A Prayer for the Ship (27 page)

“All right, sir?” questioned the Coxswain.

“No, all bloody wrong!” snapped Royce. Then relenting, “Sorry, Cox'n, you know how it is.”

“Yes, I know, sir.”

The others were waiting up for him, sleepy and rosy-faced. There was a strong scent of gin in the air.

“All right?” asked Carver brightly.

“No, all bl—” he checked himself, and smiled half heart-edly. “I'm afraid our side didn't do too well,” he confessed. “Perhaps our second innings tomorrow will be better.”

“Yes,” piped up Leach. “You wait until she sees her present.”

“God. The present!” gasped Royce, his jaw dropping, and his eyes met Carver's. “I think I'll have to call that off.”

“Check the moorings, Mid,” said Carver distantly.

Leach smiled. “Aye, aye, I get it.”

When he had gone, Carver tapped out his pipe, and looked thoughtful. “You're wrong, you know. About her, I mean.”

“How the hell do you know?” said Royce irritably.

Carver shrugged. “Call it my intuition, if you like, but look at it this way. She's a very lovely girl, and a very intelligent one too. It stands out a mile that she could get any man she wanted.” He grinned crookedly. “She could get me any time. Yet she comes all the way down here, to put up at an hotel, and to spend Christmas in acute discomfort with us on this boat, which, although we love it, is no yacht. And all this at your suggestion and bidding. Do you want me to go on?”

Royce nodded, and Carver poured himself a large gin from a bottle which stood at his elbow, two-thirds empty. He took a long sip, and grimaced. “Well then, in my opinion, she's not exactly indifferent to you.”

“Mind you,” interrupted Royce, “she used to be stationed here when her brother was my C.O. She wanted to look round, and to see the boat,” he ended lamely.

“If I may say so, at the risk of being court-martialled or something, you're talking bloody rubbish!” His eyes were beginning to look glassy.

Royce said nothing. A faint shaft of hope was penetrating his heart.

Carver drained his glass, and stood up, unsteadily. “'Sides which, you'd be good for each other.”

“Thanks, Number One, you've been a big help. It's good to have a Father Confessor aboard.”

“'S'all right, Skipper, any time. She's a wonderful creature. And, again if I may make so bold, you're a bloody wonderful chap yourself, so there!” he finished defiantly. “Now I'm going to bed, and when I awake, I'm going to have a very, merry Christmas!” And he wobbled out of the ward-room.

Royce relaxed, and lay back in the chair. He felt as if he had been put back together again.

C
HRISTMAS MORNING
was one mad rush. And by the time the crew had been served with their monstrous dinner, and the officers had sampled the puddings, and had “sippers” on the mess-deck, and in the P.O.s' Mess, they were feeling more in the seasonal mood themselves.

Royce changed into his best uniform, and entered the wardroom. His two officers were already fussing around the table's cramped seating arrangements, and consulting the steward.

Suddenly, a red-faced Petty Officer Raikes and Able Seaman Sax appeared at the door. Raikes was obviously full of the unlawfully bottled rum from the P.O.s' Mess, and was looking very solemn.

“Yes, Cox'n,” said Royce, surprised that they should leave their own respective celebrations.

Raikes pushed Sax forward roughly, and for an awful moment Royce thought the bluff seaman had been up to something.

“Come on, me boy, spit it out!” barked Raikes, grinning.

The other officers drew aside—they had obviously been expecting this—and Sax drew a deep breath.

“Sir, I 'ave been selected by the ship's company,” he began carefully, “to be the one to present you wiv' this little gift.” He held out a small parcel in a large hand. “An' we want you ter know that we 'ope you like it.” He stopped.

“Go on,” prompted Raikes.

“Oh yes, an' what's more, we want you ter know too, that we've got the best skipper in the 'ole blasted Andrew!” he finished breathlessly.

Royce took the parcel, and eventually a thin box came to light. He opened it shakily, and took out a pipe. Not an ordinary pipe, but one produced by a leading London firm. It had cost them plenty.

Able Seaman Manners piped up from the back: “If you don't like it, we can change it for you, sir?”

Royce looked up at the circle of rough, anxious faces.

“Like it?” He held it carefully in his hands. “Like it? I'll take great care of it. Thank you very much, lads.” He cleared his throat. “Thank you very much,” he said again.

“Come on lads,” said Raikes roughly, “back to yer debauchery!” And the laughing, noisy throng clattered away to the fo'c'sle.

“Well, what do you think of that?” said Royce quietly.

“Bribery, that's what it is!” laughed Carver. “There's been more trouble getting the right sort of pipe than I had getting the nightdress!”

Royce walked out on to the deck, into the keen north wind, and stood at the rail, just looking at the shining new pipe.

The Quartermaster, Ordinary Seaman Elton, stamped his feet, and cleared his throat noisily. “All right, annit, sir?” he said cheerfully. He was still looking forward to his Christmas dinner, which would be waiting for him as soon as he was relieved. “Recon yer won't be wantin' to drop that in the 'oggin?”

Royce smiled. He was too overcome by the crew's unexpected kindness to voice much comment, and merely assented quietly.

The Quartermaster's red-rimmed eyes suddenly sharpened. “Allo, 'ere comes the ‘Fisherman' agin!”

The Fisherman, as it was known, was the R.A.F. Air-Sea Rescue launch, stationed at the base, and commanded by a jovial little Yorkshire Flying Officer, who was renowned for his success at finding his colleagues, floating in their rubber dinghies and Mae Wests, or just holding on to their shattered aircraft, wherever they might be. At this moment, the graceful black and yellow hull was just swinging out into the fairway, away from her moorings, and after a noisy gear-change, she threw up a sheet of foam from her raked stem, and steered purposefully for the boom-gate.

As she drew abeam, the skipper, dressed as usual in his battered grey cap and kapok jacket, raised his megaphone. “Just like the blessed navy! You lie stinking in harbour, while we go out on the job!”

Royce cupped his hands. “Nuts! What the hell are you going out for? I didn't think there had been much local flying lately, because of the weather.”

“Nah! But Coastal Command have reported an empty dinghy floating off the Mullion Flats, so Joe Soap here has got to investigate. Christmas Day, too. I ask you!” His other remarks were drowned by the increased roar of engines, as the boom-defence vessel dropped her flag, to announce that the front door was open.

Royce waved cheerfully after him, and shivered in the sudden squall which ruffled the water.

“Bit of a blow coming up, I think, Elton.”

“Aye, sir. Signal Tower report gale warning in the channel for tonight.”

Their attention was taken by the blunt shape of the N.A.A.F.I. boat, puffing manfully round the bend, her decks crammed with unlawful passengers, who were cadging lifts from one vessel to another. She was heading straight for the M.T.B. moorings.

“Ah, some of the guests. Stand by to help them on board, Q.M., and tell the hands below, there's a free lift to the
Royston
going, if they want to go over for a game of Tombola, or something.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Long before the boat had clumsily manoeuvred alongside, he had seen Julia. She was standing in the wheelhouse by the skipper, wrapped in a duffle coat. As he waved to her, he felt the now familiar lurch of his inside, the overpowering sense of longing. He saw her wave back to him.

The next instant, he found his small decks crammed with visitors: Benjy Watson and Jock Murray well to the fore, in company with two Wren officers from the Operations Section ashore; Page and his Number One; and young Crispin, Kirby's new Second Hand, whom Royce had made a special point of inviting. It was extremely rare for Kirby to allow him much free time, and by the look of extreme joy on his pale face, it looked as if he was going to make the most of it. A brightly painted little girl, in a somewhat improbable fur jacket, and a tall, aristocratic Waaf Officer, completed the party, so far. Carver bustled around, and shepherded the uninitiated below, away from the probing fingers of the rising wind. Royce muttered welcomes in every direction, but made straight for Julia.

“Welcome back,”—and he took her hands in his—“let's get below quickly.”

Coats and caps were shed, and the ladies retired to Royce's cabin, which was to be the unofficial “powder room.”

Bottles clinked, and the men lifted their glasses thankfully.

“Blimey, I need this,” gasped Benjy. “Blessed wind took me breath away!” He drained it at a gulp, and looked round approvingly.

“Glad we decided to come here, Clive. Can't get many bodies in my little paint-pot.”

Page, who was carefully examining the Christmas cards, chuckled suddenly. “Heard about you and old Kirby, this morning, you rascal! Fancy you managing to get him bottled. Little Mister Perfect!”

Benjy's eyes creased. “Yep, gave him a treble gin with a drop of high-octane in it. Boy, he went off like a bomb! Still,” he sighed heavily, “he got it on me this morning. He's made mine the Duty Boat!”

“But for Pete's sake, all your lads are as drunk as coots!” exploded Murray. “Ye're a fine Duty Boat. Suppose the
Tirpitz
comes out to bombard the White Hart. A fine protection you are!”

Royce laughed. “Have you seen the weather? There'll be no Jerry activity today. Old Benjy knows his onions!”

The tall Waaf entered, guiding the small girl, who smiled shyly at the wardroom in general.

Carver and Leach hurried forward.

“This is Jean Mannering, an old friend,” announced Carver, as he introduced the girl in immaculate air force blue. “Used to be a model, didn't you, dear?”

Benjy's eyes lit up with sudden interest. “Well, now, that's very interesting. I'm sure we shall find a lot to talk about later on!”

She smiled, and looked faintly bored. “I can imagine. By the way, this young lady is Ann Hardwick.” She pushed the girl into the limelight, and Royce realized that this must be Leach's latest conquest.

“Pleased to meet you, I'm sure,” she cooed, and took the gin from Leach's hand with alacrity, while he studied her with dumb admiration.

God, that must be what I look like, thought Royce ruefully.

The two Wrens were on familiar ground, and quickly made themselves at home, but Julia seemed to bring all festivities to a temporary halt. When she entered, Royce knew that, like himself, the others were just standing, drinking in her beauty. She was wearing a plain, flame-coloured cocktail dress, which was devoid of jewellery, but whose simplicity accentuated the breath-taking curve of her body.

She paused, a little uncertain of her reception.

“Thank goodness, my guest has arrived!” roared Benjy suddenly, and ushered her solemnly to a chair. “I'm afraid you aren't going to get a look in, Clive!” he laughed, with a wink.

“I was afraid of that,” groaned Royce feelingly.

Already he had the impression that events were moving too fast for him to keep control. He turned to the messman, who was carefully tasting a large bowl of punch. He jumped as a slim, brown arm slipped through his, and turned to look into her laughing eyes.

“You see, I'm here, Clive. Don't look so gloomy,” she said softly. “Happy Christmas to you.”

Royce was transformed. He wanted to seize her, here and now. Instead he grinned sheepishly. “Sometimes I feel just like a blessed schoolboy!”

“And so you are. And that's just how I like you!”

“Here, you two!” bellowed Benjy. “That'll keep till later. Here come the eats!”

The ice was broken, if it had ever existed, and noisily they jammed themselves around the table, and its extension, which was constructed of disguised ammunition cases.

How they struggled through the mountains of food, Royce couldn't say, but eventually they lay back in their chairs, sighing contentedly.

“That was a real fine do,” sighed Murray, as he glassily watched the messman whisking away the table, and piling the plates through the pantry hatch.

The gramophone was lifted into place, and Carver and the messman soon had the air ringing with suitable background music.

Through the scuttles Royce saw that the sky was darkening angrily, and the bucking water was turning into an unreal purple. He turned away, feeling unnaturally snug and contented.

Carver brushed by him, and hissed in his ear, “Don't forget the present!”

Royce nodded, and turned to Julia, who was having a deep conversation with Page.

He let his glance caress the warm, soft curve of her slender neck, the smooth cheek framed by a raven's wing of shining jet hair, and he swallowed hard.

Benjy lurched to his feet, and grabbing one of the Wrens, heaved himself over to the gramophone. “C'mon, Dorothy, let's shake a foot!”

“I'd love to, Benjy. But my name's Alice!”

Royce leaned forward. “Care to take a chance, Julia?”

Together they moved across the tiny cleared space, while the others called encouragement. He was not only aware of her nearness, but of her elusive lightness in his arms. A breath of perfume made his head spin, and coupled with the uneasy sway of the M.T.B.'s deck, he wanted only to hold her close.

He was aware that some of the others had started to dance, and now, the pressure of bodies around them forced them together.

Protectively his arm encircled her waist, and through the thin material of her dress, he felt her body stiffen. Then, as he wondered whether to release her or not, she suddenly relaxed, and moved in close against him. He could sense the gentle pressure of her body willingly cradled in his arms, and the overpowering feeling of desire which engulfed him at that moment made him bury his cheek in her hair. He didn't trust himself to look into her eyes.

The music screamed to a halt, as a sudden lurch by the boat made the needle screech across the record. Benjy and his gasping partner collapsed, helpless in a chair, hooting with laughter, while the others sorted themselves out by the gramophone. Leach was trying to pacify his small friend, she was already looking a little the worse for wear. Only Royce and Julia remained, motionless, in the middle of the throng, and he knew then, that he would never let her go. He put his hands on her shoulders, to steady her against the roll of the boat, and she lifted her eyes to his. They were very large and very near to his. They seemed to be filled with violent and mixed emotions, as if she too felt as he did, yet at the same time imploring him to use his control, for both of them. He felt hot and cold in quick succession, and then, with a quick, almost apologetic smile, he dropped his arms to his sides, and motioned her to the settee berth at one side of the wardroom.

“Phew, let's take a breather,” he said unconvincingly.

She nodded, without speaking, her eyes shining.

With a squawk, the music started again, and immediately the others proceeded to sway noisily together in the semblance of a dance. They sat in silence, watching, Royce not daring to look at her. She put a cool hand on his, but when he stole a glance in her direction, she was staring ahead. Seeing nothing but her thoughts.