Outside the submarine, a widening band of green weed along the hull water-line showed the effects of the work being done by the Chief Stoker and his party of stokers who were pumping all remaining surplus liquids into lighters. This too was a necessary operation before a refit (though it corresponded not so much to an emetic as to an enema).
As every stowage space, locker and corner of the submarine was cleared, articles began to come to light which had long been thought irretrievably lost. Gavin was embarrassed by the return of a sextant box which had been missing for more than a year and which he had testified, over his signature, had been lost overboard one particularly dark and stormy night off Ushant. Ollie discovered an electric hand drill which he swore fiercely had been dropped down an inaccessible bilge one particularly dark and stormy night off Ushant. The Coxswain came across a case of tinned meat which he had long since written off as spoiled by the ship’s rolling one particularly dark and stormy night off Ushant. The Chef recovered his favourite knife-sharpener - lost on commissioning day. The Captain was handed his wife’s photograph, extracted from behind his cabin desk; the loss of the photograph had caused Broody more anguish and brought him under graver suspicion than any other single event of the commission. A hundred different articles emerged whose loss had been mourned over, denied, or carefully concealed. By six o’clock that evening
Seahorse
was only a wraith of the submarine she had been; she had been reduced to a shell, cold, already filthy, and inhospitable.
Wilfred, Gavin, and most of the ship’s company left by the seven o’clock train, some to courses, some to join other submarines immediately and some to embarkation leave; with them went the last of
Seahorse
’s corporate spirit. Ollie and Dagwood carried their bags over to the Northern Steam Hotel. Broody, who was not travelling until midnight, joined them for supper.
Mr Tybalt had not over-estimated the Northern Steam Hotel’s attractions. Broody and his two remaining officers gloomily drank pints of beer in a bare bar with a tiled floor. Between rounds the barmaid sluiced the floor, and their shoes, with a wet mop. There were no other customers. Afterwards, they ate supper of tomato soup, fried cod and chips, and bread and butter in a barrack-like dining-room next to the bar. They sat at a centre table and were served by a waitress who brought their food as though their presence was a conspiracy to prevent her going home. Four commercial travellers, one in each corner of the room, eyed Broody and his small party covertly from behind their evening newspapers. A moribund fire flickered in a miniature grate. There was no coffee, only tea.
‘This is the way it always ends,’ Broody observed, moodily. ‘Not with a bang but a whimper.’ He sipped his tea despairingly, and shuddered. He put the cup down. ‘It’s no use. I can’t drink it. I
cannot
drink tea after dark.’
‘It’s a sure sign that you’re in a barbarian land, sir,’ said Dagwood. ‘When they give you your evening meal about three hours after lunch.’
‘There speaks the bloody Londoner,’ said Ollie scornfully. ‘West of the White City the dark continent begins.’
‘. . . The anthropophagi and the men with heads under their armpits,’ added Dagwood.
Broody noticed that two of the commercial travellers were rustling their newspapers. Their glances, if cool before, were now actively hostile.
‘Of course,’ he said, in a loud resounding shout, ‘the custom of High Tea goes back to the days when the Picts and the Scots were being attacked by the Roman Legions. They had to cook their evening meal before it got dark so the legionaries couldn’t see the camp fires!’
The newspapers were rustling in all four corners of the dining-room. Dagwood noticed them.
‘Julius Caesar said that all the country north of a line drawn between Start Point and Flamborough Head was inhabited by barbarians whom neither gods nor men could favour,’ he said (making the quotation up as he went along). ‘Start Point to Flamborough Head,’ he repeated dogmatically.
‘I reckon Hadrian had the right idea,’ said Ollie, twisting the knife.
‘He even went as far as dividing Yorkshire into three parts, like Gaul,’ Dagwood went on. ‘Even now they’re still called the North, East and West Ridings.’
The newspapers had stopped rustling. Dagwood’s voice rang out in an ominously silent room.
‘Hey steady Dagwood,’ Ollie murmured cautiously. ‘We’ll be having a racial riot on our hands.’
At that, the four commercial travellers rose as one man, folded their newspapers and made for the door. One of them half-paused by Broody’s table and then walked out. They heard the phrase floating back through the doorway, faint but clear.
‘Bloody foreigners.’
‘Exit: pursued by a bear,’ said Dagwood. ‘Well, do we stay in the Waldorf-Astoria here, or do we try the bright lights of Oozemouth, sir?’
‘I can’t think which would be worse,’ Broody said, despondently.
‘If the rest of Oozemouth’s like this bloody place we might as well stay where we are,’ said Ollie.
Their dilemma was solved by the appearance of The Bodger. He seemed to bring with him a breath of hope, of renewed optimism. Their eyes brightened at the sight of him.
‘Sorry to leave you all like that,’ he said, breezily. ‘My wife and I had to go to a dreadful cocktail party at the Swedish Consulate and I’ve only just managed to get away. What are you all doing now?’
‘Nothing, except quietly dying in our socks,’ replied Broody.
‘I know a quiet little pub down by the river. How about a few glasses?’
The Bodger drove rapidly and unhesitatingly through several side streets, crossed a bridge over a railway, passed a stretch of waste ground littered with bottles and the rusting bodies of old cars, and turned along a road which ran by the river. The others began to wonder to what sort of pub The Bodger was taking them. Dagwood rubbed the mist off the car window and stared out.
‘Proper Fagin country,’ he muttered.
‘This is about the best pub in the whole of Oozemouth,’ The Bodger explained. ‘I nearly always go there at lunchtime.’
The Bodger sniffed and drove faster, as though his destination was already extending welcoming wisps of warmth and whisky. Dagwood was just thinking of Mole guiding Rat towards Mole End when The Bodger turned sharply right, just as Mole had suddenly dived down his hole, into a small cul-de-sac.
At the far end, about fifty yards back from the street, they could see two brightly-lit windows and a lighted sign: ‘The Smoking Dutchman.’
‘Here we are! ‘ cried The .Bodger. He leapt from the car and galloped towards the door. The others followed him through the doorway and became aware of the warmth of an immense log fire, rows of gleaming glasses, the nutty smell of beer, the landlord’s green velvet waistcoat and the landlord’s voice saying, ‘Good evening, Commander! ‘
Dagwood would have been hard put to it to define what he meant by a real, warm-hearted pub, but he knew one when he saw it. ‘The Smoking Dutchman’ had it - that magic quality which transformed a public house from a mere structure containing beer and spirits into a rendezvous, a club and a refuge. ‘The Smokers’ was a delicious self- contained world. It was a place to take troubles to and forget them. Once through the door, Broody and his officers forgot the driving rain in the streets outside, the horrors of the Northern Steam Hotel and the whole appalling grey city of Oozemouth.
The floor was made of scrubbed red bricks, laid on end, with a large white sheepskin rug in the middle of the room. The fireplace took up the whole of one wall and there were two wooden seats in the corners on either side of the fire. The chimney-piece was stacked with assorted bric-a-brac which had accumulated there over the years. There was a square clock in a varnished case; a blue china pot containing coloured wooden tapers; a curious potato which someone had given button eyes and matchstick lips; a stuffed owl in a glass cupola; a collecting box and a tray of paper flags; a round Victorian glass paperweight; a miniature cactus in a pot; and a carved conch shell with a picture of the Great Iron Bridge painted inside it. Above this debris was a watercolour, probably by a customer, of Oozemouth Harbour and above that again a printed notice: ‘We have an arrangement with the Bank. We don’t cash cheques and they don’t serve beer.’ The walls were panelled in dark wood but the panelling was almost completely hidden by two oil paintings of full-rigged East Indiamen, a dart-board, dog-eared election placards, notices of past by-elections, posters for race meetings and boxing matches, playbills for the local cinemas, an advertisement for an amateur performance of ‘Private Lives,’ and a calendar of a nude blonde stretched out on a red rug, on which someone had scrawled ‘Daphne, after closing time.’
The bar itself was set at convenient elbow height and was made of slabs of black marble so cunningly dovetailed that it required a regular customer of many years’ close acquaintance to detect the joints. A brass footrail ran the length of the bar and upon it The Bodger was already conserving shoe leather and chatting to the landlord.
‘Guv, some friends of mine,’ he was saying. ‘They’re from
Seahorse
, the submarine that came in here today.’
Guv nodded. ‘Good to have the Navy back again,’ he said. ‘We’ve missed you, and no mistake. On VJ night the Navy drank two hundred quids’ worth of beer in this bar. Always used to have the Navy in this bar.’ Guv pointed to a long row of ships’ crests above the mirror at the back of the bar. ‘Mind you, they broke thirty quids’ worth of glasses the same night. But it seemed like the very next day they were gone and we’ve never seen ‘em since.’ Guv shook his head. ‘Those were the days and no mistake.’
‘Never mind, you’ve got us now,’ said Broody.
‘That’s true, sir. What’ll it be?’
‘How about it, men? Best bitter?’
‘Seeing what a dirty evening it is, sir, how about four of Daphne’s, just to start off with?’
‘Of course!’ cried The Bodger. ‘Four of Daphne’s.’
‘Hello, love,’ said Daphne, appearing behind the bar. Daphne was the kind of barmaid a man would trek many leagues across a waterless desert to rest his eyes on. She might have sat for Rubens. Her buttocks were poems (‘Like tea- cosies’ The Bodger once said). Her figure might have inspired the Song of Solomon. (‘Thy navel is like a round goblet, which wanteth not liquor; thy belly is like a heap of wheat set about with lilies.’) The slope of her bosom, marginally contained by a black dress scalloped deep and low in front, was as refreshing to the eye as a foaming waterfall in the Sahara. The most hardened mild-and-bitter drinkers were sometimes moved to ask for a glass of lager because it was kept on the bottom shelf below the bar and Daphne had to bend down to get it.
Daphne came round from behind the bar and gave The Bodger a comprehensive kiss. The black dress creaked against The Bodger’s chest.
‘It’s me birthday, love,’ she said.
The Bodger, who had dropped back a step during the embrace, blushed and said: ‘It seems a pity it only comes once a year.’
‘And then only for me regular customers, love. You just wait a minute and I’ll mix you all something to warm ye. Won’t be a minute.’
Dagwood and Ollie watched this small comedy with interest.
‘It’s what I’ve always thought, sir,’ said Dagwood, guilelessly. ‘If you want a good run ashore, always follow the married men and the padre!’
‘Just watch it, young Dagwood,’ said The Bodger, sternly. ‘There’s many a good man married a barmaid, let me tell you. They make splendid wives.’
‘All, there I disagree, sir,’ said Guv. ‘A real barmaid’ll never make you a good wife unless you let her keep a bar. Customers are always asking me when I’m going to marry Daphne and I always say no wife of mine will serve behind a bar. Daphne’s a
proper
barmaid, you understand, it’s born in t’blood with her and she’ll never be happy anywhere else. Besides, she is married. She was away for two years and then she comes back sudden one day and asks for her job back. Said she couldn’t stand it. Said she missed the company.’
‘What was that, Guv?’ Daphne asked, returning to the bar carrying a tray with four steaming tankards on it. ‘What were you saying?’
Dagwood leapt in with both feet. ‘We were debating whether this house prefers a white woman on black sheets to a black woman on white sheets.’
Daphne set down the tray. ‘If ye haven’t made up yer mind yet, lad,’ she retorted, ‘yer never will.’ She looked Dagwood up and down. ‘I’ll take ye on, love. Winner take all!’ Dagwood scowled, while the others all bellowed with laughter. Daphne possessed that unabashed knock-down kind of repartee which always disconcerted him. He had met it before in fishmongers’ wives, bus conductresses and sometimes in school teachers.
‘Never mind, love,’ Daphne said, kindly. ‘Here’s your drink.’
Dagwood took one sip and felt the warmth tingle through his veins. He took another and his eyes watered. His breath came sharply and his belly seemed one large glowing pit. ‘Gosh, what’s in this?’
‘D’you like it, love?’
‘I probably will, when I can taste it, but what’s in it?’
‘It’s a strong ale and rum and a bit of whisky and bit of nutmeg and spices, all heated wi’ red-hot pokers.’
‘I can see I’m going to have difficulty in keeping out of this place during the refit,’ Dagwood said.
‘Are ye spoken for, love?’
‘Am I what?’
‘Oh ‘ark at ‘im, are ye
married
?’
‘Good gracious, no! ‘
‘It’s not only drink will be your trouble here then,’ said Daphne.
‘You’ve got to have something to do in the long northern nights, Dagwood,’ said The Bodger.
‘I can assure you, sir,’ said Dagwood earnestly, ‘I haven’t the least intention of getting married.’
‘Nobody ever has,’ said The Bodger. ‘Nobody ever intends to catch German measles, but they do.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I just can’t see myself married to a naval wife.’
‘Naval Wife!’ shouted Broody. ‘Dagwood, my poor innocent youth, you don’t know what a Naval Wife is! They’re a dying breed. Isn’t that so, Bodger?’
The Bodger nodded. ‘The war had a lot to do with it,’ he said knowingly. ‘Nowadays people tend to marry nurses or school teachers, or Wrens. And a good thing too. They’re normally healthy wenches with a strong sense of the ridiculous. Freshens up the strain a bit. In the old days every wife you met looked as though she’d stepped straight out of the bloodstock catalogue at Newmarket. My father told me that when he was out in Malta during the thirties there was one girl in the Fishing Fleet who was actually known as The Thousand Guineas. I tell you, boy . . .’ The Bodger took a long draught of Daphne’s special, coughed, and went on, expanding to his subject ‘ . . . the Naval Wife of the old days was a pretty formidable proposition. She made a career of it. Coffee mornings with the other wives were a sacred rite. They used to sit around drinking their Java juice as though they were serving in the temple of Priapus. Every cocktail party, every summer ball, every invitation to dinner with the Captain was just one more step towards an Admiralty House address and a rather smart little flag with red balls on it. When the old Naval Wife went to a party she could give you the seniority of every officer present, to the nearest day. And she could give you the cost of every wife’s clothes, to the nearest penny. Yes, there are two mammals I’m glad I didn’t meet in their hey-day: one is the sabre-toothed tiger and the other is the Naval Wife!’