‘I’m free tonight. Come and have a meal at my flat.’
He wrote across the back in a square scrawl that seemed as if it would wrench the pen nib from its socket, ‘Not half! Will bring booze!’
He reached her flat unable to contain himself. She immediately gave him a drink and said she was going to change into something comfortable. His look of alarm made her smile.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘That was a silly thing to say. It doesn’t mean what it means in novels.’
She reappeared wearing a dress that surprised him because it was old-fashioned and out of date. She’d also combed her hair out of the somewhat severe style she wore with her uniform and that, too, looked curiously lacking in taste so that he was desperately disappointed.
She caught his expression. ‘Women officers are often disappointing in civilian clothes,’ she pointed out. ‘It’s fortunate that most men are, too. Do I bother you dressed like this?’
Suddenly he realised that like so many naval wives she came from a proud, decent family which no longer possessed the wealth it had once had, so that, while she’d probably been educated at one of the best schools in the country, she’d never had money to spend on herself and knew nothing about clothes. It explained so much about her and she was so honest he couldn’t resist her. He offered her a cigarette and they sat smoking and drinking together for a while, then she went to the kitchen and started to cook. Growing irritated with talking to her through the door, he joined her to stand by the sink wearing a frilly pinafore which belonged to her flat-mate as he helped to peel the vegetables.
She was a splendid cook and they both drank a little too much wine. Going on to the veranda to smoke their cigarettes, they caught the tang of the burned evening air off the desert, that strange cooling scent that always came at that time of the day.
‘This is the best time in the whole twenty-four hours,’ she said.
He studied her as she stood watching the light fade, enjoying her simple dignity. The unfashionable dress meant nothing and when she told him about herself, his guess about her background turned out to be correct.
When he kissed her, her cheeks were cold from the night air.
‘I love you, Jenner-Neate,’ he said.
She smiled at him. ‘My name’s Helen,’ she pointed out. ‘And I don’t believe a word of it.’
‘I have a confession to make,’ he admitted. ‘When I came here tonight, I intended getting you into bed.’
‘I have one to make, too,’ she said. ‘I know.’
He kissed her again and this time she kissed him back.
‘But let’s make no bones about it,’ she urged. ‘You’re as flattered as I am, but that’s all. A woman’s plumbing’s different from a man’s and she has to be careful. Besides, I’m not in love with you and you’re not in love with me.’
‘Of course I am.’
‘Try it again. This time honestly.’
He paused, then he smiled. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Lonely, perhaps.’
‘So am I,’ she said briskly. ‘And it’s cold out here. Perhaps we ought to go to bed.’
He glanced at her and she looked at him steadily. ‘It’s a working arrangement,’ she reminded him quietly. ‘In wartime there’s no such thing as a platonic friendship.’
1941 dragged its weary way on. Despite the optimism that had sprung from hopes of a German defeat in Russia, by October Hitler was announcing that the last great decisive battle of the year was about to take place in front of Moscow, and then in November the carrier, Ark Royal, was lost. Goebbels had reported her end on so many occasions her sailors even jumped up and down yelling ‘We’re here, we’re here!’ as the radio put the rhetorical question ‘If she isn’t sunk, then where is she?’ She was followed soon afterwards by Sydney off Australia, then the battleship, Barham, and finally in December came the crowning agony of the annihilation of the American Pacific Fleet at Pearl Harbour and the loss of Prince of Wales and Repulse off Malaya.
It was a shattering blow and to Kelly twice as hard because of Kelly Rumbelo who had escaped death in Hood by sheer chance and survived the encounter with Bismarck in Repulse only to run into this new disaster on the fourth day of a new war. Wiring Thakeham, he did what he could through official channels to find out whether the boy had survived, but the Far East was in a turmoil and it was impossible to discover anything.
Throughout the catastrophes, his only source of comfort was First Officer Jenner-Neate. When the news was at its worst, she was at her calmest and, though he’d never considered the act of love one of the more stately of God’s creations – with Christina it had even been riotous, bawdy and distinctly gymnastic – with Jenner-Neate it remained as dignified as she was. It wouldn’t have been hard to fall in love with her, he felt, but her attitude seemed to preclude that.
Verschoyle raised an eyebrow occasionally, feeling that Kelly could have had the pick of the Wrens, but Kelly had no wish to be involved with one of the blonde young girls who made eyes at him in the corridors. Verschoyle and his Maisie were all right. They’d known each other a long time and were used to each other, but Kelly couldn’t imagine himself going overboard for a twenty-year-old girl. Not that it would have been difficult because some of them were flattered by the attention of senior officers and some of the senior officers were even a little glazed about the eyes as they watched them. Even Verschoyle seemed to be changing.
‘It’s Maisie,’ he admitted. ‘I’m thinking of marrying again.’
Despite everything, despite the disasters, Alex seemed not to be part of the war. It was something to do with the warmth and the sunshine and the number of women about, and the wailing of the muezzins from the minarets. But because Egypt was isolated and too far from Hitler’s bases for his bombers to be dangerous, it had a curiously detached air about it.
The Battle of the Atlantic was still going on with increased ferocity and almost insuperable losses, but rumours were beginning to reach them that, with the new detection instruments that were being developed the U-boats would soon not be having it all their own way.
The end of the year brought a telegram from Rumbelo to say his son was safe. He had been picked up long after the other survivors from Repulse and somehow been taken to Australia, which explained the time that had elapsed before he’d been able to contact his home. But almost immediately, the New Year brought another blow. Scharnhorst, Gneisenau and Prince Eugen, sheltering in Brest, had made a break for Germany and a lot of young RAF and Fleet Air Arm pilots had been killed trying to stop them.
The evening news from the BBC always brought a grim silence as they listened to the list of enemy successes. In the Mediterranean, Nelson was torpedoed, Kandahar was lost, and Queen Elizabeth and Valiant, the only two undamaged capital ships still available, were put out of action by Italian frogmen.
‘Think the blows’ll ever end?’ Verschoyle asked wearily.
‘Yes,’ Kelly said. ‘We’re coming to the end now.’
Verschoyle’s eyebrows lifted in disbelief and he tried to explain. ‘The Americans are going to react to Pearl Harbour as we did to Dunkirk,’ he said. ‘And when they get going, the war’s as good as won.’
As if to back his confidence, news came that the Russian winter had saved Moscow and Hitler’s advance had ground to a stop with whole brigades of tanks rendered useless by the absence of anti-freeze and whole regiments decimated by frostbite in their summer clothing. Hitler, it seemed, had finally bitten off more than he could chew and it was reassuring to learn that even the Germans, with their vaunted skill at organisation, could also be wrong.
Suddenly, too, they became aware that the Americans were no longer friendly neutrals but allies; and American officers, some of them with Italian or German names and outlandish habits which served to stress that they weren’t just Englishmen with strange accents but a different nation, began to appear. They were easy-going, anxious to learn and informal to a degree that was startling to the Royal Navy, which had never been noted for its informality.
‘I think the war’s beginning to be interesting,’ Verschoyle said. ‘Especially as we’ve been ordered home.’ He flourished a signal. ‘What’s more, we’re in good company, because Cunningham’s going home, too. He’s going to head the Admiralty delegation to Washington. The Yanks are agitating for action and he’s leaving within the week. I’ve scrounged a lift for us in his aircraft.’
The following day, to Kelly’s astonishment, Verschoyle married Third Officer Pentycross. The fleet chaplain officiated and Kelly acted as best man, and they went for a two-day honeymoon up the Nile. When they’d gone Kelly went with First Officer Jenner-Neate back to her flat where he told her the news. She received it calmly and their lovemaking was almost dispassionate. But while there were no tremendous surges of emotion, he knew there would also never be any heartbreak. Because he owed her so much, and because he was grateful, even because he felt it would work, he asked her to marry him. She refused him without pain and without rancour, though there was a glint of tears in her eyes as they kissed goodbye the following week.
When they left by train for Cairo, the station platform was crowded with officers seeing Cunningham and his wife off, and Third Officer Verschoyle, née Pentycross, clung to her husband’s hand through the window.
‘I’ll be home very soon after you,’ she said. ‘They’ve promised me a passage.’
As the train started, Verschoyle sat back, his expression still a little dazed.
‘It feels funny being married again,’ he said. ‘And Maisie’s no Christina. Perhaps she’ll be calmer, though. What about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘You’re still a bachelor. You’ll soon be too bloody old to remarry.’
Kelly shrugged. ‘There must be some admiral’s daughter who’s missed the bus who’ll have me.’
Verschoyle eyed him keenly. ‘Do you want some admiral’s daughter who’s missed the bus?’
Kelly smiled. ‘Not really.’
‘There’s still only one woman, isn’t there?’
Thinking about it, Kelly knew there was. His affair with First Officer Jenner-Neate had been only a substitute and all along she’d been playing the part he’d written for Charley. He frowned.
‘I suppose so,’ he said.
‘Then why in God’s name don’t you marry her?’
Kelly gave him an angry glance. ‘Because she wouldn’t have me,’ he said.
Verschoyle studied him for a while. ‘I always had a high regard for your Charley,’ he observed. ‘Even in the days when I was chasing her elder sister. She can’t be that barmy. Why won’t she have you?’
‘I’m damned if I know.’
‘You’re going home. Why don’t you ask her?’
‘I have done.’
‘Ask her again.’
‘I did.’
Verschoyle’s face was long with sympathy. ‘Why not try yet again?’ he asked.
Kelly exploded. ‘How many more bloody times do I have to go through it?’ he asked.
Verschoyle was silent for a moment, then he smiled. ‘Depends how important it is, doesn’t it?’ he said.
From Cairo they travelled by flying boat to Khartoum and then across Africa by land plane to Sierra Leone. From Kano in Nigeria, they flew to Lisbon, finally arriving at Bristol in bitter spring weather.
It seemed strange to be back in England after over a year in the Mediterranean. The place looked surprisingly shabby and the scars of the bombing were everywhere. But there was a new cheerfulness that had been missing when they’d left, as if people were at last looking into the future with optimism. The biggest change was the number of Americans who had suddenly appeared and when they went for a drink in the station hotel bar, they found it full of them. They were mostly ordinary GIs and they all appeared to be millionaires, but they made way quickly, eyeing the ribbons on their chests with interest.
‘What’s that one for, sir?’ one of them asked Verschoyle.
‘That’s the DSO,’ Verschoyle said cheerfully. ‘I got that in the last war when I was about your age. If you want to see a real medal, take a look at my friend. You can’t get better than the one he’s got.’
Thakeham hadn’t changed but for once everybody seemed to be at home. Rumbelo was due to go to a shore job at Scapa and was in a murderous mood at the thought that nobody would let him go to sea. His son was also on leave, wearing the two stripes of a lieutenant and the ribbon of the DSM. He was burly and strong and, untouched by his experience in Repulse, had the look to Kelly of a man who was going to go a long way. By contrast, Hugh, wearing a DSC and clutching Paddy’s hand with a desperation bordering on intensity, looked on edge, as though his nerves were strung taut. Most of the men he’d joined up with were dead and there was bitterness in his voice as he spoke of them.
‘They were killed by admirals who hadn’t the foggiest idea how to use aircraft,’ he said. ‘They think airmen are expendable because they’re rough, raffish and lower middle class, and even now they can’t accept that a battleship’s nothing but an ageing matinée idol.’
‘I suspect,’ Kelly said gently, ‘that it’s not so much stupidity as that science has pushed their task beyond their competency. People always expect security at the lowest cost and we were never encouraged by the parsimony of a nation at peace to try anything new.’
Because Hugh was still attending hospital after the exposure he’d suffered, Paddy had not yet gone to her hospital ship and was working instead at Haslar.
‘This time,’ she told Kelly, ‘I’m determined to marry him. If ever a man needed a wife he does and I’m going to be her. It’ll be a white wedding–’
‘White?’
She stared back at him, her eyes frank and forthright. ‘White,’ she said. ‘For virginity. I don’t give a damn, myself, but my mother does and being able to stare out her friends will compensate her for the number of times she’s noticed me vanishing into Hugh’s room.’
Her happiness had a curiously brittle quality and was strangely heartbreaking, because, while Kelly Rumbelo looked as tough and enduring as his father with his thick shoulders and red hair, Hugh had a curious fragility about him, a sort of transparency about his skin that made him look ill. To Kelly he had the appearance of a man with the look of death on him and, dispassionately, grieving, he wondered how much longer he could survive the sort of chances he took.