The Glory Boys (17 page)

Kearton sat by a small table and looked at the solitary telephone.

“Here, sir.” The petty officer was flattening a piece of crushed paper on the table. “I’ve told ’em to put you through, no arguments.”

The door opened, only halfway, but even so, it almost touched the opposite wall.

“’E’s buzzin’ for you, Yeo! There’s a flap on!”

“I’ll leave you to it, sir.” He might almost have winked. “Good luck.”

“Putting you through.”

Kearton stared at the pencilled number. It meant nothing to him. There was no ringing tone, only a few clicks, and the faint sound of someone speaking on another line.

“Still trying.”

A mistake, or a change of heart. Like the little note. Polite. Careful.

The table vibrated under his elbow as a large truck ground to a halt near the checkpoint, its bonnet steaming, water splashing down to join the deep puddles on the road.

“Who is that?” As if she were right here, beside him.

“It’s me, Bob Kearton.” The truck was revving its engine, the driver leaning out to yell at the checkpoint. “I’m sorry. I thought …”

He repeated,
“It’s me!”
The engine had stopped, and he realized he had been shouting. “Glynis, just got your message. Wonderful to hear your voice. We got in yesterday.” The line clicked, like a warning, and he said, “I got your letter, too. It meant such a lot.”

“I knew you were here.” She hesitated, perhaps expecting the warning click on the line. Careless talk … “Are
you
all right? Please tell me.”

“I’m fine. I’ve been thinking about you. Wishing we’d had more time together. I just wanted you to know.” He saw the truck beginning to move again. More noise, the table shaking. What was the point? She was married.

“Are you still there?” She sounded tense, and there were voices in the background. She had told him about sharing a new address after the bombing.

“I want to see you again, Glynis. To tell you how I feel—”

The line seemed dead. How could he blame her? If only …

“Have you finished?”
The metallic, operator’s voice again.

But she spoke. “I must go.” He could hear her breathing. “If you’re sure.” Another pause. “Call me.”

He waited, knowing that she had gone. More voices in the background, then the tannoy somewhere.
The following ratings report to the Regulating Office
.

He heard none of it, only her last words.
Call me
.

The yeoman of signals returned and peered into the empty lobby.

One of his signalmen said, “Rain’s still comin’ down in buckets, Yeo. But after all he’s been through, I suppose he wouldn’t—”

The yeoman of signals shook his head. A good lad, but still too young to understand.

Turnbull stood on the side-deck below the bridge and watched the rain pounding along the jetty and pontoons like a cloudburst. It was cold, too, and yet he had seen some local youngsters running through the puddles as if it were midsummer.

There had been some men in overalls down here an hour or so ago. Notebooks and diagrams; one of them pointing at the tracer damage with a long ruler. He had already passed the word,
don’t leave anything lying about
, when the dockyard mateys came aboard. It would soon walk.

He saw Leading Seaman Dawson striding toward him, rain
bouncing
off his cap, apparently oblivious to the downpour. Nothing ever seemed to bother him for long. Outwardly easygoing, even jovial, but only a fool or a stranger would try and pull a fast one on Pug Dawson.

Turnbull winced as icy rain splashed across his neck.

“All quiet, Hookey?”

Dawson banged his hands together and rasped, “Lot of moanin’ goin’ on, ’Swain. Nothin’s bin said about liberty.” He peered through the rain; even his eyelids had been scarred in the ring over the course of many years. “A good run ashore might ’elp.”

Turnbull shrugged.

“Skipper’s not back yet. He might tell us something once he gets aboard.” He thought of the last time.
Not that bloody canteen again
.

He glanced at his companion, surprised that it could still unsettle him. Dawson’s eyes were blue, clear and always alert, completely alien to the battered face and veined, broken nose. As if a younger man, a stranger, was looking out from behind a mask.

Dawson thrust out his arm.

“Hell’s teeth, a miracle!”

As if a tap had been switched off, the rain had stopped, and where there had been gloom a few seconds ago their shadows stood out starkly against the streaming deck and superstructure. A patch of hard blue had broken through the clouds, and was reflecting in the puddles and the sea alongside.

Dawson grinned.

“Time for some grub. While the galley’s still in one piece!”

Turnbull saw the real reason for Dawson’s hasty departure, and saluted.

“Anything I can do, sir?”

Spiers removed his cap and shook it over the side. “Rain’s stopped, but not for long, I’m thinking.” He stared along the
deck
, at the covered guns and sealed lockers. “Don’t want to delay things. Once they begin work, I don’t want to give them any excuse for dragging it out. But I don’t have to tell you.”

Turnbull said, “Some of the hands will have to sling their hammocks ashore. They won’t care much for that.”

“It’s all arranged and in orders. I’ve left you a copy.”

Turnbull gauged the moment. “If the other boats are needed for sea duty during the repair work—”

Spiers interrupted, “They will be, I’m certain of that. Then our C.O., as senior officer, will be going with them. Pilot too, I understand.”

Turnbull tried to guess his mood. To be left in charge, in command, should suit Spiers well. On the other hand, he would be high and dry if the other boats were called into action. He felt his stomach muscles tighten. But not like this last time. Not so soon …

He said, “Well, Mr Ainslie won’t like having to break in another lot of charts!”

Spiers did not respond. Instead, he said, “Who the bloody hell’s this? I thought they’d clamped down on wasting petrol!”

A car had pulled up on the road, big enough to be visible beyond the gates. Not camouflaged or painted in drab khaki, but dark blue, and still glittering with rain.

“Must be someone important, sir.”

Spiers saw two naval patrolmen emerging from shelter and heading for the steps.

“Well, he won’t get far, whoever it is!”

Turnbull rubbed his chin. Jimmy the One was in a bad mood. Again.… Someone had walked through the gates, and the two patrolmen were standing fast: the master-at-arms or one of his team must have waved the newcomer through. A civilian, casually dressed, with a bag of some sort slung over his shoulder.

“He’s got his eye on us, sir.”

“Bloody hell! As if …” Spiers looked over the side, and gestured to the gangway sentry who was busy removing his oilskin. Then he said calmly, too calmly for Turnbull’s liking, “If it’s another bloody expert come to discuss repairs, it begins tomorrow, not
now
. Not after what we’ve had to cope with!”

“Can I help?” It was Ainslie, looking refreshed, and subtly different.

Spiers swung round but killed whatever had been on his tongue.

He eyed him for a few seconds, then said quietly, “Thank God, you’ve shaved off that bloody monstrosity.” Then he nodded. “Yes, you go and deal with it. Tell him to bugger off—politely, of course.”

Turnbull relaxed, muscle by muscle. A close thing, he thought. He should have seen it coming. It was part of a coxswain’s job.

Spiers said, “I’ll be in the wardroom if you need me. Let me know when the C.O.’s on the horizon.”

Too calm
. A bad sign. Like the brandy Turnbull could already smell on his breath. A Horse’s Neck, and probably more than one. He pictured the little mess down aft. Jock Laidlaw would be there by now … And finally it hit him. They were back alongside. No matter where. They were safe.

He realized that Ainslie had returned, almost breathless, as if he had run all the way from the brow. The stranger was still there, now on one of the pontoons, and seemed to be looking at the damage.

Turnbull said, “I’m not too sure that’s in order, sir.”

Ainslie shook his head excitedly. “No, no, it’s all right! Didn’t you recognize him?” He reached out impetuously as if to make his point. “It’s the man himself.
Hardy
!”

Turnbull was at a loss.

“No relation, I hope, sir?”

Ainslie repeated, “No—no!
Max
Hardy, the photographer.
You
must have seen his work in the press—on film? He’s famous!”

Turnbull exhaled slowly, and saw his breath clouding like steam.

“Yeah, I remember now. Seen a lot of his stuff, sir. Just caught me off-balance.” He peered over the side again: still there. Max Hardy. Of course he knew the name. But here? Now?

Ainslie was grinning like a fool, he thought. Without the beard, he looked even younger than Turnbull remembered from before the stubble.

“Don’t worry about security. He’s got written authority from the admiral, and from Government House itself!” You could almost see the capitals, Turnbull thought. He was ticking them off on his fingers. “
And
Captain Garrick knows all about it, too!”

The sentry called, “Message from the gate, sir!”

It cleared Turnbull’s mind: Kearton was on his way. This was all he needed.
I don’t think!

Ainslie said, “I’ll fetch Number One.”

Turnbull glanced at the sky. It was clearing; there was even a hint of sunshine.

But first things first. They were safe in harbour. And until the next time … He cupped his hands.

“Man the side! Jump to it!”

And he was the Coxswain.

Kearton sat in his cabin and half listened to the sounds around him. The steady murmur of a generator, crockery being stowed in the galley, snatches of music from the messdeck, a ukelele or banjo, switched off abruptly by somebody wanting to sleep. He did not look at his own bunk, nor did he think of the remaining Scotch in his cupboard. Either would finish him.

There was a mug of coffee on the table, ice-cold now. He
could
not recall how long it had been there, or even who had brought it.

He stood up and moved to the side. The scuttle was open, and it was dark outside, the air cool against his mouth. He imagined he could smell the land, which seemed unlikely as it was so close. He stretched to ease the knots of tension in his shoulders, but nothing seemed to relieve it, and he thought he knew the reason. It was different here, unlike any warfare he had known. Returning to harbour after a sortie across the Channel, along the enemy-occupied coast, coming back in that hard light of yet another dawn, you usually fell into bed on dry land, and if you were lucky you were none the worse for wear. A shower, a meal provided at the blink of an eye, drinks in the mess later … too many, unless you were out again the following night. And the boats would be ready and waiting when the word came.

Here, in these larger boats, you carried your bed with you. And the smells, too. A fresh intake of fuel, men living in one another’s pockets. And the reminders: scarred wood and smoke stains, which new paint might disguise once the dockyard workers had departed.

A coat of paint. Was that all it took?

The sort of question Max Hardy might ask, should ask, when he returned to ‘see for himself’.

Their first meeting, on Kearton’s return from Operations, had been casual, matter-of-fact. Thin, almost hawk-like, Max Hardy was no stranger to the press and documentary world, restless one minute, then stock-still, watching, or lending impact to the next phrase of a sentence. In his thirties, Kearton thought, but he looked older. He had a slight northern accent which came and went, perhaps to suit his mood or his audience.

The hard, bony handshake, and the first words he had spoken, “We’ve met before, Bob Kearton,” had dispensed with unnecessary introductions. “I know something of your background, and why you’re here in Malta.” The quick grin,
almost
a grimace, gone before you could measure it. “Or as much as I’m allowed to know. I think people should share some of it, if only to lessen their own burdens.” He had punched the air. “Show ’em we’re hitting back at the bastards, where it hurts!”

Kearton did not recall having met him before, unless Hardy had been there when he had been given his D.S.C. It had all been too much to remember. There had been several men decorated that day, and he had seen the admiral glancing at his aide’s list seconds before to ensure that he had the names right.

He had thought for a long time afterwards of the other names which would never be called, the names of those who had been with him that night, ‘when the Channel was set ablaze’, as one newspaper had luridly described it.

He found he had his pipe in his fingers; the pouch was already on the table beside the envelope. He had pencilled the telephone number on it, in case he mislaid the yeoman of signals’ little note.

Even if he managed to get through to her, what was the point? He had no right, no chance. He looked up; the hull had moved slightly and nudged against the pontoons. Probably the Officer-of-the-Guard doing his rounds, or, more likely, some senior officer going on a social visit somewhere. He put down his pipe carefully. Just for those few seconds, day-dreaming, it had felt like an explosion, like the one which had painted the sky and, reputedly, broken all those windows.

She might still love her husband. Maybe she had never stopped. And even if …

“Yes!” A loud rap at the door. Perhaps he had not heard the first one.

It was a young seaman, in uniform, a webbing belt clipped loosely around his waist. One of the duty watch. Kearton was suddenly fully awake: he even remembered the man’s name.

“What is it, Lucas?” He could hear voices now.

“Saw your light was on, sir.” He almost glanced over his shoulder. “But the wardroom …”

“Tell me.”

“There was a boat, sir. A launch. We thought it was just passing, then it hooked on to the pontoon. We didn’t know what to do.” He was still staring at Kearton’s hand, which was gripping his arm. “Then I saw your cabin light.”