The tall girl wasn’t here. On his way through to the bar he told himself by way of encouragement, ‘Not here yet.’ In any case, no reason she should have been – girls didn’t live in bars. On a Saturday night he might have stood an odds-on chance, but this was bloody Monday: she’d as likely as not be at home, washing her smalls or all that long hair. Glancing round again, seeing no familiar faces – except Manolo’s. Guitar music again: they had a radiogram at the back with an automatic record-changer, Cluny had told him – you could put eight records on it at each reload. Cluny must be at the back somewhere now. Doing that or – whatever…
Manolo, pouring drinks, smiled and called, ‘Welcome back, senhor!’, and Andy asked him – casual tone, as if it didn’t matter – ‘No Franco?’
Slow shake of the head, while keeping his eyes on what he was doing; Andy’s eye taken then by the little waitress with the hour-glass figure who’d rubbed herself against him last night. She gave him one of her smiles as she wiggled by with a tray of glasses. If it hadn’t been for the existence of that other one, might well have gone for her. Certainly no lack of encouragement – if encouragement had been needed, which as yet it never had been. And one wasn’t thirty yet: nine years and two days to go…
Manolo, having collected cash – dinheiro, one of a few words Andy had learnt last night – from those customers, was sliding this way: ‘Tonight senhor, no – no Franco. To my regret. Wanna beer?’
A reminder that what you were certain you could count on often didn’t happen: another of Andy’s father’s dicta. Not easy to take this philosophically, though: Cluny had undertaken to be here. And having told the story to the Old Man, who’d taken it seriously… ‘Beer, please. But Franco –’
‘Has gone Belo Horizonte – two hundred, two-fifty kilometres. Take his wife to her mother. Father is mine manager – some accident, gone hospital, old woman on this telephone scream blue murder.’ He’d pointed at it – telephone on the wall behind the bar. ‘Blue murder, that how you say it?’ Smiling, putting the beer glass and half-empty bottle on the bar in front of him, Andy delving for dinheiro – the equivalent of about a shilling, which at home would have got you two pints.
‘When d’you expect him back?’
‘Tomorrow.’ Hand raised, fingers crossed. Pale, soft-looking hand. ‘If is possible.’
‘This time tomorrow, I suppose.’
‘Si. But maybe – maybe – Wednesday? Excuse me…’
The place wasn’t crowded, but he was being kept busy, single-handed. Spotting some new arrival now, waving over people’s heads with one hand while dispensing cachaça with the other: ‘Oi, Mario!’
Mendoza: limping this way. In uniform, removing his cap and tucking it under his left arm; look of surprise as he spotted Andy. ‘My young frien’ from the PollyAnna!’ Tapping his forehead for memory: ‘I say to you come Manolo’s, uh?’
‘Came last night, Captain.’ Shaking hands and reminding him, ‘Holt, third mate. Buy you a beer, sir?’
One ‘sir’ would last out the next few minutes. The little guy was about twice his age, and master’s rank. Too old one might think to be sliding an arm round the even littler waitress – Manuela, her name was, and she could easily have been his daughter – and asking her if she’d missed him; she was saying yes in Portuguese, and he kissed her, nodded now to Andy: ‘Beer, yes, very nice…’
One beer would be his lot too, Andy thought, signalling the order to Manolo. Neither Cluny nor the tall girl being here, and anyway needing to save a few cruzeiros for his birthday. Cluny’s absence hit him again then: if he didn’t get back before Wednesday, and the Glauchau was to shove off between now and then, taking her secret with her…? The Old Man would get a signal off to the RN in that case, surely – deep-laden Hun motor vessel, possibly acting as support-ship to a raider: in any case a Hun, eligible for attention – whether or not port regulations or the Hague Convention permitted the use of W/T in a neutral harbour – wouldn’t he? Andy thought of asking Mendoza about this, but decided it might be better not to: it was skipper’s business – most certainly not any third mate’s – and the Old Man most likely knew all about it; meanwhile, best neither to be informed of prohibitions if they existed nor to mention that any such notion might be in the wind.
If it was. Josh Thornhill wasn’t a man to go off the deep end or do anything in a rush.
Mendoza had seized his arm, wanted to move to a table that had just been vacated by some Frenchmen. Andy paid for the beer, then followed him to where Manuela was clearing away glasses and cheroot ends. She was wearing a provocatively musky scent, he noticed. Mendoza commenting – having seen him enjoying a close look at her – ‘Girls very nice, eh?’
‘One in particular – saw her last night, not in here, outside, but she might have been in here – tall, long dark hair, really beautiful –’
‘You speak with her?’
‘No. She was with a commander or lieutenant-commander. Man about your size – could have been her husband, but –’
‘Capitao de Fregato is commander.’ Three fingers on his shoulder indicating the rank stripes on shoulder-boards. ‘Capitao de Corveta is more junior commander, or is also Capitao Tenente’ – two stripes – ‘how you say it – lieutenant-commander?’
‘The middle one, I’d guess. Junior commander. Man about your height.’
‘Da Sousa. Captain of minelayer Cabedelo.’ Wave of a hand roughly in the direction of Sao Joao; the minelayer was berthed just this side of it, of course. Mendoza smiling: ‘She not his wife. Wife live Rio de Janeiro. This one name Arabella. Ah, yes, beautiful, I loving her. Many, many loving her.’
‘Well – I’m not surprised…’
‘You like meet Arabella?’
‘Ah – yeah, some time. But –’
‘Tell Tonio. He fix.’
‘Just like that? Well… But listen –’
‘You like drink cachaça?’
‘In a minute maybe. But –’
‘Better now. Soon maybe get –’ hand movements meaning the place might get full suddenly. ‘Manuela!’
She brought them the cachaças. Mendoza had been saying that he’d piloted the French ore ship in this evening, berthed her on the south side of the river, a berth still under construction, Cais Atalaia. ‘Not so good. Railway line completed OK but for loading use ship’s gear and the – what you say –’
‘Buckets?’
‘Buckets.’ Indicating the size of them – huge, nothing like buckets in any conventional sense. Nodding. ‘Slow, eh? Not like where is PollyAnna. You going good, eh?’
In fact they’d finished number five hold’s first instalment and had moved the ship in mid-afternoon to make a start on four. Holds weren’t to be filled completely one by one; numbers five, four, three and two would be filled to about one-third of their eventual content, then number one half-filled; two, three and four then filled to capacity, and after that numbers five and one topped-up – so as to finish with the right trim and draft but without imposing undue stresses at earlier stages. And at this rate – with luck, including no breakdown of machinery – it looked as if loading might be completed some time on Saturday. Mendoza was pleased to hear this: Saturday, then, he’d be piloting her out. An afternoon job, he guessed; subject of course to tides, which was the crucial factor. Tomorrow, for instance, he’d be taking out the Volcao, but if she wasn’t ready to sail by about midday she’d have to wait until the tide turned at 1900.
‘Where’s she bound?’
‘Cayenne. French Guiana.’
‘And what about the German?’
‘Huh?’
He hadn’t meant to ask anything about the Glauchau – to mention her at all. But the question had tumbled out more or less naturally – this ship arriving, that one sailing… Anyway, he’d asked it now, and it seemed to have brought Mendoza up short; Andy adding – in for a penny, in for a pound – ‘Still waiting for engine spares, is she?’
Brown eyes on his and as alert as they’d ever been. A shrug, then: ‘I guess must be. But how I know?’
‘Only thought you might. You bring ’em in and take ’em out. And frankly, that awful damn music –’
‘I think is from Berlin. March music – Third Reich marching – yes? I don’t like, you don’t like – uh?’
‘Could do without it, sure.’ He picked up his glass. ‘Anyway, here’s how.’ High-proof cane spirit: and memories of the old Burntisland, whose junior engineer had brought a few bottles on board in Rio to celebrate his birthday, and Cadet Holt then aged seventeen had found himself still pie-eyed next day, which fortunately had been a Sunday.
Didn’t like the smell of it much. Rum, of course, although colourless, but by no means of the finest. ‘Cheers, Captain.’ Grimacing then: ‘Ugh…’ Mendoza began telling him, leaning closer after throwing a quick glance around, ‘We have ask him – Glauchau captain – please to switch out. Off, to switch. This is before departure of Capitao da Tovar.’
‘Port Captain?’
A nod. ‘Go Montevideo.’
‘And what happened?’
‘One hour, switch off. One hour. Capitao da Tovar departing’ – Mendoza miming the flipping-up of a switch – ‘again, boom-boom-boom!’
‘Like now. Ever since.’
‘Si. All days, all nights.’
‘No one else tried telling them to shut up?’
‘Port Captain not here, so –’
‘How about Caetano?’
Surprise again: ‘You know Mario Caetano?’
‘Met him here last night. Introduced himself as Acting Port Captain. He was with his wife and someone called Ferras.’
‘Mario Caetano – you see, port enlargement, for make new berths, roads also, soon bridges –’
‘Engineer?’
‘What he is doing – yes, engineer. Now Port Captain not here, sure, he’s boss. Ferras is work for Capitao da Tovar, but he and Caetano very – like this.’ Two fingers entwined.
‘Buddies.’
‘Buddies. Yes.’ Mendoza leant closer. ‘I give you secret. Caetano is Nazi. I think also Ferras. You see?’
‘When might Captain da Tovar get back?’
A shrug, shoulders rising almost to his ears. ‘I not know.’
‘He’s not a Nazi?’
‘Not! Good man, he! Very small number Nazis here. In Brazil only small number.’ Silent, wide-eyed, thinking about that. Then: ‘You like cachaça?’
‘Thanks, but wouldn’t want more than this.’
‘Like meet Arabella?’
‘Yes – yes, but not tonight…’
‘Morrow?’
‘Maybe Wednesday?’
On gangway watch were AB Parlance and OS Clover: two men on the job so one could stay put and the other take messages or whatever. Andy asked them how they liked the Germans’ music, and Parlance said he liked it fine, he’d been practising the goose-step. Clover, he added, had tried but made a hash of it, on account of his legs being so short.
‘Low centre of gravity might yet stand you in good stead, Clover. Old Man turned in, I suppose?’
They reckoned he had. But there was a light burning in the day cabin, and he’d asked to be informed of developments vis-à-vis Cluny, certainly should be told about Caetano being a Nazi. Andy went up, knocked, found the master sitting in his vest and underpants writing letters.
‘Come in. Shut the door. See your South African, did you?’
‘Afraid not, sir.’ He told him about Cluny having to go up-country, to the mining district where maybe their ore came from, and not being expected back before earliest tomorrow evening, possibly not until Wednesday.
‘If I had to bet, I’d say Wednesday.’
‘Looking on the dark side?’
He shook his head. ‘Two-fifty kilometres each way, Manolo said. And Cluny’s ma-in-law’s in a state, apparently. He won’t get away that easy.’
‘You’ve been learning the facts of life, Holt.’
‘Learnt one other thing, sir. Our pilot, Mendoza, was there, we had a drink together and he said the so-called Acting Port Captain – Caetano – is a Nazi. His real job is the engineering works, port development. And the one who was with him last night, name Ferras, is an assistant to the real Port Captain, name of da Tovar. I asked when he was due back, Mendoza didn’t know. He thinks Ferras is a Nazi too.’
‘Place seems thick with ’em.’
‘But when the second mate and I went ashore last night, sir, they were clapping us in the street – on account of the Graf Spee, apparently.’
‘Mendoza have anything to say about the Glauchau?’
‘Only he’d no idea how long she’ll be here. Or whether she really is waiting for spare parts. I asked him – on account of the brass bands, that we wouldn’t mind some peace and quiet – and he just didn’t know. Doesn’t like Huns or Nazis, I’m sure of that, but he’d have to be a bit cautious, I suppose.’
‘With Nazis running the port, dare say he would.’ Frowning, fingering an unlit pipe. Then nodding. ‘Right. Find Mr Halloran, ask him to step up here. You get your head down. For your private information, though – since it was you started this – we’ll keep a dark-hours watch on the Hun. One man, monkey island’d be the place, dusk to dawn, maybe two-hour watches, to let me know if she looks like weighing. Torches on the foc’sl, sort of thing. If she did, I’d put a message out, pronto. Otherwise, we’ll wait for your man to deliver whatever it is he’s got.’
Andy nodded. A third mate didn’t comment on his skipper’s decisions – not unless the skipper asked him to. Skipper adding, ‘To square your yardarm, Holt, I’ll tell Mr Halloran you have a contact ashore, you’re pursuing it on my authority and meanwhile I’ve told you mum’s the word.’
Halloran asked him – Tuesday morning – ‘Some person the Old Man says you’re in touch with – that the girl you were on about?’
‘Wasn’t exactly ‘on about’. Answered your question, was all. But no – no connection.’
Halloran would most likely have resented Andy’s having gone to the Old Man with his story, of course, would have maintained that he should have passed it through him. On the other hand, the Old Man had approved his having gone to him directly: it was that sort of business – master’s business – as he’d have made plain to the mate last night.
No mail. None yesterday and none today. Martensen came on board on Dundas Gore business in mid-forenoon, when the chute had been hard at work on numbers four and three holds, filling the warm air with choking grit as well as deafening everyone within a hundred yards of it, and he’d have brought mail if there’d been any. None came later in the day either, which left only Wednesday itself. In fact it wasn’t bothering him now: letters would have been written, would be in the care of GPO London somewhere or other, would eventually turn up, while on the Northern Patrol and at Helensburgh glasses would undoubtedly be raised to him. Letters might be at the bottom of the sea, of course; but they still existed or had existed, one required no proof of it, and in any case they were no more than tokens of the bonds of affection that existed between the four of them.
It might have come to matter less, he realised, through the Glauchau business taking up so much of one’s thinking. The ship herself still lying out there with her black-and-grey, orange-spotted reflection shimmering in the river’s moving mirror-surface; deserted-looking, except for an occasional sighting of groups of men promenading on her upper deck, sometimes individuals trotting round, taking exercise. They were never at it for long: one only heard that such phenomena had been spotted; otherwise the ship’s inert appearance was discounted only by the noise reasserting itself when the chute was stopped for a breather, and for longer than that in early afternoon when the PollyAnna’s gangway was slung up clear of the quay, her breast ropes and wire springs shifted under Batt Collins’ eagle eye, while the tug that had annoyed Mendoza nudged her astern in readiness for the loading of the next hold.
Loading wasn’t going badly at all. Elevator roaring and clattering, leaking steam, chute’s body shaking like a dinosaur with palsy, its spout clanging and convulsing. Fisher shouted – on the poop, where the gunlayer and trainer, ABs Bakewell and Timms, were doing a maintenance routine on the gun, greasing and polishing – ‘Hope the Germans like the concert we’re giving them, eh?’
Couldn’t see the Glauchau from here, since PollyAnna’s superstructure blocked the line of sight. Had only to go for’ard or up to bridge level, though, and there was the Hun quartermaster on his chair as ever, starboard side amidships. Nothing any different, except that an hour ago it had been noticed that there was no boat at the foot of the Jacob’s ladder. Captain gone ashore, maybe, or a party landed for fresh stores – such items as milk, fruit, eggs, fish.
Hun skipper visiting Caetano, maybe.
Andy yelled in Fisher’s ear, ‘You don’t mind taking the duty again tonight?’
‘No, that’s OK. Be ashore late, will you?’
A shrug. ‘No later than I can help.’
Cluny wasn’t there. Nor was anyone else he knew – except for Manolo. Whose name was not Manolo, Mendoza had informed him last night. Tonio had taken over the business from a fellow Spaniard called Manolo some years ago and retained the name for the sake of continuity; was quite happy that a lot of his customers thought it was his own.
‘Oi, Tonio.’ Andy had learnt this too from Mendoza; having heard the little waitress, Manuela, calling ‘Oi!’ to new arrivals, he’d asked him why she did it and had been told it meant ‘hello’.
He put the obvious question: ‘No Franco?’
Shake of the head. Seeing Tonio from certain angles and when he wasn’t smiling, one realised he had to be pushing fifty. He was opening a bottle that was either champagne or dressed up as such: passing it across the bar to Manuela – who a moment ago had blown Andy a kiss – and moving along this way now. ‘He return tomorrow evening. Was on telephone. Want beer?’
‘Cachaça, please.’
‘You learn our ways, eh?’
‘From Captain Mendoza. But just one, and I’ll be off.’
‘Cachaça, one.’ Bottle’s neck clinking on the small, thick tumbler. ‘You should try some time Caipirinchas.’
‘Say it again?’
‘Cachaça with lime juice, sugar, ice.’ Pointing with his head at a tall glass in a woman’s hand. ‘Tomorrow, uh? Want table reservation – your birthday, uh?’
‘Did I tell you that?’
‘You tell Franco. I think he tell me. Or I hear you tell him.’ He scooped Andy’s money off the counter’s glass top. ‘Thank you, senhor.’
‘I’m called Andy.’
‘Good.’ He tried it for pronunciation: nodded, finding it easy. ‘Want reserve table, Andy?’
‘I don’t think so. Don’t know what time or how many’ll come, anyway. It’ll be Dutch, by the way – not my party, all paying their rounds. And no food – sorry, but we’ll have had supper on board. You sure Franco’ll be here?’
‘Si. Sure. He swear it, he want be here. Excuse me…’
Manuela joined him then. She might have been waiting until her boss had moved away. ‘Oi, big boy.’
‘Oi, Manuela!’
‘How long you stay Vitoria?’
‘Just a few days. Come out with me one evening?’
She’d taken his free hand in both of hers, was kneading it. Dark eyes troubled, gazing up at him: ‘Somebody saying you like Arabella.’
‘Never met her. And I hadn’t met you the one time I did set eyes on her. Anyway –’
‘She very beautiful, eh?’
‘But you’re – you’re sensational, Manuela.’
‘Oh, you – you say –’
‘I mean it. Truly. You’re more than just attractive, you’re –’
‘What I?’
‘Just plain scrumptious!’
‘Scrumpuss nice to be?’
‘Why, certainly –’
‘Saturday I work here lunchtime, evening I am free. You like – Saturday – go ozzer place?’
‘I’d love it, but I don’t know I’ll still be here. It’s likely to be the day we’ll finish.’
‘Friday, finish here eleven.’
‘Well.’ She was facing him, arms round his waist, leaning back to look up at him, moving to the music’s beat. He said, ‘I could take all-night leave –’
‘Sure.’
‘How much?’
‘Huh?’
‘Quanto?’ Another of the half-dozen words he’d learnt. She glanced back over her shoulder, calling a snappy-sounding reply in Portuguese to some people who were clamouring for attention. Back to him then: ‘Not to ask quanto in this place, por favor.’ A husky laugh. ‘Only bring plenty.’
Wednesday 20 December – a date which for a long time had seemed a distant prospect but had now suddenly arrived. Twenty-one years since he’d come crapping and howling into the light of day. Actually he’d been born in the afternoon, so wasn’t quite there yet. Manuela though, Friday night: in the early light in his cabin she was smiling at him as she had been in Manolo’s, when it had occurred to him that he could just about have had her there and then. Would anyone have noticed? Yes – the bunch at that table who’d been getting ratty, demanding service – they would have. Given them food for thought, if nothing else. Manolo –Tonio, rather – had said to him sotto voce across the bar some minutes later – Andy having told him he’d be making tracks now – ‘Mario Mendoza is saying last night maybe you like fix up with Arabella. Most beautiful young lady in Brazil, uh? But two night now we not seeing her, I guess she plenty busy. Maybe tomorrow, but –’
‘Doesn’t matter. Truly doesn’t, Tonio. In fact I’d sooner you didn’t say anything if she does come in.’
Tonio had shown surprise. Andy actually surprising himself, too. Turning down that vision, that raving beauty – even if she were to be available? Tonio shrugging his thick shoulders: ‘OK. OK…’ Andy explaining to himself that having settled for Manuela he didn’t want to hurt her feelings; and that in any case, a bird in the hand – or virtually in hand…
Friday, he thought, turning out, realising that he had been looking forward to this birthday, was now more keenly anticipating Friday night. Liking her, as well as – all the rest of it… Shaving then, and showering, speculating as to how things might have gone by the time Friday came. No doubt at all they’d still be here – and for a day or more after that, since loading wasn’t likely to be completed before Saturday noon – afternoon, maybe – whereas the German might up-anchor at any time. That was one factor – inescapable, and nothing one could do about it if it happened – and the other was what Cluny had to tell him. The skipper was taking it seriously enough now – enough to have waited up for his return from shore last night. Andy had found him smoking a pipe on the gallery outside his cabin, leaning on the rail and gazing across the shine of dark water to where the Glauchau was virtually stern-on to them, her riding lights seemingly close together because of that angle, the nearer of them slightly to the right and lower than the one on her foremast. Lower by fifteen feet, for sure, in compliance with international regulations for a ship of her length lying at anchor: Messrs Janner and Gorst could have told one that – rattled a whole chapter of it off by heart.
‘Skipper, sir?’
‘Holt? Your man turn up?’
‘No, sir –’
‘Damn!’
‘He’d telephoned, though, and his boss is certain he’ll be there this time tomorrow.’
‘Then you will be too, I take it.’
‘Certainly will, sir.’
‘Reasonably sober even though it is your birthday. Reminds me – a drink in the day cabin at twelve noon. I’m inviting Halloran and chief to join us.’
‘Thank you very much, sir.’ A nod towards the German’s dark shape. ‘I was thinking, Hun crew must be going loco. No shore-leave, and that racket –’
‘Our lads wouldn’t put up with it, that’s for sure.’
Over breakfast, with the chute’s noise already at full blast, everyone was wishing him a happy birthday or many happy returns. Glauchau still there: tide flooding, so no view of either her watch on deck or the motorboat. Fisher said over his eggs and bacon – very small Brazilian eggs, you needed three or four of them – ‘This should be your lucky day for mail from home.’
‘Time we had a mail in any case.’
‘Say that again.’ Dewar, the senior wireless man – still pale and flabby-looking – ‘Last I heard, my sister was expecting a happy event. Imminent, mother said. That was five or six weeks ago!’
‘Is a war on, Bill.’
‘Take a chance on it, call him Uncle Bill.’
He liked that: chuckling, jowls wobbling. ‘Like to know what it was – is – that’s all.’
‘And how she is, you’re supposed to ask.’
‘Well, it’s her third, she’ll be all right.’ Glancing up as his number two, Starkadder, arrived. Circling the table, patting Andy on the shoulder: ‘Congratulations. I mean –’
‘I know what you mean, Frank. Thanks.’
‘Kind of dramatic news just came in, though.’
‘Well?’
‘The Graf Spee’s captain – Langsdorff – shot himself last night.’
‘Oh, Christ…’
‘In Buenos Aires. Wrapped himself in a German ensign, then – pow…’ He stooped to the pantry hatch: ‘Four eggs please, Jackson.’
Andy reported to the skipper in his day cabin at noon precisely and had a glass of gin and water in his hand by the time Halloran and the chief engineer arrived at a minute past the hour. The skipper poured more gins and proposed, loudly enough to be heard over the surrounding noise, Third Mate Andrew Holt’s long life, happiness and success; they all drank to it, wished him luck and so on. There was some talk then about the non-arrival of mail from home, and various theories to account for it – misdirection, enemy action, GPO making sure of their getting it by sending it to await the PollyAnna’s arrival at her next port of call.
‘Do we know where that’ll be, sir?’ Halloran, chancing his arm.
Hibbert observed, ‘Hun’s got his ensign at half-mast, I see.’
‘Has indeed.’ The skipper raised his glass. ‘No one else is obliged to drink this one, but – to that poor devil’s immortal soul.’
They all drank to it. Skipper then asking his engineer, ‘The Glauchau’s a motor vessel, diesel, twin screw I’d say, a smidgin bigger ’n PollyAnna – six-five GRT, say, dead-weight nine-five. What speed would you reckon?’
The big man ran a hand around his jaw. Small shrug. ‘Fifteen?’
‘All right. You won’t have heard about this, Chief, but these two have. If or when that bugger sails, I’ll be letting the powers that be know about her. Don’t know what ships the RN still have on this coast, and it’s anyone’s guess what course she’ll set, but guessing her speed near enough, they might catch her with a Vignot curve of search – uh?’
Halloran had nodded. ‘But I’d say fourteen knots – if I was asked.’
‘Know what a Vignot curve of search is, Holt?’
‘Heard of it, sir. Read of it, somewhere. Relies on the ship being hunted maintaining a straight course, though, doesn’t it?’
A nod. ‘As she would – at least for the first day or two, putting distance behind her. Least, I would. Then you might try to confuse the issue… Well – for a birthday treat, explain to the chief how a Vignot curve works?’
He’d done that and had a second gin, and that was it. Long day ahead, paperwork to be attended to, also inspection of the crew’s quarters aft, which for some reason was a third mate’s responsibility, although Halloran as first mate was required to visit every part of the ship every single day. Bosun and donkeyman in any case made damn sure those quarters – still known to their denizens as ‘the foc’sl’, although they were actually in the poop, mess room/recreation space entered directly from the well-deck; bunk-rooms below that at ’tween-deck level, washplace/heads right aft – were kept clean and in reasonably good order. But of course, if they’d not been up to their jobs…
Six p.m.: invited to join the rest of them in the saloon, to eat some of the cake which the cook, Will Bloom, had baked for him. Twenty-one candles on it, and to wash it down, cachaça provided by Halloran, who’d also arranged for the bosun to be present, Batt asking him after a series of toasts and a couple of slices of the cake whether he’d be so good as to visit the mess room, where a few of the lads would like to drink his health. Said lads being, it turned out, ABs Martin, Crown, Harkness, Shuttleworth, Parlance, Edmonds, Ingram and Bakewell, OSs Brooks, Morton, Sholl, Huggins, Cox and Gardner, and – backing up Batt Collins – the carpenter, Postlethwaite, and – late arrival, representing the Black Gang – Donkeyman Mick Smart. A flatteringly large turnout; Andy guessed that some of them might simply have been caught there in the mess room and stuck around because of the provision – source unknown – of yet more cachaça. The bosun must have organised it, maybe had a whip round, but there’d certainly been none in sight when he’d made his inspection earlier in the day. They offered him their good wishes, sang, ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’ and clapped him, after which he made a somewhat slurry speech beginning, ‘Slightly pissed fellow’, and thanking them for their goodwill and the booze.
Supper was cottage pie, and he needed it as blotting-paper. Had meant to follow the skipper’s advice more assiduously and lay off the hard stuff, but couldn’t be that stand-offish with chaps who were genuinely trying to be friendly – even though the cachaça did creep up on one.
Take it easy ashore tonight, for God’s sake. Drink in Manuela’s smiles, in place of more raw spirit. Watch it with her, too – knowing how one could be in that department after a few too many. An hour’s sleep wouldn’t have done him any harm, but he might well have overslept. He stood for a long time under a cold shower, therefore, then put on civvies and headed for the gangway, where Ingram asked him, ‘You all right, sir?’
‘Don’t I look all right?’
‘Well – look fine – considerin’ –’
‘G’night, then.’ Making it down to the quayside with some degree of care. He’d told the others – or some of them – that he’d see them there, at Manolo’s. Some might have gone ahead, others might have their heads down, having thought better of it. It hadn’t been an invitation, only a suggestion: he wouldn’t care if none of them showed up – make it easier in fact, sorting things out with Cluny.
‘Hey, Andy!’
Hurrying, half-running footsteps, then a hand clamping on his arm, and Don Fisher breathing hard, grinning at him. ‘Stealing a march on us, eh?’
Instinct told him that Ingram might well have sent his winger, Brooks, to suggest the third mate might be standing into danger. Bloody cheek, if so. Still – ‘Good to have your company, Don.’
‘The rest’ll be with us shortly. Thought you’d’ve got your head down.’
‘Might not have got it up again. Who else is coming?’
‘The cadets are certain starters. So are Shaw and Starkadder. I think Tom McAlan. Maybe others.’
‘Bless ’em. Bless ’em.’
‘You’re walking better now, anyway. Were weaving a bit. I expect it was the fresh air hit you. Shouldn’t have much more, though, if I were you –’
‘My twenty-first, God’s sake. Hard a-port now…’
Cluny was there, all right. From halfway up the room Andy waved to him and got an answering salute. Reached the bar then, with Fisher hissing into his right ear, ‘They have a soft drink they call Suco –’
‘And a better one called cachaça. Oi, Frank!’
‘Oi, to you.’ Quick grin. ‘With you in two shakes.’ They were busy: a lot of people, a lot of noise, twanging strings and a woman’s wailing, slightly Arab tones. Looking around: Manuela was there, either hadn’t seen him yet or was being run off her pretty little feet. But there… ‘Oh, Lord.’
‘What or who –’
‘That short-arse commander – in civvies tonight, but he was the one had Arabella in tow out there. Sunday night – that tall, lovely girl?’
‘The one you were going ape about. Andy, why more cachaça, why not –’
‘Randy little sod’s waiting for her. Maybe she’s stood him up. Oi, Manuela!’
‘Oi, big boy!’
He put his arm round her. ‘Don, this is Manuela.’
‘We met, I think – Sunday night?’
‘Oi, Don.’
‘She’s the love of my life, you can forget that other one.’
‘Ozzer come soon, big boy, see you can forgetting her!’
‘Watch me. Just watch me!’
‘Sooner have a fast word, man.’ Frank Cluny. ‘While we can?’
He nodded, releasing Manuela. ‘Sooner the better. How’s your father-in-law?’
‘What do you care? Oh. Well – he’ll live. Here – tell you about the trip.’ To Fisher, ‘Excuse us, one minute?’ Then to Manuela in a sharper tone, ‘Didn’t you notice, this is a hungry, thirsty crowd. Andy – sorry I had to duck out on you, Monday. Name is Andy, isn’t it? Damn, there’s bloody Ferras now…’
The Nazi, stopping to talk to the minelayer’s skipper, Arabella’s half-pint-sized suitor. Ferras with his back this way, fortunately. Cluny checked that he and Andy had space around them, and began talking fast. ‘Listen. About the Glauchau. Other guy isn’t here – the guy who told me. He’s sort of a runner for a joint called Casa Colorada – brothel, worth steering clear of, girls there’ve been known to have the clap. Ferras sent him out to the Glauchau reckoning they’d like to have whores visit – what with no shore-leave being granted. Well, Gomez saw with his own eyes – and heard – where the guards sit now, after starboard corner of number three – small hatchway with a grating there, looks like a ventilator but it’s a hatch down into the ’tween-decks. They got prisoners in there – Merchant Navy guys. Now for Christ’s sake don’t let on you heard it from me; I got to live here, man – accent on live – OK?’
Turning away to rejoin Tonio, who was making it plain he needed help. Andy near-stunned – sober – seeing Arabella come sweeping in and the little commander jumping up; Ferras too, opening his arms to her. She was truly something out of this world – but as far as Andy was concerned a long way out of it, remote from anything that mattered now. To his surprise Cluny had turned back, grabbed his arm: ‘They paid Gomez to keep his mouth shut, and Ferras threatened him – Know what’s good for you, bastard, don’t want to wind up drowned – you and them?’
‘Them meaning the prisoners –’
‘Like kill him and destroy the evidence.’
‘But he still told you –’
‘I know. Funny. Except he does tell me his troubles. Drinks like a fish and queer as a fucking coot but we get on, some reason. What d’you want – cachaça?’