Deep Water (27 page)

In the first week of June, Peter and Andrea drove to Yorkshire for Leo’s Sports Day. It was six weeks since Andrea had left Cornwall, and yet Peter had observed few improvements in her state of mind. On three occasions during May, he had stayed in Oxford overnight, and on none of them had he slept in the flat but always in his rooms in college. The reason had never varied: Andrea’s grief over the loss of her lover had made it seem as distasteful to him, as it would have been to her, for him to share her bed. Initially, Peter had assured himself that Andrea would soon admit that he deserved, if not praise, at least appreciation for his restraint and understanding. But nothing she had said to date had given him any such encouragement. He would have become angry and resentful long ago, if he had not been so worried about her.

Because Andrea had always been an optimistic, buoyant person, with a gift for sniffing out
self-delusion
in others, it was horrible to see her with
dark shadows under her eyes, looking so wretched. Not that Peter blamed her for thinking well of Harrington – he had, too. So well, in fact, that on reflection it seemed a little naïve of Andrea to have expected such a paragon to be with her for longer than a brief episode in his life. Had she ever asked herself why – when other women were plentiful, and many of them younger than herself, and no less keen – Harrington should have been expected to bend over backwards for the sake of a thirty-five-year-old with a troublesome son and the kind of husband guaranteed to lie heavy on the conscience?

Hoping to comfort his wife, a few days ago Peter had suggested to her on the telephone that Harrington might be the kind of man who only desired unattainable women, and discarded them as soon as they had slept with him. Andrea had brushed this aside. Mike had been faithful to his wife till the day she left him, and was as far removed from Byronic poseurs and picaresque young fornicators from the
Tom
Jones
stable as could be imagined.

Though she was pale and thin, and often tried his patience to its limits, Peter still loved Andrea too much to think of leaving her – if, strictly speaking, one could be said to leave someone already largely absent. Even now, unless careful, he could see in her lack of proportion something dogged and vital, as well as misguided.

Recently, without quite knowing why, Peter had used his contacts within the Admiralty to find out where Harrington was serving. Great Yarmouth, it
turned out – commanding a squadron of motor torpedo boats, which were regularly in action off the Dutch and German coasts. Several evenings ago, Peter had caught an item on a
BBC
news report which he supposed was typical: ‘Last night our Light Coastal Forces were in action off the Hook of Holland and sunk two armed trawlers and an E-boat, for the loss of two
MTB
s.’ Mike seemed to be in greater danger than in Cornwall. At the time of his discovery, Peter had thought it best to keep the information to himself.

They had left York on the Helmsley road, and now were driving north, past fields where the hay was ready for cutting. Though Peter was happy to think that in less than an hour they would be seeing Leo, a sudden thought made him uneasy.

‘Darling,’ he asked gently, ‘did you ever hear where Mike was sent after he left Cornwall?’

‘I did,’ she answered, turning her unhappy face towards him. Mike writes to Justin most weeks. And he told Leo.’

Peter was mortified. ‘Why didn’t you tell me the real reason why you’ve been so anxious?’

She seemed amazed by his question. ‘I should’ve told you I was worrying about Mike?’

‘Yes. Far better than leaving me thinking you’d no special reason to be sad, except missing him.’

‘You’re right. I’m sorry, Peter.’ She touched his hand where it rested on the wheel. ‘Mike’s coming today.’

‘To see you?’

She gave him the ghost of a smile, before shaking
her head. ‘Justin’s spending half-term with him, so he’s coming to get him.’

Peter frowned. ‘Is Mike refusing to see you, Andrea?’

‘He’s not keen. Please don’t ask me why.’

Even when gazing at the road ahead, through the yellowing mist of dead insects on the windscreen, Peter was aware of her lovely hair, flickering in the wind, as the elms sighed past, and the Howardian hills appeared, looking blue and misty in the summer haze. Andrea had caught the sun and there were faint freckles on the bridge of her nose. She’s perfect, thought Peter. Yet to Harrington, she was only someone who’d given him pleasure, and was of no further use. Fear for her sanity made Peter shiver. Her need to know that the man was alive might go on as long as he lasted, or the war did. And, in the meantime, what about me?

Somewhere between Sheriff Hutton and Hovingham, it came to Peter that his marriage might be more satisfactory if Andrea were still seeing her lover.

*

Approaching the school, Peter was impressed by the number of parents arriving in cars. There had obviously been plenty of petrol coupons saved, or black market prices paid in order to acquire the necessary gallons for such a long journey. As a government scientist, he had faced no equivalent privations. Some boys were waiting at the end of the drive by the lodge gates, intending to jump onto the running boards of their parents’ cars, so they could be swept, in glory, along the beech avenue to the school.

Since Peter’s small Standard had no running board, Leo stood waiting to greet his mother and father under the shadow of the pseudo-Jacobean main building. As he saw the car, he ran forward and kissed them both through each open window, a clear demonstration of his delight at seeing them still together. And as they walked to the sports field, along with a growing crowd, he walked between them in his white shorts and singlet, his hands holding theirs, oblivious to the usual ‘no touching’ etiquette observed between parents and older boys on such occasions.

They were still linked in this way when Peter spotted Mike Harrington and another naval officer, both in uniform, walking on either side of Justin. At once Peter raised his stick in greeting, delighted to see Justin, and in no way resenting the boy for being the first to suspect Andrea. He had always admired Justin’s sharp mind and still did. Leo’s hand grasped his father’s more tightly as he saw Mike.

Harrington’s expression, when he saw Andrea, struck Peter as agonized. Andrea’s face immediately grew pale, and, at first, Peter feared she might faint. Mike came up closer and calmly introduced his
colleague
as Tony Cassilis; and Justin started burbling to Leo about how Tony had escaped from France ‘only a few days ago’. They were walking onto the mown field, where the running tracks were marked out in parallel white lines. By now, a master was hectoring the boys through a loudhailer, and Justin and Leo went off to take part in the first of the races.

Observing Cassilis talking to Andrea, Peter decided this was his moment to approach Mike. Why had the man refused to see Andrea, when a sympathetic explanation would have made it far easier for her to bear the pain of rejection? Peter reckoned that if he asked Harrington for a favour, he would not be disagreeable to him. But Mike began to walk away too fast for Peter to catch him before he reached the press of parents, clustering around the running track.

On seeing Mike, Andrea had been gripped, as firmly as ever, by her old delusion that he was
her
man, the only one meant for her. So she found it hard to focus on Tony Cassilis, who seemed to have stayed behind in order to talk to her. Suspecting that Mike had put him up to this, she waited for whatever message Tony had been asked to convey. But first, he treated her to unwanted highlights from his Great Escape. On ending his tale, Tony studied his shoes, and said, ‘Mike’s awfully cut up, you know.’

‘He didn’t look that way to me.’

‘He misses you.’

‘That’s
my
fault?’ Her voice rose angrily.

‘He hates himself for the pain he’s caused, and he’s determined not to cause more.’

‘A shame he didn’t think of that before.’

Tony’s pale grey eyes met hers. ‘You’re right. But I’d still do anything for him.’ He rattled some coins in his pockets. ‘It’s dashed hard to do the right thing when one’s feelings are pulling the other way.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘He still cares. That clear enough for you?’

She moved very close to Tony. ‘Tell him that caring means nothing when a person isn’t there. He couldn’t even greet me when he was standing right here.’

The crack of a starting pistol was followed by shouts of encouragement and then by cheers. Andrea walked away from Tony without saying goodbye and headed for the track. On the way, she met Leo.

‘Didn’t you see the race, mum?’

‘Sorry, darling.’

‘I came second in the one-twenty yards.’

‘That’s great.’

‘Where’s dad? I don’t believe he saw it either.’

‘I expect he did. What’s your next event?’

‘Not the fathers’ and sons’ race,’ he told her dryly, before lowering his voice. ‘Mike’s running with Justin. He asked Captain Berty specially if he could.’ Leo sounded so disapproving that Andrea guessed he was still jealous.

‘Isn’t that nice of Mike?’

‘Oh, sure. But it’s pathetic of Justin to let him. He’ll feel a fraud if they win, and they probably will.’

In fact they came third. Andrea watched near the finish as the fathers thundered back on the final leg, the sons having run first. Mike had taken off his jacket, and looked like a Greek athlete with his head flung back as he finished. Though she thought less of him for not being prepared to talk to her himself, she admired him for keeping in touch with Justin. Part of her reason for loving him had been the knowledge that he was capable of such things.

*

The track and field events were over when Peter finally ran Mike to earth. He and Justin were
emerging
from the craft room. Peter guessed Mike was far from pleased to see him and didn’t blame him. Cuckolds were rarely civil to their cuckolders but Peter felt at ease and, for the moment, cordial. If he could only have the guts to make a definite proposition to Harrington, a way to ease his present problems might be in sight.

As Peter approached him, Mike turned to Justin. ‘Maybe you could say goodbye to a few people.’ The boy took the hint and left them. The craft room was separated from the main school building by an open corridor, which was well frequented at present. Across a cinder yard lay the school’s clay tennis court.

‘Over there?’ suggested Peter, indicating the deserted court.

The two men walked onto the gritty surface
without
speaking. Peter stabbed the ferrule of his stick into the rust-coloured clay and muttered fiercely, ‘She’s still crazy about you, Harrington. Sleeps badly, hardly eats.’

‘I don’t sleep well myself.’

‘Because you care for her?’

Mike clamped a hand to his brow. ‘You just can’t ask me that.’

‘Why not?’ Peter rested his back against the wire netting. ‘You’ve made Andrea’s life a misery. And mine, too.’

Mike took a deep breath. ‘Your worries are over. I’ve decided to come to an understanding with my wife.’

‘You’re going back to her?’ Peter was stunned to have his one hope shattered.

‘It’s not because I don’t care for Andrea. I do. Making friends with Justin changed things for me; it told me how much my own son needs me.’

Peter cleared his throat. ‘Does your wife need you, too?’

‘Not really – though her latest bloke’s just let her down.’

Peter moved closer to the naval officer and said very distinctly, ‘Since it won’t worry your wife, what about Andrea coming to see you every few weeks?’

Mike looked at him, dumbfounded. ‘You wouldn’t mind?’

‘Of course I would. But it couldn’t be worse than being with her the way she is now. She’s so bloody low, she hardly speaks to me. I can’t even spend a few hours at home. What have I got to lose?’

Mike thought for a moment. ‘She might get fonder of me if we start meeting again.’

Peter laughed harshly. ‘In Great Yarmouth? In November for one night a month?’

‘She might decide to stay longer and come to London, too.’

Peter used his stick to scratch a line on the court’s surface. ‘If you let her do that, I’ll muck up your plans to stay married.’

‘How?’

‘By suing for divorce and naming you.’

Mike raised his hands. ‘Point taken. But will you really not mind if I fix up something with her before she leaves?’

‘Go ahead.’

Mike reached out as if to shake Peter’s hand, but withdrew it, in case he was rebuffed. ‘You’re a remarkable man,’ he said instead.

Peter leaned heavily on his stick. ‘I’m doing the best I can with the cards I’ve been dealt.’

Mike blushed. ‘It’s still damned generous of you to let her have what she wants.’

‘I don’t want her killing herself or going crazy.’

Before he could have second thoughts, Peter started limping towards the wire netting. But why should he think again? When he’d said he had nothing to lose, he’d been telling the truth. And, in any case, Andrea was more likely to get bored when routinely seeing the man, than when pining for an imaginary god.

Early in July, the Headmaster’s Indoor Games took place to celebrate Captain Berty’s birthday. Because Leo was concentrating hard on playing ‘Flip the Kipper’ – a game in which cut-out paper fish were swooshed along with folded newspapers – he did not at first see Spud usher into the room a dark and beautiful woman in a wide-brimmed hat. It was her scent that made the boy look up, it smelled so foreign and out of place in this uncarpeted room with its bare light bulbs. The woman’s skirt swept past, inches from his face, giving him a sense of
extraordinary
luxury. She was wearing white-rimmed dark glasses that made him think of film actresses. Later, Leo learned that this unforgettable apparition was Justin’s mother. But, since Justin himself rarely spoke to Leo these days, he wasn’t able to find out more about Mrs Matherson – not even how she’d reached Britain from Kenya. All he did hear, several days later, was that she would be settling in England, and that Justin would live with her in the holidays. When
she gave two of Justin’s newer friends a small native drum each, Leo was only a little envious.

A month ago, just after half-term, Mike Harrington had brought an
MTB
up to Scarborough and had whizzed Justin and four other boys along the coast to Whitby and back again. Leo had thought they would never stop chattering about their treat.
Mercifully
, he himself had had several things of his own to celebrate: he had done better than expected in mock Common Entrance; and the Sunday before Mrs Matherson’s appearance, his parents had taken him out for the day.

They hadn’t done the usual visit to Whitby or Robin Hood’s Bay, but instead had walked for a mile across the moors, along the disused railway near Rosedale Abbey. Dad had managed this walk fairly well and had been unusually cheerful. His mother’s mood had been totally different from her half-term gloom. She laughed a lot and told amusing stories about things that had happened at her school. She even held dad’s hand several times and smiled at him. When she did, the purple heather and heath grass had become blurry for Leo when he’d looked away. His happiness had lasted right through the normally miserable hour that followed their departure.

*

Most of the milestones leading up to the end of term already lay in the past: the end of term exams, the General Knowledge Quiz, the Gold Star holiday. Only Matron’s Treasure Hunt and the last home cricket match were to come – just one week to go. Out on the sunlit playing field, twenty boys
were pushing the big roller up and down the pitch, supervised by the headmaster. Leo was strolling along under the shadow of the kitchen garden wall, hoping to nip in and grab some gooseberries. But, just then, the outside bell began ringing for supper. He walked towards the school across the front lawn, straight through a group of younger boys zooming about pretending to be fighter planes.

Outside the tuck box room, Leo saw a boy slumped against a radiator. He was in tears and caught at Leo’s shirt as he passed. Leo pulled away, eager not to get involved with Hal Varney, who had replaced him as Justin’s best friend, and had been taken out in the
MTB
.

‘He’s dead,’ croaked Varney. ‘Commander Harrington’s dead.’

‘How do you know?’ gasped Leo.

‘Spud told Justin.’

‘Where is he?’

‘In his dorm.’

Leo found Justin lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His eyes were red but he was not
crying
.

‘Varney told me,’ said Leo. ‘What happened?’

‘He attacked a German convoy in a fog and didn’t come back. You needn’t pretend to be upset. You didn’t even like him.’

‘You think you know everything,’ snapped Leo. ‘Well you’re bloody wrong. I thought he was the …’ But he couldn’t say ‘the tops’, or anything like that, because of what Mike had done to his father, and because Justin knew what he’d done. And then Leo
couldn’t think of the right word to use, so he turned and left the room.

Later, when Justin didn’t come down for supper or for prayers, Leo felt bad, and wished he’d been
honest
about how he felt over Mike. He guessed what had also stopped him had been his guilty conscience over telling Justin he couldn’t come to Cornwall for the summer. Justin had wept then, because he’d been sure he wouldn’t see Mike again. Leo thought back to the start of their friendship and how decent Justin had been. It made Leo sad to remember it. But though he wanted to explain to Justin that he’d only been mean to him because of what Mike and his mother had been doing, somehow he couldn’t bring himself to go up to the dorm. After all, it wouldn’t be long before Justin got over Mike’s death. His mother had come back to England, so he’d soon be living with her. When the war ended, Justin would move among fashionable, good-looking people like his mum, spending the summer holidays in places where there were casinos and palm trees, and big yachts in the harbour.

*

When Leo returned home at the end of term, he found no litter of papers on the table by the sitting room window. Nor was his father’s shaving brush and razor in the bathroom. He ran back to the sitting room where his mother was writing out cheques to tradesmen.

‘Is dad in London again?’ he asked, flopping down onto the deep sofa, among his mother’s oriental cushions.

‘He’s in his rooms in college.’

‘Why isn’t he here?’ demanded Leo shrilly. ‘All the way in that beastly train, I looked forward to seeing him.’

‘
I
didn’t ask him to leave, sweetheart.’

‘Then why did he?’ Leo was alarmed and angry.

‘Why don’t you go ask him? He’s staying in college till Sunday.’

Leo rang his father, who wouldn’t tell him
anything
over the ’phone. They arranged to meet, not in college, but at ‘the shack’, his father’s workshop in Mansfield Road. The ancient De Reszke cigarette adverts on the walls depicting girls in cloche hats (left by the previous owner) had always seemed homely to Leo, as had his father’s yellowing inventors’ patents, each with a red seal in the corner. The place had seen better days. There were dead flies on every window ledge, and a rose bush had grown up, blocking one of the windows. His father sank down in his battered ‘thinking’ chair, while Leo perched on the draughtsman’s seat behind the sloping table. As a boy, Leo had enjoyed using his father’s T-squares and protractors, and taking his silver drawing i
nstruments
out of their velvet lined case.

Outside, before his father had let him in, Leo had asked him why he was not living at home. Now Peter said gently, ‘Mum’s unhappy about Harrington’s death. Frankly, it’s easier for me to stay away for a bit.’

‘Was she still seeing him, dad?’ asked Leo, with a loud intake of breath.

‘Every now and then,’ said Peter, in the same tone
he might have used to tell Leo how often his mother visited her hairdresser.

‘You
knew
all the time.’ Leo’s face crumpled.

‘I really didn’t mind too much, old chap. She went on loving me in other ways. She’d only known him a few weeks, but I go back fifteen years. Time counts for something, you know.’

Leo was staring at him strangely. ‘How could you stand it?’

‘Because I love her.’ Peter sat forward in his chair. ‘Look at it this way, Leo: if you’d never brought Justin to Cornwall, she’d never have met Mike. It was pure chance. She never went looking for him. So how can she be such a bad person now?’

Leo gripped the table. ‘She should have thought of us, and told him to shove off.’

‘She was lonely, with me being in Falmouth, and you out with Justin most of the time.’

‘That’s a terrible excuse,’ snapped the boy, his eye following a wasp that was bumping against one of the windows.

‘I don’t agree, Leo. She’d missed you all term, and it was very tough for her to see so little of you in Cornwall.’

‘That’s not fair, dad.’

‘Maybe not. It’s just a fact of life that children give their parents hope and interest when their own lives are running out of steam. So it’s damned hard for mothers when their kids start growing away.’

Leo left his chair and swatted the wasp with an old notebook. ‘She still didn’t have to fall in love with him.’

Peter sighed. ‘Some women need to believe they can be in love for the rest of their lives.’

‘What about men, dad? What do we need?’ Leo’s freckled face was anxious.

‘I wish I knew.’ Peter hung his head for a while, and, when he raised it, smiled sheepishly at Leo. ‘I do know one thing though. I was a bloody fool to send you away to that school.’

*

Andrea had first heard about Mike’s fate from Tony Cassilis. He had come to Oxford one sunny evening and called up to ask her to meet him at the Randolph Hotel. She had known at once what news he must be bringing.

Mike had been commanding a flotilla of six
MTB
s ordered to make a night attack on a damaged destroyer, as she was being escorted along the Dutch coast by armed trawlers and a corvette. The action had taken place at night and at top speed. Mike himself went in last, and his boat’s attack seemed to have succeeded, since a loud explosion was heard and the destroyer appeared to slow down afterwards.

Because Mike’s attack was the last, it had lacked surprise. As he went in, he came under heavy fire. But the fact that there had been only a short burst of shooting after he fired his torpedoes had been considered a good sign, since it seemed to indicate that he had got away fast, leaving the German gunners with nothing to shoot at.

Mike had been called up by radio but had not answered. This had been no surprise to Tony. Aerials were often shot away in action and sets damaged.
There’d been light fog over the sea when they’d reached the Dutch coast, and, since then, it had grown progressively worse. So, all they could do was stop their engines several miles away and listen. If Mike was in trouble, his engines should have remained audible, or at least his guns. But they could hear nothing, except the convoy chugging away to the north on its old course. Later, Tony and the others had gone back to the scene of the action but hadn’t been able to make out anything in the thickening mist.

They had hoped Mike would be back at the quay when they returned there shortly before dawn, but his berth was empty. Engine failure seemed the likeliest explanation, or so they’d figured. But Mike wasn’t back by noon, or even by six. Had he hit a mine on his way home and sunk? It was possible. Two
MGB
flotillas made a joint sweep with a similar number of
MTB
s, but nothing was spotted. Nor was it, ever. Tony suggested to Andrea that perhaps Mike’s boat had been hit by one unlucky shell and blown apart. Indeed, the explosion they had heard might not have come from the destroyer at all.

Andrea had asked Tony where Mike’s last attack had taken place. A few miles out to sea from the Dutch port of Haarlem, had been his reply. So what was the name of the closest place on the English coast? He’d thought for a while. Aldeburgh, Leiston, Thorpeness. Somewhere in that part of Suffolk.

Two days later, since Peter had the car and Andrea had not wanted to ask if she could borrow it, she made the journey the hard way. She changed at
Ipswich for Saxmundham. An obese and sweating soldier sat opposite her in the slow local train, reading
Blighty
and
Men
Only
all the way, tin helmet and rifle beside him. She took a country bus to Leiston, and trudged the final mile on foot with her few wilting roses. All along the pebbly beach, concrete tank defences had been set up and barbed wire strung out, making her fear she would come upon a warning sign for mines. But she didn’t, and, finally, found a way through the wire. The beach sloped down steeply to water that was brownish grey and streaked with froth.

A dull roar came from out to sea, merging with the closer rattle of stones and the thump of waves. It was a warm August afternoon but the breeze was cool. She sat down for a while and listened to the sea mumbling to itself – on and on, forever and ever, amen. She thought it the most desolate sound in the world. Poor handsome Mike. Her head bowed, she tossed her roses into the waves.