An aftermath of shock, maybe. But Graham’s memory was alive here. And she did not belong.
She left her room and walked barefoot down the stairs. The practice had overflowed into most of the lower floor. Even the dining room was laid out for the first aid instruction her mother gave a local women’s group.
Her father was in his study, his glory-hole, he called it. Littered, untidy, and lined with books, some so old that they were almost falling apart, but she knew from experience that he could put a finger on anything he wanted. How she had always liked to see him, relaxed, if he could ever be, reading, or smoking a pipe, which he rarely did anywhere else.
He looked up as she walked into the glory-hole. ‘I think you should put some proper clothes on, my girl. It’s a little draughty at this time of the year. Coal rationing, you see.’ He chuckled. ‘But you wouldn’t know about that in the Royal Navy!’
She settled herself into one of the few chairs not littered with papers or medical journals.
She said, ‘I’d like you to meet him, Daddy. I think you’d get along well.’
He put an unused pipe cleaner into his book to mark the page and said, ‘I’d like to meet him, very much, of course I would. He was there at the right moment. We all owe him that.’
She touched her thigh and moved slightly to ease the tightness of the scar. Her father said suddenly, ‘Goes deeper than that, does it?’ He smiled. ‘I know how you must feel, but gratitude is no true basis for something permanent, you know. Take it from me.’
The door opened slightly, and Lucy said, ‘You’re missing your programme, Doctor. Mrs. Hillier kept
me chatting longer than usual . . . never knows when enough is enough, that one!’ Just for an instant her eyes shifted to the girl in the dressing gown. ‘I’ll bring some tea in a minute.’
Margot looked away. Even Lucy understood. It was hopeless.
The radio crackled into life, a calm, unhurried voice. ‘It was my first real introduction to the work of the Royal Navy’s Light Coastal Forces.’
Her father muttered something and made to switch it off. ‘Well, thanks to Mrs. Hillier, I’ve missed it!’ He glanced across as Margot exclaimed, ‘No, Daddy, leave it on. Please!’
‘. . . I shall never forget it. The courage and determination of those same men, boys, some of them, left me moved beyond words. I saw men die; one was well known in this profession. I watched ships burn. I was afraid. What kind of men can confront these hazards, sometimes night after night in the seas around our coasts? There were faces which would not have been out of place at Jutland, or at Trafalgar. And one in particular, who for me symbolized the strength, and the modesty, which must surely lead to victory. The captain of this particular “little ship”, still in his twenties, but with a record of gallantry which was already known to me, remained with me long after I was safely ashore. When we first met I asked how I should address him. “Chris will do,” he said. I shall never forget.’
The B.B.C. announcer’s smooth voice cut in. ‘That was Mark Pleydell, in the latest episode of
At the Front
. Next week he will be visiting . . .’ The set went dead.
She stood beside the other chair, her hands on her father’s shoulders. She had not even felt herself move.
‘Now do you understand?’
The war correspondent named Mark Pleydell had been there with him, had seen what Chris endured or expected every time he went to sea.
And in my way I shall share it. Gratitude does not come into it.
She felt her father lift her hand to his mouth and kiss it, something he had never done before.
He repeated, ‘I’d like to meet him very much, of course I would.’
Another door slammed, upstairs this time.
As if Graham was back, and ‘Ain’t Misbehavin’’ would soon be shattering the stillness.
The moment was past.
The messenger held the door only half open, and said, ‘The O.O.D.’s respects, sir, and your transport will be here shortly.’ His eyes flitted around the small room. ‘Ten minutes at the most.’
David Masters stepped back from the tiny window that overlooked the Operations Room in the main part of the building, in time to see the seaman’s expression. No doubt wondering why a place so important should be crammed into such a dump. The window had only just been installed, and there was still brick dust on the pile of folders beneath it. It enabled him to look directly at the operational plot, as well as the big chart that displayed all the latest incidents, according to their importance or otherwise; in some areas there did not seem room for any
more of the brightly coloured markers. It also allowed the staff to work without the feeling that somebody was always watching them.
The messenger jerked his head. ‘There’s a Lieutenant Foley who says he has an appointment––’
‘Yes. I’m expecting him. Thanks.’ He noticed the heavy drops of rain or sleet on the seaman’s cap and watchcoat. He had not looked out of doors since he had arrived, and that must have been earlier than he had realized. He had heard
Colours
being sounded on the bugle, and then after the appropriate interval,
Carry On
, the little base and establishment returning to work as usual.
But it was not as usual, not this time. He had sensed it as soon as he had entered his cramped office, and the Operations Room in particular.
There, the day was marked by long periods of boredom, waiting for something to happen or some signal demanding action. And interludes of strain, dealing with an incident, or several, trying not to reveal involvement or distress when an operation went wrong, and someone paid for it with his life.
This morning he had felt an almost buoyant atmosphere, not unlike his return from London when the news of
Tirpitz
had broken.
He glanced at his greatcoat, which was lying over a chair. Brand-new, delivered from Gieves yesterday.
Like a stranger’s, he thought. Something he had not owned since he had been promoted. A raincoat or comfortable duffle had seemed more useful, more appropriate. Or had he been deluding himself again?
Trying to close the door on that other life, and where his old greatcoat now lay.
But Coker had been pleased. ‘Quite right too, if I may say so, sir!’ He had peered suspiciously at the grey light. ‘Looks like being the right day for it, an’ all!’
And there had been the phone call from Bumper Fawcett. Did he never sleep? Not alone, certainly. He had heard a woman’s voice in the background.
‘I’m coming straight down! Not having a bunch of chair-polishers getting the jump on
my
department! Remember, top security all round, it’ll be like a bloody hornets’ nest before you know it, what?’
Masters rubbed his chin, surprised that it was smooth. He must have shaved in two minutes. His case was on the floor near the greatcoat. Coker had insisted, ‘You might have to hang about, sir. Don’t want those
Osprey
people showing us up, do we?’
He heard voices, then a tap at the door.
Foley, too, was dappled with sleet, and had obviously walked up from his motor launch without bothering to put on anything heavier than his working uniform.
Masters smiled. ‘Sorry to drag you up here, but I’m about to leave for the Bill and I wanted to see you first.’ He saw the momentary uncertainty, the shadows beneath the lieutenant’s eyes. ‘Everything all right at your end?’
Foley nodded. ‘A bit of a filter-pump failure, but we’ll have it fixed before the end of the forenoon watch.’
Masters looked at the new greatcoat and its bright gilt buttons.
There it was again. Like Coker. Something personal,
possessive. Foley had said
we
. Some skippers would have been content with
they
.
He said, ‘It’s all
Most Secret
, but in a place like this it will be hard to keep it that way.’ He touched a signal folder on the littered desk. ‘Your initiative two days ago brought results. I intend that in the backwash of things your part does not go unnoticed – unrewarded, if you like.’
‘I don’t understand, sir. It was only a feeling . . .’
Masters tapped the folder. ‘Hear me out. A feeling, fate, luck, call it what you will. But you acted as you thought fit, when nobody was in close company to offer advice or orders to the contrary.’ He had walked to the little window without knowing it. One of the duty officers was actually laughing at something, and others were drinking tea as if they did not have a care in the world. ‘A Royal Air Force Sunderland of Coastal Command was returning from patrol on that same morning when you caught the E-Boat napping, coming in from the Western Approaches, probably thinking of nothing but getting back to base and a warm bed.’ Without realizing it he had raised both hands, like an arrowhead. ‘They were flying low, very low, and trying to avoid the worst of that fog, remember?’
Foley said, ‘Worst I’ve known down-Channel for some time.’
‘And suddenly there it was, right beneath them. Not even the fog tried to hide it.’ His hands came together. ‘A submarine.’ He saw Foley’s surprise. ‘A
midget
submarine, experimental or one of their latest secret weapons, there was no way of knowing.’ He walked
back acoss the room, his hand brushing Foley’s shoulder as he passed. ‘Fortunately, for us, that is, the Sunderland had already been involved in a fruitless attack, a U-Boat sighting report, and had dropped all its depth charges. Otherwise the midget sub would be just another cross on a chart.’
Foley leaned forward, his mind suddenly clear. There was always talk of Germany building midget submarines. One had been taken overland to the Mediterranean, allegedly for use against the Russians in the Black Sea. It had seemed unlikely, but it had been sunk anyway by American fighter-bombers before it even left harbour. Others were reported under construction in Germany, and in occupied France. After the success of the X-Craft against
Tirpitz
, even the Führer’s well-known animosity towards his own navy might be tempered.
Masters said, ‘That midget submarine is now safe and sound at Portland. Which is why I’m going to H.M.S.
Osprey
at this ungodly hour.’ He watched Foley, the emotions crossing his face. ‘You have an excellent record, in command and beforehand. Promotion, a half-stripe, is the next step, and you’ve more than earned it.’
‘We were all in it, sir.’
Masters rubbed his chin again. So that was it. Not afraid of promotion, but the fear of losing his command and all she had become. Foley was the sort of person who would never accept that it was mainly because of his own work and influence that ML366 seemed different from all the rest.
‘Think about it, anyway. But you know the drill – the choice is not always yours in the end.’
He turned as another tap came on the door, and without waiting for an acknowledgement it opened very slightly, and Brayshaw peered in at them.
‘Come in, Philip.’ He sensed that Foley was as relieved at the interruption as he was. But it was necessary . . .
‘Heard you were leaving for Portland, David. Just wanted to say I’m only sorry I couldn’t come with you. Heard some of it, guessed the rest. Besides which, the Old Man has some extra work for me to deal with.’ He almost winked, but not quite. ‘You may have forgotten with all this happening at once, but Trafalgar Day draws near, and the Old Man has no intention of allowing it to pass unnoticed. Standards, you know!’
‘You’ll have your hands full enough, I’d have thought. Rear-Admiral Fawcett is on his way, and there’ll be plenty of the top brass to keep you on your toes.’
Brayshaw said, ‘I think your car has arrived.’ He turned his cap around in his bony hands. ‘By the way, your driver, Leading Wren Lovatt – heard a buzz about her yesterday.’
Foley said, ‘She’s all right, isn’t she?’
‘Must be, Chris. I heard from her quarters officer. She’s asked to return to duty.’ He looked at Masters. ‘To her old job, if that’s possible.’
Brayshaw had been there when the accident had happened, had made sure that the girl was delivered safely to the hospital. And the expression on Foley’s open face told the rest of the story.
It should not interfere. The top secret signals between Portland and the Admiralty must have burned the wires
red-hot. But it was not merely another gallant and exciting episode. It was right here in this scruffy office, in the front line again.
The midget submarine was equipped for laying mines.
There had not even been a rumour about that.
But this was now. Personal.
He said, ‘I think I can manage that. If not, I’m sure the Captain’s secretary will pull the necessary strings!’
Afterwards, no matter what lay in store, he knew it had been worth it.
Portland seemed bleak and unwelcoming after a comparatively fast drive along the coast road. Mist had moved in from Weymouth Bay, and the Bill itself was partially hidden. It gave David Masters an uneasy feeling to be returning here so soon after his previous visit, although he had somehow expected it, and prepared himself. Everything was dripping from the early sleet, and he guessed it would freeze before the end of the day.
There were delays at the gates, passes to be checked, vehicles examined, and he noticed that even incoming working parties were being mustered and counted before station cards were returned.
H.M.S.
Osprey
, the main anti-submarine establishment and training school, was accustomed to distinguished visitors and the events which had drawn them, in wartime even more so. In the constant battle against U-Boats every kind of experiment was conducted, and
the men who would eventually carry that knowledge to sea began here. Masters remembered his first experience as a sub-lieutenant, when he had opted for the submarine service: like a series of war games with models and complicated diagrams, to get the feel of things.
An officer checked his identity and that of the Royal Marine driver, even though Masters knew his arrival was already logged and expected.
The commander of the establishment was waiting to greet him. ‘Security? It’s a bit of a laugh at this stage,’ he said.