Mike, ‘these people choose trawlermen and tug skippers, as well as bogus oarsmen.’

While Rose was offering second helpings, which only Peter accepted, he asked Mike what he had taught at London University.

‘Classics,’ Mike announced, plainly enjoying Peter’s amazement. ‘My father worked for a Midlands metal-bashing company and never stopped enthusing about gaskets, so I opted for an ivory tower existence, naturally.’

Peter seemed puzzled. ‘I’m pretty sure my boy will do something in the same line as me when he grows up.’

‘But not what I do,’ said Andrea. ‘I’m a teacher, too.’

‘At a school for girls,’ said Leo, in a tone Andrea found hurtful.

‘You’ll grow to like them some day,’ Mike told him. And Andrea felt grateful for this gentle put down. She prayed that Peter would not treat Mike to one of his well-rehearsed dismissals of the
humanities
as unfit for serious study. Whenever she recalled occasions on which Peter had jovially commiserated with arts dons at Oxford, because “they had so little to be clever about in comparison with their scientific colleagues”, she could hardly believe he could have been so insulting to them and to her. Yet Peter would not have seen it that way. He thought people ought to face the truth, particularly when it was what they didn’t wish to hear.

Rose was clearing away their plates when Peter asked Mike how his teaching had been changed by the development of psychoanalysis.

‘Not a lot,’ he replied, evidently unaware that Peter was in earnest.

Peter seemed amazed. ‘Really? Though the people in Greek drama now seem ludicrously unconvincing?’

Mike seemed more amused than angry. ‘Would you enjoy a modern play that sounded like an
analyst
’s case notes?’

‘He doesn’t enjoy plays, period,’ said Andrea.

Peter looked heavenwards, as if seeking divine vindication. ‘That’s not fair, dearest. I often find them highly entertaining.’

‘Oh yes. Like you find
ITMA
entertaining.’

‘Really, Andrea.’ He smiled reassuringly at Mike. ‘Don’t listen to her. In point of fact I have
considerable
respect for several ancient Greeks.’

‘I’d be intrigued to know their names,’ remarked Mike, evidently suspecting that Peter was
mocking
him.

‘Thales of Miletus for a start. Don’t look so bored, Leo. One day in the sixth century
BC
, Thales asked a hell of a good question, “Of what is the Universe composed?” and answered, “Of water.”’

‘But that’s wrong, dad.’

‘Agreed. But it was still remarkably farsighted to deduce that some form of homogeneous matter underlay everything.’ He turned from Leo to Mike. ‘So why the hell did the Greeks base their principal art form on pessimism, rather than on scientific optimism?’

‘Tragedy isn’t all pessimistic,’ said Andrea trying to sound authoritative.

Peter forked in a final mouthful of kedgeree and spluttered, ‘You wouldn’t by any chance be
referring
to that Greek nonsense about purging one’s emotions?’

‘Nonsense is a bit strong,’ said Mike, as if
encouraging an intelligent but wayward pupil. ‘Though I don’t buy
catharsis
either.’

Peter rubbed his hands. ‘Then you’ll agree with me that the Greeks only invented tragedy because they loved seeing blood everywhere.’

Mike inclined his head donnishly. ‘An interesting slant on Aristotle’s
Poetics
.’

‘Don’t josh him,’ warned Andrea. ‘He won’t see the joke and will only think he’s gotten the better of you.’

Mike smiled at her. ‘All right, to be more serious, I like tragedy because it tells me that human beings can sometimes be greater than their fate.’

Peter sucked in his cheeks. ‘Greatness, nobility … bah … just whistling in the wind. If Freud’s right about our fundamental drives being instinctive, a man can’t be blamed for doing wrong, or praised for doing right. So where does that put the Tragic Hero, Commander?’

‘In the theatre. Where else?’ For the first time, Mike looked a little rattled. ‘In ancient Chinese drama, a man with a white face was good, and one with a red face was bad. If they could swallow that, I can accept a bit of
hamartia
and
hubris
.’

Rose placed two bowls in front of Andrea. ‘Stewed apple and blancmange, madam.’

Andrea thanked her effusively. ‘Any orders?’ She looked round the table expectantly.

‘One day we’ll have a real discussion,’ Peter
promised
Mike, evidently rather pleased with their
conversation
.

‘Not when I’m around,’ whispered Justin, earning
himself a fierce stare from Mike, followed by a discreet wink.

Looking at the smiling naval officer across the table, Andrea had no idea whether he had been offended by Peter. Could his remarkable good nature have been genuine? And if so, why? Because he truly liked Peter – as many people did – or because an affair with a wife was always easier when the husband liked the lover?

Before Mike Harrington left, Justin made him promise to take him and Leo out again before the weekend. Andrea found it touching that the boy was confident Mike would agree.

It had started to rain while they had been eating but this did not stop Andrea walking with Harrington to his car.

‘I thought you were awfully restrained with Peter.’

‘I didn’t try to be.’ He smiled wanly. ‘When my own life became dramatic, I stopped caring so much about Greek plays.’

‘You’re making fun of me.’

‘Only a little.’

‘I can’t figure out whether that’s worse than a lot.’

They walked in silence through the gate and into the lane. The rain was coming down harder, making dark marks on her turquoise blouse. He said gently, ‘I’ll be away for a few days from this evening. I couldn’t tell Justin. So please think of something to say if he asks why I didn’t ring.’

‘It’s good of you to think of his feelings.’

‘I don’t see much of my own son.’ He raised his
hands and let them fall. ‘I’ll tell you about him some day, but not now.’

‘Are you still afraid?’ she forced herself to ask as they reached the automobile. She could hear the rain pattering down on the roof. The vehicle was old and blue, with
RN
painted on what he called the bonnet and she the hood.

‘You mean afraid of you?’

‘You said it, not me.’

‘I did.’ He opened the driver’s door but did not get in. ‘Can I be honest with you? For months now, I haven’t been leading any kind of life – just staggering from one day to another. But it can’t go on.’ He got into the car and left the door open. ‘I can’t let it. Do you understand?’

‘Not really.’

‘Get in out of the rain.’ He pushed open the passenger’s door for her. She heard Leo calling her from the house.

‘Another time,’ she murmured, but Mike looked so disappointed that she changed her mind and slid in beside him.

He said rapidly, without looking at her, ‘I was talking to Tony the other day about what might make life better for men like us. Not wealth, he said. We wouldn’t be needing money if our luck ran out. Not success, because one needs time to enjoy it.’ His eyes fixed upon hers, and, though he was smiling, she sensed that he was nervous. ‘What makes all the difference, according to Tony, is having someone who says he’s the bee’s knees. Death’s no problem now, he tells me.’

‘Do you still love your wife?’

He shook his head vehemently. ‘After our bust-up, I didn’t look around for anyone else either. I thought I wouldn’t be able to cope with my job if I had a second disaster on the romantic front. Now I feel much more robust.’

Andrea reached out to him and placed a hand on his. The moment had come – he had shown his wounded heart to her; explained. ‘When will you be back?’ she asked, in a strangely stilted and high-pitched voice.

‘Sunday morning. Why do you ask?’

‘I’d like to see you, of course.’ She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks.

‘I’ll need to sleep for a couple of hours when we get in. So I’ll ring you late afternoon.’ Suddenly he laughed edgily. ‘What a hole you’re in. You had to say what you did.’

‘Really, I didn’t.’

‘Not even out of pity for a departing matelot?’ She could hear the pained anxiety in his voice.

She let out her breath. ‘Pity doesn’t figure at all.’ The next moment he leaned across and kissed her on her half-open lips. Too flustered to resist or join in, she let it happen. He drew back and gazed at her.

‘You look lovely with the rain in your hair.’

‘It looks nice in yours, too.’

‘Let’s hope it rains some more.’

‘Keep safe,’ she whispered as she got out. Her legs shook as she stood up. But she did not dare stay a moment longer, although she could hardly drag herself away. Instead she hurried home along the
dripping lane, knowing she would suffer until he returned, and that when he came back she would not see him enough. Tears leaked from her eyes and merged invisibly with the falling rain.

A freighter had run aground in the night and Peter suggested driving up onto the headland beyond Bolidden Quarry so that Leo and Justin could watch tugs from Falmouth trying to save her. But when Andrea drove them onto the cliffs above the stranded vessel, attempts to float her off had been abandoned until the next high tide. However, they did see the Porthbeer lifeboat take off most of the crewmen, leaving behind only a skeleton crew.

Soon after breakfast, Andrea had been amazed to see her husband come in from the lane with a small posy of violets he had picked for her. Each flower could only have been gathered with pain. Taking the violets from him, her confused feelings about Mike had overwhelmed her. Tears had sprung into her eyes as she had stammered incoherent thanks.

As they sat in the car eating sandwiches, Peter was dismayed to hear the whine of aircraft out at sea. Moments later, the thump of exploding bombs reached them. On the horizon, a slanting column
of black smoke began to bend in the wind until it was lying parallel with the water. Three black gnats appeared above the skyline. The whine of engines increased in volume to a drone.

‘German bombers,’ gasped Justin, shielding his eyes.

‘Better get moving,’ said Peter, guessing these planes had just attacked a convoy and would now be eager to discard their remaining bombs. A solitary car would not be worth hitting, but the nearby quarry’s trolley-ways would be.

While Peter limped after everyone, Andrea led the way to a rocky depression surrounded by clumps of golden gorse. But once there, they remained
standing
, eyes still riveted to the three crooked little planes – more like wasps now than gnats.

‘They’re Junkers 88s,’ announced Justin, and at that moment Andrea could clearly see the black crosses on their wings. The noise of their engines had risen to a roar that became a shriek as the
leading
plane swooped down, turning his belly briefly towards the cliffs.

‘That’s torn it,’ muttered Peter. ‘He’s attacking the freighter.’

Like eggs squeezed from the abdomen of a
blowfly
, a few black dots detached themselves from the plane’s underside and hurtled seawards. Two
fountains
of water sprung up close to the ship. A third bomb buried itself in a field two hundred yards from where they were sheltering. As clods of earth rained down, the four of them flung themselves on their faces. Peter prayed that a fourth bomb was not on
its way. He was still waiting in agony as the next bomber went into its screeching dive.

‘Aargh!’ groaned Leo. ‘They got me.’

‘Don’t joke,’ reproved Andrea.

She had rested her forehead on the ground for a moment and something was sticking to her skin. She raised a hand and brushed off some moist rabbit droppings. Her smile was brief. What a fool she’d been not to figure out that a helpless ship would attract enemy aircraft.

The next bombs landed in the sea. The third Junkers started its descent, and, though no one saw the bomb strike the ship, they certainly heard it detonate. Only when the sound of the bombers’ engines had become very faint did Andrea let the boys stand up. By then, the freighter was on fire from stem to stern.

‘There’s a man in the bows,’ screeched Leo, just before the pin-sized crewman leapt into the sea. Peter thought he saw another tiny figure on a ladder by the bridge but the smoke was very thick and the next moment there was an explosion and the whole bridge was engulfed in flames. Had anyone else seen this second crewman die?

If either boy had, Peter didn’t expect Andrea to forgive him in a hurry. Even before this morning she had seemed alarmingly tense. The night before she hadn’t wanted to make love, but had submitted to him. So to thank her for putting his pleasure before her own wishes, he had picked some violets. Her strange response had not reassured him.

Now there were more aircraft in the sky. Two
silver planes were closing with the bombers ten miles out to sea. The German planes seemed slow and cumbersome as these new arrivals attacked in turn, diving from above with machine guns rattling, leaving vapour trails in the sky. Nobody spoke as one of the Junkers disintegrated, its fuselage tearing apart like tissue paper. One wing flew off sideways, quite slowly, while the engine plummeted seawards like a huge bomb.

‘Poor devils,’ murmured Peter.

‘Another’s on fire,’ cried Leo, as smoke billowed from the entrails of this second victim of the British fighters. The plane lost height before managing to climb again. It was still airborne as it disappeared over the horizon, pursued by both Hurricanes. Two minutes later the fighters were back again but
something
was wrong with one of them. It was coming down in a slow glide, its propeller scarcely turning. A cloud of burning fluid trailed behind. Bale out, Peter willed the pilot, bale out. But the cockpit remained closed as the plane tilted into a steep dive. When the Hurricane hit the water, Justin ran off blindly across the heather. At the spot where the plane had sunk, a patch of oil stained the water. Too stunned to move at first, Andrea sprang to life and raced in pursuit.

‘That was the last thing that poor boy should have seen,’ groaned Peter, knowing the kind of trouble he would be in when Andrea returned.

‘What about me?’ sniffed Leo.

‘Did
your
father die in a plane?’ demanded Peter.

‘I’m sorry, dad,’ said Leo, feeling a great sob swell in his throat.

Peter hugged his son tightly as he began to shake. ‘Bloody bad luck we were here when it happened.’

Justin had run on past a ‘Danger’ sign into the abandoned part of the quarry. Breathing hard, Andrea paused where the ground began to fall away. Ahead of her was a gigantic circular hole, large enough to accommodate the Albert Hall. A series of sloping terraces ran round the quarry’s sides and on one of these she spotted Justin. He was sitting on the very edge, legs thrust out into space. She approached slowly, in order not to shock him, and sat down several paces away. Far below them, the sea was visible through a wide gap that had been blasted over the years into the side of the headland.

‘You okay now?’ she asked softly.

‘It wasn’t the plane,’ he blurted out after a silence.

‘No?’

‘Maybe a bit. It was mainly the ship.’

She moved closer and slid an arm round him. ‘Tell me, sweetheart.’

‘I thought of Mike.’

A lump formed in Andrea’s throat. ‘Because he didn’t call about taking you sailing?’ Justin
nodded
, fighting back tears. Andrea’s eyes were also filling. ‘I should have told you. I’m really sorry. He
did
call. He had to go on a training
exercise
.’

‘He was really nice to me when we went out that time.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘I did everything right for him. That’s really odd for me.’ Justin managed a twisted smile.

‘You’ll see him again real soon.’

‘If they kill him like my dad, I’ll …’ He raised his hands to his face and stayed hunched and very still.

‘He’ll be just fine, honey. His work isn’t
dangerous
.’ The boy did not answer but sat swinging his feet back and forth over the drop. ‘Let’s walk down,’ she suggested.

The bottom of the quarry was overgrown with brambles that had almost engulfed a rusting winch and the twin boilers of a large ship. Andrea guessed that these had been salvaged from a wreck; but, after what Justin had just witnessed, she did not say so. Justin, however, seemed to enjoy poking around these maritime relics and was clearly frustrated not to be able to hack his way through the undergrowth to explore an entire steel deckhouse complete with portholes.

Sitting in the car, Leo and Peter had the
satisfaction
of seeing the lifeboat nose in right under the cliff. The man who had plunged into the sea had evidently managed to swim to the rocks, because when the lifeboat returned to view a man was in the cockpit, swathed in blankets. The hull of the freighter was still burning and listing.

‘I’d hate to be a sailor,’ murmured Leo, gazing at the doomed vessel. He suddenly seemed chastened. ‘I wish Commander Harrington liked me as much as he likes Justin.’

‘He’s probably nice to Justin because of his father.’

Just then the burning freighter seized their
attention
by sinking with a boiling hiss. Strange burping
noises could be heard as huge bubbles broke the surface.

When Andrea and Justin came in sight, they were smiling and swinging their arms. Justin was soon enthusing about ‘the amazing quarry we discovered’. His grief seemed forgotten. Peter could have hugged him. Andrea would not now accuse him of causing the boy lasting upset.

‘You missed seeing the ship sink,’ Leo told Justin, wondering why his mother was staring at him. ‘What’s wrong with saying that, mother?’

‘Nothing,’ she replied briskly, trying to convey that more bad news might make his friend rush off again. Leo wasn’t even convinced that Justin’s rapid exit had been genuine. He suspected a performance aimed at winning his mother’s sympathy. The way he was smiling at her now, she might almost be his own mum. She seemed to like it. When Justin tried hard with anyone, he usually got what he wanted.

In the car on the way to Trevean Barton Leo imagined himself back at school, telling Justin that he couldn’t come to Cornwall in the summer holidays. Justin begged, but Leo did not change his mind. This imaginary scene gave Leo pleasure, but also made him feel a little ashamed.

*

On Saturday morning Andrea went to the shops with Rose. The village grocer’s had two long mahogany counters: one for butter, ham, bacon and lard, the other for tea, coffee and porridge oats. Even in wartime every purchase was wrapped in white sugar paper and skilfully parcelled up by a boy who did
nothing else. As Andrea and Rose were leaving, they were stopped by a grey-haired, beady-eyed woman whom Andrea recognised.

‘A little bird told me you
did
go and play to the children,’ said the vicar’s wife, smiling brightly at Andrea from behind pink-framed spectacles. ‘So kind of you.’

‘I enjoyed myself.’

‘Their teacher was delighted. But you’re a teacher yourself, I’m told. Perhaps you’d care to come along this evening to our little First Aid class in the
village
hall?’

‘I’ll try, Mrs Jefferies.’

‘Splendid.’ The vicar’s wife lowered her voice conspiratorially, ‘There are know-it-alls who say it couldn’t matter less if villagers learn to tie
tourniquets
or not. It’s not like London, they say. Well, a bomb fell in Polruan last night and a man bled to death.’ Rose took a few steps towards the door. ‘I hope you’ll come too, Rose.’

‘I don’ know ’bout that, ma’am.’

Mrs Jefferies turned back to Andrea. ‘Some
officers
’ wives will be there. One came down from London this morning – a Mrs Harrington. Such a pretty woman. And only yesterday Mrs Henderson promised she’d … Are you all right, Mrs Pauling?’

Dizzy with shock, Andrea managed to ask, ‘Do naval wives live with their husbands when they’re on dry land?’

‘Some do; others would like to, but can’t.’

‘Is Mrs Harrington one of those?’

Mrs Jefferies’ face suddenly became bland and
inscrutable. ‘If you come along, you can ask her yourself.’

‘Of course I can’t.’ Andrea was relieved to hear herself laughing very naturally. ‘I was only nosy because Mrs Harrington’s husband was very good to my son’s friend.’

Mrs Jefferies pursed her narrow lips and then relaxed them as if she had just applied lipstick. ‘In that case, there’s no harm in telling you the gossip. They separated, and now, rumour has it, she wants to be taken back. A happy story for once.’

As Andrea and Rose walked back to the house with their parcels, Rose muttered, ‘Thinks there’s nothin’ she don’ know, does Rector’s wife.’

Somehow, Andrea managed to conceal the misery she was feeling, though she hardly saw the
Temperance
Reading Room, or the rabbits hanging in the butcher’s shop. It was as if the glass shield of indifference that had kept her safe for years had finally been shattered. A man had thrust his hand through the glass and touched her.

As she walked, Andrea railed at romantic love for forcing her into a role she wouldn’t normally have looked at: the neglected wife craving
affection
from the brave but vulnerable fighting man. Her style was love against the grain. Love for the scientist whose views were nothing like her own. To fall for a man who shared her interests, and was handsome and clever, was to put social
externals
first – when the accepted wisdom, at least for intellectuals, was that only the primitive, the inarticulate and unsophisticated was authentic. Well,
too bad. No gamekeeper, criminal, or jazz trumpeter would do; only Mike; intelligent, brave, and
probably
tragic, Mike.

And Peter had nagged
him
about tragedy! Andrea had once been told by her headmistress that ‘tragic’ was not a word to be used for describing sad or disastrous events in life, only those in art. To speak of accidental deaths as tragedies was to be guilty of ‘a vulgar solecism’. Maybe Mike would be amused, if he came back safely, and didn’t fling himself into his wife’s arms.

*

Even before she entered the village hall, Andrea could hear Mrs Jefferies’ thin, commanding voice, ‘Come and be splinted for a Colles fracture. Do I have a volunteer? Thank you. Over here, please.’

Andrea had imagined that the occasion would be a throwback to Edwardian days, with nobody being thought to be able to do anything unless the gentry were gracious enough to show them how. In fact the scene Andrea met was much more democratic. People of all classes were at work on one another without receiving instruction from anyone. The room echoed with curses as tourniquets were applied and fingernails pinched to see if blood flow had been stopped. Improvised splints were
causing
widespread discomfort as umbrellas and lumpy walking sticks were bound to ‘broken’ limbs.