Battlecruiser (1997) (24 page)

Hudson was saying, ‘I’ll need you with me for a few days, Vincent. The P.M. will want to see you. He always does, with these pet projects.’ He almost smiled. ‘Won’t do you any harm, will it?’

Stagg grinned. ‘Point taken, sir.’ He looked at Sherbrooke. ‘You’ll have to get back to Greenock, I’m afraid, Guy. General recall, and the reprovisioning plan we discussed on the way down.’

Sherbrooke smiled faintly. A few grunts and nods had been about the full extent of that particular conversation.

Stagg relented, his good humour apparently fully restored. ‘Take a couple of days, eh? Staying at the club?’ He did not wait for or expect an answer, his mind already busy with the next question for the vice-admiral. ‘And we’re to have a top war correspondent with us, sir?’

Hudson nodded, and pressed his fingertips together. ‘Pat Drury. He’s good, I believe.’

Stagg rubbed his chin. ‘I wonder if our young barrister knows him as well.’

Hudson opened an envelope. He had left it until the end.

‘By the way, your minelayer was sighted and torpedoed by a U.S. submarine last week. It must still have had some of the cargo on board – it was blown to pieces. No survivors, I’m afraid, so we’ll not find out much else about it. The Germans have said nothing, but then they wouldn’t, would they? It’s against every clause of the Geneva Convention to lay unmoored mines where any neutral vessel might fall victim to them.’

Stagg snorted, ‘Those rules went out the window long ago!’

Hudson regarded him curiously. ‘Not in my book, Vincent. Otherwise, all this is a sham.’

Again, no emotion, no anger. But it was there. He looked over at Sherbrooke and said, ‘I read the reports. The behaviour of your Walrus crew was commendable. They’re not exactly old salts, are they?’

Stagg said, ‘I’ve put the pilot up for a D.S.C.’ He glanced
at Sherbrooke. ‘Seemed only right, at the time.’

Sherbrooke said nothing. This was the Stagg he understood best.

Stagg said, ‘I hope you’ll be coming to our little reception, sir.’

Hudson shook his head. ‘Meetings, I’m afraid. But give my kind regards to your wife.’

And then, they were out of the office and hurrying down the stairs toward the entrance, with its barriers of painted sandbags.

Stagg said bluntly, ‘Thank Christ for that! He’d put the blight on any party!’

He shot Sherbrooke another sly glance. ‘But
you’re
coming. Thought you might.’ He did not elaborate. There was no need.

An Admiralty car was waiting at the kerbside for them, and as they climbed into it a platoon of soldiers marched past. Sherbrooke saw that they were from the Free Polish Army. London was like that, full of uniforms, every colour, every nationality, every service. What must it be like for them, fighting for a homeland which was already occupied, and dominated by the enemy?

Stagg was lighting a cigar, while the Admiralty driver watched him covertly in the mirror.

‘Poles, eh?’ He puffed contentedly. ‘A right lot of bastards where women are concerned!’

They drove off, and Sherbrooke noticed that no words were exchanged between Stagg and the driver.
Maybe I’m being naive.
Stagg had quite a reputation with women himself, or had, when they had been lieutenants together.

Stagg remarked, ‘I kept the flat on. Useful if I’m in town. Can’t stand the hotels these days, full of shagged-out officers and moaning Americans.’ He laughed shortly. ‘It was my wife’s idea. One of her better ones.’

Familiar scenes were rolling past the smooth-running Humber, like old, pre-war postcards. Trafalgar Square, with pigeons everywhere; uniforms and more uniforms, soldiers with their girls, sailors watching a busker outside a theatre; Hyde Park Corner and the first evidence of bombing, a house completely gutted, a mere shell, with an A.F.S. water tank outside where nannies had once pushed their prams.

Stagg said, ‘Thank God, this part of London doesn’t change much!’

They approached and passed the Dorchester, aloof behind its own barricade of sandbags. A capital at war.

The car swooped into a side street and Stagg said, ‘Some have arrived early, I see.’ He chuckled. ‘That’ll give ’em a chance to talk about me behind my back!’ It seemed to amuse him.

They walked into a spacious entrance hall, with a uniformed porter who almost saluted when he saw them.

The flat was on the first floor, and Sherbrooke could feel his muscles tensing even before the door was opened. Voices, people he would not know. When would he get over it? When he had come out of hospital it had been like this, not wanting to see or speak to anybody, but knowing all the time it was his last chance, not to forget what had happened to him, but simply to survive it.

At first glance, the flat looked as huge as
Reliant
’s wardroom, and it seemed to be full of men and women, some in uniform, some not. There was obviously plenty to drink, and there would be food, too. Stagg had a lot of pull somewhere.

He recognized a couple of faces, and saw one bending to speak to an attractive Wren officer.
That’s Sherbrooke, Reliant’s captain.
Or perhaps,
the poor chap who lost his ship. Only eight picked up, you know.

He should accept it. It would never leave him.

Stagg had charged into the fray like his namesake, his arms waving, his grin like a beacon.

And then Sherbrooke saw her. She was standing with a tall naval officer, a captain: that must be Roger Thome, her boss.

Thome strode over and thrust out his hand. ‘You look well! Don’t suppose you remember me. I was your horrible first lieutenant in the old
Montrose
!’ He turned and grinned at the girl beside him. ‘Just a stroppy young subbie he was then! Look at him now, eh?’

Sherbrooke said carefully, ‘Yes, I remember
Montrose.
Just before I joined
Reliant
in the Med.’

Thorne made an extravagant gesture. ‘This is my assistant, Mrs Emma Meheux, of D.O.I.’ He frowned. ‘But you’ve met, haven’t you? I forgot!’

She held out her hand, and smiled. Her eyes said,
no, you didn’t forget.

‘It’s very good to see you again, Captain. We’ve been hearing some very nice things about you.’

‘Probably lies,’ he said. He watched her mouth, and the small pulse beating in her throat. She was ill at ease, perhaps unhappy at this arranged meeting.

Thome said, ‘Damned long ship, this one. I’ll get some service over here,’ and left them alone.

Sherbrooke said, ‘I’ve thought about you a lot, Emma. Wondered about you.’

She reached out impulsively and gripped his hand. ‘How was it . . . really?’

‘It could have been worse. Much worse.’

She smiled, but it did not change the expression in her eyes. ‘You’d say that anyway.’

‘And you?’

She shook her head with a little shrug, and he saw the long hair down her back. ‘No news.’ She was looking
past him. ‘How long will you be in London?’

‘Two days.’ He saw what he thought was disappointment in her face, or maybe he imagined it. Perhaps she was remembering the last time she had seen her husband.

Then she said, almost urgently, ‘I know it’s all secret, but you’re off again very soon, aren’t you?’ She saw him nod. ‘I think about you and your ship. I feel I know both of you.’ Her eyes flashed a warning. ‘
He’s
coming back.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Easy-going, most of the time.’

Sherbrooke said, ‘I didn’t know him all that well.
Horrible first lieutenant
or not, I can’t really remember him.’

She laughed, and the tension drained visibly from her face. ‘He’s as jealous as hell of you!’

Thorne was carrying a tray of glasses; there seemed to be about six of them.

‘Gin all round. Still, there’s nothing better here by the look of it.’

A woman’s voice said loudly, ‘Why, Mrs Meheux, here you are!’ and Stagg’s wife joined the group, staring keenly from face to face. ‘Well, this is quite a meeting place! I’m so glad you came.’ She looked up at Sherbrooke with a little, arch smile. ‘You’re making quite an impression on my husband, Guy. Don’t let him have it all his own way!’ She gave the girl another lingering glance. ‘Take good care of her, Captain Thorne, won’t you?’

Thorne gave a fierce grin. ‘I certainly will!’

Sherbrooke watched Stagg’s wife moving through the crowd to join her husband.

A lieutenant found Thorne and murmured something.

Thorne downed another gin and exclaimed, ‘Bloody hell, they never leave you alone! I’ll be back in a second.’

She said softly, ‘You’re hating this, aren’t you?’

‘I wanted to talk, be with you.’ Sherbrooke looked around, and she saw it in his eyes again.
Trapped.

The black-out shutters were up, and they had not even noticed. The room was becoming very stuffy and hot, and the food had still not made an appearance.

She looked at Sherbrooke with something like defiance, and said, ‘There’s not much at my place, but I can make you a sandwich. I have some Scotch, too – Sir Graham gave it to me for Christmas. I haven’t touched it.’

He took her wrist, but shielded her and the gesture from the others.

‘I would love that.’

‘But remember what we said. I don’t want to spoil it.’

He closed his fingers gently on her wrist. ‘I’ve only just found you. I don’t want to spoil a single moment of it.’

Stagg’s voice interrupted, ‘I don’t blame you.’ He grinned hugely at the girl. ‘See you tomorrow.’ He almost winked. ‘Remember the old ship’s motto, Guy!’

Heads turned to watch as they made for the door. His cap was lying with others on a table. Beside it was a telephone, and Sherbrooke glanced at the Mayfair number. Very posh, Petty Officer Long had said. It was the same one. This was the place where Jane Cavendish had answered his call.

She was saying, ‘What’s the motto? Tell me.’

‘“We will never give in.”’ He felt her slip her hand through his arm. ‘Don’t worry about it. He’s that kind of man.’

She thought of Olive Stagg’s assessing eyes, and Thorne.
With a few gins inside him
, she would never hear the last of it. People could be so cruel, and already had been, to her.

They found a taxi near the Dorchester.

The driver, who was towing an auxiliary fire pump behind
his taxi, regarded them without curiosity. ‘Chelsea, Squire? May ’ave to charge double fare if they needs me pump!’

They sat in the deepening shadows and held hands, like any sailor and his girl, Sherbrooke thought.

She whispered, ‘Please kiss me, Guy.’

Uncertain, nervous, afraid it might begin something that knew no rules, and which, like the mysterious minelayer, could destroy them both.

She withdrew, and he could taste the sweetness of her mouth on his.

She said, ‘I was thinking . . .’

The inside of the taxi lit up and Sherbrooke saw small pinpoints of shellfire, far away, probably in south London somewhere.

The cabbie swore to himself. ‘I’ll drop you in the King’s Road. Best I can do.’

They stood on the darkening pavement, and Sherbrooke heard the insistent drone of air raid sirens.

He gripped her arm. ‘I don’t like this, Emma.’ But when he looked down at her, she was laughing.

‘It’s always like
this
, Guy. It’s not as bad as it used to be, but they still sometimes have a go.’

She looked up and he saw the moon, very faintly above the river.

She said, ‘Bomber’s moon, that’s what they call it.’

‘I see.’ But he felt like some innocent recruit.

She guided him into a narrow street, and said, ‘It looks much nicer around here by daylight.’

A bell jangled, and a shop door opened and closed furtively.

She said, ‘Let’s try the off-licence. They might have some wine.’ He was aware of her sudden, delicious excitement, rather like a child’s. Perhaps they both were, for the moment . . .

There was a man in an apron standing behind the counter, chatting to a tall, heavily made-up girl, whom Glander, the master-at-arms, would probably describe as a torn. She looked round and glanced at the girl and the officer, and then ignored them.

The manager spread his hands. ‘Wine, lady? I’ll see what I can do, but you know how it is!’

She murmured to Sherbrooke, ‘Now he’ll strike a bargain.’ Then she stared at him, her eyes suddenly wide, frightened. ‘What is it?’

Sherbrooke wrapped his arms around her and pushed her into a corner.

‘
Get down!
’

That was all he had time for. Then the world exploded.

It was impossible to know how long it took for his senses to recover from the immediate blast. He was conscious of the pressure, his lungs unable to draw breath, and a total loss of balance. And yet he knew exactly where he was, and that he was holding her tightly in his arms although they were on their knees against some sort of wall, with dust, fragments of wood, and plaster falling all around them. The whole scene was made unreal and stark by the one remaining light bulb that had survived, even though its shade had been blown to pieces.

Then, as his hearing returned, Sherbrooke heard the sound of shattering glass, someone screaming and screaming like a tortured animal.

He held her face in his hands and used his sleeve to wipe some grit from her mouth, repeating her name over and over, although he did not realize he had spoken a word.

She opened her eyes and stared at him, the first shock giving way to terrible fear.

He said, ‘It’s all right, Emma. I’ve got you. I think it’s over.’

He looked past her and saw the cascade of broken glass, the shelves emptied by the bomb, if that was what it had been. There was no smell of drink, and he guessed that most of the bottles had been empty and for display only, due to the shortages the manager had mentioned. He saw the man lying face down on the floor, groping amongst the glass and scattered debris as though he were blind.

She whispered, ‘You’re filthy, Guy. There’s dirt all over you!’

He knew they were both near to breaking down. He said, ‘Can you move? Give me your hands. I’ll help you.’

They stood up together, their shoes slipping on splintered glass. There were voices now, the sound of a car engine, and the distant clamour of bells like those fitted to ambulances and police vehicles.