A Dawn Like Thunder (7 page)

He squeezed her hand. ‘Don't distress yourself. And thank you for leaving the message.' He pulled out his wallet and showed her the page from the pad. ‘See?
Carol
.' She was close to tears, and there was a strain on her face he had not seen before. He said, ‘I had no idea, otherwise I'd have made some excuse to get out of this.'

‘My husband will be serving with you, then?' It was as though she were speaking of a stranger. ‘If only I'd known . . .'

There were noises outside the door, a wheelchair, or maybe a trolley for the captain's luggage.

He said simply, ‘I've thought about you a lot. I saw you leave in the taxi.'

She stared at him, momentarily pleased, and then openly
afraid. ‘Did you? I'm so glad.' She glanced at her watch, but he guessed she did not even see it. ‘I should go.'

He said, ‘I must see you again.'

She shook her head, her dark curls brushing her neck. ‘Impossible.' She was very calm, her eyes quite steady as she looked up him. ‘He would kill me.' Then she nodded slowly. ‘I mean it.' He watched her hand on his sleeve, her fingers on the wavy stripes. ‘But thank you. You'll never know.'

He said, ‘Keep my card. If you ever need me . . .'

She shook her head again. ‘You're a nice person. Find a pretty girl and forget. It was a dream. Just a dream.'

A porter banged open the door and peered in at them cheerfully. ‘Car's alongside, Mrs Sinclair. Your husband is waiting.' As she turned towards the door he looked at her bare legs.

Villiers wanted to hit him, and when the door closed behind them, he said aloud, ‘It's not just a dream to me. Not any more!'

Ross was waiting for him. ‘Sorry about that, Charles. I didn't know.'

Villiers swung on him, his eyes blazing, ready for the innuendo. Then he relented, ‘No,
I'm
sorry. I didn't know, either.'

He felt Ross's hand on his shoulder as they watched Pryce striding briskly out of the building. Then Ross said, ‘That posh hotel of yours. Do you think we might have an enormous drink there when his lordship gets us back to London?'

Their eyes met. It had been a damned close thing.

Villiers said, too casually, ‘Best suggestion I've heard all day.'

‘If you ever want to tell me about it –'

Villiers tried to smile. ‘Thanks. You can do the same, if you like.'

Pryce was back. ‘Must get cracking. Lot to do.' But, for once, there was no bounce in his voice.

As they walked into the sunshine Villiers thought he heard her voice.
He would kill me.
She had meant it.

The severe-looking Wren officer, her chin resting in her hand, raised her eyes from her desk as the door opened slightly. It had been a long day and the air was humid and sticky, as the black-out blinds had already gone up across the windows, and there was no movement or even the hint of a fan.

‘Sorry, the office is closed.' She shaded her eyes against the desk lamp and recognized the young R.N.V.R. lieutenant watching her. She relaxed slightly. ‘Lieutenant Villiers. Feeling a bit lonely with all the others gone?'

Villiers glanced at the other door. There was a light on there, too. ‘I was wondering if I might see the rear-admiral.' He felt suddenly lost, out of his depth. It had been stupid to come. But she was right: it
was
different, now that Ross and the others he had met in Pryce's ‘cohort' had been spirited away. A fast convoy to Colombo, where everything had been set up to receive them.

Pryce had said airily, ‘You'll be following in a couple of weeks. I want you to take charge of the last party coming down from Scotland. Good experience. Don't worry – the war won't end before you get to Ceylon!'

The Wren was saying, ‘It's a bit unusual.' She saw the strain, the uncertainty on his tanned face. Maybe he had changed his mind about returning to the Far East. She had read his file, and knew as much about Villiers as all the others. Who could blame him?

No, it was not that. As Villiers turned to leave, she said quietly, ‘I'll see what I can do.'

She found the rear-admiral, sleeves rolled up and his
jacket hanging over the back of his chair, grasping a clip of signals in both hands with fierce concentration. He looked up, surprised that he had not heard her knock. ‘Ah, Jean – I was just going to call you. I still don't believe it.'

‘What is it, sir?'

‘They want me back in Scotland! A whole new training schedule for Underwater Weapons is being fixed. The First Sea Lord has asked me himself.'

‘I'm very glad for you, sir.' She was surprised that she felt it so badly. Just a few weeks since he had arrived in the newly-decorated office, hurt, baffled and lost. Now he was leaving. She repeated, ‘I am
so
glad. A lot of others will be, too.'

He rubbed his chin. ‘Fact is, it will mean a lot more work, new weapons, fresh trials to find the people to fit them.' He looked at her keenly. ‘I'll need an assistant, you know, a sort of flag lieutenant.' He stood up, as he had that day when she had broken down in this same office. ‘Will you come to Scotland with me, Jean?'

She said, ‘I almost forgot, sir. Lieutenant Villiers is here. He wants a few moments of your time.' She half opened the door and looked back at him. ‘Of
course
I'll come. Just say the word.'

Villiers walked past her and sat awkwardly in a vacant chair. He had met Ossie Dyer several times since he had arrived and had been amazed by his incredible memory for names and faces, those he had met, trained, or merely fished or played golf with. A good man. A caring one, too, in spite of all the bluster to the contrary.

Ossie came straight to the point, even though he was still bursting both with the unexpected news and his Wren's reaction. Scotland . . . soon it would be cold again, the lochs and the rusting depot ship as unwelcoming as ever. It would be like heaven.

‘You want to ask me something?'

Villiers said, ‘The others have left, sir.' He saw him nod. ‘I've been trying to keep up to date with the officers who have joined the . . .' he avoided Pryce's
cohort
‘. . . new section. Captain Pryce has taken most of the relevant information with him . . .' It was no use at all. He felt like a schoolboy pleading an injured wrist to avoid football.

Ossie Dyer pulled open a drawer. ‘There is only one recent entry, and he's not exactly new to Special Operations.' He flicked through a small book. ‘Captain Trevor Sinclair, Royal Marines. But you know him, don't you?'

Villiers said, ‘I met him at Haslar just before he was returned to duty. I don't really know him.'

‘Oh, you will. A real goer, that one. His luck almost ran out during a raid behind Jap lines in Burma. Most of his men were killed, but he got back. He was in a bad way. A mine laid near the enemy installations they were going to destroy blew up and killed his sergeant and some of his chaps. Sinclair was wounded by splinters, the last of which were removed only last month. I must say I thought he was going to spend the rest of his life in hospital . . . However, Captain Pryce has assured me that the P.M.O. is quite satisfied. Sinclair is fit and raring to go – if that is so he could be invaluable to your lot. He's worked with the Army in Burma, even with the Chindits. A lot of hard experience for one so young.' He sighed. ‘But everybody's young to me nowadays.'

Villiers asked, ‘Is it possible he might not be completely fit, sir?'

‘Well, who can say, when you've gone through something like that. One splinter was about the size of a gramophone needle, can you imagine?'

Villiers remembered how she had told him that she had
needed a job. She, too, must have believed her husband was finished, that he would be another wreck left over by the war. And the sharpness in the voice he and Ross had heard through the door at Haslar; the easy, disarming smile Sinclair had used to greet them. His
this is my wife, by the way.
Villiers could recall exactly when he had touched the back of his head and remarked in the same offhand manner, ‘when I bought
this
!' And she was afraid of him, of what he might do, could do.

Dyer said, ‘Can't offer you a glass, my boy. I want to get away – bomber's moon tonight.'

‘I'm sorry, sir. It was good of you to . . .'

Dyer was struggling into his jacket. ‘Any time. I am very proud to have you in this section. After what you've been through.' He looked around, but there was only the Wren in the doorway.

‘He's gone, sir.'

Dyer dismissed him from his thoughts. ‘Come and have a drink, and I'll tell you about the castle on the loch.' He smiled, happy again. ‘
Our
castle. Old Slouch will take to you right enough, I can tell you! A bit deaf, like me, but only when he wants to be!'

She took down her tricorn hat, still thinking about Villiers. It had been a long day, and as she switched off the office lights she heard the distant wail of the first air-raid siren. Perhaps Ossie had missed something? Villiers was not the kind to disturb a flag officer without a reason.

It could wait, whatever it was. There was Scotland to think about now.

Charles Villiers turned off the bedside light and opened the heavy black-out curtains for a moment. Bright moonlight, and there were wavering beams from searchlights a long way off, south of the Thames somewhere. He returned to
the bed and sat down before switching on the light once more. His unopened newspaper lay beside him; the war in Sicily was all but over, and the friction of retreat was already showing itself between the Germans and their disheartened Italian allies.

He remembered how Ross had come to the hotel on their return from Portsmouth, how they had discussed Pryce's sudden change of demeanour, although he had regained his energy when the orders for Ceylon had been finally approved. Had Pryce's lapse been because of Sinclair's early and obviously unexpected release from medical care?

It was a marvel that old Ossie Dyer hadn't tumbled the reasons for his questions. He was usually sharper than a tack.

The telephone jangled noisily. It would be the manager, as discreet as ever, announcing the air-raid warning with the courteous suggestion that it might be safer in the hotel cellar-cum-shelter until the all-clear.

An unknown voice said, ‘Lieutenant Villiers? I have a call for you.'

It was a bad line, like a W/T set full of static, but he knew her voice instantly.

She said, ‘It's me . . .' the slightest hesitation, ‘Charles?'

He gripped the telephone tightly. ‘What is it? Where are you?'

She replied, ‘I just wanted to thank you properly for your kindness when you came to Portsmouth – to Haslar. You were so good, so quick to understand.'

Villiers thought of Ross's cool intervention. But for that . . . He said, ‘I know that your husband has left. Don't say anything about it on the phone. We might get cut off.' He tried to smile, to reassure her over the miles. ‘Careless talk, you know. I know I'm not supposed to say it, but it's wonderful to hear you. You could be right beside me. I wish you were.'

For a moment he imagined he had gone too far, that she had hung up.

Then she said, ‘Good luck, and take care of yourself, won't you?' There was a catch in her voice. It must have cost her a lot to make this call.

He said, ‘I must see you before I leave.' The line crackled but nothing happened. ‘I promise not to upset you. I want to tell you – no, I
need
to tell you . . .' It was all going wrong.

She said, ‘I have another interview in two days' time. I – I could meet you afterwards, if you like.'

‘Like?' He swallowed hard. ‘Come to the hotel. The Malacca Room, remember?'

She was crying now, but very quietly. ‘I'll never forget. Your great grandfather. What
did
you say to that Polish officer?'

‘You're too young to know.' He held the telephone pressed hard to his ear. ‘We can talk.' She could not answer, and he said, ‘Until Thursday.' She had replaced the telephone, but he said, as though she were still listening, ‘I shall be here.'

Then he took a bottle of Plymouth gin marked
Duty Free, H.M. Ships Only
from the cupboard, and groped for a glass.

It was probably madness, but she must not be hurt by it.

When the all-clear wailed across London he was asleep, fully dressed, the gin unopened. He could not remember sleeping without the nightmare for a long, long time.

Lieutenant-Commander James Ross gripped the guard-rail and paused to stare up at the ship's superstructure. He had all but forgotten what a big ship was like. Outwardly, this was a powerful cruiser where never a day passed without men mustering for this or that to the lordly summons of a
bugle. But H.M.S.
Endeavour
was not what she appeared, and like a few sister ships was in fact a fast minelayer, her belly usually packed with a lethal cargo of some four hundred mines. She was designed to dash in, sow a full field of mines and speed out again before there was time to seek her out from the air. Captain Pryce's cohort had boarded the minelaying cruiser at Liverpool and after the first leg of the passage to Gibraltar they had had cause to be grateful for their choice of transport.
Endeavour
was so fast, in spite of her size, that her escort of four fleet destroyers had been hard put to keep up, even when the minelayer had reduced to her economical cruising speed.

Another world. A full wardroom, meals properly served by white-jacketed stewards: a far cry from the mud and stealth of enemy harbours, where at any minute they might have been sighted and attacked. Out of courtesy,
Endeavour
's captain had offered Pryce the use of his own quarters. Pryce had accepted with unseemly haste.

The war they had come to know, respect and sometimes fear fell rapidly astern with each turn of the screws. Long-range aircraft, U-Boats and commerce raiders were almost unknown here, and this morning they had sighted the far-off blur of land: Sierra Leone. Africa.