The Piper's Tune (49 page)

‘I asked our friend here,' Forbes said. ‘Didn't I, Geoffrey?'

Geoffrey Paget nodded, rather bleakly.

‘And he could hardly refuse,' Forbes said. ‘Could he?'

They were gathered on the pier above the submarine. She was already fuelled and the smell of oil hung heavy over the water. Four or five small craft flitted on the firth far away and the long, splinter-like shape of a paddle-wheeler, wafting blue smoke, passed across the narrow mouth of the Gareloch. It was quiet, very quiet in the sun-stunned morning light. Even the gulls were lazily propped on weedy posts or along the ridge of the gear-shed that backed the pier.

Outward, three or four hundred yards off, two small launches and the ugly bulk of the
Kettledrum
were easing into positions clear of the marker buoys, and most of the activity on the
Snark
was taking place within the hull.

The navy observers were not so much aloof as preoccupied. Divided by rank and station into three teams, each of which would conduct a series of specific tests and accurately record the results. Commander Coles, a former engineer and very important person, had chosen the
Kettledrum
as his vantage point. If he were sceptical about the
Snark'
s capabilities he gave no sign of it. He said little to any of the officers, not even to Geoffrey Paget who was an old adversary from the boardrooms of Whitehall.

The whiff of autocratic tensions and service politics was strong in the air, like the smell of baking seaweed, but Tom was oblivious to it. He experienced a flash of annoyance at Forbes's unexpected appearance, however, at his brother-in-law's gall in begging a trip in the Royal Navy's prize possession. It occurred to him that Forbes might have employed a form of blackmail to persuade Paget to invite him on board and – just before fear closed in again – wondered if Cissie's conjectures were correct and Lindsay, the model wife, really had embarked on an affair with the English officer.

Tom noticed the smirk on Forbes's lips, his swagger as he went towards the ladders. Then it was his turn to go forward and he became encased in icy fear again, cut off by the sure and certain knowledge that he would soon be dead and Cissie, poor Cissie, would be left to mourn alone.

He walked stiffly to the ladder and forced himself to descend.

There was no motion on the deck, not even tidal sway. The piles of the pier loomed above him, the water already deep. He pushed himself clumsily through the hatch, and looked up despairingly at the oval of sky above just before it vanished, sheared off by metal. Then he stopped breathing for a time, suspended, as he was ushered forward into the diving station. He was free to go where he wished, to take notes and make recordings against which the accuracy of the naval observers' reports could be checked. Arthur had already gone back into the engine-room and Forbes, trailing Geoffrey Paget like a fox, had vanished into the forward control-room. Sweating, Tom pressed himself against the ladder, unable to bring himself to move.

The
Snark
shuddered, the lights flickered, and the engines thundered.

Tom felt the pressure of sound, not water, pressing upon him. He had heard all this before, of course, had endured it with grim satisfaction while the craft had been tethered to the shore. But he was at sea now, or the next best thing, the Gareloch opening unseen around him.

He clung to the steel ladder and stared at the depth indicator over the crewman's shoulder. Sense told him it would be five or ten minutes before the
Snark
was ready to dive. At the moment she was running light, ballast tanks empty. First she would travel a short distance awash, the bridge lookout replaced by the periscope, then she would submerge to periscope depth and finally to full submersion and, with only the compass to hold her on course, would descend to a depth of sixty feet.

He tried to fix on that, on sixty feet.

The rating at the wheel tapped the gauge, turned and grinned at him. ‘Fine morning for a trip on the Skylark, sir?'

‘Yes,' Tom got out thickly. ‘V-very fine.'

‘Not a thing to worry about, sir. She's sweet as a nut, she is.'

The glass on the gauges was still unsmeared. Everything around him was shining and new, glossy with fresh paint. He tried to make himself listen to the engines, to interpret changes in pitch and tone as she picked up speed. He tried to visualise her route, the short, button-hooked shape of the cruising run, past familiar hills and friendly piers, but all he could think of were the depths beneath his feet, the dark and waiting depths. He was blanking out, not swooning, simply blanking out.

Geoffrey Paget came swarming up towards him, Forbes on his heels.

In spite of his height, the Lieutenant Commander moved with the grace of a tea-dancer, slipping past crew members at their stations.

Forbes was less nimble, less careful. He seemed almost to be scurrying, as if he had found his hole at last, a burrow-like tube narrow and straight enough to contain his ambition. He should, Tom thought, be fired out like a torpedo, sent back the way he had come to explode harmlessly on a distant shore, lost in a puff of smoke, or not go up at all, just lie there, a dud rusting on the shingle.

Geoffrey touched his shoulder. ‘All right, Tom?'

‘All right, thanks.'

The officer and his leech moved forward.

Tom knew that he should follow them, pretend to assist Arthur Franklin or at least observe the navy's observers. He could not move, though. He was limp with the effort of sustaining dread. He wanted nothing but to put the trial behind him. He heard the sound of voices crackling through the tubes, the scramble upstairs as the deck hamper was removed. He thought he smelled fresh air again as the hamper was dropped, then heard the clang of the conning tower and the squeak of the wheels and conduit valves as the
Snark
was finally sealed for submersion. He clung tightly to the ladder, watching the gauge.

‘First time under, sir?'

‘It – it is.'

‘You'll hardly notice a thing.'

He doubted that. He knew more about the
Snark
than any ordinary seaman, except the captain. What was disturbingly novel was the sensation of being carried underwater, the claustrophobic pressure of being taken down, deliberately, intentionally, voluntarily drowned. The crackle of voices, more distinct: a command. He glimpsed Paget and Forbes against a bulkhead ahead of him, the smooth broadcloth of a navy observer's uniform. Soon water would be allowed to pour into the ballast tanks and the greater part of the vessel's capacity to float would be destroyed.

She would, in effect, be sunk.

‘Here we go now, sir,' the sailor said, very quietly.

The man's voice was lost as the engines were switched over and a strange, cold, creaking closed around him, more sensation than sound. The arrow on the big, moon-faced dial began to ascend, counting off feet. The angle of the ladder altered. A hose behind him hissed. Trimming, she's being trimmed fore and aft, Tom told himself, ashamed of his incapacity, his crippled intelligence. Declination: two degrees. Declination: easing back to one and a quarter. He could still summon up figures and facts, the algebraic equations that had flickered off the point of his pencil in the drawing office at Aydon Road. Was she underwater yet? Was she groping forward under the surface of the loch? No, she was still gliding, gliding down on an almost imperceptible declivity.

Tom closed his eyes and swallowed dryly as the vessel that he had helped the Franklins build sank with hardly a trace.

*   *   *

‘Are you as concerned as I am, dear?' Cissie asked. ‘About the trials, I mean.'

‘I'm not concerned at all,' Lindsay said, truthfully.

‘Forbes won't be on board, of course.'

‘Knowing Forbes, he probably will be,' Lindsay said. ‘He went off early this morning with a smile on his face; very unusual, I assure you. I've a feeling he's hoping to persuade the powers-that-be to allow him to participate in one of the submergence tests.'

‘Why?'

‘He finds the prospect exciting.'

‘Exciting!' Cissie shook her head. ‘Tom's worried. Tom's frightened.'

‘Surely Tom doesn't consider the
Snark
unsafe?'

‘No, of course he doesn't consider her unsafe. It's just that he's been nursing this – what? – presentiment for weeks now. I think the delay in beginning the trials had something to do with it.'

‘The Navy Board caused the delay. The
Snark'
s been lying in Aydon Road for weeks while experts from the navy have been crawling all over her, suggesting “modifications”. No wonder Tom's nervous.'

‘I don't understand any of it,' said Cissie. ‘Tom doesn't talk much about his work and I feel it's intrusive to ask questions. I suppose shipbuilding's all anyone ever talks about in your house.'

‘There isn't much talk about anything in our house these days,' said Lindsay. ‘Aunt Kay has the unhappy knack of killing conversation.'

‘How long will she be with you?'

‘I have no idea,' said Lindsay. ‘According to Gowry she might not go back to Dublin at all.'

‘Really?' Cissie busied herself with the teapot, did the honours for her cousin, set the pot down again, lifted her cup in both hands and looked across the little table at Lindsay. She hesitated. ‘Do you think Kay's here to keep an eye on you, by any chance? To make sure you behave?'

‘Behave? What do you mean?'

‘Because of – you know.'

‘No, I do not know, Cissie. Explain yourself.'

‘I mean' – Cissie's plump cheeks glowed – ‘I mean, well, there have been rumours about you and, well, Lieutenant Commander Paget.'

‘Ah!' said Lindsay.

‘He's very keen on you, that much is obvious.'

‘He
is
keen on me,' Lindsay admitted.

‘And are you – you know, with him?'

‘I'm in love with him, if that's what you mean.'

‘Good Lord!'

‘Come now, Cissie, don't pretend you're shocked. You threw us together in the first place, if you recall, right here in this very room.'

‘I'm not taking the blame for…'

‘Blame? Who said anything about blame?'

‘Aren't you miserable?' Cissie blurted out.

‘Of course I'm not miserable,' Lindsay said.

‘Are you and he … Oh, no!' A pause: ‘
Are
you?'

‘Cissie, I'm married to Forbes McCulloch, in case you've forgotten.'

‘But you don't, you don't
belong
to him, do you?' Cissie said.

‘I most certainly do not “belong” to him,' Lindsay said. ‘But I do not belong to Geoffrey Paget either.'

‘I thought you said you loved him; Geoffrey, I mean.'

‘I do.'

‘But…'

‘He is not my lover, Cissie, if that's what you're driving at. He's not my lover and never will be.'

Flame-cheeked with embarrassment, Cissie set down her cup, and confessed: ‘That's what Tom said.'

‘Have Tom and you been discussing my private affairs?'

‘Well, it has been rather obvious, hasn't it?' Cissie settled in her chair, sensing that the awkward part of the conversation was behind her. ‘I mean, you've made no secret of your –
not
your affair; I don't know what to call it.'

‘Friendship.'

‘I thought you said it was love.'

‘Cissie, stop all this fiddle-faddle.'

‘Yes, I'm sorry. You're right, dear. Even if I am your cousin I've no right to pry into your aff—business. You thought you were in love with Forbes once, didn't you?'

‘So did you.'

‘I'm so glad I got over it.'

‘Do you still think I stole Forbes from you?' Lindsay asked.

‘Stole? No, not exactly. Forbes simply preferred you to me. I didn't have enough to offer him, I suppose. Look at me. I'm no oil-painting, am I? But, do you know, I'm rather glad I'm not? Tom likes me the way I am and I'm not liable to have handsome naval officers throwing themselves at
me.
'

‘What if one did?' said Lindsay.

‘I'd soon send him packing.'

‘Even if he loved you, or if you loved him?'

‘I can't imagine it,' Cissie said. ‘In any case I wouldn't let it happen. I wouldn't betray Tom, not for anyone.'

‘Yes,' Lindsay said, ‘but that's because you love Tom.'

‘I do,' said Cissie without irony or embarrassment. ‘I do, very much.'

Lindsay nodded. How could she grudge Cissie her happiness? Now and then, though, she regretted that she had not encouraged Tom Calder's interest; had, as it were, let him slip. She would not hurt her cousin for all the tea in China by bringing it up now. Besides, they had both moved on, had grown up. The selfish passion she had once felt for Forbes McCulloch had been partly competitive, genuine at the time but not enduring, the marriage itself less a mistake than a misjudgement.

Cissie, innocent and contented, would only be baffled by the nature of her relationship with Forbes, by its unrefined intimacy. Cissie could not possibly understand how she, Lindsay, could satisfy her sexual needs with one man while she professed to love another. It was, perhaps, the ultimate deceit, the ultimate revenge, though Lindsay did not regard it as such. What she did with her body was one thing, what she did with her heart quite another, which was too modern a concept for Cissie ever to grasp.

Cissie said, ‘You're not, I mean, you're not planning to do anything rash, Lindsay, are you?'

Lindsay guessed what was coming. ‘What, for instance?'

‘Like running off with Geoffrey Paget.'

Lindsay laughed. ‘Running off
where
with Geoffrey? To sea?'