Good Enough For Nelson (2 page)

The Bodger frowned. He had quite forgotten this mysterious talent Dartmouth had, for conjuring these surrealist conversations out of nothing at all. He realised that he had not, and probably never would have, the faintest idea of what McAllester was talking about. But, as always, there was a standard Service procedure for a senior officer out of his dialectical depth.

‘Very good, McAllester, carry on please.’

‘Righty ho, sir.’ Before The Bodger could recover, McAllester had saluted and begun to double rapidly away and up the ramp, his knees working like pistons. The GI’s bright basilisk eye had already located him and was tracking. ‘Pick yore feet up there. Leaf-roight, leaf-roight, leafroightleaf roight...’

The Bodger watched McAllester striding round the ramp, looking as though he had seven league running spikes on instead of boots. The boy really was astonishingly fit. When McAllester reached the central parapet, where a double flight of steps led downwards and back to the parade ground, the GI timed his command perfectly, hitting a strenuous top G. ‘Roight...
wheeel
...’

McAllester whirled about on the ball of one foot and came bounding down the steps, taking them two at a time, until he stood once more in front of his squad.

The GI inflated his lungs, pitching his voice as though he were addressing the whole College, which, in a sense, he was. ‘For yore further information, Mr McAllester, now and in the future, the correct Service reply when given an awder by a senior awficer is not righty ho, sir, or in a couple of ticks, sir, or ‘alf a mo, sir, or just coming up sir, or be with you in a minute, sir, or how’s your father, sir or clickety-click sir, it’s
aye aye sir
!’

‘I’m very sorry, Chief, it was a wholly avoidable mental aberration.’

The GI gobbled silently for a few moments. ‘Hey-bout turn ... Double... march. Resume yore circuit of the parade ground ... Leaf-roight, leaf-roight...

From many vantage points in the College, The Bodger himself was by now under a discreet surveillance. The hall porter, from his office by the main entrance, the parade gunner from the sheltering shadows of the armoury, several divisional officers and their chiefs from their office windows in the College frontage, all studied The Bodger’s figure, climbing back into his car. Perhaps the most intense scrutiny of all was by a group of staff officers watching from the window of the wardroom ante-room, which formed a projecting wing from the main building, at the western end of the parade ground.

‘That the new boss?’

‘ ‘Tis he.’

‘So
that’s
The Artful Bodger?’

‘Himself. In the flesh.’

‘Too, too, solid flesh.’

‘Oh cheap, Shiner, cheap.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Has he ever been here before? On the staff I mean?’

‘Lord yes, certainly he has. He was once term officer of the Beatties, way back in the days when we had Special Entry Cadets, you know, they came in at eighteen after public school. I know. I was there.’

’That must be going back a bit?’

‘Long before your time, you sprog. That was back in the days when the Darts came here at thirteen years old, in short trousers. That was in the days when we still used to change into white cap covers on 1st May and take them off again on 30th September. That was when Jolly John still slept in a hammock and still had his tot of rum every forenoon. Blimey, we still had
battleships
at sea when The Bodger was last here!’

‘Dear God.’ The watchers looked again at The Bodger with a new attention, as though they had suddenly been presented with a view of Captain Cook.

‘And now he’s back as Captain of the College. I wonder how that happened?’

‘What’s he been doing all this time?’

‘Nobody knows. The Bodger just appears from time to time, like an act of God. There is the sound as of a rushing mighty wind, small blue flames light up the deckhead, and The Bodger appears, speaking with the tongues of men and of angels.’

‘Actually, I think you’ve got that last bit wrong, Ikey.’

‘Maybe. We shall see. Anyway, I’ve a feeling The Bodger’s come in the nick of time. They’ve been making rumbling political noises about closing the College down. He’s just the man to fight ‘em all off.’

‘But surely, if they closed the College down, where would they train everybody?’

‘Oh I don’t suppose they’ve thought of that. They’ll close it down first and think of things like that afterwards. Anyway, The Artful Bodger’s our man, for better or worse.’

Captain Robert Bollinger Badger DSC RN, known throughout the Navy as The Artful Bodger, was a stoutish, burly man with a shock of black hair now noticeably streaked with grey. He had an air of pleasant detachment from the realities of an occasionally unpleasant life. He moved through life unconcernedly but hopefully, as though quite confident that at any minute he would be offered a drink and congenial company. The Bodger had emerged from the Second World War with a splendid war record and the rank of lieutenant commander at a comparatively early age. But, because of his apparent failure to observe what his contemporaries considered the cardinal primary rule of a successful naval officer, namely the ability to say the right thing at the right time to the right person, it had seemed likely for many years that The Bodger would remain a lieutenant commander with a splendid war record until a very advanced age. However, The Bodger’s naval career had been a triumph of survival against all the professional probabilities, a victory of idiosyncrasy over orthodoxy. He had a talent for what could be called controlled notoriety. The ships and shore establishments he served in seemed often in the news, but never catastrophically so. The very mention of his name always caused a quickening of interest in any company, after dinner, at the bar, or in correspondence. ‘What’s The Bodger doing these days?’ someone would ask, and when told, someone would always say, ‘How in Hades did he get that job?’ The more malicious pretended not to be surprised at The Bodger’s appointment as Captain of the College. They maintained that the training of naval officers had now degenerated into such a mad-house that it made the utmost sense to let the senior lunatic preside over it.

The Bodger had qualities of native resourcefulness, not to say deviousness. He knew his Navy, its works and its quirks. Like one of Napoleon’s favourite generals, The Bodger was lucky, and like Brer Rabbit’s Tar Baby, he knew when to lay low and say nothing. Now, he was older, a little more battered, perhaps a little less resilient. Like Odysseus, he was one who had in the past suffered much in the wars and from the waves. But, above all, The Bodger was a survivor and his very presence, there on the parade ground at Dartmouth, was living proof that it always pays to persevere. In himself, The Bodger felt that he was coming home, and, at the same time, that he was faced by the most exacting challenge of his whole career.

The Bodger drove slowly up and round the ramp, following in the wake of McAllester’s second circuit. On his way, he noticed once again the several small cannon, some wheeled and rather elegant, others dumpy and ballistically improbable, but all captured by Victorian junior naval officers and brought home from some far-flung foreign field that was for ever Henty. Now, they were visible relics of an old Navy way of doing things, employing labour traditionally rather than productively. Every morning, the colour parties burnished the already shining barrels and chasings of these guns, consuming prodigious amounts of metal polish and elbow grease in this ritual, as though to propitiate some vengeful maritime god who would devastate the College with his lightnings if his phallic bright- work were not sacrificially massaged every morning early.

Driving past the main entrance, The Bodger looked momentarily across and caught a glimpse of the faces there, all awakening to the knowledge of his arrival. Heads turned to follow his progress, and he knew that his motor-car’s make, age, colour, and registration numbers were now immortal, inscribed for ever on the College memory as though graven on tablets of stone, to be passed on from hall porter to hall porter, sentry to sentry, duty officer to duty officer, and from watch to relieving watch.

The Captain’s House was another projecting wing at the opposite end of the parade ground to the wardroom. Jimmy Forster-Jones, the outgoing Captain, was already waiting at the door to welcome his successor. Jimmy was one of The Bodger’s oldest friends (and his appointment, too, as Captain of the College had been taken by the pundits as further conclusive evidence that the training of young naval officers had been turned into a circus). The Bodger had relieved Jimmy in more than one appointment, and Jimmy had been The Bodger’s best man. He was taller than The Bodger but stood with a perpetual stoop as though trying to shrug a constantly irksome weight from his shoulders. His face was large and fleshy, and dropped in folds rather like a bloodhound’s. His eyes were deepset and somewhat mournful. But now he wore that singular expression which The Bodger knew so very well from his own experience, in which relief was tinged with regret, and anticipation of the future was shaded by memories of the past. They shook hands together in a moment which was both a beginning and an end, typical of a naval life which had always been made up of new faces and old ships, hoisting up and hauling down, fresh starts and ancient customs.

‘I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again, Bodger!’

‘And good to see you, too, James.’

‘I heard you’d arrived...’

‘How?’

‘I just...’ Jimmy looked genuinely puzzled. ‘I got a message from the main entrance. But I knew anyway. It was sort of in the air. I heard your car coming over that bump in the driveway and I thought, that’s him! And then I saw you standing down by the flagstaff.’

‘I must say, it’s reassuring to see that nothing has changed, Jimmy.’

‘Nothing has changed?’ Jimmy stopped and blinked. ‘Why Bodger,
everything’s
changed! It always was a bit of a madhouse, but it’s got really serious now. We go in for training now, Bodger. We always used to leave that to places like Whale Island. Kept them from going broody. We only used to bother about Officer-Like Qualities. I never knew what they were, exactly, but I used to mark people for them. But you know all this, Bodger; you were here, weren’t you?’

‘Yes I was, and I suppose training was a rather over-heated word to use for what went on at Dartmouth, now you mention it, Jimmy.’

‘Anyway, come in, come in; welcome to the mad-house. This probably hasn’t changed much. If it weren’t for the draughts, it would be the best married quarters in the whole Andrew.’ Even with the draughts, the Captain’s House at Dartmouth was still one of the nearest approaches to true gracious living of any of the Navy’s official residences. It was comfortable, although it looked as though it needed at least twelve more servants than any man could reasonably afford to keep it running properly. It had an hospitable atmosphere, although some of its rooms were just too big for their purpose and others just too small. Successive Captain’s wives had done their best, the Ministry of Works had consistently done its worst, but the house had kept its air of unshakable Edwardian authority. It all smelled of polish and a faded pot-pourri of roses, and the rooms retained a faint, lingering resonance of bygone royalty, as though Edward VII had only just taken away the massive silver-crested humidor he left behind in ‘07 or ‘08; and the shade of George V, the Sailor King, still sat pensively at the escritoire in the corner, still sticking British Empire postage stamps into a heavy brown leather album, with gilt lettering and the royal coat of arms embossed on the spine.

A steward in a white coat brought in a coffee jug, milk and two cups on a silver tray.

‘Just a minute,’ said The Bodger. ‘Chief Petty Officer Purvis, isn’t it?’

‘It is sir!’ said Purvis, beaming all over his large red face. ‘We served on the old
Superb
together, sir. And great days they were, sir. It’s a pleasure to see you here, sir.’

‘And a pleasure to see you, too, Purvis.’

‘I hope to have a yarn with you about the old Superb, sir.’

‘I hope we shall, Purvis.’

‘If you’ll excuse me, sir,’ said Purvis, nodding to Jimmy, ‘I’ll get on with me knives and forks now.’ With which professional
nunc dimittis
, and still beaming widely, Purvis took his departure.

Jimmy sipped his coffee reflectively. ‘I should watch those yarns of Purvis’s about the old
Superb
, or anything else. Once you get Purvis started, it’s like activating Niagara Falls. Now tell me, Bodger, how the hell did you get this job?’

‘You know me, Jimmy. That’s the story of my life. Every time I get a new job people come rushing up to me saying how did you do it? All I can say is, I got it because of my superior diligence, attention to detail, absolute command of every situation in my last appointment, a brilliant intellect, superb professional expertise, combined with a willingness at all times to give and not to count the cost, to labour and not to seek for rest, and all the rest of that ullage.’

‘What you’re saying, Bodger, is that Their Lordships are at last beginning to appreciate your capabilities.’

‘Exactly so, Jimmy.’

‘And how do you feel about it, now that you’re here?’

‘It’s hard to say,’ said The Bodger. ‘Seriously, I feel excited, and nervous and scared. I want to rush in and get involved, change things, and at the same time I’m terrified of making an ass of myself. As I remember it, Dartmouth is a merciless sort of place. You can come a bigger cropper here than anywhere. I feel I’m the guardian of a whole new future of young people who are starting off. In some sense I’m also the custodian of the past. This is where it all begins and ends ...’

‘I say, Bodger,’ said Jimmy, looking really alarmed. ‘I shouldn’t go on like that if I were you, you’ll frighten everybody into fits, all that about guardians and custodians and all that …’

‘I just feel a tremendous responsibility, that’s all...’

‘Of course you do, Bodger, but don’t go
on
about it, you’ll give everybody heart attacks. It’s enough of a mad-house as it is, without the Captain of the College going on like an Old Testament prophet!’