LIEUTENANT PETER SPIERS closed the cabin door with his foot, without getting up from the table. It was hard to think, and impossible to shut out the noise. And this was only the first day. A handful of dockyard workers and shipwrights, but it felt and sounded like a small army. The wardroom was out of the question: a lot of the side had been cut or hacked away and it now lay open to the waterfront, and anybody who cared to stop and gape at the progress.
Here, at least, he was undisturbed, except by the noise. He wiped dust from the large envelope which contained the duties for the remaining watch on board, and looked around the cabin again. In some ways he knew it better than the wardroom. He had used it when the boat had commissioned, and for their first long passage to Gibraltar. There had been other officers aboard, specialists, in case any faults had gone undiscovered or unreported by the yard where 992 had first tasted salt water. It still looked unlived in, which somehow made it worse: there were no photographs or personal possessions. In the wardroom, Ainslie was always ready to show off his snapshots of his girlfriend, if she was still the same one …
Ainslie was in the chartroom right now, as far from the noise as he could get, and although it was noon, he was probably snatching an hour or so of sleep. They split the remaining shipboard duties between them; Ainslie had been quite agreeable. Nothing ever seemed to get on top of him.
Spiers yawned, and felt grit between his teeth. Kearton was ashore at some meeting; Garrick would be there, but others more senior would be running it.
He thought about the action again; it was never far from his mind. Moment by moment, if he allowed it. Trying to recall the timing, the sequences of waiting. And then the brutal reality. Sometimes he saw himself like a spectator, listening to his voice giving commands. Seeing Kearton, as if in the flashes of gunfire, then that final explosion. Spiers had been in action plenty of times. The memories often overlapped, and only the faces changed. They all went through it, but some you always remembered. He thought of Kearton, in control, even when things had seemed unpredictable. Would you ever really know him?
He stood up and stretched. Perhaps they had a tennis court or club in Malta, war or no war. Or was that, too, for senior officers only?
There was a party on tonight aboard 977, Geoff Mostyn’s boat, and there would be some hard drinking, unless there was another air raid …
He looked at his watch. Kearton would send word when he was free to return. In the meantime, all the non-duty hands were ashore on local leave. Despite all the restrictions, Kearton had managed to find time to fix that. They had been cheering about it, until somebody had quelled the noise with threats.
He glanced around the cabin again, and reached for his cap. Like listening to excuses at the defaulters’ table; he had done that often enough.
It was not envy. It was jealousy.
Most of 992’s libertymen got no further than the wet canteen which was within sight of the mooring-place. Sailors were like that, believing in the devil you know. It was often safer.
A few stayed alone. Knowing why, but trying to come to terms with it.
Leading Torpedoman Laurie Jay found himself at the far end of the jetty, beyond the pontoons. Deserted now, or merely avoided because of the din being made by the dockyard workers.
Jay had not intended to come here, just as, in his heart, he had known that he would. From the moment they had been guided to these moorings the first time by the pilot boat, he had accepted the inevitable.
There had been a submarine lying alongside, deserted, resting, only her ensign moving. And deadly.
The berth was empty now. The submarine had probably moved over the water to Manoel Island, north of Valletta, where they had their own workshops and headquarters, or maybe she was at sea again. Cruising at periscope-depth in search of a target, a victim. Or running deep, with all hell breaking loose above and around her.
He walked to the water’s edge and looked down at his reflection. Tall and smart in his best tiddley-suit, a pusser’s raincoat over his arm.
He could not get used to it. Accept it. It was like being somebody else, an imposter. Even now, if he passed another sailor with the coveted cap tally, H.M. Submarines, he somehow expected to know the face, or to be recognized. He was thirty years old, or would be in a few weeks’ time, and one of the oldest members of the crew, and in the flotilla. He should be over it, or have cracked up by now.
Everything was completely different. Which was why he had requested the transfer from submarines to Coastal Forces and M.T.B.s. Movement, light, noise. Able to breathe. To escape.
And just occasionally it hit back at you. In Gosport after he had completed his transfer, he had come face to face with a chief petty officer outside H.M.S. Dolphin, the submarine base. An old instructor, or a one-time shipmate. The link was always there.
But the name of his last submarine had been enough. H.M. Submarine Saturn. The look of pity, or the look that said, Why you, and not all those other poor blokes?
And again, recently, when they had altered course and risked their own safety to pick up the sole survivor from a U-Boat. He had gone below to see the survivor for himself. Wrapped in blankets, shivering uncontrollably as Pug Dawson was trying to pour some rum into him.
It had been like looking at himself.
He had heard that the skipper had been in the drink, and saved by the skin of his teeth. That might explain a lot, and why he had acted without hesitation.
He could remember Saturn’s commander quite clearly. Saying good-bye to his young wife within a few weeks of the war, which everybody knew was coming. She had been smiling, but dabbing her eyes at the same time. His son, a small child, laughing and trying to salute everybody.
Again, leading the wild cheering after their torpedoes had sent two freighters to the bottom.
And the last time, at the periscope and shouting, “Dive! Dive! Dive!” Like a scream. When it was already too late.
Another world. He could still strip or activate a torpedo in the dark, or with his eyes shut if necessary, but it was all so different.
He thought of one of the doctors at the naval hospital, so young that he must have been a medical student before he had put on a uniform. The red cloth between his two wavy stripes had obviously convinced him he was God.
“You’ll have to learn to adapt, Jay. Or you’ll go under!” He had not even recognized his own stupid joke.
“You’re a bit off the beaten track, chum! Nothin’ up here but the smell!”
Jay turned, caught unawares, but managed to smile. “Just stretching my legs.”
It was Glover, a tough, experienced seaman, and the gunlayer on their two-pounder. Nicknamed Cock on the messdeck, probably because he was a Londoner and a true Cockney, or maybe for more personal reasons. From some of the yarns Jay had heard around the messdeck table, Glover always enjoyed a run ashore in the fullest sense.
Cap at a rakish angle, and a bright new gunnery badge on his sleeve, Glover was most people’s idea of ‘Jack’.
Glover kicked some gravel into the water and grinned. “Thought you was thinkin’ of doin’ yerself in!”
Jay tensed, and allowed himself to relax.
He said, “Do you fancy a wet?”
Glover looked at him thoughtfully. He half wondered what he was doing here, and why he had caught up with Jay. They lived side by side on the messdeck: in M.T.B.s and most small craft you expected that. Jay was a leading hand, friendly enough when you could drag a few words out of him. But still a stranger.
Jay looked back along the jetty. Men were still working aboard and alongside their boat. Noise, questions that needed answering. The duty hands would deal with those.
He said, “The canteen? I’m not sure. I’ve heard …”
Glover shook his head.
“Nah! Full of bloody pongos and so-called sailors who’ve never been to sea since they joined!” He shrugged. “You’re a regular—you must ’ave bin ashore in Malta in the good old days?”
Jay looked toward the gates and the road.
“I was here a couple of years back. It’s all changed since then. The bombing. Shortages.” He could feel Glover’s eyes on him. Offering something. “If you like, we could take a look. There was one place …” He broke off. He was already out of his depth.
It made him think of that young doctor again, and he found that he was smiling in earnest.
“Might be lousy.”
Glover’s grin widened in anticipation.
“A few jars, maybe some music.” He gestured rudely with his forearm. “Maybe a bit of the other to round things off!”
They walked toward the gates where a regulating petty officer, one of the Jaunty’s little team, was already watching their approach.
Jay said, “We have to be back aboard by twenty-two hundred.”
Glover straightened his cap.
“No problem. On an’ off like a fly, that’s me!”
Jay pulled out his makeshift leave pass, and saw the R.P.O. glance from it to the anchor on his sleeve.
But he could still hear the pompous young doctor.
You’ll have to learn to adapt.
He wanted to laugh, for the first time since he could remember. But he knew he would be unable to stop.
The location chosen for the meeting with the V.I.P. from London was not what Kearton had expected. He thought of his father: it was more like one of the building sheds back at the boatyard, long and low, with one end just a few feet from the water.
Captain Garrick returned some salutes, and remarked, “You’d think Churchill himself was coming. Maybe he has!”
There were plenty of vehicles, too. Staff cars, and jeeps, and a larger van with scarlet-painted wings: the bomb-disposal squad. Not much evidence here of a fuel shortage.
Kearton glanced over at Garrick, fresh-faced and smartly turned-out, his fine cap at a slight angle. Alert and apparently untroubled. Only once, when a man in civilian clothes who was standing with two redcaps stepped forward to mutter something about Kearton’s identification, did he display any irritation.
“He’s with me, for God’s sake!” The man vanished.
Inside the building, it was already difficult to move. There seemed to be dozens of officers, blue and khaki, and even a sprinkling of R.A.F. types. Some were quite senior, managing to keep a little apart from the rest. Kearton saw the same loud-mouthed brigadier, but he was quiet this time, almost subdued in the presence of his superiors.
Chairs had been arranged in rows, according to rank, or the relevance of this meeting. Most of the chairs were labelled. Garrick’s was in the second row, and the one beside it was marked with a number.
Garrick waved casually to a couple of uniforms, and nodded to a few others, then he sat down, tapping the other chair. “Hope this doesn’t take all day. The gunners have their mess next door … This crowd would drink the place dry in no time!” He laughed and hung his arm over the chairback. Relaxed but in control: how most people saw him, remembered him.
Kearton looked down. There were still flakes of sawdust on his shoes. He wondered how Spiers was coping with the clutter and the noise, all the reminders of that swift, devastating encounter.
Someone cleared his throat noisily, like a signal, and everybody stood.
Sir Piers Lampton was slightly built, and flanked by the Chief of Staff and a major-general he looked almost frail. Very tanned, a neat military-style moustache white against his skin; voice clipped, incisive. He was well known on the wireless in times of crisis or triumph, and seen in the more popular newspapers, often depicted amongst uniforms of all three services, as well as with civilians at war. A rising star in government circles, it was said, especially by the press.
Kearton had already seen Max Hardy in the room, near the front. Security did not apply to him, apparently.
The Chief of Staff murmured a brief introduction and Lampton stood up. He leaned slightly forward, his knuckles touching but not resting on the prepared lectern.
He had come a long way, from London and, someone had mentioned, Cairo, but his well-cut grey suit was not even creased. He might have just stepped out of his office, or a club in Mayfair.
“Gentlemen.” He smiled. “You may smoke.”
He did not add, if you must, although Kearton had heard that on other occasions. Garrick had slipped one hand into his pocket. It stayed there.
Kearton recalled his delight when he had returned the lighter; it had been one of those rare moments.
“God, I thought I’d lost it! She’d never forgive me!”
Who, he wondered? Garrick was not married, although it had been a close thing once or twice, or so he had heard.
The clipped voice was saying, “Here, in the Mediterranean theatre of war, and now, for the first time, we can forget hopes and fears of survival.” He had paused, and his eyes, very pale against the tan, seemed to traverse the room. “Now, we can plan progression and attack.” He tapped the table very lightly with his knuckles. “The road to Europe, and victory!”
There was an outburst of clapping, tentative at first, and then deafening. Kearton heard Garrick murmur, “For Christ’s sake get on with it!” although he had seen him initiate the applause.
Lampton continued, and Max Hardy had opened a pad and was scribbling what might have been shorthand.
Lampton touched loosely on the campaign in North Africa, and the vital role of the Eighth Army, holding the Afrika Korps almost at the gates of Cairo before tipping the scales into a retreat. Somehow he managed to include all three services, even the Merchant Navy, when he mentioned the convoys, and Malta’s triumph over overwhelming odds. “There was a time when we believed, feared—”
Kearton did not hear the rest; Garrick had tapped his arm and was whispering loudly, “They thought Malta had had it, and would have left ’em to it!”
A colonel with red tabs on his tunic twisted round in his chair and glared.
Garrick muttered, “You, too!”
It was soon over, more applause, and the flash of a camera, although not Hardy’s. The Chief of Staff waited while a few introductions were made. The names were all on a typed list.
Lampton shook Garrick’s hand, looking steadily up at him.
“The First Lord speaks highly of you, Captain Garrick. When I return, I intend to speak with the P.M. at the earliest opportunity …” He smiled as the Chief of Staff murmured something. “Would that I had more time, Captain Garrick. However …”
Garrick said, “I’d like to introduce one of my team, Sir Piers. Lieutenant-Commander Kearton is very experienced in close action.”
Lampton smiled again, dismissing him.
“Another time, perhaps. I am already hard-pressed.” He held out his hand. “Remember, attack!”
The Chief of Staff said, “This way, Sir Piers. The Admiral, remember?” He looked quickly at Garrick. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Dick. Big day.”
He turned and steered Lampton past another group of officers.
Garrick picked up his cap angrily.
“Silly bastard! What does he mean, attack? What the hell does he imagine we’ve been doing?” The mood passed, and he was outwardly calm again; like a sudden squall, Kearton thought. “I’ll tell Brice to chase up the repair work. In the meantime, you’ll be on call for the new arrivals.” He looked at him sardonically. “And any sudden flap which may arise to disrupt Sir Piers’ vital visit!”
A lieutenant who had been hovering on the fringe of the V.I.P.s’ reception committee hurried through the departing uniforms.
Garrick recognized him.
“Changed his mind, has he?”
The lieutenant said formally, “The Chief of Staff sends his compliments, sir.”
Garrick gave a little, ironic smile.
“And wants me to join him and Sir Piers right away?”
He put on his cap, and adjusted it with care.
“One of these days …” He nodded to the lieutenant. “Be honoured!” And winked. “England expects!”
He was halfway to the door when he turned and looked back.
“Make contact with Brice for me and put him in the picture, will you? Don’t want him getting in a sweat. You can use my driver. It’ll save time.”
Kearton looked at his watch. Most of the others had already gone, glad it was over. Some were still loitering by the main entrance, undecided, or unwilling to return to duty. The senior officer of one of the established M.T.B. flotillas caught his eye and said, “Pity we can’t take him out on patrol with us. Might buck his ideas up a bit!”
Kearton thought he knew him. Another place, another time.
The driver had seen him coming and seemed unsurprised that he was alone, or by the change of orders. After Brice, what then? He was on stand-by, ‘on call’, as Garrick had said. The two motor gunboats would soon be here, and so, it seemed, would the convoy.
The car moved out into a street he did not recognize. A few potholes, otherwise it had been repaired very well. Only the buildings and the rubble along one side showed evidence of recent air raids.
He must send her a message, even if he was unable to speak to her.
Sliema, or anywhere else outside the base, was impossible. It had been casually said, but ‘on call’ meant just that.
She might be relieved, anyway. For both their sakes.
The car stopped and he saw the gates, now familiar, and some sailors thumbing a lift from an army truck. Two others, arm in arm, were returning from their run ashore, very much the worse for wear; they would find the steps a real challenge. He saw two naval patrolmen watching them, then purposely looking in the opposite direction. Neither the Jaunty nor his R.P.O.s would be so sympathetic.
The driver got out and studied the buildings as if to reassure himself, and Kearton realized that there had been no air raid sirens all day. But the battery of heavy anti-aircraft guns at the end of the road were fully manned and pointing at the sky, perhaps for Sir Piers Lampton’s benefit.
“I’m not sure how long this will take.”
The driver, a Royal Marine as usual, almost clicked his heels. “I’ll wait, sir!” He seemed surprised that he had been offered an apology.
The same entrance: a few ratings carrying messages, one with a tray of teacups. And the curving staircase he remembered.
The petty officer was a stranger, but he ushered him to the main office without hesitation.
Two other naval officers were already in the adjoining room, but neither of them moved or looked up as he walked past. They were apparently used to waiting.
Lieutenant-Commander Eric Brice looked tired, even rather dishevelled, but was obviously pleased to see him, and the warmth of his handshake was genuine.
“This is just great, Bob! After what you’ve been through, and having the Boss leaning on you, the V.I.P. thing must have just about put the lid on it.” He laughed, “But no, you’re bright as a button and ready for more!”
He sat back down at the desk. “Been like a bloody madhouse round here.” He ruffled some papers without looking at them. “The repair work should be finished in three days, four at the most. So in the meantime, while you’re on stand-by, I could fix you up with a bed over here.” He paused. “I wouldn’t advise it, though. There’s no escape in this place. Believe me, I know.”
The door opened an inch.
“They’ve gone, sir. I suggested they try again later.”
Brice said, “Good man. Not important, anyway.” Then, “Pass the word, Harris. I don’t want any incoming calls for ten minutes or so.” He looked at Kearton. “Probably all over at the V.I.P.s’ party at Government House anyway. There’ll be a few sore heads tomorrow, of all days!”
The door closed and he stood up abruptly, as if he were uncertain about something, perhaps the frustrated visitors. “There was a call earlier for you. I wasn’t sure if you would be here, or if the Boss had other ideas.” He gestured to the telephone. “She called before, I believe.”
He was on his way to the door.
“Remember this, Bob. The convoy is due to signal tomorrow.” He opened the door. “And it’s thanks to you.”
Kearton heard him speaking to someone in the other room, then there was silence. There must be over a hundred people working in the building, but even that seemed quiet.
He picked up the telephone, noticing that the ashtray was back in its place.
The operator answered immediately, as if he had been waiting for a call from this office. He did not ask him to repeat the number.
“Putting you through, sir.”
No clicks or voices this time. There was nothing.
“I’m sorry, sir. There seems no one …”
Then she said, “Hello? Hello, Bob—is that you?”
“Glynis. I just got your message. I wanted to explain.” He paused; she sounded out of breath, as if she had been running.
“I thought I’d missed you. That you might ring and wonder what had happened.” He heard the quick breathing. “I wanted you to know I was leaving. I was on the road when I heard the phone.” She gasped, “Out of condition!”
“Leaving?” Like a door slamming. “Is something wrong?”
“I knew you’d be busy.” She halted, but there were no warning clicks; the line remained silent. “I have to move some things from the old address.” She paused again, and he heard the breathing. “You know the one. It’s not so far … and I thought it might be easier for you. I’ll have some friends with me. Helping me … I’ll understand if you can’t make it.”
He thought he heard a car door, and the sound of an engine.
She had covered the mouthpiece but he heard her call, “I’m just coming!” Then, “Are you still there?”
The folded window blind rattled suddenly; the outer door had just opened.
He said, “Can I come now?” She would know exactly where he was.
“If you’re sure?” Then, “Yes. I’d like that.” Another pause. “A lot.”
The line was dead, or she had hung up, perhaps already regretting the impulse.
The outer office was still empty, but not for long. He could hear Brice holding the fort.
He was at the top of the stairs, comparing notes with one of his staff, but he waved a sheaf of papers and called, “All OK?”
Kearton looked down the stairs and saw the driver waiting patiently by the entrance. There were so many things he wanted to know, should have asked, if only to put her mind at rest.
“I hope so. Thanks for your help.”
Brice watched him leave.
For your sake, I hope so, too.
He pushed open the door; the telephone was ringing. Ten minutes exactly. Most people in Malta would give anything to be connected to a telephone, even an official line like this one. He thought of the voice, her voice. He had met her several times in one building or another, and had spoken to her once or twice; he had thought her attractive, but wary. She needed to be round here, married or not. He wondered if the Boss knew anything about it. No shred of gossip was likely to slip past Garrick.
Brice stifled a yawn. He felt as if he had not slept properly for weeks, but when Garrick eventually returned from the reception, the booze-up, as he had heard the yeoman of signals crudely call it, he would, as usual, want all the answers.
He reached for the telephone, pausing as he heard the car drive away, and was surprised to find that he cared.
“Operations. Brice here.”
“He’s on his way.” That was all, but it was enough. Garrick was returning earlier than anyone had expected. They could be in for some fireworks.
“Many thanks.” He put the phone down gently. It was good to have friends. Especially now.
Kearton climbed out of the car and stood for a few minutes to regain his sense of direction. It was all much as he remembered, but some effort had been made to tidy, if not actually repair, the damage. A few windows were boarded up; others were in use again. One roof was partly covered with a canvas tarpaulin, but the area adjoining it had been left jagged and open to the sky, a grim reminder.
There was fresh white paint around the checkpoint, and an imposing wall of sandbags where he had last seen debris.
Two armed patrolmen were observing from their little hut but made no attempt to question him. It jarred another memory: the car said it all.
There was a small van parked inside the barrier. Nothing else.
He said to the driver, “Can you wait?”
He nodded, surprised. “Forever, if need be, sir,” and indicated the checkpoint. “I can have a mug of tea, or somethin’.” Then he grinned rather shyly. “Cap’n Garrick said I was to wait, so ’ere I’ll be.”
“I’ll not be long.” The driver probably knew that, too.
One of the patrolmen threw up a smart salute as he approached.
“Can you find your way, sir?” He pointed at a pile of rubble. “It’s round the other side now, sir. New door since you last came.”
Kearton thanked him. The patrolman must have a very sharp memory to recall him, with all the comings and goings he must have to check throughout the course of a watch.
He saw the garden. There was a big crack in the wall, where someone had painted a number, for repair or demolition was anybody’s guess. Thousands of houses must have been destroyed or severely damaged during the siege. One more crack would hardly count.
The door opened and she was facing him. Surprised, one hand going to her hair, the other still clutching a sack. “It’s you! I didn’t want you to see me like this!”
He reached out.
“Here, let me. I’m early—I’m sorry.”
She held on to the sack. “It’s just junk. The last of it, I hope.” She threw it on to another pile. “And you’re not too early. Far from it.”
He took her hands, and held them. “You look wonderful.” She did not resist as he pulled her closer, and turned her face so that he could kiss her cheek.
She said, “Not too close. I’m all sweaty after that!” Then she smiled. “You know, you’re staring again.”
They both laughed and walked together into the house. She was wearing khaki slacks and a pale green shirt, and her eyes and her hair were exactly as he remembered.
“You’re worth staring at,” he said.
She turned, quite suddenly, serious again.
“Are you really all right, Bob?” There was a slight hesitation, as if hearing his name again, on her own lips, could still surprise her. “We heard so many stories—rumours—one begins to doubt everything.”
“I’m fine, Glynis. I had to see you. You see, I was worrying about you.” He felt her flinch as he held her, without moving, almost touching. She did not look up.
“Remember, I’m all sweaty …” He could see her lashes, lowered to shield her eyes. Feel her breathing.
She said quietly, “Please, Bob, I’m only human.” Then she lifted her chin, her eyes steady, determined. “And … I’ve got friends here.”
There was a thud in the adjoining room, where he had seen the bed, and he heard voices. His hand was still on her waist. She did not attempt to remove it; all he heard was one word, barely audible.
“Please.”
She moved away, and he saw the desk behind her. The same basket, empty now.
Then the room seemed crowded, although there were only two of them. Both Maltese, a dark-haired, athletic man with a ready smile which displayed a glinting gold tooth, and a pretty young woman, with the lilting laugh he had heard on the telephone. She wore a gold crucifix hanging between her breasts, and was heavily pregnant. They stood side by side, like children waiting to be introduced.
“Mr and Mrs Falzon.” It seemed to break the tension. “Joseph and Stella.” She took the man’s arm. “Joseph used to work with my father.”
He half bowed and displayed his gold tooth again.
“For your father, if you please!”
“And this is Lieutenant-Commander Kearton.” She smiled, but did not look at him. “Bob Kearton.”
Falzon gave a quick salute. “I know.” He took Kearton’s hand. “Much of my work is at, and for, the docks.” He nodded slowly, his eyes serious. “I hear many things which I am not supposed to hear.” He released his hand. “I am proud to know you, the man.” He did not smile now, but repeated, “Proud.”
Glynis said, “Sit down, Bob.” She had turned, so that her face was hidden from the others. “You must be feeling bushed, if half the rumours are true.” She laughed, but kept her eyes on him. “I can’t even offer you a proper drink. There’s only some sherry.” She walked to the desk, her hand resting briefly on his shoulder as she passed. “Just sit there and I’ll see what I can find. I’m so sorry—everything’s been in turmoil …” She broke off as he reached up and covered her hand with his own.
Falzon said, “There is a car outside.” His dark brows lifted only slightly. “You are still,” he hesitated, “still in demand?”
Kearton grinned.
“I shall have to ask my superiors before I know that!”
They all laughed, but he saw her eyes flicking around the room. Remembering? Regretting?
She said, “Joseph and Stella are sharing rooms with me. So many people have had to be rehoused or evacuated because of the bombing, and the shortages. But I shall still have my office.” Her hand moved slightly on the desk, near the telephone in its military-style container. “When I am in demand.” The others laughed again, but Kearton saw something else. Disappointment, pain? It was neither.
He said, “At least I’ll know my way next time.”
The girl named Stella had been stooping over a low cupboard, and straightened, gasping, “Almost forgot!” She held out a bottle triumphantly. “The sherry, Glynis! All is not lost!”
Her husband hurried over to steady her, wagging a finger as a warning. But Kearton was looking at Glynis as she whispered, “There will be a next time, Bob? So much I wanted to say. To know …”
“I’m the same.” She did not hear him.
“Two different lives, different worlds. I don’t want you to think I’m one of ‘those women’. It’s not like that.”
He reached out and took her wrist; she did not move or resist.
“I’d kill anyone who suggested it!”
Joseph Falzon was holding the bottle to the light.
“Too late. It has had its day, I fear.”
He almost dropped the bottle as someone rapped loudly on the door. Glynis reached it first. It was the Royal Marine.
She looked across the room, eyes in shadow, expression hidden.
“For you, Bob.”
The driver peered past her.
“Cap’n Garrick, sir. They say it’s important.”
Kearton had been expecting it. So had she. It made it no easier.
Important. Like that last time.
He waved to the others and turned away. She walked by his side, her hand through his arm, but hardly touching him.
He could see the two patrolmen by the hut now, and imagined what they were thinking. Bloody officers. It’s all right for some.
She said, “It’s not right. You’ve only just come back, and now they want you again. You’ve had no time …” She turned her head as the car started and began to manoeuvre away from a pile of debris. “If it hadn’t been for me, you wouldn’t have come all this way.”
They stood by the parked van, and as though it offered some illusion of privacy, he took her hands.
“If it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have wanted to come.” The hands tensed. “Next time …” He released her. “I’d better go. Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”
He turned toward the car, but she said, “Next time, Bob Kearton, call me again. Promise me.” And she was suddenly pressed against him, her words muffled against his shoulder. “So many things I wanted to say, to explain—and now there’s no time!” She pushed some hair from her forehead with the characteristic gesture, and gazed up: he could feel her trembling. “Kiss me.”
Not her cheek: her mouth, and then she walked away, toward the house, although she turned back for a moment. She might have waved, or been touching her hair. Or her eyes. Then she was gone.
He was in the car and it was moving before he could pull himself together. The usual barriers and arguments meant nothing. He was wrong, no matter what excuses his mind was offering.
He said, “Sorry to keep you hanging about.”
The driver shot him a quick glance in the mirror.
“No bother, sir. I know a short cut. If it’s still there!”
Kearton looked back, but other buildings had already moved out to hide the road and the checkpoint.
Next time. Like a hand reaching out.
He saw the glint of water, the motionless, moored ships. He could almost hear Garrick’s voice. Important.
He was ready.
Garrick did not look at his watch.
“You made it, then?”
By the time he had returned Kearton’s salute his mood had changed, and the famous grin was on display. “This can’t wait. Today, of all days!”
In his best uniform and apparently straight from the V.I.P reception, he was in stark contrast to the clutter of the repair yard and motionless derricks. A few workers in overalls had stopped to stare, and Garrick gave them a wave which was both casual and deliberate. There should have been a camera ready, Kearton thought.
Garrick was saying, “I’d just about had it up to the gills. All that guff about expense and the hard-working souls behind the scenes, for the war effort, and for us, for God’s sake! As if we were all sitting on our arses doing nothing!”
Kearton waited. He could smell the drink but Garrick was sober, if volatile. Sharp one minute, triumphant, even excited, the next.
“You know, some people, even senior ones, who ought to know better, have absolutely no idea what Special Operations can achieve. Have already achieved. I sometimes wonder!” He gestured toward a section of armed Royal Marines, and a rope barrier stretched across part of the yard. There was an officer in charge, a young, tough-looking lieutenant who marched toward them and saluted.
Garrick snapped, “He’s with me, damn it!” but relented immediately. “Show him your I.D., Bob. He’s only carrying out my orders.” He nodded to the lieutenant. “Well done.”
Kearton saw the smart salute. This was a restricted area; everybody knew that. So why all the extra security?
He realized that Garrick had stopped and was facing him, with his back toward one of the smaller repair basins.
He said, “For months, I’ve hoped and dreamed of something like this. I’ve had agents, good men, risking their lives to discover a flaw in the enemy’s defences.” He was standing on the very edge of the basin, like a showman. “Now, out of the blue, the Deep Blue, has come my reward!” He waited while Kearton stepped carefully to the edge. “Ran out of fuel, stopped and helpless, when along comes H.M. Minesweeper Gabriel. Now, see for yourself!”
The torpedo boat lay directly below him, held in place by wooden booms, and with mooring ropes and wires reaching out to keep her clear of the rough concrete. As if she were snared in a trap. Italian, about half the size of 992 and the other D-Boats, but with the clean, rakish lines he had never forgotten. Four torpedo tubes; usually able to carry a full cargo of depth-charges to fulfil her other role as an A/S vessel, and equipped with engines which could offer forty knots at the touch of a switch. He could hear them now in his mind. Like the ones they had encountered that night.
He had studied them often enough in the recognition manuals. Fast and deadly: the Italians had, after all, been the pioneers in this class. A crew of eighteen or nineteen. A command anyone would be proud of.
This one had run out of fuel. And out of luck.
“Did they put up a fight?” He could see no damage, or evidence of gunfire.
Garrick was beside him, staring down into the basin.
“Gabriel’s skipper fired a warning shot over them. That was enough. The Italian commander had other ideas, and tried to scuttle her.” He walked a few paces and gave his theatrical wave to one of the overalled figures who was using a flashlight over the side of a floating pontoon. The man grinned and responded with a thumbs-up.
Garrick exclaimed, “Bloody perfect!” He seemed to recall what he had been saying. “Gabriel’s skipper is a bit of a hard case. R.N.R., used to be a trawlerman before the war. He switched on his loud-hailer and told them the nearest land was a hundred miles away. It would be a long swim!”
“And the Italian changed his mind?”
Garrick moved away from the edge. “His crew did it for him!”
Kearton looked again at the dock. “Fuel would always be something of a risk. A range of three hundred miles, sometimes less, at twenty knots?”
Garrick nodded.
“Nothing wrong with your memory, Bob. So we’ll not take any chances. We may never get another opportunity like this. I told Gabriel’s skipper as much. It’s the catch of the season!”
He laughed abruptly at his own joke and walked back to the edge. “Not much time, and we can’t afford to waste it.” He was thinking aloud. “We’ll use one of your boats, to tow this one for part of the distance. Save fuel, and give us time to prepare.” He snapped his fingers. “Who d’you suggest?”
“John Stirling, in 986.” He felt numb, as if someone else was responding to Garrick’s clipped urgency. “He’s had a lot of experience in the Med.”
For a moment he thought Garrick had not heard him, or had already shifted to another tack. But he said, “The Canadians? If you say so. I’ll go along with that.”
Then he looked at his watch again. “I’ll leave you to deal with, er, Stirling. He’s on stand-by, so he should be on top line.” Then, very quietly, “By the way, the convoy will be arriving in the forenoon, a little later than planned. Had a spot of bother on the last leg, but nothing we can’t deal with at this end.”
Kearton said, “You’ll want the operation to begin before that, sir?”
Garrick smiled.
“I’ll have the full details sent to you immediately—or I’ll want to know the reason. No time to hang about. We can’t keep our ‘catch’ a secret for long. The prisoners, or someone spilling the beans over a few gins!” He straightened his cap. “Brice knows what to do. He’d better!”
Garrick’s new aide was hovering close by now, a wad of papers in his hand; the bomb-happy lieutenant had been replaced. Garrick had seen him, but seemed oddly unwilling to leave.
Then he said, “It’ll be your show, Bob. Another rendezvous. Not much warning—there never is. I’m depending on you. So be it!”
Kearton walked toward the barrier, and saw one of the guards waiting to pass him through.
An hour ago? Less? Next time … Right or wrong, she was with him now.