The German Numbers Woman (45 page)

His hand was close to the VHF transmitter switch. The range was short, not much further than the horizon, so if he sent a mayday call who would pick it up? If he began to talk into the microphone and no other boat was apparent, he would be killed for nothing. He couldn't do it. In any case, it was foolhardy, too stupid even to contemplate. To die in such a cause needed courage, like going on and on regardless into a wall of flak. He couldn't imagine it anymore, too old except for the imagination – a pathetic substitute for action. He would never do it, had no wish to, was afraid to, was at one with them in their game, hoping all would go well, a wish he hadn't imagined on setting out. The boat had a set purpose and he had become part of it. Blindness wouldn't save the state of his soul if they were caught. After taking in the truth, up to now impossible to acknowledge, he felt exhilarated at knowing that the height of a blind man's existence was in being accepted as a villain by the rest of the crew. He drew his fingers back from the transmitter switch.

He stared into the froth of the wake as if to let the air cleanse him, but he had calmly accepted whatever was coming, no greater bliss to be got from the world. Whatever he had been on starting out, he was now in their thrall, and would not be the same person when he got back to Laura, though the picture of such a reunion wouldn't come, no matter how hard he tried to see it.

Cannister was by his side when he went to the bows. ‘I'm keeping a lookout, see?' Jack explained. ‘With a pair of old rusty binoculars. They've got a purple haze at the top of the right-hand circle, but they're good enough. They work. I bought 'em for a tenner at a junkshop in Pompey. They make me look like a real bloody captain on the bridge, like in “The Cruel Sea”, or something. But you seem full of thoughts, Howard. Are you getting tired? You never say much. You're waiting for that pigeon to come back, I suppose.'

Spray curled up and caught his face, cool out of the afternoon humidity. The splash across his eyes, as if to make him see again, sent vision after vision, each crowding the other out, showing the sky and the pale receding beam of the wake he would have preferred to be looking at. None of them opened onto the detail of everyday life on the boat which he wanted to see, as if he'd been blinded for his sins, but even more sins would not let him see again. God was oblivious to your sighs, and whoever did not hear could not exist. You were left to argue with yourself. He laughed, in his new guise of buccaneer, hoping it sounded hearty enough. ‘I was wondering how far we are from Blighty.'

‘No good in that. Never look back,' Cannister said. ‘When I change watch and go to the stern I'll have to look back, until we hit the coast. Orders is orders. See that blob to port? It's a bloody great tanker, right on the horizon.' He laughed. ‘No, of course you don't see it. The funny thing is you look as if you see everything. Even the chief thought you might be putting it on, though I don't think he does anymore. Best not to think about Blighty till it's under your feet, then you don't need to.'

‘I wish I was putting it on,' Howard said.

‘I'll bet you do. But you should go on top sometime for a change, and make it seem as if you're taking a shufti from there. You might feel a bit better. You'd get a different bump under your feet at least, with everything all around you. It's a long day, though. The last day always is. I'd rather be back in Hartlepool with the family, but on the other hand I've got to be here to earn enough money to keep 'em. They'd never forgive me if I didn't. Four kids eat a lot o' popcorn. How many you got, Howard?'

‘I don't have any.'

‘Don't you want some?'

‘I never thought so.'

‘My buggers just came, so I had to shake their hot little hands when they did. I wouldn't be without 'em now.'

Howard was curious. ‘Do the others have big families?'

‘I wouldn't say big 'uns, but they all have kids. Except Richard, he don't mention any, but he don't mention much anyway. People who go on jobs like this are often good family men. Not much else you can do these days. I've got a nice bungalow to keep up, and a wife who likes to be taken out now and again. I like to go out a bit as well when I'm on shore. I did seven years in the Navy, but there wasn't much money in that, so I fell into this trade. Waistcoat likes to employ men with a bit of service behind them. Makes him feel good. He knows he can trust 'em in a tight corner. He's even glad to have a bloke like you from the RAF, blind or not, though you'll never get him to say so. I think in some ways he regards you as lucky, a bit of a mascot, if you don't mind me saying so. Up in Geordie land where I come from it used to be thought lucky, for instance, if a black man knocked on your door on New Year's Eve. Or was it Christmas Eve? When we was kids we used to black our faces with a bit of Cherry Blossom and go knock-a-door. If we didn't get a penny or so we got a bun or a piece of lardy cake. They was happy days, Howard!'

‘Has Waistcoat been in any of the services?'

Cannister's laugh almost drowned the sound of the engines. ‘Him? I wouldn't like to say what kind of service he's been in. Whatever it was, though, it's made him as hard as nails. Mind you, as long as you do as you're told, and do your work, he's all right. He'll stand by you, as much as he can stand by anybody. I sometimes think he's a bit off his trolley when he gets to yammering his filthy language, but that's only a cover. He's a peculiar bloke, that's all. I know he nearly cut your windpipe when you came on board and he found out you was blind, but he's the sort now who might even ask you to come on the next trip because he's got some notion he'll need you – or for some reason he's even taken a shine to you. He's a funny bugger, I tell you. That tanker's gone now, right off the radar screen. Let's go and see if old Ted's got his urn on the boil. I've never known him not to. Chuck the old sod overboard if he didn't. Just follow me, then you'll be all right from the soupy sea. Seems you've seen the last of that pigeon. I expect a shite hawk's had it for its elevenses.'

Balancing his tea mug and a large bun Howard made his way to where Scuddilaw was looking ahead. ‘How much longer before we see land?'

Scud took him by the shoulders, turned him for orientation. ‘Not long. It'll be over there, but you won't see it, I'm sorry to say. A sight for sore eyes for the rest of us, when we do. Not that I'll see it properly, either, because it'll be dusk already, if not dark. We'll see the light winking at the end of the island, and it'll be welcome after coming all this way. We shan't get too close, because we don't want anybody to see us. It'll be black-out, like in the war, even cigarettes doused, and because I smoke sixty a day that's a rule that gives me the willies.'

Judy was somewhere in the distance, waiting for them to draw near. What would she be doing? She would be peeling an orange, putting it segment by segment into her mouth while gazing north to penetrate the darkness, hoping to see a vision of Carla. She would only find a blind man who had fallen in love with her voice. ‘I'm looking forward to meeting this girl Judy, who works on the other boat.'

‘You know her, do you?'

‘No, I've only heard her mentioned. What's she like?'

He laughed. ‘She's her own woman, Judy is. Mad as they come. You can never tell what she'll do next. One minute moody, and the next all lit up. A good sort, though. She likes a bit of fun. The trouble is, you never know where you are with her. She likes blokes one day and women the next. You can't take liberties, and that's a fact. She knows how to put you down if you try anything.'

‘What does she look like?'

‘Look like?'

‘I'm asking because I shan't be able to see her.'

‘Oh well, you won't miss all that much. She's tall and gawky. A bit of a tomboy, like a lot of women who've worked a few years on boats. She's got a nice enough face, though. Once you've seen it you'll never forget it. Grey eyes and a beaky nose.'

‘Is she blonde or brunette?'

‘A shade mousey, though she's been known to dye it a few times. Normally more blonde than brown. You seem quite taken by her.'

‘Just curious. I wanted to put a picture to what I'd heard.'

An evening breeze cooled against his cheek, a slightly heavier chop on the sea. He gripped the rail. ‘How long before we see the light?'

‘Here comes Sextant Blake, our shit-hot navigator. I'll ask him.' Howard heard the definite tread of someone approaching, and a respectful tone in Scud's voice: ‘How long before we see the light, Mr Cleaver?'

‘In this visibility, I should think' – was he looking at his chronograph watch? – ‘at twenty-five minutes past nine. Landfall's always a great moment, Mr Scuddilaw, as regards seeing the light. That's when you begin to feel God might be looking after you again. He presents you with the evidence of his wonders, after you've been lost at sea, which is another of his wonders in that all knowledge comes from Him.'

He sounded like a preacher in a crematorium chapel, though not, Howard thought, at the grave side, for his self assurance seemed rather friable. All the same, since he was talking, you had to listen to someone who had no trouble cranking himself up for a mini sermon.

‘He gave man the wit to devise a sextant and a chronometer – bless Mr Harrison for the latter – and make charts – hats off to Captain Cook – and He made the stars on which we can take angles and get our position to one nautical mile or even much less – with sufficient care. So it's down on our knees to Him now and again.'

‘No thanks,' Howard heard Scud say. ‘I'm on watch.'

‘Well, never mind, He'll look after us anyway, but we have to do our bit as well. After all, what more do we want when the sun and the stars are all laid on? I must say, though, I'd give a lot right now for a nice fresh cucumber!'

Howard heard him walking away, the deliberate tread of highly polished boots, he imagined. ‘I have to get back to my charts,' Cleaver called. ‘It's been good talking to you both.'

‘Sanctimonious streak of piss,' Scud said. ‘I'd like to slit his fucking windpipe.'

‘He knows his business.'

‘I suppose so, but you know why? He was master of his own ship once, a real tartar, because I once met somebody as served under him. He worked the River Plate trip, ferrying beef from Buenos Aires to Blighty.'

‘Sounds like a good job.'

‘The best. Ship's master, and he thought nobody could touch him. Well, like a lot of them toffee-nosed tight-arsed high-and-mighty scumbags he came a cropper, didn't he? Overreached himself. He was fiddling the company something rotten. Off-loaded only half the stuff, and the rest went elsewhere. The manifest was a masterpiece of the forger's art. He was at it for years. Got his fingers in the till all right. He had bandages on both wrists though by the time he'd finished. Spent a few years inside, but he'd been stashing it away for long enough, so he had plenty to live on when he came out. I suppose he could have retired for life, but a bloke like that's got scorpions in his boots, and greed knows no bounds. Instead of setting himself up in a pub, which he thought was beneath him, I suppose – but which I might have a go at one day – he got took on for jobs like this. Richard swears by him, but I don't like him, so I don't trust him. There's just something in the way his grey eyes look at you and don't care whether they see anything or not. It makes you wonder what he's found out about you that even you don't know about. Not that I believe there's much to see when he looks at me, buggered if I do. He's the one I'd say was blind, not you, Howard, though Waistcoat would never agree. All George Cleaver sees is the stars and the sun through that priceless sextant of his, and then he jabbers to the likes of us about God, as if he knew him personally. God! God would turn in his grave if he saw him in church. I don't know what he thinks we carry on these trips, though it ain't jelly babies, and that's a fact. I know what I'd do to him if I had a nice fresh cucumber!' He spat side on to the wind. ‘Which reminds me, I'm getting a bit peckish in the old locker box. I wonder what Ted's got cooking in the galley? Bloody chilly, as well.'

‘Red sky at night.' Richard put a plate down for Howard. ‘So it ought to be good for us.'

‘What have we got?' He smelled meat, and rich gravy, not caring that he had put weight on these last few days from sitting too much and eating whatever Ted dished out.

‘Stew.'

Waistcoat was passing through. ‘And it's too good for all of you.'

‘He sounds happy,' Cannister said. ‘No turdburgers on this outfit. Must be the red sky. We'll be seeing the happy coastline soon. Better than a bit o' magic lantern, any road up. I shan't be sorry to get away from it, either.'

‘Some work to do before that,' Richard said.

‘I don't mind. Takes my mind off things.'

Ted laid out the tray, to be taken to Waistcoat's saloon: shrimp cocktail to start, chilled white wine, with immaculate linen and silver cutlery. He looked at his watch. ‘I'd better hump the first course in. The chief don't like to be kept waiting.'

‘And I'll get back to my perch,' Scud said. ‘We don't want to argue with any old tanker coming up ahead.'

‘Bang would go my pretty engines.' Paul Cinnakle spread a white napkin over the knees of his pale Rohan trousers, consulted his Rolex. ‘Waiting is always the worst. Even with full steam ahead we never seem to get there.'

The boat made almost a full turn to starboard. Howard felt it, vibrations to the feet, a positive increase of tension all round.

‘That means we can see the light.' Richard hurried to the bridge. ‘Spot on, Mr Cleaver.'

His eyes seemed brighter in the dim light. ‘Well, it would be, wouldn't it? But we can't rest on our laurels. Not yet, anyway. I'll be doing the fixes till it's time to turn south. Take over, will you? Keep on at two-seventy, neat as you can.'