Back to Battle (18 page)

It gave him hope but, as she offered him his glass, he noticed she was studying him cautiously, with the suppressed excitement of a dog about to start a fight. His own excitement had not gone unnoticed and she’d already guessed why he was there.

Swallowing the last of his drink, he stood up and faced her. ‘I’m going to sea again, Charley,’ he said.

She looked up at him, the dark shadows under her eyes making her seem more fragile. ‘I’m pleased for you, Kelly,’ she said. ‘I know it’s what you want.’

He stared at her, faintly baffled by her indifference. His mood was a curious and uncharacteristic blend of defeat and confusion. He’d given orders so long he was almost physically uncomfortable in a relationship that required a democratic exchange of viewpoints. Besides, he loved his country and was prepared to fight for it and he resented her coolness that implied he was being put on trial for his attitudes and convictions.

He forced himself to continue, because he had to. ‘Marry me before I go, Charley,’ he said quietly.

Indignation flared in her eyes, then it vanished again and he saw an infinite pity and distress fill them for the merest fraction of a second. For a long time she was silent and his heart began to thump. He’d been in love with her all his life despite Christina, despite Teresa, despite all the other women he’d known – and his love had returned undiminished since he’d bumped into her again. During his period with Corbett, he’d seen her occasionally about the corridors of Dover Castle and had often heard other officers commenting on her, even trying to invite her to dinner. She’d always refused them, however, and, because his reputation and quick temper were legendary, when they’d seen him with her the word had gone round quickly and she’d been left alone. She hadn’t seemed to mind, existing in a quiet vacuum, her mind curiously secretive, and, though her expression had never been inviting, it had also always been friendly.

Because he’d convinced himself he had a chance, her answer rocked him. ‘My answer to that one’s simple, Kelly,’ she said, looking him straight in the face. ‘No.’

The proposal had not been impulsive and, not really expecting her to refuse him, he was aware of a sick disappointment.

‘They’ve given me a flotilla,’ he said. ‘And now my father’s dead I have the baronetcy.’

He’d hoped faintly that the news might change her attitude but he ought to have known better and she showed no interest whatsoever. Instead she gave him that faint smile he’d come to know so well.

‘And you think you need a wife to go with them?’

‘No! Good God, no, Charley!’ He tried a different line, still curiously humble. ‘When I came back from Dunkirk,’ he said, ‘we spent the night together.’

She had no idea what had prompted his surrender, and he couldn’t know she was too afraid of him to let him come near her. Too many wasted years had gone by and, though she knew he blamed himself for them, she knew also that much of the blame lay with her, too. She’d expected to take first place in his life when naval wives never did. She’d been jealous of his ships and the devotion he’d given to his men.

‘What difference does that make?’ she said.

He was looking at her in bewilderment, feeling she might have had the detachment to feel some sort of compassion for him, then he thrust the feeling aside, knowing it was self-pity, something he despised.

She tried to speak calmly. She’d been too much alone over the years, aching for his love as he thought of his ships and the sea, frightened at the thought of him leaving her again – and again – and again. She was trying hard to control her emotions but the effort was so physically draining she felt exhausted. He was not aware of the unbearable tension in her and that she was afraid that at any instant she might burst into tears. Her eyes were dark and haunted against the pallor of her face.

‘Standards have changed,’ she pointed out, forcing her voice to be steady. ‘It isn’t 1920 any more and there’s a war on. People are concerned to get what they can out of life, while they still have it.’

What she said shocked him, but she didn’t pursue the matter with accusations.

‘I was in love with you once, Kelly,’ she admitted coolly. ‘That’s true.’

‘And now?’

‘No.’

‘Will you ever be again?’

Her shoulders moved tiredly. She felt she’d like to cry but crying had always come hard to her and her emotions left her confused and bewildered. ‘How do I know? You haven’t changed much, but I have. I’ve had to.’

‘Charley–’ he paused. ‘If anything happened to me, there’d be my pension. It wouldn’t be insubstantial and I happen to know you’re not well off.’

She gave him a sad little smile. ‘You sound as if you’re offering something from a bargain basement.’

‘Perhaps I am,’ he said quietly. ‘Perhaps it’s that important.’

She looked up at him quickly, catching the stillness of his expression, the sudden cold appraisal of his eyes. She experienced an uncomfortable twist of fear and need but she couldn’t manage any effort to help him. She was giving nothing away because her own marriage – for which she’d always blamed him – had been a disaster and had tied her to a man she’d never even been able to respect.

Kelly was only sadly conscious of the difference in her, aware that something that had existed between them had gone and would take years to put back.

‘I just wanted you to feel–’ he began. Then he stopped and shrugged ‘But it doesn’t matter now. After all, your life’s your own. I’ve no claim on it.’ He managed a smile. ‘You’ll be able to see all those other people at the Castle without concerning yourself any more with whether I’ll be jealous or not.’

‘I didn’t concern myself, Kelly,’ she said sharply. Then she realised she was being unnecessarily cruel and her voice dropped. She didn’t meet his eyes. ‘And there aren’t any other men.’

‘There will be when I’m not here.’

‘No.’

He tried again, not with much hope. ‘Then why won’t you marry me?’

He was frowning and it pleased her somehow to find he was human enough to lose his temper. It made him more selfish and more real.

‘Because the Navy has no time for women, Kelly,’ she said. ‘In the Army, wives are part of the regiment. The Navy’s concern is with ships, and wives are merely indiscretions.’

There was an element of truth in what she said and there was a long silence before she spoke again, quietly, as if he’d never even mentioned marriage.

‘When do you take over?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘I expect I can find a room at the Castle.’

There was a long pause. ‘You could always stay here,’ she said.

He put down his glass. His hand was unsteady and it rattled against the mantelshelf.

‘I thought you said–’

Her eyes met his, clear and unequivocal. ‘I said I wouldn’t marry you, Kelly. That’s what I said.’

It seemed a strange sort of agreement but he was afraid, now that he’d found her, of losing her again and was willing to accept anything that would allow him to be near her occasionally.

‘We shall be based on the Mersey, I believe,’ he said. ‘That means Western Approaches. But not for long, I’m afraid.’

‘The Mediterranean?’

He guessed she’d heard something at the Castle and he nodded. ‘They’re expecting trouble there.’

‘And they want Ginger Maguire.’

The comment flattered him a little but he remained humble. ‘Something like that.’

‘I expect you’re just what’s needed.’

Hell on wheels as a sailor, Mabel had once said of him, but a dead loss as a hearts-and-flowers type. It seemed he still was.

‘There may be odd weekends before we go,’ he said slowly, picking his way carefully through the shoals of thought that troubled him. ‘I’d like to come and see you.’

His humility troubled her more than she’d thought possible. ‘Why not?’

‘Won’t it make any difference?’

‘None at all, Kelly. We’ve been friends far too long.’ Friends! It was like a jab in the guts from a marline spike. ‘There’s only one bed, I’m afraid. And the settee’s hard and not nearly big enough.’

She seemed to be dropping hints.

‘Perhaps I can leave a camp bed here,’ he suggested.

She looked at him unblinkingly, giving nothing away but not hostile either.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Do that. You could put it in the living room.”

Her coolness almost broke his heart and he knew the hints he’d imagined weren’t hints at all. Why did women feel they were the only ones who could suffer? Why did they feel that men, because they didn’t show their emotions, because very often they’d been trained not to show their emotions, never had any? She’d clearly lost control when he’d come back from Dunkirk, and she was completely in possession of herself now.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll do that.’

But he knew he never would.

Impi, Inca, Impatient and Indian, the I-class destroyers of the Twenty-Third Flotilla, had been completed in the year before the war and, like all the new destroyers, were bigger than their forbears. While Verschoyle’s Hunt-class ships were only just over a thousand tons, slow, and carried only four-inch anti-aircraft armament and no torpedoes, the Is were almost 1500 tons and carried four 4.7-inchers and torpedo tubes and had a speed of over thirty-six knots. The flotilla leader, Impi, was even bigger, with quarters for the flotilla commander’s staff, and she was an impressive sight butting into the seas at full revolutions. At this speed the vibration was heavy but she handled well and it was a pleasure to Kelly to bring her alongside in his usual fashion – like a midshipman with a pinnace – which had more than once in the past resulted in scraped paint, crushed whalers and a few sour looks from the mooring party trying to get ropes ashore. Never good with a ship in close conditions, for once he was pleased to notice he’d made a good job of it and as he rang down ‘Finished with engines,’ he was flattered to see relieved smiles all round and hear one of the mooring party below him whistling ‘Anybody here seen Kelly?’

It did his heart good because it had been almost a signature tune in Mordant. In the sad years between the wars, when the Admiralty had lost touch with its sailors and the gulf between wardroom and mess deck had become enormous, it had disappeared from the lower deck’s repertoire, but the Navy had rediscovered its soul since Norway and Dunkirk, and pride was visible again.

Impi was a well-run ship with a first-rate Number One and few names in the Captain’s Report. Only one occurred regularly, that of ‘Dancer’ Siggis, a lantern-jawed Irish able seaman who seemed unable to carry his beer.

‘Well, sorr,’ he liked to explain, ‘me ma was a barmaid and she used to enjoy her Guinness, so mebbe I imbibed it with me mother’s milk.’

They could never tell whether he believed it or was deliberately pulling their leg, but he was the ship’s character and, though he took thirty seconds to write his own name, he was a dead shot with the twin Bofors and could work out in his head in a moment how long it took to close to a given range, so that the tendency was always to treat him lightly. ‘After all,’ Kelly observed, ‘sailors aren’t bloody spinsters.’

In October, the flotilla was sent to Liverpool and kept busy about the Irish Sea. It was a curiously remote kind of life and, except for odd days in harbour, they were out of touch with the world, their only home the lonely ocean and the winter gales. The ship seemed crowded by peacetime standards because extra experts had been pushed aboard and there were often complements of troops or even civilians, pressed on them by some authority able to bully the Admiralty.

Rumbelo’s son, expecting his commission to come through any time, was aboard Hood at Scapa, while Hugh, newly in the Mediterranean, was flying from Illustrious. Paddy was still working in the hospital at Esher but was making threatening noises about leaving if Hugh didn’t return to marry her and the Navy didn’t accept her application to become a naval nursing sister.

At the end of November, Kelly attended the Palace to receive a bar to his DSO for the capture of Kölndom and the action in Narvik Fjord, and the CB he’d been given for Dunkirk. Because there was no one else and Biddy was already there with her son, he took Paddy. The press photographers were waiting outside as he left, taking pictures of all the recipients.

‘Is this your wife, sir?’ one of them asked, indicating Paddy.

She grinned delightedly at Kelly so that he almost wished she were. ‘I haven’t got a wife,’ he growled and he knew the picture would appear the following day with him looking as if he were about to attack the photographer.

‘You know what they’ll think, don’t you?’ Paddy giggled as he pushed her into a taxi and took the lot of them to lunch. ‘That I’m a tart and you’re a dirty old man.’

At the beginning of December, he learned he’d been given Verschoyle’s flotilla as well as his own. He didn’t persuade himself it was for any other reason than that, after Dunkirk and Norway, there was no one else and it didn’t seem to mean promotion.

By this time the vast majority of the men in the ships were Hostilities-Only sailors and Liverpool presented a warlike picture as the frontline base of the Atlantic operations. Cranes clattered and pneumatic drills yammered while tugs scuttled up and down the Mersey, their whistles wailing, and destroyers, sloops and corvettes whooped their warnings as they moved in and out of the port. The C-in-C’s headquarters were at Derby House, and the ops room had a floor-to-ceiling map of the Atlantic, showing convoys, escorts and submarines. Wren plotters, their mouths full of tape and pins, were laying out the routes and, in the glass-fronted offices overlooking it all, duty control officers watched them at work. In that great room it wasn’t hard to believe that the business of countering the U-boats was a simple matter for the men at sea.

Kelly’s first job was to brief his new commanding officers in what he expected of them and try out the ships’ companies. As they left harbour for working-up exercises off the coast of Scotland, he was determined there should be no individualists, but a single unit.

The working-up routine had been devised by an expert in the art of driving both officers and men to the limit, and all day they carried out anti-submarine and gunnery exercises and at night controlled imaginary convoys. By the end of November they were as trained as the brief course would allow and they returned to Liverpool to act as convoy escorts. As Impi went alongside the oiler in Kelly’s usual hit-or-miss fashion, she wiped off Chatsworth’s whaler.