All The Nice Girls (4 page)

‘However,’ said Broody, ‘In spite of that, there comes a time in every man’s life when he starts to lean a little bit towards the old champagne and confetti and there’s always a wench there to take him up on it. Dagwood, me old hearty, I reckon you’re ripe! ‘

‘Besides, there’s always a critical time for marriage.’ Ollie said. ‘I remember someone telling me during training about a Gaussian curve ...’

‘A what?’

‘A Gaussian curve of probability. You can plot a series of points on an exponential curve which will tell you the point that an event or a series of events is most likely to take place. A pile of sand is a good example . . .’

The Bodger was mystified. ‘What’s a pile of sand got to do with young Dagwood here getting married?’

‘If you allow sand to drop on to a flat level surface it will heap up into a smooth pile. If you could somehow cut cleanly through the middle of that pile the cross-section would show a perfect Gaussian curve because the sand has heaped itself in the most probable way, that’s to say more of it in the middle and less to the sides.’

‘I’ll be damned! ‘

‘If you selected a million school children at random, gave them an intelligence test and plotted the results, they should give a Gaussian curve. Promotion chances in the service are supposed to be worked out in the same way . . .’

‘That they’re not! ‘ said The Bodger, with conviction. ‘Promotion in the Navy is done by cutting a pack of cards, thinking of a number, doubling it, and when the music stops the last man to sit down is made a Commander. I happen to know! ‘

‘Anyway sir, there’s supposed to be a theory that your chances of getting married before you’re thirty follow the curve. How old are you, Dagwood?’

‘Twenty-six,’ said Dagwood, reluctantly.

‘Slap bang in the middle of the curve!’

‘You have been warned, Dagwood,’ said Broody.

Dagwood cast about in his mind for a change of subject. ‘What’s the form about this refit conference tomorrow, sir?’ he asked desperately.

It was a lucky shot. The Bodger had very strong views on refit conferences.

‘If either of you think that your refit conference tomorrow is going to be a private contest between yourselves and the yard, you’ve got another think coming. You’ll be amazed at the little men who are coming from miles around, all converging on Oozemouth at this very minute, just to attend your refit conference. There’ll be dozens of them, all having their say and all having quite a lot of power. You and I are the last people to be consulted. We’re only the poor bastards who have to take the thing to sea once it’s all over. The only time we
might
get a word in edgeways is when they discuss the list of defects and decide some of the things they’re going to do. Even this is a farce, because you can take it from me it’s all been decided already, long before we came on the scene. But if you want something done, I’ll give you a little hint. Your chances of getting anything done are directly proportional to the cost of doing it. If it’s big enough and expensive enough you’ll get everything you want. They’ll give you a sonar set which can hear a herring having the squitters in the Gulf of Mexico. They’ll force a radar set on you which can pick up a seagull at a hundred miles and tell you what colour eyes it’s got. They’ll positively press on you a torpedo fire control system which does everything but cheer when you get a hit. They’ll give you all that. But . . . Ask them to reposition a valve so that you can open it without giving yourself a hernia, ask them to put a seat in the sailors’ heads that people who haven’t got isosceles triangle-shaped backsides can sit on and they’ll politely tell you to go away and boil your socks. So be warned. If you want anything, make it big. You mark my words tomorrow.’

The Bodger and Broody had the rare capacity of stimulating each other’s conversation. They were both, after another round of Daphne’s specials, in top form. They entertained the whole bar with their views on such subjects as the passing of the days of the Navy’s greatness, the present technique of Grandmother’s Footsteps whereby nothing ever happened in the Navy except when one’s back was turned, and the Navy’s grapevine, the envy of Reuter’s, by which no naval officer could do anything, from mouse-trapping to murder, in Baluchistan or in Bath, without his contemporaries hearing the details by noon the next day.

While they talked, they drank. Broody drank more that night than Ollie or Dagwood had ever seen him drink before. It was as though he were washing away the old commission and preparing for the new. He would wake in the morning with a foul head and a clear conscience.

At closing time, they took Broody and his baggage to the station. Ollie and Dagwood carried his bags while Broody himself did a soft-shoe shuffle up the platform and collapsed into a sleeper, humming ‘I Heard My Goldfish Yodelling.’ Ollie wrote his destination on a label and put it into his top jacket pocket while Dagwood tipped the attendant to look after him. It was their ultimate act for the passing of
Seahorse
. When Broody left, the last remnant of the commission left with him.

Driving into Harvey McNichol & Drummond’s yard the next morning to attend
Seahorse
’s refit conference, The Bodger felt pleased with all the world. He was delighted to be back once more in submarine circles, even though only as a substitute for Broody. The Bodger was looking forward to the refit conference and was determined to fight as hard on Broody’s behalf as though
Seahorse
were still his own command.

The Bodger’s good humour survived the surly yard policemen, who argued for some time before admitting him without a pass. He smiled indulgently at the workmen, all apparently possessed of a strong death-wish, who strolled casually in the path of his car. Even when a grey chauffeur- driven Rolls turned sharply in front of him, forcing him to brake and skid sideways, The Bodger was still able to smile pleasantly.

Not so the passenger of the Rolls. A side window was furiously wound down.

‘Are you
blind!
’

The Bodger became aware of a large leonine face and a black bowler hat. He caught a glimpse of heavy, lowering yellow eyebrows, a pink carnation, and a thick gloved hand.

‘Are you blind, I say?’ repeated the domineering, arrogant voice.

‘No,’ said The Bodger, politely.

‘God damn your impertinent eyes, sir! I say you must be blind! Didn’t you see my car?’

‘I did. I also assumed that the driver knew the rule of the road and would allow through traffic to pass first.’

‘I’ll drive my car where I damned well like in this yard!’

‘As you wish,’ said The Bodger. ‘It’s no concern of mine if you choose to kill yourself on the road. But it would be a pity if you killed someone else at the same time.’

So saying, The Bodger reversed, turned round and drove off.

Apart from that minor contretemps, preparations for the refit conference were very much as The Bodger had forecast. The conference was held in Harvey McNichol & Drummond’s main boardroom and was attended by fifty-seven people. Dagwood counted them. Every department in Harvey McNichol & Drummond’s was represented, together with the firm’s main sub-contractors. Admiral Submarines was represented several times. So also were Admiralty research establishments dealing with sonar and radar, and several sections from the Admiralty at Bath, and there were other representatives whom Dagwood was unable to identify.

Assuming an average salary of fifteen hundred pounds a year, Dagwood calculated that there was approaching a hundred thousand pounds’ worth of talent on view.

‘Lot of high-priced help here today, sir,’ he said to Mr Tybalt.

‘You should be flattered. You’ve got all the King’s horses and all the King’s men.’ Mr Tybalt looked at the row of Harvey McNichol & Drummond faces opposite him. ‘That’s the First Fifteen there. You’ve even got Sir Rollo.’

The conference fell swiftly into shape. Everyone present knew his place in the battle formation. The seating plan was evident. The yard men and their supporters sat on one side of the table. The Admiralty sat on the other. An Admiralty Overseer sitting among the ranks of Harvey McNichol & Drummond’s would have been about as incredible as Horatius taking up arms for the ranks of Tusculum. The Chairman sat halfway down one side of the table with Mr Day on his right and on either side of them the managers of departments, all wearing those expressions of permanent pessimism which are inbred amongst shipyard managers. Opposite the Chairman sat Mr Tybalt and on either side of him sat the Admiralty Overseers, each Admiralty man facing his counterpart in the firm. Thus Mr Swales, The Principal Electrical Overseer, directly confronted his personal opponent Mr Burlap, Harvey McNichol & Drummond’s electrical ship manager. Mr Vietch, the Admiralty Engineer Overseer, glared straight into the eyes of Mr McGillvray, the engineering ship manager. Behind the main combatants were drawn up secondary and tertiary lines of assistants, personal secretaries, satellites, seconds, henchmen and auxiliaries, ready to give information, matches, murmured words of solace or smelling salts at moment’s notice. The lists were drawn up. The battle was pitched. At the far end of the table sat the reason for the assembly, the prize over whose bodies the battle would be lost and won - Dagwood, Ollie and The Bodger.

The Bodger had attended several refit conferences during his career but he had never before seen a refitting shipyard present such a united front. Harvey McNichol & Drummond’s van was as solid as a Roman testudo and as uncompromising as an army with banners. The Bodger was suspicious of such a show of strength. In particular he mistrusted the Chairman. The Bodger had the normal naval officer’s ignorance of civilian firms; he knew very little of the managerial caste in industry; but he could recognise a little tin god when he saw one. He could also recognise, with some inward qualms, the man who had been the occupant of the grey Rolls that morning.

Major Sir Rollo Falcon Hennessy-Gilbert, M.C., T.D., Bart., formerly of the Irish Guards but now Justice of the Peace, Chairman of Oozemouth Conservative Association, President of Oozemouth Chamber of Commerce, Captain of Oozemouth Racquets Club, Commodore of the Royal Oozemouth Yacht Club, Master of the Beaufortshire Forest Hounds, President of Oozemouth Harriers R.F.C., and Governor of St Edward’s Grammar School, Oozemouth, was also chairman and managing director of Harvey McNichol & Drummond (S. & E.) Co. Ltd. Furthermore, he was a nephew of old Lady Drummond, a nonagenarian who still owned a proportion of the company’s shares and who lived some miles outside Oozemouth in a Victorian castle surrounded by thickets and gigantic rhododendrons which secluded her in mystery worthy of the Oracle at Delphi. (Old Lady Drummond’s employees, none of whom had ever seen her, often speculated on her seclusion. The apprentices believed it was because she was being held ransom by a gang of international crooks; the yard managers contended that she had never really recovered from the shock of the Abdication; while Mr Tybalt maintained that she was merely sobering up after the news that Mafeking was relieved). In her absence, her nephew ruled Harvey McNichol & Drummond with the absolute power of a Mogul emperor. Mr Tybalt, who had the most frequent dealings with Sir Rollo for the Admiralty, had found him an unpredictable and dangerous man. While waiting to enter Sir Rollo’s presence Mr Tybalt had often felt that he was about to discuss an Admiralty contract with Surajah Dowlah and that he should first have safeguarded himself by bringing with him Happy Day and Sid Burlap, as hostages, in chains.

The proceedings were opened by Sir Rollo himself. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said ponderously. His red-rimmed eyes under their overhanging eyebrows travelled sardonically along the row of Admiralty men opposite him. ‘We meet in very happy circumstances. Once more we have one of the Sovereign’s submarines in Harvey McNichol & Drummond’s yard. May I, on behalf of the firm, welcome Commander . . . Commander . . .’

‘
Badger
,’ said The Bodger, in a resonant voice.

Sir Rollo paused and looked along the table. His eyes met The Bodger’s in a glare of ferocious recognition.

‘ . . . Commander Badger and his officers to this shipyard.’ Sir Rollo spoke for some time. He spoke of the ‘dawning of a new era on Oozeside,’ of ‘adding one more jewel to Oozemouth’s crown of lustre’ and, without warmth, of ‘extending the warm hand of friendship towards Commander Badger and his officers.’ Most of Sir Rollo’s audience had heard him make substantially the same speech many times before. The shipyard men listened, or appeared to listen, with expressionless faces (as long as the old bastard gave nothing away, he could talk on as long as he liked). Mr Tybalt listened with more attention. His ears were cocked for the tell-tale phrases in Sir Rollo’s peroration. Mr Tybalt knew from experience that the sting would be in the tail. If Sir Rollo ended ‘the great resources of this great shipyard must be fully utilised to give this Sovereign’s ship a fresh start in life,’ then Mr Tybalt knew he could relax. His job was a sinecure.
Seahorse
would get a good refit - or Harvey McNichol & Drummond heads would roll. But if Sir Rollo ended ‘every endeavour therefore must, and will, be made to make this job an undertaking worthy of Harvey McNichol and Drummond craftsmen,’ then Mr Tybalt knew that, so far as Sir Rollo was concerned, H.M.S.
Seahorse
for all practical purposes did not exist and he, Mr Tybalt, was faced with a long exhausting struggle to get the ship out of the yard bearing any resemblance at all to an operational submarine.

Dagwood lost the thread of Sir Rollo’s speech around the second reference to a welcome being extended to Commander Badger and his officers. As Sir Rollo’s voice rose and fell, Dagwood studied Sir Rollo’s private secretary who was sitting immediately behind him. She had a notebook on her lap and glasses on her nose. Occasionally she made a note in her book and then reaffixed her eyes upon the small of Sir Rollo’s back Dagwood noted the contours of the figure underneath the short grey bolero coat and silk blouse and just as he was deciding that behind the spectacles and beneath the notebook there might be more than met the innocent eye, the girl turned her head. Dagwood half-smiled. The girl looked at him. Dagwood’s half-smile faded. Her look had plainly said: ‘The bus leaves at noon - be under it.’