Battlecruiser (1997) (14 page)

The girl was speaking with a Royal Marine driver, giving him directions, and Sherbrooke imagined her going to meet her husband. In some hotel, he thought, or maybe he was stationed nearby. Greeting each other, forgetting everything while the moment lasted . . .

As if she sensed that he was watching her, she looked round at him.

‘Enjoy your dinner, Captain.’

She turned to follow the driver, and he said abruptly, ‘Will you be coming aboard tomorrow, Mrs Meheux?’

Edwardes, observing her hesitation, chuckled. ‘If it’s allowed, you might find it interesting.’

The little vice-admiral beamed, rubbing his hands briskly, glad it was almost over.

‘I’ll deal with that, Sir Graham.’

She said, ‘Yes. I should like that, Captain.’

Edwardes called after her, ‘Better wear some trousers, Emma. There are a lot of ladders to climb in a battlecruiser, and you know what sailors are like!’

She looked over her shoulder, her eyes curiously remote. ‘I can manage, Sir Graham.’

Then she was gone, and Sherbrooke heard the car growling away into the darkness and the rain.

The vice-admiral was saying, ‘I’ve arranged a few drinks with the other guests, Sir Graham. Can I tempt you this time?’

Edwardes said something, and strode away to confer with the shabby journalist. The vice-admiral murmured to Sherbrooke, ‘Not too bad, was it?’

He thought of the girl in the staff car, returning to a life he barely understood.

‘I gather Mrs Meheux is married to someone in the Royal Engineers. Lucky chap.’

The vice-admiral cleared his throat. ‘Not too sure about that. He was at Singapore when the Japs marched in.’

‘Prisoner of war?’

‘Missing. Not a bloody word from anybody. There are a lot like that, of course. It must be hard – on her, I mean.’

Sherbrooke heard a gust of laughter, and the clink of glasses.

The vice-admiral grunted. ‘Just think of it as another bloody convoy. Something to get through in one piece!’

He smiled, scarcely listening, glad that he had come despite the questions, the obvious insincerity of it all. It was absurd, and he knew it, but he would think of her when he eventually got back to the ship.
Emma
. . .

The noise and greetings washed over him, and he summoned yet another smile when he heard someone loudly welcoming ‘a real hero’. But it was Edwardes of the Dover Strait who was gravely acknowledging the salutation.

The same steward asked, ‘What can I get for you, sir?’ He dropped his voice and said confidentially, ‘My brother, sir, ’e’s a leadin’ ’and. ’E’s in
Reliant!
’

Sherbrooke saw Edwardes staring at them.

He thought of all the others . . . the young woman not far away in Edinburgh, with her baby and a photo of her husband, who had wanted the baptism in the ship’s bell . . . of Rayner’s unknown airman, floating alone in his dinghy in those freezing waters . . . of the wounded German who had thanked him. Of so many. Too many.

He clapped the steward on the shoulder. ‘Horse’s Neck, please. Large one!’ He saw the man grin. The story would soon go round, and would probably reach Dodger Long before the day was out.

And of Emma, whose husband was missing.

He recalled the sadness in her eyes when Edwardes had made his coarse remark about trousers. It was because she understood, too well, that all Edwardes had left was the memory. The rest was so much sham.

The forenoon passed better than Sherbrooke had dared to hope. A camera crew and several photographers roamed the ship, taking pictures of the upper deck, particularly the long grey barrels of A and B turrets, while working parties moved about their duties and became stiff and self-conscious whenever they found themselves being filmed.

Even the interview went reasonably well, conducted by a highly professional war correspondent who turned out to be an old school friend of Lieutenant Drake,
Reliant
’s young ex-barrister.

The day had begun badly with Sherbrooke fighting a nightmare, thrashing and crying out, and waking to find his pyjamas soaked in sweat, and Petty Officer Long’s hand on his shoulder, with a cup of black coffee on his tray.

He had had too much to drink at the vice-admiral’s party, and he was paying for it now. He also realized that his uniform, which he had thrown aside before falling into unconsciousness, had vanished, to reappear on a
hanger, pressed and brushed, for today’s event.

Long had said impassively, ‘There was a shore telephone call for you, sir. Near six o’clock, it was. I told the caller to leave a number.’ He had given his pixie-like smile. ‘Mayfair number in London, sir. Very posh.’

It had obviously been Stagg, and he was equally sure that Long had known. The man would have made the perfect valet.

It was not easy to get a priority call through to London during the day, but he had told the O.O.D. to do what he could.

He saw Sir Graham Edwardes standing below a four-inch gun mounting, his eyes studiously grave and compelling as he completed an interview of his own. What had happened to the hero of Dover? His own father had aged, but had remained the same man until he had died . . . He rephrased the thought, brutally. Had been killed.

Commander Frazier was beside him. ‘I hope you’ll join us in the wardroom, sir.’

In theory, a captain was always a guest in his officers’ wardroom, although he had often wondered if any captain had ever been refused entry.

It seemed more spacious than usual, with some of the officers absent on this unexpected leave, and others ashore to beg, borrow or steal items for their own departments.

He had seen Emma Meheux come aboard with the others, but had not had a chance to speak with her. She had been wearing the same heavy coat as yesterday, but now, holding her own in conversation with several officers, she wore a plain green dress, and the Royal Engineers brooch.

The Canadian pilot was explaining something to her, his hands in the air, the others grinning at him. The only other women present were two Wren officers from the
base, very smart and self-assured in a world they understood and shared.

Frazier coughed politely, and the others melted away, except Rayner, who said, ‘I was just telling Mrs Meheux how to cook lobsters, sir.’

She said, ‘Thank you, Lieutenant. I shall try and remember, if the opportunity ever arises.’

Sherbrooke said, ‘I hope they’ve all been looking after you.’

She looked at him directly, avoiding the polite preliminaries.

‘I think it went quite well, don’t you?’

So calm, so confident; no wonder the easy-going Rayner had been getting along with her so well.

‘I’m not really used to it,’ he said. ‘I suppose it does some good. Does it?’

She said, without smiling, ‘We hope so. It’s all some people have to hold on to.’

Was she really so assured, so in control?

He asked, ‘Are you staying in Scotland for long?’

She shook her head, and for the first time he realized how long her hair was. The colour of chestnuts, newly broken, the colour of autumn. She kept it tied back, almost severely.

‘No. I’m going back to London tonight.’

‘I had hoped to show you around the ship.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t. Perhaps some other time.’

She was ending the contact before it had begun. Any woman with her looks would always turn a lot of heads. A wedding ring was no protection in wartime, when loneliness was often the greatest hardship.

He said, ‘Do you like your work?’

She shrugged, and raised one hand to wave away another tray of drinks. ‘I’m a civil servant, that’s all. My father
and brother are both doctors. I never had the inclination.’ She smiled. ‘Or the opportunity, either!’ She paused, perhaps considering whether to continue. ‘We lived in Bath, and so when I was appointed to my first proper post it was to the Admiralty office – where else? At Bath, of course.’

Just for those few seconds, Sherbrooke had glimpsed the young, untroubled girl. It was like sharing something secret.

She said quickly, almost curtly, ‘If I’d been doing the interview, I would have asked you some rather different questions.’

‘Tell me.’

She looked away. ‘About how you felt when you lost your ship . . . if you think we’ll win this war. I was watching you today when you were speaking with some of your men. Not when the camera was intruding, but the other times. And I thought, a great ship like this, and yet they seem to know you, as if the previous captain is forgotten.’ She faced him again. ‘There, I’ve said too much. Gin before lunch is never a smart idea.’

‘Excuse me, sir.’ It was the Officer-of-the-Day. ‘We have that call on the line.’ His eyes moved to the girl and back again. It would make a good story.

Sherbrooke acknowledged it, and said, ‘Don’t go until I get back, Mrs Meheux. Please. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

The O.O.D. said helpfully, ‘I’ve had it transferred to the lobby, sir.’

She watched them leave, and then glanced at her watch. Edwardes would understand, and anyway . . .

‘Can I get you anything?’ It was Frazier.

He felt drained, and vaguely sickened. Something had happened on this leave which had never occurred before. He had had a row with his wife, a hushed, angry argument,
subdued out of pride and a regard for the thinness of the hotel room’s walls.

She answered, ‘I shall have to make my excuses, Commander Frazier.’

He smiled, trying to play the part. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Meheux. I haven’t seen the Captain so relaxed for a long time.’

She half-turned. ‘I like him. I’m surprised he’s not married.’

Frazier shrugged. ‘I don’t know the whole story, but the Andrew’s like a family, so I’ve heard some of it. His father was a serving officer for years, then he became ill and was forced onto the beach . . . and when the war came, he insisted on moving to Portsmouth. I suppose he wanted to be near the world he’d loved, or something like that. Then, two years ago – I expect you heard all about it – there was a series of air raids on the city, and a great part of it was destroyed. The Captain’s father was killed in one of those attacks.’ He hesitated. ‘The girl the Captain was going to marry was visiting at the time. She was killed, too. It must have been tough on him.’

She said, very quietly, ‘Thank you for telling me. It will go no further.’

Frazier said, equally gravely, ‘I know.’

The stewards were looking at the wardroom clock; some of the officers were already heading for lunch. A break in the routine was always welcome.

Sherbrooke strode back into the wardroom, and said, ‘Sorry about that,’ and to Frazier, ‘It was Rear-Admiral Stagg. Checking up on today’s event, needless to say.’

To the girl, he said, ‘Are you sure you can’t stay longer?’

‘I’m afraid not. I have a reserved seat at Edinburgh Waverley for the night train.’ She turned to speak to Frazier, but he had gone.

‘He’s a nice man,’ she said.

‘John? Yes, he is. I don’t know what I would have done without him.’

She was looking round again, preparing her escape, he thought. She said, ‘He’s very fond of you, isn’t he?’

Then, in that direct manner, as she had spoken to him at their first meeting, she said, ‘He told me about your father. I’m very sorry.’

There was a silence, which he found difficult to break. At length, he said, ‘My last command was a Portsmouth ship.’ He glanced around the wardroom, a stranger again. ‘Like
Reliant.
There were many broken hearts after those raids.’

‘I think you’ve just answered the questions I would have asked in my interview.’

He said, ‘I’ll see you over the side, Mrs Meheux.’

‘Over the side. You even make that sound so polite.’ She laughed, but there was something in her eyes that revealed the lie.

He said, ‘I’ll make sure your transport is here.’ He watched her cross the wardroom to say goodbye to the vice-admiral, and to the Hero of Dover.

He was making an idiot of himself. Missing or not, she had a husband, and in any case she would barely remember this visit once she was back in London.

He walked out onto the damp planking and saw the quartermaster and side-party come to life. The O.O.D. was present, and there was a car waiting on the jetty, the driver chatting to a Royal Marine sentry.

He thought of Stagg’s interest in this interview, which had been so badly timed as to have happened in his absence. He was sure Stagg thought he would have done a much better job.

But the other aspect of it remained fixed in his mind,
irremovable, like a fish-bone in the throat.

A woman had answered the telephone, her voice brusque, impatient.

‘Vincent! It’s the
Reliant!
’

On such a bad line, he could have been mistaken. Then he recalled the churchyard, the flag draped on the coffin. He was not mistaken. He would have recognized Jane’s voice anywhere.

He walked to the guardrail and stared down at the abandoned, rusty cables and piles of old armour plate, so much scrap now.

Reliant
would be repaired and at sea very soon. Rosyth, like every other dockyard, needed the space.

He heard her shoes on the planking, and prepared himself to face her.

‘I hope we meet again, Mrs Meheux. I mean that. I might still get a chance to show you
Reliant.
Perhaps in London—’

She looked at him steadily, curious, defiant, guarded.

‘I think it would be unwise, Captain Sherbrooke. For both of us.’ She held out her hand. ‘Take care of yourself. I shall not forget this visit.’

He gripped her hand, and could feel, almost physically, the eyes of the side-party on every move.

He had offended her, or worse, she was embarrassed by his clumsy attentiveness, or his arrogance.

She released her hand, and fumbled with the collar of her coat.

He said, ‘Hold on to the rail. The brow is very steep.’

She looked sharply at him again, as if surprised by his solicitude.

She said, ‘It’s starting to rain again!’ She seemed to make up her mind. ‘If you really want to . . .’ She paused. ‘My office number is in orders.’

Sherbrooke saluted as she went down the side, very small against the grey steel and the welders’ blinding torches. She did not look up at the ship, but he himself watched the car until it was swallowed by the dockyard. And, somehow, he knew that she would know it.