Cal was using Walter as his alarm clock. If he said he’d be there at eight thirty, he would be. Cal would get a call from reception, on the dot. Walter would order a second breakfast on Cal’s room number and happily wait for him. When he awoke at nine, he knew something was wrong – but all he could do was wait. For once, he’d be up and shaved and Walter would have to forego a second breakfast at his expense. He listened to the news as he shaved. The Bismarck was still loose in the North Atlantic. The battle for Crete dragged on – the British were getting hammered. Ever inventive, the Germans had mounted an airborne invasion, floating their soldiers in on parachutes. Nothing like it had been seen in the history of warfare. On the first day the British had picked them off like pheasants driven towards their guns by beaters. But the Germans had soon got the hang of it – Crete was going to fall.
At ten he switched on the radio again in the easy hope of further developments. He’d missed the opening headline, and it was so hard to tell from the tones of a BBC announcer just what you were listening to – the good, the bad or the indifferent . . .
‘. . . at six a.m. this morning the Bismarck and the Prince Eugen were sighted in the Denmark Strait and engaged by His Majesty’s ships Hood and Prince of Wales. HMS Hood opened fire at 26,000 yards
Good God, that was the best part of fifteen miles.
‘. . . but failed to find the range of the German ships. HMS Hood was hit by a salvo from the Prince Eugen, and on returning fire the Bismarck too was hit. After several exchanges of fire, the Hood was hit amidships by a shell from the Bismarck, exploded and sank. It is believed the German shell penetrated the ship’s magazine. The search is now under way for survivors. HMS Prince of Wales withdrew from action after receiving several direct hits. There are reports of casualties.’
The understatement was staggering. Was it the Navy or the British? You can’t say nothing, at the same time you can hardly tell the truth, so you end up with the half-truth of unhysterical understatement that becomes a lie in itself. ‘There are reports of casualties.’ Too calm. It was a time to get hysterical. What casualties? Men blown apart? Men blinded and maimed? God, he’d hate to be British this morning. You’d have to be stoic this morning. To be British . . . and then Cal remembered where he’d seen the name Hood before. Two sailor caps hanging on the back of the kitchen door in the big basement at Jubilee Street. Walter Stilton’s boys – Kev and Trev – served on the Hood.
He wanted to call Walter. To telephone him. To tell him. He wanted to call Kitty. To tell her what? But he had neither of their numbers. They came to him. One by day and one by night. He was not in control of this. They were.
Patience. All his training had taught him that. He went down to the lobby at lunchtime. Good form had vanished into the occasion. A radio was stuck on one of the tables – half a dozen or so residents clustered round it. He knew the type. Old men – Claridge’s seemed half full of well-heeled widowers at the best of times, old buffers who’d never learnt how to open an egg and could not bear the fuss of a housekeeper. A certain type of old man who wouldn’t leave for the country when the bombs started to fall. Most likely this lot were old soldiers, veterans of the last German war, determined not to miss this one even if it meant staying through the Blitz.
‘Bloody hell,’ said an old boy with a pure white handlebar moustache. ‘Three? Three, out of all those men!’
He turned to Cal as he approached.
‘D’ye hear that, young man? Three survivors from the Hood!’
Three? Out of how many? What was a battleship’s crew these days? Eight hundred? A thousand? Fifteen hundred?
Cal didn’t ask. The broadcast switched to the weather reports. Somebody flicked it off and the ad hoc gathering of old men split up and headed for their separate tables. It must be a sign of shock for an Englishman not to want to hear the weather report, even in this embryonic summer of feeble sunshine and habitual drizzle.
Handlebar moustache was the only one left. He was sitting, head down, death-dreaming. He twitched, raised his eyes again and noticed that Cal was still there. For a second Cal wondered if he was going to be handed the ‘white feather’. The old man stuck out a hand.
‘Gresley,’ he said. ‘Ernest Gresley. Rorke’s Drift, Ladysmith, Mons. They retired me after Mons. Too old, they said.’
Cal shook the hand. There was a tacit invitation to join him. The old man was older than he thought. He’d stated his credentials, rattled off his resumé – and he must be eightyish to have seen Rorke’s Drift. Cal was in awe of the old boy. He was fascinated. This man had fought as a redcoat. The uniform had scarcely changed from the Battle of Long Island in 1776 to the Zulu Wars a hundred years later. Imagine being back in Washington and being able to say he’d met with a real redcoat.
But he had no idea what to say to this. Stating his own credentials was pointless. He’d encountered the enemy only once in his life – and that was last night. He could not hold his own with this. He couldn’t sit and make small talk with an old redcoat. It was an English day. Let them have their day. He knew it was shitty behaviour, but he muttered an ‘excuse me’ and left. An entire crew lost. Good God, they didn’t need his two cents’ worth.
He found himself in Soho – killing time. He sat in cafés, watched the English hunched over their newspapers, spread the width of tables, nicotined fingers stabbing down at the paper – the strategy of the Cafeteria Corps. After a couple of cafés he knew there was unanimity among the armchair warriors – we, it always was ‘we’, were going to get the Bismarck. The Earth was not big enough to hide her. He bought a copy of the Evening Herald’s early edition – the loss of the Hood was, it seemed, a body blow. If Dunkirk had been victory snatched from the jaws of defeat, then this was plainly irredeemable by propaganda. Fourteen hundred men had died on the pride of the fleet, and the Bismarck had steamed away from the battle. There was an article, an obituary for a ship, written by Alexei Troy – he’d heard that name before somewhere, hadn’t he? – recalling the twenty or more years in which the Hood had sailed the world as an ironic ambassador for peace; how the Hood had flown the flag in all the old ports of empire, and how he himself had seen the largest battleship afloat glide through the Golden Gate into San Francisco to the roaring cheers of an old enemy. And then how its first taste of action had been the unenviable, ignominious sinking of the French fleet at Oran after the surrender. Fourteen hundred men had gone down with the Hood. And with the British still in pursuit of the Bismarck, the death toll could not but rise.
Early in the evening, he was lying on his bed. The telephone rang and announced Sergeant Stilton. He could hardly believe this. What was Kitty thinking of? He found out soon enough.
She was in civvies, a plain black two-piece. Her face scraped white with misery. Eyes red and watery. A handbag, scarcely big enough to hold a handkerchief. He’d never seen her with a handbag before. He’d never seen her out of uniform before. He’d seen her strip it off ad libidinum – but she’d never arrived wearing anything else.
‘You gotta come home with me. I can’t stand it no more. I been there since breakfast. It’s driving me mad.’
‘Kitty – I can’t intrude on your family’s grief.’
‘Intrude ain’t got nothing to do with it. If you come they’ll pay attention to something outside their own misery. If something doesn’t snap ‘em to we’ll all drown. Just get your coat and come with me, please.’
‘Kitty – it’s been less than a day!’
‘It’s been thirteen bleedin’ hours. I counted every bleedin’ minute of ‘em. An’ I can’t take no more. Get yer coat!’
They caught a cab outside the hotel. Cal had half-wondered on the way down whether he’d find her motorbike outside – but she flagged a cab and said, ‘You’ll have to pay. I got no money.’ He was happy to pay. Anything was better than the thought of driving up to Jubilee Street on the back of that motorbike. It seemed an indignity pushed to an insult – an insult to Walter and Edna Stilton and their two dead boys.
‘Who’s there?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘At your parents’. I mean, is the whole family there?’
‘An’ the rest. Half the neighbours. Me mum’s sisters been there most of the day. The vicar been round. That was nice for me mum. Told her Kev and Trev was ‘eroes. Me dad wouldn’t talk to him. Atheist me dad is. Me mum cries all the time an’ me dad puffs on his pipe and says nothin’. Would you believe it, he’s been married to her for thirty-odd years an’ ‘e don’t know what to say to ‘er? Vera’s taken over the kitchen. She’s in her element. And she’s in control. Miss Greenlees makes a thousand pots of tea and keeps askin’ everyone if they want more. She’s shot through a fortnight’s tea ration in less than a day. If she asks me again I’ll clock ‘er one. They don’t need me. Really they don’t. They got all the fuss one family can ‘andle. But I can’t duck out of it. I only got out by tagging on to the aunts when they left. But I got to go back. They won’t let me duck out.’
‘So I have to duck in?’
‘You got it. That’s exactly what it is. I need you. Right now I need you.’
They were emotive words, uttered wholly without emotion. He was not a necessity in her life. He was a convenience.