Landfall (11 page)

Then he remembered it was that night he had a date with Mona, to dance with her at the Pavilion. He’d have to break it; he could be seen dancing at the Pavilion—the man who had sunk
Caranx
. At that same time, he longed to talk to her. He wanted to be with her, to tell her of the fearful mess he’d got himself into. She might agree to meet him somewhere else.

At that time Mona was taking off her coat in the passage behind the snack-bar. She was looking forward to the couple of hours of dancing that would come after her four hours of work. She had made considerable preparations for her evening. She was wearing new shoes and new ribbed rayon stockings. She had bought herself a little blue bottle of scent in Fratton Road called “Bal Masqué,” and she had used it with discretion. She had spent some time upon her finger-nails, and she had bought a little bunch of violets for the front of her dress. She walked into the bar and began to arrange her glasses, humming a little tune.

Her friend Miriam said: “My aren’t we all got up tonight? Going dancing?”

She nodded, eyes sparkling. “Mm.”

“Got a date?”

“Mm.”

Miriam, deeply curious, said: “Who is he? Is he a sailor?”

It was on the tip of Mona’s tongue to say he was an officer, but she refrained. Instead she tossed her head, smiled brilliantly, and said: “Just somebody I know.”

Her friend said “My!” again. And then: “Where did you get them stockings, dear? I think they’re ever so chick.”

The first customers began to come into the bar, and they had no more time for gossip. Once opened, the snack-bar quickly filled with officers with their wives or with their girls, or else in parties of three or four, all
gravitating for a drink and a cheap meal before the last house of the pictures. To the girls behind the bar, each evening had a character of its own. Saturday night was always crowded and hilarious, Friday was usually busy. The other nights took their colour from the events of the day, or of the war. Gloomy nights of bad news alternated with riotous nights when there was good news to report: the night of the
Graf Spee
had equalled any Saturday there ever was.

This was a curious, sullen evening. The officers stood about in little groups discussing something in low tones, not drinking very much. In the first hour it was evident that something had happened. Mona, out in the passage to chase the bar-boy to come and wash the glasses, met Miriam looking for a new case of Four X.

Mona said quickly: “What’s the matter with them all tonight? They’re like a lot of stuffed dummies.”

Miriam saw her case and darted for the bottles. “It’s a submarine been sunk or something,” she said hastily. “One of ours. Here, give me a hand with these, there’s a dear. If you take two I’ll bring the other four.”

They went back into the bar and served the waiting crowd. The six bottles of Four X were for a little crowd of six officers from the trawlers that docked each night in the dockyard. They took their glasses and resumed their conversation in the low tones that had spread a furtive, sullen atmosphere into the grill that night.

One of them said: “I can’t see why they didn’t send out divers if they’ve really got the place.”

“Too deep, isn’t it?”

“How deep can a diver go to, anyway?”

“Three hundred feet’s about the record, isn’t it?”

“I thought they went deeper than that.”

“The truth of it is, they don’t know where she is at all.”

There was a faint, general smile. “As a matter of fact,
they do know that. Maynard said that there’s a drifter standing by—Kitchen’s drifter. The one with the pink funnel.”

Another nodded. “They know the place all right. It’s in Area SM.”

One said: “That’s not what Rugson said. He said it was in Area SL.”

“How did Rugson know? He only docked tonight.”

“Rugson couldn’t have known anything about it.”

“Well, he did. He closed with Porky Thomas, T.192, in the forenoon, and Porky said he sailed right through the place this morning just after dawn, and there was oil still coming up.”

“Was Kitchen there?”

“I don’t think Porky said anything about a drifter. Rugson didn’t say so.”

“It could have been the place. I know, because Maynard said that Kitchen was standing by all night in case any of them got out. I think he’s out there still.”

Somebody laughed shortly and turned away. “Not much bloody hope of any of them getting out now.”

“Where did Rugson say this place of Porky’s was, then?”

“Off Departure Point somewhere. In Area SL.”

Somebody said: “That couldn’t have been anything to do with
Caranx
. They know where
Caranx
is all right. They got clothes up from her.”

“Who said that?”

“I overheard Dale saying something about it. He said Mitcheson had brought in clothes and stuff that came up in the boil when she went down. I think that’s right. Mitcheson came in yesterday, but he wasn’t due to dock till Friday.”

“Where’s Mitcheson now?”

“I don’t know.”

Somebody said: “They opened the Court of Enquiry over in Blockhouse this afternoon.”

Behind the bar, in a pause between the serving, Mona said quietly to Miriam: “You was right about that submarine. I heard them talking.
Caranx
they said the name was. One of our own. Isn’t it awful!”

The other girl said: “Did you hear them say one of our own chaps did it?”

“You don’t say!”

“I thought I heard them say that. One of the Air Force aeroplanes that bombed it by mistake.”

“Not really?”

“That’s what they was saying just now.”

“But how could that happen? They got markings to show they’re English, haven’t they?”

“I dunno. That’s what one of them was saying just now.”

There was a momentary silence. Then Mona said: “Did
Caranx
commission here, do you know?”

“I couldn’t say, I’m sure. Submarines do mostly, don’t they?”

“I don’t know.”

A fresh spate of orders came and stopped their chat.

Towards nine o’clock Chambers crept into the city through the black-out in his little sports car with the dimmed headlights. He had finished the galleon, had painted MONA under the stern gallery in a wave of sentiment. He had not cared to face the ordeal of dinner in the mess, and he was very hungry. It was with difficulty that he had nerved himself to go into the snack-bar of the “Royal Clarence,” but he knew no other way to get hold of the girl. If he nipped in and out quickly he probably would not be recognised.

He parked the car and went into the bar, cap in hand, his heavy grey-blue greatcoat pulled up round his ears. He thrust his way directly to the bar, blushing a little,
and confused. Mona smiled at him, and he took comfort from it.

“Half a can,” he said. She turned and brought it to him.

“Look, Mona,” he said quietly, “I can’t go dancing tonight.” He saw the look of disappointment on her face. “I’m frightfully sorry, but I can’t make it.” He hesitated and looked at her appealingly. “Is there anywhere we could go and have supper, or something, instead?”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw, or thought he saw, one of the Wavy Navy staring at him. He said: “I want to have a talk to you.”

“But why can’t we go dancing, then?”

He said urgently: “I don’t want to do that. I’ll tell you afterwards.”

She said: “We could go to the Cosy Cot, if you’d rather.”

He knew the road-house at the entrance to the town, though he had never been there. “That’s all right,” he said. “Where shall I meet you?”

“You know the back entrance round behind in Clarence Lane?”

He said: “I’ll find it. What time?”

“Five past ten.”

The naval officers were talking in a little group and looking at him. He said urgently: “I’ll be there. Thanks awfully, Mona.” And with that he turned and made his way swiftly through the crowd towards the door.

She stared after him, puzzled and disappointed. The Cosy Cot wasn’t half so much fun as the Pavilion, with the music and dancing, and the lights, and all. At her side Miriam said mischievously: “He ain’t half nice-looking, Mona. You never said he was an officer.”

The girl said: “He doesn’t want to go dancing after all. He just wants to go somewhere and eat.”

“Well, dearie, he’s got to eat some time. Perhaps he hasn’t had any tea.”

She said discontentedly: “He could have had something to eat here, and then we might have gone to the Pavilion. I can’t make him out.”

Her friend said: “Never mind, dear. I think he looks ever so nice.” A fresh wave of orders stopped their conversation.

Chambers shot out into the street again in fear of meeting anyone in the black, unfriendly street. He was intensely hungry. It was three-quarters of an hour before he could meet Mona, and it was snowing a little in the darkness. He did not dare to go back into the grill-room for a meal, nor to any place where he might possibly meet naval officers. He got into his car and sat uncertain for a few minutes, wondering where to go to. Finally he drove up to the railway station, parked the car, and went into the buffet for a stale ham sandwich and a glass of beer.

By five minutes to ten he was standing in the deeper blackness of the lane behind the hotel, waiting for the girl to come. He stood muffled to the ears in his greatcoat, cold and lonely, and uncertain of the reception that he would get from Mona. It now seemed to him to have been a piece of great foolishness to have come here at all. He’d only get a flea in his ear from her—another flea to join the many fleas that his ear now contained. He should have stayed in his room, taken an aspirin, and gone to bed.

She came to him presently, within a minute of her time. He saw her first as a slight, dim figure in the doorway and stepped forward.

She said: “Is that you, Jerry? It’s ever so dark.”

He said: “It’s me all right.”

“Where are we going to? The Cosy Cot?”

He said suddenly: “Mona—look, there’s something
you ought to know about. I mean, you may not want to come out with me when you know, so I’d better tell you now.”

She stared up at him, dimly seen; a little flurry of snow swept about them. “Whatever are you talking about?”

He said: “Do you know anything about submarines?”

“They was talking about one of ours that had been sunk tonight in the bar.
Caranx
, or some name like that.”

“Caranx
was the name.” He hesitated, and then said: “Mona—I sank it.”

She said: “Oh, Jerry …” There was a pause; she moved impulsively a little closer to him. “You poor thing!”

There was a momentary silence between them, as if to mark what she had said. In that minute they both realised without words that their relationship would never be again the casual, happy-go-lucky matter it had been before she had said that.

She said: “Was it an accident?”

“A sort of accident.” He hesitated. “I didn’t want to go to the Pavilion … in case people saw me. Would you rather I just took you home?”

She said: “But you want supper, don’t you?”

“Oh, I’m all right.”

“Have you had any supper?”

“I’ve just had a sandwich while I was waiting for you.”

The meals of officers were not very familiar to her. Tea did not bulk so large in their life as it did in hers. She said a little doubtfully: “Did you have tea?”

“Not today.”

“Do you mean you’ve only had a sandwich since dinner? You must be hungry.”

He smiled down at her; there was infinite relief for him in her concentration on mundane matters. “I dare say I could do something with a steak and chips.”

“I should think so. Let’s go to the Cosy Cot. You wouldn’t mind that, would you? I don’t think officers go there very much.”

“I’d like that. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Of course not, Jerry.”

They turned and walked towards the little car. The flying snow had blown into it a little and a thin powdering lay on the seat. It did not worry either of them very much. The thin layer on the road made driving easier in the black-out, and they made fair speed out to the Cosy Cot.

He drove into the car-park and stopped the little car outside the blackened building, from which no light shone. He got out and helped the girl out from her side.

“Before we go in,” he said huskily, “I wanted to say ‘Thank you.’” He took her in his arms and kissed her; she strained up on tiptoe and kissed him back.

“Poor old Jerry!” she said softly. “Now that’s enough. Remember you’re hungry.”

He released her, laughing. “I am so.”

They went into the Cosy Cot. It was a long, panelled hall completely filled with small tables and thronged with people eating inexpensive food and drinking beer. Most of the men were in uniform, sailors and soldiers and airmen; Chambers was the only officer to be seen. There was a clamour of conversation and a haze of smoke: it was the non-commissioned counterpart of the snack-bar of the Royal Clarence Hotel.

They found a table with some difficulty and ordered a steak and chips for Jerry and a fish and chips for Mona, with beer and cider respectively. It came presently, poorly cooked, but Chambers fell upon it ravenously.

The girl watched him in bewilderment as he ate. What he had told her was that he had sunk the submarine, and it had been an accident. She did not know exactly what he did, or what his duties were. But in her
short life she had met many men; she knew men far better than girls of a more exalted social class. She knew and could distinguish good men from bad men, silly men from flippant men, competent men who would get on from the charming inefficient ones. She could have put nothing of this into words, but she knew well enough. It was extraordinary to her that Jerry should have made that sort of mistake. In the terms that she had gleaned from the movies, it didn’t make sense.

Twenty minutes later they were sitting very close together over cups of coffee, smoking cigarettes. Not far away from them a radio-gramophone was churning out a long sequence of records that made private conversation possible even in that crowded room—