For Valour (18 page)

Onslow was standing beside him. “Signal, sir.”

“Read it, Yeo.” He raised his glasses again. How many times, he wondered. How many more?

Onslow said, “From
Ocean Monarch
to
Hakka.
” He hesitated. “
God bless you,
sir. Ends.”

Martineau raised his hand to the great ship. It
had
to be worth it.

He said, “Take her in, Number One.” He could not face him. “Put one of the subbies on the fo'c'sle for a change. Do him good.”

“Hands fall in for entering harbour! All men out of the rig of the day off the upper deck!”

Fairfax smiled and touched the salt-smeared glass. “We did it!”

Kidd wanted to share it. But all he could think of was the lone piper, and the ship which had died in
Hakka
's place.

Commodore Dudley Raikes sat with his buttocks perched on the edge of his desk, arms folded as he watched Martineau read the signal he had just taken from his file.

“The Admiral is extremely pleased, Graham, and so are their lordships. It proves a point in our favour, and that can't be bad, eh?”

Martineau looked at him, aware of the stillness in the room. Raikes seemed very relaxed, the broad gold band on his sleeve shining in the overhead lights, never a neat hair out of place.

He said, “But we lost
Kinsale,
sir.”

The slightest frown. Raikes said, “But you saved six thousand young soldiers. That's worth remembering!”

Martineau had only just found time to snatch a hot shower and put on a clean shirt after he had received instructions to report here. His entire body ached from strain and lack of sleep, although he knew he would be on the move again as soon as he returned to the ship.

They would get over it. They always had. There was no other way.

Raikes said, “Good news for your first lieutenant.” He snapped his fingers. “What's his name again? Fairfax?” He nodded. “That's the chap.”

Martineau doubted if Raikes ever forgot anyone's name. Especially one in his own command.

“His D.S.C. has been confirmed. The Admiral will make the presentation here, rather than have your Number One gallivanting off to London. Sounds like a useful man. Can't have too many of those. He should have got it earlier, after the North African affair, when he had to take over command. I believe
you
had a hand in it?” He made a gesture. “Don't want to know! Best not to!”

He was not jovial, but as close to it as he would ever be. He stared hard at the wall, as if he could see through and beyond it to one of his huge maps. “The threat's still there, of course. The enemy is building more U-boats than we can sink, and too many of our destroyers are tied up for other emergencies.
Tirpitz
is still a major problem. While she lies in that damned Norwegian fjord she is a constant menace. The Home Fleet has to keep half of our battle fleet rusting at their buoys at Scapa Flow just on the off chance that she might break out into the Atlantic and decimate the convoys. Her sister ship
Bismarck
did it, and it took half the Home Fleet to catch her and finish the job.” He looked away, as if remembering something, or somebody. “But not before she had sunk
Hood.
”

Martineau eased his back. The scar was hurting him, maybe because of that steel chair on
Hakka
's bridge.

He looked up, suddenly alert as Raikes said, “There was something else I wanted to ask you. A favour, actually.”

Here it comes.
He glanced at a calendar. In three days' time it would be another year. How was that possible?

Raikes said, “I would like you to hold a reception in
Hakka.
The public relations gnomes have been snapping at my heels. It would be a good scheme to let them know about your chap's gong.” He frowned again, his eyes almost disappearing. “Your rating is getting something too. Nice touch. Levels it out a bit.” The mood passed just as quickly. “I'll bring some of my people, the Chief of Staff is very keen. I'm not too sure about the Admiral. Very much his own man.”

So it had all been arranged, as soon as it was reported that
Hakka
had returned in one piece. Martineau felt his taut muscles relaxing, giving way. Perhaps it was a good idea. It would at least make
Hakka
's company feel they were not left out. Raikes's term, “levels it out a bit,” added to the sense of unreality.

Raikes seemed to have taken his silence for opposition.

“And don't worry about the mess bills, Graham. We can help share the load, this time!” Then he said briskly, “Time to go. I'll get Nobby. The Admiral asked to see you as soon as you were alongside.”

He paused at the door. “Won't be a second. One thing, though. My new staff officer—Anna Roche, remember? She won't be coming. Her brother was killed a few days back. Bloody accident in Cornwall. You know what the army's like.”

The door slammed shut.

Martineau moved to the desk and back. It was out of character for Raikes to show such consideration, openly at least. Was it that he wanted her at the press affair, needed her for his own presentation,
part of the team?
Or was it important for her, something which might otherwise fire into a threat to her future?

He had not known she had a brother, but they had only exchanged a few words, in the club, beside a car, and in this same bombproof headquarters.

He remembered the mass of cheering khaki figures on
Ocean Monarch
's decks. Canadians, like her.

He picked up his cap and saw the card wedged inside it, where he had written her telephone number, all those sea miles ago. He would call her, say something. Maybe write a short letter. He heard doors slamming, the jangle of telephones. It would only make it worse.

The other door opened and there she was, a signal pad in one hand. She stared at him as if uncertain. In a moment she would make an excuse and leave.

She said, “I knew you were in . . . we've all been watching things. So glad you got back safely.”

He saw the strain, the shadows beneath her eyes. A strand of her hair had come unfastened and fallen across her cheek.

He walked over to her and took her hands in his, and the signal pad fell to the floor. She looked at the hands on hers and then at his face, as if she were unable to move.

He said, “I heard about your brother just now.” He felt her hands begin to pull away but held them more firmly. “I wanted to tell you. Tell you myself. How sorry I am. For you.” The words came out as if someone else was forming them; he was conscious only of the need to make her understand. “Maybe . . . one day . . . you'll want someone to talk with, to share it.” He thought of Fairfax.
I'm a good listener.

She withdrew her hands very gently and stooped to recover the pad. Without looking at him, she said, “He told you about the press people?”

“Yes.”

She stood up and faced him again, a small pulse jumping in her throat as she pushed the loose hair from her cheek.

“Aboard
Hakka?
” As if she were testing herself.

“I'd see that nobody bothered you.”

She regarded him gravely, the same eyes as in the photograph.

“I know you would. I've never been on board
Hakka
before.”

The main door opened and Raikes said, “Oh, there you are. Ready, Graham.” Even the use of his first name sounded unreal.

But she seemed not to notice. She smiled suddenly and said, “Yes, I'd love to come to your ship,” and he saw her eyes rest briefly on the crimson ribbon with its miniature cross, as if remembering.

Raikes said impatiently, “That's settled, thank God!”

But for reasons of his own, he was pleased.

Fairfax paused at the top of the ladder to get his bearings, surprised that the destroyer's upper bridge could seem so alien in the darkness. A place he knew so well in all conditions, and yet he felt like a stranger.

No familiar figures in their shapeless duffle coats or oil-skins, no murmur of machinery, or ping of the Asdic, or the tap and clatter of a hundred other devices. The flag locker was covered, the slim-barrelled Oerlikons on either side of the bridge pointed blindly at the dark sky, the signal lamps were shuttered and silent.

He turned and reached down to take her hand.

“We made it!”

He put his hand under her arm and guided her past the usual traps and hazards, watched her climb on to one of the gratings and saw her silhouetted against the uncertain sky. There was a bit of a moon about, showing itself occasionally through the long, ragged layers of cloud. Without her tricorn hat, and wrapped in a borrowed duffle coat, she was a girl again. He smiled. A girl you would want to know.

She said, “I thought it would be like this. No comfort. No shelter.”

Her hand touched the tall chair and she said, “The Captain's chair.”

Fairfax waited, thinking of the din they had left below in the wardroom. The people from the press bureau had not been much trouble.
The importance of convoys, the courage of the merchant seamen who depended on naval protection.
He had seen the chief interrogator pressing questions on the Captain, but he had not been able to hear. Martineau had seemed relieved at the interruption when he had told him that Second Officer Roche wanted to visit the bridge. He had said, “Look after her, Jamie.” Their eyes had met, and he had added apologetically, “I'd show you myself, but . . .”

She put her hand on the chair.

“Is this where it happened?”

It took Fairfax by surprise.

“The previous Captain? Well, yes, as a matter of fact.” He tried to push it aside. “The Skipper always sits there. Sees everything, and it's too uncomfortable to sleep on.”

“Did you get along with him all right—Paul Bickford, I mean?”

Fairfax walked to the sealed chart table and leaned on it. “I'm not sure I know how to answer that. He was killed in action, right here. And several others bought it that day.”

She tried to control her breathing. She knew the custom, had heard of it many times. Never mention the man's name after he's gone.
Bought it.

So why can't I lay the ghost? The man I loved, thought I loved. Who used me, lied to me.

“You see, I met him in Canada some years ago. I wrote to him. And then when I came over in the Wrens, he got in touch.”

Fairfax said, after a moment, “I didn't know. Honestly.”

He had been very pleasant to her since she had come aboard, and she could see why people liked him; anyone would. Even on their way up to the bridge, guiding her around some hidden obstacle, she had felt the pressure of the hand holding hers, had sensed his interest. An easy one to want to know better. And he did not know about Paul . . .

She had been on a course at Portsmouth when he had telephoned her. He had two days' leave, but had a meeting to attend in Southampton. He had asked her to join him at a house there; she was not to worry, there would be others around. Friends . . .

The friends had soon made themselves scarce and he had entertained her both with pleasure and with charm. His ship, his new command, would be leaving soon. It might be some while before they met again. But it could not, must not end there.

She walked to the side and pressed her body against the unyielding steel. And the worst of it was that she knew she had wanted him. But not like that. Like the nightmares, the degradation, the shame. Blood on the bed, and Paul exclaiming, “How was I to know? Anyway, you wanted it, and so did I!”

Despite that, she had written to him. So why had she gone to see him again when she had heard that
Hakka
was in port?

Fairfax said suddenly, “He was a very private person, except where the ship was concerned.” He shrugged. “There were women, I believe. I'm sorry if you've been hurt.”

Hurt? She took a deep breath.
He raped me. I must have been so dumb, so naive, I asked for it.

Somewhere a watertight door creaked open and they heard music, a woman singing.

Fairfax said, “W/T pick up the best programmes. That's German. They always seem to get the good songs!”

They both laughed, and she said, “I'm so glad about your medal, Jamie. You must be really thrilled.”

“I have my Skipper to thank for that.” He smiled. “A good bloke, but I think you know that.”

“We'd better go down.”

She did not resist as he took her in his arms and kissed her. “Thanks for coming. Made it special, for all of us.” He hesitated. “You know what I mean.”