Marriott stared at him. 'I've hardly spoken to her. But she's German, and –'
Beri-Beri raised an eyebrow. 'You surprise me. Does that matter?'
'I didn't mean it like that. Anyway, why the hell should she care?'
'You wouldn't ask if you'd seen her. She was with
you
and nobody else that day. I wouldn't lie about it, but then you know that too.' He clapped him on the shoulder. 'Come on, we'll go over to the Guards' Mess and cadge a drink, or two.' He watched his friend and added gently, 'Her name's Ursula, by the way.'
As Marriott had expected, the mood in the wardroom was more mixed than usual. The aftermath of the Bomb, and how it was all kept secret until it had become a terrible reality, raged and died like a forest fire.
Lieutenant Commander Arthur Durham sat in a corner engrossed in a copy of
The Times
which he had obtained from one of his private sources. He half-listened to the young officers arguing for and against the merits of the US attack on a Japanese city, but many, he thought, were more concerned about the war ending and leaving them high-and-dry, than with how it was achieved. However, his main attention was as usual on the closing prices at the stock exchange.
Cuff was lounging in a deep chair, halfway through his eighth gin and feeling more at ease than he had for several days. The S.I.B. had completed their investigations and the fuel depot had been handed over to a lieutenant from the supply branch. A worried young man who, Cuff had made it his business to discover, was deeply in debt. A
very
suitable contact, he had decided.
Then there was Hertha Ritter. He had seen her again, and was hoping to visit her tomorrow after the depot was shut. Cuff had experienced all kinds of women in his tempestuous service life, and even before that. But Hertha was head and shoulders above all of them. Whatever he did, no matter how hard he tried to overwhelm her, she could give him back such sexual passion that he was more often than not left exhausted. Then in minutes she would begin on him again until he would plead for mercy.
She had some friends in the nearby town who might help with their proposed deals. They would have to be doubly careful now, and it would be madness to allow too many strangers to become involved.
He twisted his head as Lieutenant Commander Durham said above the noise, 'Have you read this?'
Cuff frowned, but he saw no harm in the elderly, owlish staff officer.
Cuff was sick and tired of hearing these twits all arguing about the Japs and the atomic bomb. Who cared? He had other things to dwell on. The end of the war meant no half stripe, no new command. He would be out in civvy street like all the rest. Anyway, the Japs had it coming, so what?
Durham said, 'Right here in
The Times?'
Cuff grinned and swallowed the rest of the gin. 'Not my sort of rag, old son!'
Durham glanced at him over his horn-rimmed glasses. Pissed again, he thought sadly.
He said, 'You come from York, don't you? You must know this fellow. Charles Glazebrook of Glazebrook Engineering –'
Cuff almost choked.
'Know
him? It's my bloody father! What's he done now, gone in the nick?'
Durham laughed. 'Hardly. The new Labour Government has seen its way clear to give him a knighthood!'
Cuff took the proffered newspaper and waited for his blurred vision to clear.
'I don't bloody well believe it!' He pictured his father. He was only half his size, everyone's idea of the pig-headed Northerner. All beer and whippets. He exclaimed, 'Christ, he's as ignorant as shit! He must have done a few favours for someone, eh?'
Another lieutenant commander, this time a regular officer, snapped severely, 'Watch your language in the mess!'
Cuff was still floundering at the news.
'You
can kiss my arse!'
The other officer jumped to his feet and strode across to the sprawled lieutenant.
'What
did you say?'
Cuff focussed his eyes on him. 'Now that I've seen you close to, I withdraw the offer!'
'Why, you foul-mouthed –'
Durham rose and stood between them. 'Remember this.' His voice was mild, but his words had bite to them. 'This is my home too, until I can get out of uniform for good. So behave yourselves. There are German stewards here. Don't take away
all
their illusions.'
Someone laughed, and the noise of voices washed around the little group like waves on a rock.
Cuff nodded as the other lieutenant commander stalked away.
He said, 'Gone to whine to Meikle, I s'pose.' He chuckled. 'Fair enough, sir, I take your point. No hard feelings. And thanks for telling me about my father.' He shook his head. 'He'll never change though.' He could almost hear him, 'good old Charlie Glazebrook', down at the Royal York with his cronies, doing another deal and promising full support for the returning servicemen.
Aye, nowt's too good for our lads,
especially if it helped him to line his pockets in the same way the war had done.
Another thought struck him. His father might sell all his business, or do something daft with the cash.
He needed to talk about it. There was only one he could trust. He looked at the clock. She might even be expecting him.
He lurched to his feet and walked unsteadily to the door.
One of the newly arrived subbies said, 'God, what an awful type!'
Sub-Lieutenant Gilmour, who had met Marriott and most of the others who came and went from headquarters, said, 'I'd keep your voice down, chum.'
The youth turned on him and asked hotly, 'Why should I?'
'Because he's killed more people than you probably know by their first name!'
The new subbie glowered. 'But that was the
war!'
'No, my little friend,
that
was Cuff Glazebrook. Even his own men say that of him. He actually enjoys it. So watch it!'
Sub-Lieutenant Lowes walked through the doors and found a chair in one corner, hidden from most of the others by a giant potted palm. He wanted a drink badly.
Needed it.
He had been walking up to the wardroom still thinking of the letter which had come from his mother.
Dearest Johnnie
– that beginning had always warmed his heart. Now the words stuck in his throat so that when a German messman hovered over his chair he could barely order a drink.
She was going to marry that brute he had come face to face with on that awful night. Marry him. Lie with him. Allow him
to do things
to her.
'Oh God!'
He flushed and stared at his lap as some of the officers at a nearby table turned to look at him.
She treated him like a child. She always had. Now he was unable to see his way to do anything without her. If only ... He pictured himself running into the old house and pitching the man down the stairs and throwing his uniform after him. He almost cried out aloud again. The brute of a man could have thrashed him with one hand!
The messman brought him a Horse's Neck, like he had seen Marriott drink. 'Another, please!' It had meant to sound defiant,
a man of the world,
but it came out like a whimper of despair.
He thought suddenly of Ginger Jackson who had accidentally bumped into him that morning. Like some of the other junior officers in Meikle's command Lowes was employed in assisting the Officer-of-the-Day, either at the main gates, or doing the rounds of the foreshore and sentry posts. Jackson had asked him if he had any spare cigarettes for barter. Lowes had considered telling him it was off when he had thought of his mother again. He would give her no more duty-frees. If she really was going to marry that oaf,
he
could take care of everything for her!
Ginger Jackson had seemed surprised at his eagerness to provide more cigarettes, and had then touched on what his 'accidental' meeting with Lowes had really been all about.
'The bloke 'oo's 'elpin' with me business arrangements, sir, 'as asked us to meet someone really special-like.' He had waited, watching Lowes's troubled eyes. 'A lady, she is, a countess no less. Lots of good contacts, jewellery, no rubbish, just the job.'
Lowes had waited. 'How does that affect me?'
Ginger Jackson had almost laughed aloud. 'Well,
you,
sir! That's the difference! An officer an' a real gent, the sort of toff she'd be used to, with 'er sort of class!'
Lowes had decided to ignore the idea. Now, sitting with his second Horse's Neck inside him and a third on the way, he was changing his mind.
I'll show them. All of them. Fairfax with his second ring, Marriott who treats me as much like a child as my mother does, and that brute who's taking her away
... He stopped his reeling thoughts. What did he mean by that? He felt suddenly embarrassed and ashamed, and lurched up without waiting for the next drink.
Yes, he would show all of them.
In the large canteen which was used by other ranks below the rank of petty officer, Ginger Jackson sauntered towards a beer-covered table and grinned reassuringly at Rae and Craven, who looked as if they were going to make a night of it.
Craven looked at him warily, his eyes red-rimmed. 'Well, wot did he say?'
Rae glanced at his new watch, a real beauty, with tiny diamonds set around the face. 'Yes, Ginger, how did Snow White take it?'
Ginger clapped his hands together and his grin widened. 'All fixed. The bite 'as bin took, my friends! I don't know what they put in them wardroom drinks, but our gallant Mr Lowes is ready to do 'is bit!'
Craven nodded gloomily. 'So God bless all of us!'
Ginger glared at him. 'Don't be so bloody sarky about it, Bill. Oskar's not let us down now, 'as 'e? If 'e says this bint is on th' level, countess or no bleedin' countess, then that'll do me, see?'
Rae grinned lazily. 'Might be enough of her for all of us!'
Meikle's operational section was in darkness but for a solitary desk light when Fairfax arrived from the wardroom. A messenger looked up from some signal flimsies and said, 'Commander Meikle is expecting you, sir.' He gestured to the big office with a strip of light showing under the door.
Fairfax had been getting ready to turn in after a noisy dinner where the arguments had carried on, back and forth, discussing the merits or the horrors of the Bomb and all its implications. Some of the mess bills would be extra large, he thought, and might soon arouse the first lieutenant's attention, if not that of Meikle himself.
He straightened his jacket and hoped his collar still looked fresh. To call for him so late at night was unheard of. Bad news could always wait. So it had to be something about his application.
He tapped on the door and heard Meikle say,
'Come!'
He was at his huge desk, his hair unusually dishevelled. And when he glanced up he looked tired.
'Ah yes, Fairfax. Sit, will you.'
That too was unusual.
Meikle said, 'I've sent a report to the commodore about you for his approval. You'll have to be patient. Especially now that the war is almost certainly finished. I believe that the Japanese have made approaches on surrender terms. But everything is so vague.'
Fairfax tried to dispel the disappointment Meikle had aroused. He was, after all, offering to help; at least he seemed to be. So why had he sent for him?