Killing Ground (39 page)

The lieutenant looked at him blandly. “Something wrong, Number One?”

Treherne glanced at the oilskinned figure leaning against the side and dropped his voice. “Just remember,
laddie,
but for him you'd have had your arse blown off just now.” He saw the sudden fear in Bizley's eyes. “So shove that in your pipe and smoke it!”

Surgeon-Lieutenant Moffatt was seated comfortably in the wardroom that evening when Treherne entered, shaking water off his clothing like a great dog. “I was thinking about our midshipman, Number One. He might beat this thing yet without being put ashore.” He looked up from an old magazine. “What's wrong?”

“You can forget about Midshipman Ross, Doc.” He glared at the pantry hatch. “Could I use a bloody drink just now? Trouble is, I don't think I'd stop, and it's still three days to the Liverpool Bar.” He sat down heavily. “I've been all over the ship, Doc. He's not aboard.” He saw the shocked surprise on Moffatt's face. “No point in going back to look for him. Anyway, we're ordered to rejoin the group at first light.”

“Have you told the Captain?”

“I'm about to.” He stared at the deckhead as if he could see the bridge from here. “That's just about all he needs!”

“Why did he do it? Suicide?” Moffatt's mind was rushing through the medical books. “Afraid of fighting it?”

The sea broke over the quarterdeck and sluiced away across the opposite side in a noisy torrent.

“Hear it, Doc? He lost the will to fight
that
anymore!” He slammed out of the wardroom and thought suddenly of Howard's words. What a bloody way to be remembered.

Next of kin have been informed.

D
AVID
Howard turned up the collar of his greatcoat and walked uncertainly out of the small railway station. The train had been unheated, and it seemed to have taken him all day to travel the sixty-odd miles north from Liverpool.

It was already dark and utterly alien, with a tangy edge to the air which he guessed came from the big lake.

He had no sense of place or direction, which was hardly surprising, and every muscle and bone was making a separate protest. Now that he was here he was not at all sure he was doing the right thing; maybe she had suggested it because she was sorry for him and nothing more.

He thought of the meeting he had had with Captain Vickers on the group's return from sea; the stern gravity in his tone which was new to Howard.

“You can't take everything on yourself, David. It has an effect on you, naturally, but I simply can't afford a weak link in my chain of command. You are my best commanding officer, your record second to none, and I'll make no secret of the fact I've suggested you soon get a lift up the ladder, a brass-hat, even if the war ends before you can confirm it. The fact is, David, it
happens.
It might be any one of us next time—you of all people should know that!”

Howard's mind had strayed to the song he had heard a seaman murmuring to himself.
We're here today and gone tomorrow.

He had answered, “I'm all right, sir. I won't let you down.”

“I'm depending on it.”

Had Vickers really understood, or would he insist on a transfer, or worse a shore job? Another bomb-happy veteran to flash his gongs at green recruits.

Vickers had continued relentlessly, “I was going to suggest a
bit of leave and put another commanding officer in your place.” He had held up a big hand to stifle his protest,
“Temporarily.
I knew you wouldn't care too much for that idea, eh?”

“She's my ship, sir.” He had even been surprised by the desperation in his own voice. “I'd not leave her like that.”

Vickers had nodded and relit his huge briar pipe. “I understand. I was like that myself. Once. Fact is,
Kinsale
is due for boiler-clean and radar check. I've already discussed it with the chief of staff.” His eyes had burned through the pipe smoke. “Would you trust your own Captain (D) in your place for say, ten days?”

Even as he had said it, Howard had known that the suggestion had no alternative which would leave him in command.

“Besides which, it might do your people good to be senior ship for the time being.” So it was settled.

He had telephoned Celia from the yard and had been astonished when she had mentioned the cottage owned by her friend's cousin. Her voice had been almost breathless, and it had been a bad line anyway. She had left him little time to discuss it, so intent was she on explaining about food rations, the destination, and how to get there.

She had ended by saying, “I do so want to see you. I nearly made myself sick, thinking about you. And don't worry about anything—just come to the cottage. I'll be there, waiting.”

He had wanted to protest, to remind her what people would think and say. She must have known his very thoughts. “Look, David, I don't care about anyone else. I just want us to be together, away from all the …” He had heard her catch her breath, “from all the waste.”

But that had been then. Maybe she was not so certain now.

Two shaded headlights came on from the car park and an ancient Wolseley rolled forward into the forecourt. A gangling figure in a loose raincoat climbed out and shook his hand.

“My name's Major, Tom Major. My cousin told me to brighten the place up a bit for you.” He heaved Howard's case and
respirator into the boot and added, “It's a mite cold for October, but you'll be snug enough. I use the place, or did, for the summers up here.” He turned and looked at Howard in the dim glow of the headlamps. “Welcome to Windermere.”

Howard wondered just how many other people knew. More nudges and winks. He settled in the seat and as an army car passed them he saw a sticker on the Wolseley's windscreen silhouetted in the headlights.
Doctor.
At best it explained where he got his petrol; at worst it sounded like some kind of plot, with Celia being used as the innocent instrument.

“Not far, bit off the beaten track. Where are you from—um, David?”

“Hampshire.”

The man grinned. “Naval family. It would be.”

Howard watched the black trees skimming past. No place for the amateur driver.

“Been at sea lately?”

Howard tried to relax. His cousin had not told him much then.

He answered, “Yes. Convoys mostly.” He didn't want to be drawn into conversation about it, but knew that the man was only trying to be friendly.

He said, “So you're a doctor?”

“At the moment I'm
the
doctor! The others are either in the forces or helping out at the hospitals. This suits me. Doesn't give me too much time to think.” He pulled over and stopped suddenly, the engine thrumming quietly in the darkness. “My brother was shot down over Germany, and now my young son can't wait to join up, as he puts it,
before the war's over.”
He turned and looked at him, but his face was hidden in shadow. “Tell me something. Is it all worth it?
Are
we going to win?”

Howard tried to smile, but thought of the one survivor from Marrack's ship, the one Moffatt had described as just a kid. “We have to.”

He wound down the window and felt the damp air on his
face. Not the bitter touch of the North Atlantic with its tang of salt and fuel oil; a gentle, fresh breeze. No wonder the doctor loved the place. “Otherwise all this is finished. It will never be the same again, but at least it will be
ours.”

His companion jammed the car in gear and drove on to the lane again; it was even narrower than the one in Hampshire where the bombs had come screaming down.

Eventually he said, “If you need me, my number's by the phone. I gather you've both been through it.” He shook his head. “I'm not prying, but I'm here if you want me.”

“Thanks. I'm sorry I've been a bit screwed-up.” He thought of Treherne on the bridge after Marrack's ship had vanished.
Don't you ever bloody well forget it!
He found time to wonder how he and Vickers would hit it off.

“Here it is. Watch out for the puddles. The lake's over there. You can see it in the daylight.”

They stood side by side looking at the cottage's square silhouette. There would be a moon soon, and Howard thought he saw smoke from the squat chimney stack.

Then the doctor held out his hand. “I can't lend you the car, but there are some old bikes in the shed.”

Howard watched him drive away, then turned and walked slowly towards the front door.

It opened wide even before he reached it and she was in his arms, her hair pressed against his cheek while she hugged him. Then she took his hand and helped him in with his case.

She had a great log fire roaring in the hearth, and the place had been made to look lived-in, pleased with itself, as the shadows danced and flickered around the room.

Howard slipped out of his greatcoat and tossed his cap on to a chair.

“Let me look at you.” She was dressed in a white, roll-necked sweater and a pair of sailor's bell-bottoms. He held her again and then they kissed for the first time. “I never thought it could happen. I shall probably find it's all a dream.”

She pinched his arm gently and said, “See? I'm real!”

Her eyes were very bright, her cheeks flushed, and not merely from the fire. He noticed too that she was wearing her wedding ring. She saw his glance and removed it—like a guilty child, he thought. But there was nothing childish in her voice as she looked at him and said, “I borrowed this one. It's not his. It's just that I've done a bit of shopping, and some of the people round here are—well, you know …” She held him again, but would not look at him. “We are alone here. This is our place for …”

“Nine whole days.” He tried not to think of
Gladiator
leaving harbour without him. Vickers on his chair; the old destroyer hand. Probably he'd be loving every minute, he thought; Vickers made no secret of the fact he regarded the more modern destroyers as a collection of gimmicks.

She led him to the table; even that she had decorated with some sort of autumnal fern. “Wine on ice—champagne, in fact …” She saw his disbelief. “There is
some
use in being an admiral's daughter!”

They embraced again, uncertainly, as if they did not know what was happening.

She said softly, “You can have a bath—it's all a bit Heath Robinson, but it works—then get out of uniform, and I'll give you a meal to remember.” She held him at arms' length, smiling at him; her heart was almost breaking at his expression. It was something like gratitude. Then she said, “Stop worrying about me for once, and think of yourself. I said I was bad luck for you, that I'd never go through all that again … I'm still not sure if I'll be able—”

He touched her mouth. “Don't, Celia. I love you. I
want
you, all for myself—no matter what.” She tried to release his grip but he said, “Just be with me.”

“I must put a log on the fire.” As she stooped down, her hair falling over her forehead, she said quietly, “You see, David, it came to me quite suddenly, that day when everything was so terrible for you and we were so far apart. I
want
you to love me.
I don't think it's wicked or pointless because of the war—it's something I must have known since that day when I made you talk about Jamie, with never a thought for what you had just been through.”

He knelt behind her and put his arms around her waist while they both stared into the blaze.

“I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't come.”

He caressed her and felt her muscles tense. “I'd never hurt you.”

She stood up and watched him as he took off his jacket and tossed it on to another chair.

She said, “You're not very tidy,
Commander.”

Their eyes met, and each knew there was no going back, even if they had wanted to.

She left the door ajar and walked across the adjoining room, her bare feet noiseless on the scattered rugs. Through a window she could see the stark outlines of trees, the bright moonlight making the sky almost white by comparison.

She moved slowly past the table where they had eaten and talked, each trying to find the other. The champagne bottle stood upended in its bucket, the doctor's ice long turned to tepid water. They had left more than they had eaten; nervousness and the need of one another had seen to that. She stood quite still in front of the great fireplace and held out her arms to the fallen embers which had so recently been a roaring mass of flames.

She had been nursing him against her body, calming him, after he had cried out. She had felt the pang of jealousy, until she had remembered that the name he had uttered, Ross, had been that of the missing midshipman and not some other girl's.

Was that what had really become of Jamie? The war already become too much and he had wanted to end it, in the only way he knew. She was surprised that she could think of it now, without guilt any more, without anything more than curiosity.

Jamie had often spoken of his previous squadron commander,
an ace, and all that went with it. He had been nicknamed Dicer because of the chances he took, and over the years of fighting he had shot down what must have amounted to a whole enemy squadron. Then, one day, flying alone in his beloved Spit, he had been attacked by a solitary Messerschmitt, and had crashed on a nearby beach. When the salvage team had arrived to clear the wreckage, they had discovered the firing button still at safe, the guns fully loaded. Was that how it happened? Too much flying, sated with all the individual killing. Like Dicer, perhaps Jamie had ended it in the way he had always expected to die, in close combat, but his death arranged by himself.

Without thought she took a shawl from the sofa and walked to the window and looked out at the arctic landscape. She could even see the same moonlight glittering on the lake through the trees.