The German Numbers Woman (41 page)

‘Did you eat a good breakfast?'

‘Eggs, sausages, tomatoes and fried bread. Luckily, just before the chief came in.'

‘Killisick's good at that sort of thing. But if I'd told Waistcoat before, you might not have been here.'

‘And that wouldn't have done at all.'

Not difficult to know what he meant. ‘Did you hear the plane go over?'

‘Couldn't miss. Four Rolls-Royce engines. A very healthy sound. Nostalgic, as well. It brought back the old flying days with a vengeance. RAF on reconnaissance. I can never forget the sound of the Lancaster's engines, either. They were a bit cruder then, had quite a roar when taking us off down the runway with a full bomb load. Merlins they were.' He turned his face towards Richard. ‘Do you think the Nimrod was following us?'

‘No, just routine. They usually like to keep an eye on people like us. Think we're a bloody U-Boat, I suppose.'

Howard wondered whether they were being tracked because of his morse letter. ‘I gave them a wave.'

‘You must have made their day.'

‘Maybe they sent our position back to base, wherever that can be. They have air signallers on board, as I recall. Unless they just store it in their computers.'

Such talk brought back what Richard regarded as a normal edginess, after his calm spell on the bridge. Real life, and none the worse for it. ‘If you're feeling fit I'll show you the chart room where we keep the communications gear. It's never too early for a spot of listening. See what you can get. There's a portable typewriter to take down the weather from Portishead. You'll be just in time.'

Space was cramped, and he sat side on to the table to find room for his knees. Richard explained the mechanics of the equipment, and Howard's fingers went over the various facias to get an identikit picture of each, almost as if they were human features, hoping his particular languishing at the transmitters wasn't too obvious. Richard tuned in to Portishead. ‘I'll go over it with you this afternoon, to make sure you've got it. And once more tomorrow, if you like.'

Howard unlocked the manual typewriter, easy enough to use because of the standard keyboard. The pitch of the boat made it more difficult than on shore, though he hadn't expected to work on a millpond. He turned out a creditable text nevertheless. ‘I'll be word perfect in a day or two.'

‘You can get this afternoon's weather as well, and between times see what else you can pick up. Best to show your face as little as possible. Keep out of the chief's way, unless you hear something good on the air, though if you do, call me first. I shan't be far away.'

Nothing except mush on most bands, the loudest reception from coastguards on the Biscay shore, or odd-bods on medium wave wanting berths at various ports. He took a break, to breathe the ozone, sensing more than four thousand metres of water under the keel, the sea slightly rougher but no longer bothering him. Back inside, the cramped space reminded him of the wireless position in the Lancaster, when times had been good. The German Numbers Woman, an old friend from far away, came through with the same schoolteacher tone, though he wasn't able to make out every individual cypher. She was concerned for him, warning him that he must look out for his wellbeing. Though her support was only spiritual, he liked it nasalling into his earphones.

He cut her off, clicked back to long wave, and got a bearing from LEC at Stavanger. ‘Not much use, though it shows we're more or less on course,' Richard said. Consol was a German wartime direction-finding system, called
Sonne
, to give U-Boats their position in mid-Atlantic, and the Allies kept it on after the war, though it could be far from accurate near coasts and at night. On the other hand it was simple to use, and useful at times. Picking up Lugo or Seville as well would give cross-bearings for a reasonable fix. George Cleaver did more than all right with his sextant, unless cloud cover foxed him, then Howard would get the azimuth of a beacon, fingers already making out numbers on the direction finder. Navigation, with variable conditions, could be a bit of a mix: dead reckoning, radio, astro, which between them tied things up more or less satisfactorily.

He was starting to feel at home, doing what his temperament might have kept him at had it not been for the cannon shell over Essen. This time a similar missile was already lodged on board, embedded in himself, waiting for a different sort of explosion, a tension not too difficult to live with.

Cleaver put down his cucumber sandwich, and took the Consol bearing for plotting. ‘Whatever you get, I'll have. Never turned up my nose at anything, except a Chinese breakfast.'

Howard edged away so that he could write up the log. ‘Have you ever had one?'

‘Not so far, but you never know.' He tapped the chart with his finger. ‘The bearing tallies. You're earning your keep. It's all the same to me whether you're blind or not. I don't suppose the rest of us can see very far, anyway. It might turn out just as well if we can't. Richard told me you were a wizard at the radio.'

‘I do my best.'

‘The more boffins on board the better.' He climbed back on deck. ‘Never say die, that's what I say.'

Afloat as a member of the crew was like being one of eight, as in the good old days in an aeroplane, all gung-ho for the target a few nights ahead. He wanted the pleasure of a stroll on deck, enjoying his new found medium, but knew he must show willing and keep the earphones clamped. He searched eleven megacycles for news from aeroplanes in either morse or voice but found nothing, the same on other wavelengths that had been so promising at home. Like a superfluous cabin boy, he had been given something to do, to keep him out of the way, whatever was said or thought, while Waistcoat regarded him as a hostage because he knew too much. The shade of fear was wiped away by Lisbon coming in loud and clear on charlie whisky – which a cabin boy certainly wouldn't be able to copy. ‘I'm disappointed at not getting a squeak out of the Azores.'

‘You will.' Richard led him to the stern for a rush of clean air from the west. ‘You'll pick up stuff soon enough. Best to savour the cruise while you can.' Birds pursued the boat, hoping for snacks. One was wounded, or weak, and slid into a stall over the mast, followed with head swinging side to side as if trying to talk. ‘We'll have one on board soon. We usually do about this time.'

‘That'll make nine of us,' Howard said, ‘instead of eight.' He leaned as if to put a hand in the water but the green line slid down again.

‘Don't get too close.' Richard drew him back. The temptation to do evil needed wrestling with. Or was the frisson merely out of concern for his safety? Hard to know, too lazy to work it out. A man must be given a chance. ‘Even an old deckhand goes overboard now and again.'

‘I'm firmer on my feet than you might think. I've got my sea legs already.'

‘Glad to hear it. But don't frighten me or you'll have to wear a life vest whenever you come on deck. We all should, by rights, but it's a big boat, as boats go, and it's not really rough yet, believe it or not. They'll be handing out lunch any minute, so follow in my wake. Ted promised hamburger steaks with all the trimmings, which means spuds and carrots, and apple charlotte to follow. Better than hard tack and a bit of old raincoat. He's a dab hand as a cook.'

The domestic provision satisfied him, everything found and a bunk to get his head down, he and the blankets slowly drying. He stood in line as if others were also blind, recalling a framed print in his father's study of men made sightless by poison gas in the Great War. Richard shuffled from behind, Scud and Cinnakle in front, no queue at all, though Richard's hand on his shoulder steadied him as the deck came up and space opened under his feet. The side wind sent them swinging, gave a spiteful push, force four weather though sea and sky were blue.

He had thought that once on board, and with sea-sickness gone, the joy of being alive would come back, and so it had but eating with such appetite made him afraid to ask for more in case he mistakenly overstuffed. He found a seat on deck, head clear, praying his stomach would take care of him, gazing at space between boat and horizon, little enough to lock onto even if he'd been able to see. The wind, and an occasional warm sun on his cheeks, and maybe a gull now and again resting on the undulations, told him all that was visible.

Richard came from the bridge and put a flask of brandy into his hand. ‘I feel the same. It takes three days for the system to settle down, unless there's some action, when it has to right away. Take a suck at this. It'll work wonders. Three-star Napoleon. Only the best is good enough.'

‘I couldn't disagree with that.' He controlled his shaking hand, clamped the glass spout to his mouth, and took a flame-like swig. ‘You're well equipped.'

‘A tot or two of this brew's saved my bacon more than once.'

‘Is there plenty on board?'

‘Never fear,' he laughed. ‘Enough to take us to Doomsday City and three times back. Just ask Ted Killisick, if you feel the need. He keeps it under lock and key, but hands it out to whoever puts a good case, which is to say you don't need a lawyer to blab it out. All duty-free. He's got everything from mineral water to Warrington moonshine. When we get back to Blighty we'll be guzzling champagne by the bucket. Looks like you've got a visitor.'

A weight tapped his forearm, bare below the line of his short-sleeved sweatshirt. ‘It must be a bird.'

‘A racing pigeon,' Richard said. ‘It's dull and dirty grey, but it's looking at you as if you're his saviour. Half starved, it seems. It was just about to hit the water and go under when it spotted this plump white arm at the rail and thought it would take a chance on sanctuary. They do that now and again. There must be something halfway human in them to come to the likes of us for help. Unless they want a bit of company before going into the pigeon version of the great unknown.'

Howard stilled himself so as not to frighten it away. ‘It seems fit enough to me. I can almost feel it breathing. Hear it as well.' He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out half a biscuit. ‘There you are, Jehu. See what you can make of that.'

‘You'll have a friend for life.'

‘I think it's eating.'

‘Scoffed the lot. On its last legs.'

He shook the rest of the packet on the deck and felt the bird leave him to sort it out, webbed feet padding on wood. ‘What a privilege, to save a life, even a bird's.'

Richard resisted telling him it wouldn't live. They never did, always too far gone when they came aboard. ‘It knew where to come, which is more than most people know, especially the ladies of the world.'

Disturbed by Howard's laugh, the bird hesitated as to whether it should stay on the comfortable platform of his hand or try its luck again over the water. ‘It's up to the men to know that.'

‘Ah, well, there's no pattern in that one.'

‘Aren't we born knowing it?' He stroked the pigeon's neck, a finger drifting along the warm pulsating feathers that felt like silk, and brought forth a warble of gratitude. ‘If we aren't, we should be.'

‘There's a ring on its leg,' said Richard, ‘with a name, I expect. I'll read it.'

‘A message as well?' Laura had set a pigeon to race after them, with words of encouragement for their travels on the briny. She had called at a coop behind the town and urged the man to send his best and strongest. ‘Don't keep me waiting.'

‘No message. It just says Terry, and gives a number.'

‘I'll call it Jehu. Won't I, Jehu? Is it looking at me? I feel it is.'

‘Lovingly,' Richard said, as it flew up to the mast. ‘It'll come back. We often pick one up, miles off its course, utterly knackered and lost. Maybe it'll stay till we reach land, glad of a lift, and spend the rest of its life in the Azores. Plenty of lovely lady pigeons there. Why call it Jehu? What kind of a name is that?'

‘Just shot into my head. As I remember, it's from the Bible. Jehu murdered all and sundry so as to set himself on the throne. Must have heard it at Sunday school. No connection, really, is there, Jehu, my old bird?' – looking to where he thought it had gone.

‘Do I feel a spot of rain?' Richard said. ‘Or is it a bit of spit? Anyway, I'm due on the bridge for a stint at steering this de luxe waterbus. Floating gin palace, if you like. I'd better get Jehu entered in the log as another mouth to feed. Boiled rice usually goes down well. Ask Ted for a handful. The poor bloody specimen looks as if it needs building up. Then back to the wavelengths. If you happen to chit chat with God ask him to let us know how this little run is going to turn out.'

A build up of the sea and wave pattern made the boat roll, but Howard knew where hands and feet should go to stop him getting too bashed about. One foolish miss left a scrape along the arm, useful in teaching what not to do.

Jehu had a quick flight around the boat, as if to keep its wings in trim, not much to its liking, so it came back, found a way to Howard on the radio, either drawn by the warm billet of his arm, or pulled by the birdlike rhythmical whistle of the weather forecast in morse, and the steady clack of the typewriter.

The head of the bird went from left to right as he moved the space bar. Maybe somewhere in Jehu was the spirit of a dead radio officer from the war, faint echoes of an old life coming back. He couldn't think so, because when you were dead you were dead, a meltdown into the eternal blackout. He took the paper from the machine and tapped, felt, trod his way to the bridge. ‘Here's the latest weather, if you want a look-see.'

Richard noted the pigeon resting on Howard's shoulder as if he was Long John Silver, and they'd been friends since the bird left the egg. ‘He's looking livelier.'

‘He was warbling back there, short-long-short in morse. Same letter over and over again. Maybe R for Richard.'