The White Guns (1989) (13 page)

Marriott loosened his jacket and took out his pipe. 'Care for a fill?'

'I – I don't smoke, actually.'

Marriott watched the smoke being drawn through the open window and thought of the mist over Kiel. The watching faces, the out-thrust arm of an unknown soldier who had had his watch looted.

'Do you like your work?'

Chris smiled vaguely. 'I shall try for something better, more rewarding perhaps.' Then he blurted out, 'I was excused from the services.'

Marriott shrugged. 'It's none of my business.'

It made no difference. 'Anyway, my conscience did not allow me to take up arms.'

Marriott stood up. It was not working.
My conscience would not allow me to stay.

Instead he said curtly, 'We managed.
Just.'
Then he walked out of the room.

Sub-Lieutenant Michael Fairfax sat comfortably in one corner of the gunboat's tiny wardroom, completely relaxed, a drink within easy reach while he enjoyed the peace of the evening. He might easily have been the only soul aboard for, apart from the lap of water alongside, there was no sound. The boat too was enjoying a well-deserved rest, he thought.

It was so strange to be alone, able to think, to plan. All the hands were either on local leave, or enjoying a run ashore in Dover. The duty watch consisted of Leading Seaman Craven, a stoker and one AB named Farmer who had had his leave stopped anyway for getting into a brawl in a local pub. Twice a survivor from other boats, Farmer had got into an argument with some squaddies from a stores depot, doubtless on which service had played the greatest part in winning the war. It was usually that. After what he had gone through, it was hardly surprising he should blow his top. But Fairfax was
in charge
in the Skipper's absence and had awarded the punishment without misgivings.

He glanced at the clock. Soon time for Rounds with Craven. He reached for the large pink Plymouth gin and sighed. But until then . . .

He could have taken leave himself and shared the duties with Lowes. But he was happy to be left in sole, if temporary, charge. He had queued to use one of the telephones in the harbour and had succeeded in speaking with his mother. His father was, needless to say, at his hospital. He was a good surgeon and much respected for his work on skin-grafts and trying to mend the appalling effects of burns. Most of his patients were young pilots, as well as civilians caught in some of the many hit-and-run air attacks.

Fairfax's brother was a surgeon too, and he guessed that his family had been more than disappointed when he had chosen to enter the navy, albeit for the duration only, provided he remained alive.

Whatever they said to his face he could always feel that it was there. Like the time his father had commented, 'The navy's all very well, Mike, but it'll be time lost for you as far as qualifying is concerned.' It had not occurred to anyone that he did not want to become a doctor. He laughed aloud and checked himself. He was unused to drinking, especially alone.

He wondered how Marriott was getting on. If the brief escape from duty would do him any good. Since the incident with the torpedoed coaster he had been more withdrawn than before, and Fairfax had put off asking him about what was uppermost in his thoughts. The fact that Marriott had put him up for promotion under the new scheme showed that the bond was still there. He might ask him when he returned. Tomorrow.

After the war was over in the Pacific theatre the services would be cut to the bone. That was the snag. Fairfax had got round to his decision slowly and carefully, each step seemingly linked with an event or a memory during his own active service. Now he was certain. He wanted to remain in the navy. He had heard that it was more than just difficult. If you were a 'temporary gentleman' with wavy stripes it was extremely unlikely you could transfer to the Royal Navy. But was the gap still that wide? With a reference from Marriott and perhaps a senior officer, he might just stand the chance, at least of an interview with somebody in a position to decide.

Feet grated in the doorway and Leading Seaman Craven nodded to him.

'Rounds, sir?'

'Like a gin?'

Craven grinned. 'A beer'll do me, sir, ta.'

'All quiet?' He watched Craven's huge hands deftly opening a bottle from 'the bar'.

The leading hand grunted. 'There'll be a few drunks when the libertymen come back.' He swallowed deeply, his eyes squinting against the deckhead lights. 'We doin' this run back an' forth a lot, d'you reckon, sir?'

'It seems we'll have to do a bit of everything. Better than staying in that damned harbour anyway.'

Craven rubbed his chin and revealed a heavy truncheon which was hanging from his wrist. Doubtless to pacify any unruly libertyman. He was thinking of the boy in the water, the last pressure on the trigger. It still made him sweat, although there was no sane reason for it.

Fairfax stood up and reached for his cap. 'Here comes the first one. Time for Rounds, I think.'

They left the wardroom and Fairfax collided with a figure at the foot of the ladder. It was not one of the libertymen, it was Lowes.

'God, what are you doing back so early? You're not due until tomorrow, or had you forgotten?'

Craven hung back, sensing that something was badly wrong. He was too discreet to listen openly, but not so stupid as to ignore it.

Lowes gasped, 'Thought I – I'd come back and give a hand.' In the evening light he looked desperate. Trapped.

Fairfax took his arm. 'What's happened? Come on, John, perhaps I can help!'

Lowes shook his hand off. 'I'm
all right,
I tell you!' He lurched into the wardroom and closed the door.

Fairfax said, 'Suit yourself!' But he was worried all the same. It was like seeing an entirely different person.

Craven climbed up the ladder behind him, his mind busy with Lowes's odd behaviour. Ever since Ginger had told him about sharing their scheme, even partly, with Lowes, he had been bothered. If the subbie was about to go round the bend they might all end up in the rattle.

Alone in the wardroom Lowes sat and stared at the frayed carpet between his shoes, his cap moving round and round in his fingers. His heart throbbed so violently that his whole body ached as if he had been beaten all over.

He had blundered into a pub near the railway station without really knowing what he was doing.

The barman had stared at him suspiciously although Lowes was too upset to notice it. He had asked for a large gin and only when he had attempted to swallow it had he realised that the whole bar was packed with naval ratings, some with their girl-friends, others clinging to the local talent, painted whores who as Leading Seaman Townsend would have put it
were probably poxed up to the eyebrows.
There was complete silence in the room and all of them had stared at Lowes as if he had just dropped from Mars.

Still gasping on the raw gin Lowes had found a small alley and vomited against a wall.

The realisation of what he had done curiously helped to steady him. He peered down at his best reefer jacket and trousers but nothing had splashed on them.

He saw the gin bottle and seized it like a drowning man. He did not even bother to fetch a fresh glass but used the one left by Fairfax. This time he swallowed the neat gin slowly and despairingly, his eyes misting over with its fire as well as the stark memory.

As a boy he had always lived in his mother's shadow, on what he had seen as the 'grand scale'. His home was half of a converted mansion on the outskirts of Guildford, and when he had been collected from school or had walked dreamily up the winding drive he had imagined that the whole of the fine house was his, filled with people, pretty girls, and, of course, dogs. Lowes loved dogs.

The other half of the mansion had been taken over by the military soon after Dunkirk and was eventually used as a small convalescent home for army officers who had been so badly wounded that even though they had recovered their health they would never see active service again. Lowes had often watched them. Sitting in the sun in their blue dressing-gowns, hobbling about the garden, or being pushed by orderlies along that same winding drive.

When he had gained his coveted midshipman's uniform Lowes had made a point of marching past the little groups of quiet veterans. He had known it was cheap, but he had enjoyed their curious glances all the same.

He took another swallow and wondered how Cuff Glazebrook managed to drink so much of it before breakfast and still appear quite normal. He made to put down the glass, knowing he should stop. He watched his hand refilling it as if it had a mind of its own.

Lowes had always had his own key.
In case my little boy gets locked out.
It had been a warm afternoon and there was a khaki staff car parked near the front door. That was not unusual as there was quite often an overflow from the other half of the building, ambulances and the like. The house had been empty, and yet he knew it was not. His mother would spend quite a lot of her day taking care of herself, her hair, and her extremely large wardrobe. He had been thinking about his cigarette supply. His mother smoked a lot, more than she should, but he could never refuse her anything. She had had him when she was twenty-one, and was not yet forty. She was admired for her elegant, even aristocratic good looks, although he saw her as his adoring mother and nothing more. Always there to chase his fears and cares away, to stand up for him even at his various schools. He had once wondered why she had not objected to him volunteering for Light Coastal Forces instead of joining a cruiser, or better still some shore appointment.

He had climbed the familiar stairs, one palm sliding up the bannister rail, until he reached the landing. She had even kept his old rocking-horse and it stood permanently on the landing, like a family heirloom.

Lowes exclaimed brokenly,
'Oh my Christ!'
He stared round, shocked by his own anguish. But the boat was still, and only someone's footsteps reached the wardroom from right forward. Probably Fairfax checking the moorings. The rest had been a complete nightmare and it had not gone away. If anything it was worse, even more unreal in retrospect.

The bedroom door had been flung open and a tall figure had burst out of the room like a madman.

He had been tall and powerfully built and completely naked.

He had yelled, 'Who the fucking hell are you?'

All sorts of horrors had flashed through Lowes's cringing mind. His mother had been attacked, even murdered, and this intruder. .. Even that belief had disintegrated as his mother had appeared in the door. Her hair had been dishevelled, when usually there was never a strand out of place, and she was trying to cover her nakedness with a filmy negligee, one which Lowes had never before laid eyes on.

She had screamed. 'Don't hit him, Ralph! He's – he's my son!'

The man had swung away, breathing heavily, 'Why didn't he say he was coming?' As he pushed back into the bedroom Lowes had seen an army uniform strewn on the white carpet, as if he had leapt straight out of it while his mother had lain watching and waiting for him.

She had thrust out her arms. 'Don't look like that, Johnnie! You were going to be told! I love him, you see –'

The man, Ralph, had called harshly, 'Don't just stand there, tell him to piss off while we get dressed. Then we can talk about it. God, he's not a bloody infant any more!'

She had still held out her arms imploringly.
'Please,
Johnnie!'

Lowes had never seen his mother like it before. He had never seen any woman without clothes for that matter, except when he had seen Mrs Thomas's daughter through a hedge taking off her wet swimming costume.

It had been so terrible, so impossible to believe or grasp, that Lowes, after he had run down the stairs and along the drive, had not uttered a single word.