Holding On (45 page)

The parallel ruler rolled across the chart table, toppling on to the deck. In the silence the sudden clang was thunderous. Everyone tensed, fingers crisping into palms, the embarrassed Navigation Officer gesturing apology as he bent to capture the offending item. Mole glanced at the intent, listening face of his First Lieutenant and experienced a sense of comradeship; he knew that he could trust him absolutely and he felt a sudden surge of confidence, of almost schoolboy daring. No British submarine had ever been tracked by a Russian frigate and he wasn't going to allow that record to be broken. Mole breathed deeply and unclenched his fists. His hands were sweaty and he dug them into his pockets as he wandered across to the Navigation Officer who now leaned over the chart table, the yeoman beside him.

‘Are we in deep enough water to be able to dive yet?' he asked quietly, watching as they checked the echo sounder.

‘We're heading into deeper water, sir,' the yeoman murmured. ‘Give it five minutes and the depth'll be two hundred feet.'

He nodded, turning away with relief. They would all breathe more freely once they were dived, moving silently, secretly, beneath the surface of the waves. As he made the rounds the pinging faded and he moved across to the sound room to check with the sonar officer, who shook his head. ‘Nothing, sir. The Russian sonar transmitter has just ceased.'

Mole experienced a private easing of tension. Odd that, although he'd been with these men for barely six months, there was the familiar small-ship sense of family, engendered by their dependence on each other, strengthened by the knowledge that their safety was grounded in a common bond of trust. Odd that, at this moment, he would not choose to be anywhere else in the world.

The radar team, at the aft end, looked up at him. ‘No Soviet radar transmissions, sir.'

He crossed to the Outside Wrecker. ‘Ready to dive?'

‘I'm happy, sir.'

The engineer officer sitting behind the planesman prepared to check the trim and, heart beating hard, Mole picked up the handset.

‘Officer of the Watch, this is the Captain. I have the ship. Clear the bridge. Come below. Shut the upper lid.'

They waited in silence until the officer climbed down the ladder inside the fin and appeared in the control room.

‘Captain, sir. Officer of the Watch. Bridge cleared. Upper lid shut. Two clips, two pins. Two fishermen on the starboard bow, three miles away, sir. No sign of any other ships.'

The general feeling of relief was palpable and a surge of triumph washed through the control room.

‘Open main vents,' said Mole. ‘Six degrees bow down. Eighty feet back to periscope depth.'

The waves washed over the casing, lapping about the tall fin as it slowly submerged until the waters closed over it and the surface of the sea was smooth again, empty beneath the black starless sky.

As the diesel generators were switched off the only sound now was the low hum of the electric motor, propelling the submarine forward into deep waters. Mole's periscope revealed a comforting dark emptiness and he heaved a sigh of relief as he clipped up the handles and swung round on the seat. The crew were grinning at one another, relaxing, stretching. Mole made certain that they were safely at periscope depth and prepared to pass control to the Officer of the Watch.

‘I can see the fishermen,' he told him, ‘but there's nothing else. Keep an easterly course for a couple of hours. Let them get used to being dived. Are you happy?'

‘I'm happy, sir.'

‘You have the ship.'

‘I have the ship, sir.'

With a few words of congratulation to the watch, Mole gestured his thanks and went out, along the passage to his cabin. He had yet to write his intentions for the next twelve hours in the night order book and make a report of proceedings. He drew the curtain behind him and sat down for a moment on the edge of his bunk. This small rectangle contained his desk, cupboard and wash basin and was the only place where he might snatch a few moments of privacy and peace. As he sat, letting the adrenalin slow, beginning to relax, his gaze fell on the framed photograph on his desk. Susanna beamed out at him, Fred in the circle of her arm, Podger balanced on her knee. It was impossible not to smile back at her, this companion of his childhood. The children watched him; Fred with a faintly censorious frown of concentration; Podger, thumb in mouth, with a friendly thoughtfulness.

Mole experienced the familiar sensation of anxiety for their vulnerable innocence. How terrifying it must be to bring children into the world, exposing them to its dangers and its pain. Yet Susanna and Gus were so confident, so
sure
. He knew how much they longed for him and Janie to get together, so as to be able to experience this happiness for themselves, but Mole resisted any efforts to propel him into matrimony. He had no such confidence in his ability to make a good husband – apart from which it was necessary to be in love for such an undertaking. He was very fond of Janie but nowhere near fond enough to make such a commitment . . .

The steward banged on the bulkhead beside the curtain and, responding to Mole's shout of ‘Come', thrust the curtain aside and set a mug of coffee on his desk. With a murmured word of thanks Mole stood up, stretched mightily and sat down to make his report.

In the living room, waiting for Miles to return with the morning paper, Fliss folded her letter from Bess and put it back in its envelope, holding it on her lap as she looked about her. With their small portable belongings back in place the house had lost the impersonal quality of which she'd been aware during those quick visits between tenants. Even so she was glad that at last Miles had agreed that they should sell. It was too small a house to contain the growing twins; not suitable that at nearly twelve they should have to share a bedroom. Had they stayed this living room would have been made into a bedroom, the furniture going to The Keep or to be sold, but it was a relief not to have to contemplate such an upheaval. For the coming Easter holidays Miles had agreed that Jamie should use the dressing room as he had at Christmas but, even so, there simply wasn't space for their toys and books or their bicycles. A lot of the twinnies' belongings were at The Keep but this wasn't a very satisfactory arrangement once the holidays arrived.

Fortunately Miles was in very good spirits and was making light of being turned out of his dressing room, something which might easily have irritated him. Tempers had become somewhat strained during the Christmas holidays and it was a relief to take the twins over to The Keep for periods of time so that Miles could have some peace and quiet. Fliss stirred a little in her chair, anxiety tinging her happiness at the thought of having the twins home again; at the balancing act required to keep everybody happy. It was necessary to remember that Miles was fifty-three and the twins could be very boisterous and noisy. They came home for such short periods that she longed for it to be fun but Miles found it difficult to remain tolerant whilst they played pop music or clattered up and down the two flights of stairs between kitchen and bedroom. They were all too much under one another's feet . . .

She thought: The trouble is that this house has never really felt like home.

Even here, in her favourite room, she did not feel so much at ease as she had in some of the quarters and married hirings she'd lived in during the last fourteen years. She longed to settle down at last, for them to become a real family living in a comfortably careless way without the pressure of knowing that in two years' time they'd be moving on.

‘At least constant moving saves you collecting rubbish,' Miles had said when an argument had arisen about whether the twinnies' baby toys and books should be kept. ‘It's silly to hang on to a lot of useless stuff that no one will ever want again.'

‘But they will want to look at it all from time to time,' she'd argued. ‘And they'll like to keep these things for their own children. It's not rubbish, it's part of their history.'

‘Honestly, darling.' He'd shaken his head, laughing at her, patting her shoulder. ‘As if their children would want it. If they
have
children, that is. Just because
you
hang on to a rose-coloured vision of childhood doesn't mean that they will.'

‘But they might,' she'd protested, refusing to be brow-beaten by this attempt to make her feel foolish, sentimental, childish. ‘Look how all the children love the toys and books that are kept at The Keep. Those things aren't just mine or Mole's or Sooz's. Some of them were Daddy's and Uncle John's and some even belonged to Grandmother and Uncle Theo. It's a kind of continuity.'

‘Have it your way,' he'd said tolerantly. ‘But I'm not paying to cart it all with us from place to place and there's no space for it in Dartmouth.'

‘It can all go to The Keep,' she'd said. ‘There will be room for it there,' and she'd boxed up the Ladybird books and the Richard Scarry books and the Fisher Price toys and driven them down to Devon herself. However Pudgie and Binker, the teddy bears which Kit had given them, remained with them and had gone off to Herongate with a name tape sewed to each left-hand paw. She'd noticed, too, that on their visits to The Keep, sooner or later Jamie and Bess made the pilgrimage up to the nursery quarters where she'd find them kneeling beside open boxes, their books and toys about them on the floor.

As she reached to put Bess's letter on the table beside the other post, her glance fell on the ginger jar, back in its place on the small bookcase. She remembered how she'd found it damaged and the sadness she'd felt, sadness and shame that she'd been so careless as to risk it to strangers. After that she'd taken it with her as a kind of talisman, a reminder of the value of loyalty and friendship and how easily these qualities can be neglected and damaged. Getting up she went to look at it more closely, studying the frieze of figures, absently tracing the crack with her fingers, thinking of Remy, the little Filipino amah . . .

Miles came into the hall, closing the front door behind him, and she turned, calling to him.

‘
There
you are,' he said, as if she had been hiding from him, and threw the
Telegraph
on to the table. ‘Any coffee left?'

‘Of course there is.' She passed him in the doorway, indicating the letters on the table. ‘One from Bess for us and a couple for you,' and she left him to open them whilst she went into the kitchen.

When she returned with the coffee he was standing by the window, reading a letter. His attitude, tense, alert, concentrated, drew her attention, and as she half frowned, half smiled at his intensity, he swung round to her, his face alight and eager. She smiled at him, eyebrows lifted enquiringly, and he gave a laugh that was partly a breath of relief.

‘It's come at last,' he said. ‘I've been waiting for this. It's the final confirmation.' He shook the sheets of paper at her, smiling broadly. ‘I've got a job.'

‘Oh . . .' The familiar sensation of hurt and irritation that she'd been excluded from the secret, combining with the instinctive desire to encourage and support him, made her response only slightly enthusiastic. ‘I had no idea things had got this far.'

‘I didn't want to say anything until it was a certainty.' He was ebullient, unable to contain his delight, and she was reminded of that former occasion when he had told her about his posting to Hong Kong. ‘It's from Richard telling me that my formal application's gone through and a contract will be following shortly.'

‘Richard?' she interrupted him, puzzled.

‘Richard Maybrick, darling,' he answered in that faintly impatient tone which implied ‘Don't be silly, darling.' ‘You can't have forgotten Richard and Mary?'

‘Of course not,' she replied. ‘It's simply that I didn't associate him with getting you a job. Not with them out in Hong Kong. So what's it all about?'

‘Well, that's the whole point.' Miles put the letter down and seized his coffee mug. He took an enormous swig of coffee and in that moment Fliss felt a trickle of fear, of premonition.

‘What's the whole point?'

‘Well, it was Richard who suggested it, you see. He knew how much we loved it out there and he's always talked of us moving out once I'd finished with the Navy. He's been making enquiries for me, dear old lad. D'you remember meeting James Perowne at a party when we were in London? Well, his brother Peter owns Preselli Enterprises out in Hong Kong. It's an import-export business, mainly exporting liquid propane gas and small diesel generators and so on into China. Old Richard's been pulling strings for me and I've been offered the job of acting manager, light engineering. Pretty good, eh? It's a very fair salary and I get commission. Shan't know the details until the contract comes with the letter from Peter but I'm sure there won't be any problems. God, it'll be good to be back out there again, won't it, darling? We had such fun, didn't we?'

Beyond him the ginger jar was lit by a sudden gleam of sunlight. Staring at it she remembered the noisy streets, the neon lights, the busy harbour, the hot fragrant smell of root ginger . . .

‘You should have told me.' It was oddly difficult to move her lips and she clenched her hands behind her back. ‘You had no right—'

He frowned. ‘No right?'

‘No right to plan all our lives as if I didn't exist.' She closed her eyes, shaking her head, suddenly angry. ‘It's unbelievable.'

‘But you loved Hong Kong.' He could barely understand her reaction. It had been his dream for so long that it had never occurred to him that she would not be as excited as he was. This was the start of their new life together, a picking up where they'd left off when Jamie and Bess had arrived: a new life, a new job, a new country. ‘You loved it,' he repeated, as if the words would make it so, certain that this was a momentary qualm born out of surprise. ‘We know quite a few people out there and we can buy a lovely flat and you can have help. The social life is terrific.' He laughed. ‘You'll have to buy yourself some decent clothes and smarten up a bit. Seriously, it's a brilliant opportunity, Fliss.'