The Glory Boys (28 page)

He stood up, dismissing it impatiently. These same moorings were unchanged, but had been made more crowded by the arrival of the two promised motor gunboats. He tried to bring them into focus. One of the commanding officers he already knew, at least by name, and Spiers had mentioned something about him, but he would meet both of them tomorrow.

He recalled the last minutes as Stirling had conned his command alongside. A thrust astern, then ahead on the other screw while heaving-lines snaked ashore, and then the silence as they came to rest.

The other boats had been fully manned, but their companies had broken ranks and run to cheer and shout, as if they had all been waiting. Familiar faces, and others which were new and unknown. Men peering at the bridge or hull, expecting to see damage or worse.

Otherwise, it had been a quiet return. A few people by the old fortress, and a solitary angler who had pulled in his line as they had passed abeam. He had grinned, and waved at them.

So unlike their departure, that other morning before dawn, when the waterfront had been packed with silent, hopeful crowds. The convoy was still being unloaded, its precious cargo dispersed. The memory of two small vessels, one towing another, would be quickly forgotten.

And he thought of the silence which had fallen when Captain Garrick and some of his staff had appeared at the foot of the steps. Smart, correct, perhaps rehearsed.

Kearton was on his feet again. Restlessly, he made himself look through the pile of letters. Two from his mother: her round handwriting had followed him everywhere. Even to … He shut it from his mind. He could still feel the injuries, unless they, too, were only in his memory.

The men from the Italian boat had been met, and guided to waiting vehicles. Some had looked back. Most had not.

And the agent from Auckland, propped in some kind of folding stretcher like a chair, with a man in a white coat looking anxious and irritated as his patient had wriggled round, laughing, when he had seen Kearton on the jetty.

“See you Down Under some day, Skipper!”

The doctor must have given him a jab, but the Kiwi was still grinning when he was lifted into the ambulance.

And another man, one of Warren’s crew who had been wounded by a shell splinter, staring up at the sky and the faces around him, then at Garrick as he knelt beside him to shake his hand. But the flashgun and the click of the shutter had told the real story; and the aide had immediately snatched away the cushion on which Garrick had been kneeling.

He felt the cabin shiver slightly as something smaller passed silently abeam. And he thought of Jethro, the face in the discarded photograph, the cold, colourless eyes and the almost casual gesture toward Stirling’s men, who were already preparing to top up the fuel tanks. First things first, no matter how weary or elated they might be feeling.

“Something they’ll not forget in a hurry!” Then he had looked away, and Kearton thought he had seen Ainslie. “That’s what it’s all about!”

Garrick had hardly spoken, except to offer a brief handshake and the familiar, photogenic smile.

“Good to see you. We’ll talk tomorrow. Brice will put you in the picture.”

Then he had walked with Jethro to another car and driven away. He could still see it. Feel it … He must be more exhausted than he had realized. Even the name ‘Brice’ had not registered immediately.

It was over. There would be new orders. Tomorrow …

He felt himself flinch at the knock on the door.

It was Turnbull. “Sorry to bust in like this, sir.” He did not wait, but went straight to the table. “Me an’ the lads thought—” He placed a tray on the table and paused while he removed his cap and wedged it between his knees as he uncovered a jug and a solitary glass. “—you could do with a proper welcome aboard.”

Turnbull had been at the brow with Spiers, and his pal the Chief, very smart and official while Garrick had been making his appearance. “Sorry about the stink of paint, sir. But she’s all slick an’ pusser again now.”

Kearton sat down abruptly, with a sensation like a string being cut. The gesture with the cap was another stark reminder: Cossette, the Newfoundlander, removing his cap, his private gesture of respect to a dying ship.

“Join me?”

Turnbull shook his head.

“Busy day tomorrow, sir. I’ll flatten anyone who tries to disturb you.” He must have seen the question, and said, “Mister Ainslie’s flaked out already.” He grinned. “These youngsters, eh, sir?”

The door closed again. Kearton tipped half the contents of the jug into the glass and swallowed: some of Garrick’s malt whisky, or brandy. It could have been anything. He leaned back, staring around the cabin.

What had he expected? She was married. It would only make things worse for her.

He heard voices, somebody laughing, the sound cut off instantly, as if told to pipe down.
The Skipper’s back aboard
…

One company again. Another patrol, or one of Garrick’s Special Operations: they could be sent anywhere.

We both know that
.

He reached for Turnbull’s jug, then his hand was suddenly still.

She was alone. And perhaps in danger.

He did not hear the door open, or someone switch off the cabin lights.

There was tomorrow. Like that first flash of gunfire, he was committed.

“Lieutenant-Commander Kearton, sir?” The petty officer’s eyes moved to his sleeve and back again. “If you’ll wait in here.” He held the door half open, as if guarding it. “The meeting will soon be over.”

Kearton heard him hurry away.
Over
. What time did they begin here? He himself had been up and about since first light, and had heard Colours being sounded as he had stepped ashore. The pace at headquarters must be hotting up, even more so since his last visit.

He looked around: it was the same room, but he had been brought here through an unfamiliar passageway. And there were different faces, the petty officer’s, and a couple at the main entrance. But the sounds were ordinary enough as he had passed various numbered doors: telephones, the clatter of typewriters, a teleprinter, amid the usual peeling notices about careless talk and
Where To Go In An Air Raid
.

He was the first visitor this morning, that was obvious: two of the chairs were still upended against a wall, waiting for the cleaners, and there were some stained cups on a tray beside an English newspaper dated a week ago. CHURCHILL SAYS WELL DONE!

Who to, he wondered?

He stretched his legs to ease the stiffness. He had only been a few days at sea, but it was always the same until the body accepted the reality of solid ground.

He got up sharply and crossed the room, and looked out of one of the windows. Blue sky and sunshine, but the view had changed: he could see the gleam of water now, which had previously been blocked by a building. Now it was only the too
familiar
pile of rubble. New tape across the glass to hide the cracks. Fewer air raids, someone had said. Too late for those poor devils.

He glanced at the other door: at any minute someone would arrive, and the wheels would begin to turn. He pulled the folded note from his pocket and held it against the window. The master-at-arms at the main gate had handed it to him; he must have seen him walk from the jetty and had been waiting for him.

“Brought by messenger, sir. Can’t be too careful around here, with all these comings and goings. Like bloody Piccadilly Circus.” He had not winked. There had been no need.

Only a few words, apparently written in haste on a piece of official-looking notepaper.
I saw you. Call me when you find the time. G
.

Little enough, but it was everything. Her safety had been uppermost in his mind, and not merely because of the air raids.

The Jaunty had offered his own telephone without being asked. A woman’s voice had answered, with music so loud in the background that she had had to shout, and so had he, until she turned down the sound, or closed another door. No, she did not know when Mrs Howard would be back. Maybe later today. She would take a message. She told him her own name, Maria, and he was there again, in that same apartment, when she had been cheerfully sweeping up the debris and glass from the explosion.

He had left his name. She would know. It would be stupid to make more of it. She was safe … He stared through the tape on the glass again, at the distant gleam of water.
I saw you
. She must have been there, watching and waiting when they had finally entered harbour.

He heard the door open with a certain relief, dragging his thoughts back to the present.

It was Brice, frowning, and gesturing to somebody behind him as if to silence another telephone. He looked tired, and very
strained
, but his smile was immediate and genuine. He took Kearton’s hands with both of his own, clasping them warmly, and looked at him without speaking.

Then, “I’ve counted the hours till this moment, Bob.
Just this moment!
” He released his grip and turned him toward the other door. “Bloody chaos here today!” He laughed, and some of the tension seemed to fall away. “The Boss will be here directly. Nothing seems to shake
him
.”

Kearton saw another switchboard in Brice’s office. A petty officer sat facing it, a telephone to his ear, one hand poised to disconnect the caller without delay. Not only that, but the room seemed smaller, because of the packing-cases and spare equipment filling much of the space he remembered.

“Moving out?”

Brice grinned and waved him to a chair.

“No such luck. But extra staff have arrived, and the Admiral never asks anyone about accommodation. He just gives the order!”

He sat behind the big desk and stared at an open file of signals. “You must have thought we’d all gone nuts when you got the order to abort
Retriever
. A complete cock-up—conflicting information about enemy intentions. If you hadn’t kept your head it would have all gone up in smoke. I don’t have all the facts yet … but it sounds as if the end result will pay off.” He flicked through the signals for a moment. “I never met Lieutenant Warren, but his record reads like
One Man’s War
. If I’d had any say in the matter, I’d have pulled him out of the front line. But I suppose he would have refused the offer!”

The switchboard buzzed, and the petty officer said, “For you, sir—”

Brice gave him no time to explain. “I said, no calls! Let someone else deal with it!”

He had twisted round in his chair and Kearton could see the creases in the back of his jacket, as if he had slept in it. The Boss
was
a hard man to serve, as Brice had already hinted. This was Garrick’s other face.

The P.O. said patiently, “It’s the S.O. M/S, sir.” He paused. “
Personal
, sir.”

Brice glanced at Kearton.

“Oh, well, I just hope—” He picked up the receiver before it could ring. “You’re up and about early, Ted—what’s new in minesweeping?”

Kearton saw the change, heard it in his voice.

“When was that, Ted? Any survivors?” Silence. “None at all?”

Kearton could not hear what was being said, but he could see it written on Brice’s face. In his eyes.

“Yes—old friends. We were at Dartmouth together. Thanks for letting me know.” He had already replaced the receiver. The switchboard was buzzing again, but he did not seem to hear it, or the P.O.’s clipped response.

Finally he looked at Kearton.

“Never bloody well ends, does it?” He got to his feet slowly and came around the desk. “Sorry, Bob. This isn’t how I meant it to be.”

He smiled, but it did not register in his eyes.

“I could have saved you the journey. The Boss rang me just before you got here. He wants to meet you, with the other commanding officers who’ve joined us—at fourteen hundred hours.” He looked at his watch, but Kearton guessed it was merely habit. Perhaps it helped. “Something else came up, apparently. He’s with Captain Howard at the moment.” He was gazing at the wall-chart. “Or should I say,
Major
Howard—as he soon will be.”

Kearton picked up his cap. That last was no accident, or breach of security: Brice was too astute. And he had heard her say Malta was like a village. Nothing remained a secret very long.

Brice had become a friend; and it was a warning.

Turnbull sat with his elbows propped on the mess table, watching his friend, who was facing him. They had become real mates since they had joined 992 together, none closer, and yet Jock Laidlaw could still surprise him. Big, strong hands, scarred from the long watches working with his precious engines, and countless others before these, yet able to carve and fashion small models or toys like this one. Not a ship or an old-fashioned muzzle-loader, which most sailors seemed to prefer, but a miniature church. Complete with opening doors and a perfectly shaped spire and crucifix.

It was for his niece, apparently still back in Dundee. Laidlaw rarely spoke about his family. Of his niece he had said only, tapping the top of the mess table, “She was this high, when I last saw her.” His brother was a soldier, and had been serving at Singapore when the Japs marched in. Reported missing, presumed killed, a familiar story at the time, he had turned up later as a prisoner-of-war. In the meantime, his wife had turned to someone else. The young niece was the only link between them.

Turnbull had once asked him, “Do you think you’ll be going back there when this lot’s over?”

Laidlaw had answered, “Where to, Harry?” That was plain enough.

There was still a smell of rum in the air, and Turnbull could taste it on his lips. He glanced at the door, which was propped open to catch any sound of activity. This was not the time to indulge in an extra tot. With the Skipper ashore at the meeting and Captain Garrick likely to show up in person at any time, it would be asking for real trouble.

Laidlaw bent over his work, touching it with his tiny blade. He must have been thinking the same thing.

“How’s Jimmy th’ One bearing up? Still like a cat on hot bricks?”

“Got a lot on his plate at the moment.”

The lugubrious face cracked in a grin. “Tell me about it.”