Battlecruiser (1997) (16 page)

She seemed to be trying to scream, or speak, her mute terror matched only by her disbelief.

Rayner tasted blood on his mouth, and was suddenly, blindly angry. ‘You bastard! You son of a bitch!’ He felt the pain lance up his arm with the force of the blow, and was vaguely aware that Buck was trying to reach round him to lend a hand.

Rayner did not need a hand from anybody.

The man was falling from the car, hitting out wildly, his fury giving way to fear as Rayner hit him again, and again. Buck called, ‘Easy, you mad bugger! He’s out for the count!’

Rayner was on the other side, wrenching the door open. She made no attempt to resist as he put his arms round her, nor did she utter a sound as he attempted to cover her legs with her skirt. Only her eyes moved, their expression hidden, shadowed, although Rayner sensed her realization,
the shock, when she allowed herself to believe that she was safe.

She stood beside him on the road. Rayner dragged off his blue raincoat and guided each of her arms in turn into the sleeves, covering her with the coat, then buttoning it slowly, his fingers hesitant as they touched the skin where her dress had been torn.

He said, ‘That’s better,’ and to Buck, ‘Get the taxi, Eddy.’

Buck said, ‘He’s done a bunk. A big help, he was!’

She looked at the inert shape on the ground. ‘The hotel is just round the corner.’ She spoke very carefully, as if afraid of what it might arouse. ‘It was a birthday party. There are quite a few of our people there, but I had to get back. He offered me a lift.’ She pointed suddenly, and the cuff of Rayner’s raincoat slipped over her hand. ‘My purse is in there. Could you get it, please?’

She swayed slightly, and Rayner held her gently upright while Buck recovered the purse.

Buck reached into the car again and removed the ignition key. ‘I’ll ring the cops, Dick.’

They walked around the bend, and there was the hotel. It was not much of a place, and there was certainly no music or dancing, not this particular evening, in any case.

They pushed through the smoky black-out curtains and into the harsh light. There were several people there, most of them in uniform, some of them nurses. One of the latter was standing by a birthday cake, and Rayner thought irrelevantly that it must have taken all of their rations to produce it. He had learned a lot since coming to Britain.

She turned, and he saw her face for the first time. She was pretty, with hair as fair as his own.

Then she took the handkerchief from his reefer pocket and dabbed his mouth, very gently but firmly. ‘You’ll have a bad bruise there tomorrow.’

Buck grinned. ‘So will that bastard outside!’

She glanced down and saw the wings on Rayner’s sleeve. It seemed to surprise, even discomfit her. ‘You’re a flier. I – I thought – when I saw the uniform . . .’

Everybody was crowding round, asking questions, wanting to help; someone handed her a glass of something. In the next bar, Rayner could hear another voice speaking on the telephone, asking for the police.

He said gently, ‘Hey, what’s the big deal? Don’t you like fliers?’ It was something to say, to hold on to the moment. She was trying to swallow the drink, and he felt the senseless anger again when he saw the scratches on her throat and cheek.

She choked, and eventually said, ‘No . . . it’s not that. I work at the new hospital . . . it’s not far from here. It’s for recuperation . . . burns. We get a lot of fliers sent to us.’

He said, ‘Yeah. Off the beaten track,’ and could not disguise his bitterness. He had known pilots who had been badly burned, disfigured, who were sent to remote places like this, where they wouldn’t embarrass people.

He said, ‘That man. Did you know him?’

‘I don’t think so. He knew I was a nurse . . . must have been listening.’ She closed her eyes as if to erase the memory. ‘You must never tell them you’re a nurse. They think you’re anybody’s.’

Someone called, ‘I’ll drive you back right now, Andy!’

It was getting out of hand. Rayner heard doors banging, the authoritative voices which differed very little from cops in Toronto.

She was holding his arm, searching for the words, like people being parted at a railway station, when those words would never come.

She said, ‘I’ll send you your coat. I don’t even know . . .’

‘Dick Rayner. I’m in
Reliant.
’ He could almost read the
warning posters.
Careless talk costs lives! Be like Dad, Keep Mum!
But he did not care.

‘I’ll call you. Tomorrow.’ He saw her uncertainty, the fear and shock coming back. ‘I don’t want to lose you. Not now.’

She said, very softly, ‘I’m Andrea Collins.’ Again, she attempted to smile. ‘My friends call me Andy.’

She gripped his arm so tightly then that he could feel her pain, her revulsion.

‘He tried to rape me . . .’ Then she fainted, and would have fallen but for Rayner’s arms around her.

‘It’s all right, Lieutenant. We’ll take care of her.’ The speaker was an older nurse; she must have been very pretty when she was young, he thought. She was the one who was having a birthday celebration.

‘Take this card,’ she said. ‘It’s the staff quarters. That was a fine thing you did.’

Then suddenly the place was empty, except for Buck and two large policemen.

One of the constables said, ‘Did I hear ye say H.M.S.
Reliant
, sir? Now there’s a thing, eh, Jamie? A real hero!’ He fixed the landlord with a stare. ‘A bottle of your best, Alex.’ He beamed at the two naval officers. ‘An’ then I’ll be troubling you gentlemen for a wee statement.’ He shook Rayner’s hand warmly. ‘But first, the malt. And dinna fret aboot the ship. We’ll take ye back.’

Rayner looked at his sleeve, remembering how she had gripped it. Then he grinned at his friend. Even Eddy would never be able to top this for a run ashore.

My friends call me Andy.

He said, ‘Well, I’ll be
damned.
’

And they all laughed.

The Cathedral Church of St Thomas à Becket was small,
even intimate, when compared with its contemporaries in other cities, but in the years of war it had risen to become a powerful symbol to all who knew it. During the relentless and continuous bombing of the first bitter months, when the city had seen its famous Guildhall reduced to a smoking shell, and streets and whole neighbourhoods were flattened, it held out hope, and gave strength to Portsmouth, to survive, to eventually fight back. Like H.M.S.
Victory
in her dry dock, with most of the buildings around her either blasted to rubble or burned to the ground, the cathedral was like a beacon.

On this bright, cold morning, it was almost full, the congregation consisting of senior officers, two Members of Parliament, government officials, and a small group of men and women, some very old, who still managed to join in the well-known hymns, their medals, from another war, making a brave display in this place which had known and honoured so many heroes.

Toward the rear of the cathedral sat most of the younger naval officers, many from ships in the dockyard. Sherbrooke was standing beside a massive major of marines, and glanced round briefly at the others. Probably detailed off to attend, to make up the numbers at this service, which must have been arranged with an almost unseemly haste.

The Commander-in-Chief, Portsmouth, read the lesson, and the senior chaplain gave a short but moving address. Sherbrooke recalled the old man he had last seen at Rosyth, and found it hard to reconcile the memory with the hero whose life was now being celebrated.

They would never have dared to hold an assembly like this in those early days of the war. So many important people under one roof would have been tempting more than fate.

He had been at sea when that last raid had been launched
against the city and its dockyard. Over three hundred bombers had kept up an almost continuous onslaught for most of the night, and many people had been killed and injured, and over three thousand made homeless. One stick of bombs had fallen across the Point, where his father had a small house overlooking the Solent. He had kept an old telescope on the verandah, so that he could watch the comings and goings of warships, most of which he knew by sight.

They must have died together, instantly. It was little consolation.

Portsmouth had erected a memorial for those who had died, and he wondered if he should walk down and see it. He glanced around at the busts and the memorial plaques, illustrious names, victories to match, the very history of a city and a navy.

Reliant
was a Pompey ship, but like most major war vessels, she seldom came here. Even with growing air support and strong anti-aircraft batteries and barrage balloons, there was always the risk of a hit-and-run raid, when a battlecruiser in dock would be too rich a target to miss.

He looked down at the card in his hand. The last hymn would be
For Those in Peril On The Sea.
He smiled privately. It was just about the only hymn sailors spared their own crude translation.

He wondered how Frazier was coping. He had looked very much on edge at their last meeting. It was something personal; it had to be. Something outside the world of the ship, something beyond his own influence or comprehension. If you had a wife or family, and were separated by war . . . He stopped the thoughts right there. He had neither.

And after this, another convoy. The opportunity to
exercise the ship in southern waters, without the constant threat of U-Boat attacks. To get to know her better, to put names to all those faces who passed him, or who chose to avoid his eyes.

He recalled his flight south from Scotland, in an R.A.F. Lysander, with a crew so casual and cheerful they could have been on a holiday jaunt. To them, he had been just so much cargo, a passing responsibility. Stagg certainly had a lot of pull, although it had only extended one way. He would have to return to Rosyth by train.

The cathedral seemed to quiver as the combined voices of servicemen and women rose with those of the veterans who had attended this memorial service because they had been a part of it, and their lives had been touched by the man whose life and death were commemorated.

For those in peril on the sea.

He was surprised that it could still move him.

He heard someone sob as the organ died away, and glanced across the aisle. Almost hidden by a pillar, he recognized her, and saw that she was looking at him. And yet, he had not seen her before this. Perhaps she had wanted it that way.

She raised her hymn card, and smiled. Almost shyly, nervously.

He picked up his cap and waited for the great and the powerful to lead the way down to the doors, back to their various messes for a drink, and the chosen few to something more substantial. The veterans walked together, one in a wheelchair, craning his head to peer up at the trappings and the past glories.

He heard a young lieutenant say, ‘They should have had the Last Post.
I
would!’

His friend said sardonically, ‘I’d have thought Joe Loss was more in your line!’

Sherbrooke smiled. It was good to know that the spirit was still there, as it had been in Portsmouth after the bombing.

Then she was beside him, almost touching as they walked in the slow-moving press of people.

‘I heard you were coming, Captain Sherbrooke. We had a message. It was good of you.’

‘You must miss him, Mrs Meheux.’

She glanced up at him. ‘Yes, I think I shall. He could be difficult, but that was just his way. I think he overdid things.’

‘What will you do now? In your work, I mean?’ He looked at her, saw the hair hidden by her thick coat and a long strand which had blown across her brow.

‘Oh, I’ll get used to my new boss, I expect. Although from what I’ve heard . . .’ She touched his arm. ‘Never mind that. When are you going back?’

‘Tomorrow. There’s a lot going on.’

They walked out into the crisp air, the crowd lingering or dispersing in groups as the mood took them. The doors closed and the organ stopped. It was over.

She said, ‘It’s been a long trip for you. Where are you staying?’

‘My case is at the naval club. I was just going to get it.’

She watched, aware of his uncertainty.

‘What is it? Is something wrong?’

Why should he explain?

‘I was going to walk to the Point. There’s a memorial.’

She said, ‘Your father?’

He said, after a moment, ‘I just thought . . . Well, you never know.’ He was conscious of her hand on his sleeve, the wedding ring shining, like a warning.

‘Don’t talk like that. You’re alive. It
matters.
’

‘Thank you for that. I didn’t mean to be such a drag.’

She watched him very steadily. ‘You’re not.’ She hesitated, then said abruptly, ‘Take me with you, will you? I won’t intrude.’

He was about to speak when someone said, ‘Why, Captain Sherbrooke! It
is
you, isn’t it?’

He swung round and saw a woman in a long fur coat and black hat coming towards him. She was not old, but she had a quality of hardened confidence which might soon make her so. Light brown hair, a treble row of pearls displayed at the neck of her coat, a crisp, persuasive manner. He had no idea who she was.

She said, ‘It was some time ago.’ She held out her hand. ‘At Cowes, I believe. You were a three-ringer then.’ She laughed. ‘Just.’

It was like turning back the pages of an old photograph album.

Olive, he thought, her name was Olive.

He said quietly, ‘Mrs Stagg – of course. I came today because . . .’

She stared with a keen interest at the girl. ‘I know why you came. He rang me. And this is?’

She answered for herself. ‘Emma Meheux. I was Sir Graham’s assistant at the Admiralty.’

‘A Wren officer?’

‘No.’ She seemed very calm. ‘I’m a civil servant, Mrs Stagg.’

‘There now.’ Stagg’s wife turned to Sherbrooke, as if to shut her out. ‘I have a car. Johnnie will drive us. We could lunch somewhere before you head north again.’

Sherbrooke saw a heavily-built army officer, probably a lieutenant-general, loitering, watching the progress of the conversation.
Johnnie.