The White Guns (1989) (47 page)

So what chance for returning servicemen, he thought.

When he was not out walking, endless walks over commons and along the lanes he had known since his schooldays, he had thought of Ursula. She seemed further away than ever, the waiting dragging them down.

At night he would lie on his bed, staring at his uniform, which hung on the back of the door. It was his link, his key to Germany, and then only with the proper authority.

He had considered telephoning Beri-Beri at Winchester several times, but knew he would only be sharing his mounting despair.

Once, his father had walked down to the Harrow with him.

He had said, 'You mustn't mind your mother, Vere. She doesn't understand. Life's not been easy. The war and everything.'

Marriott had looked at him, moved by the quiet gentleness of a man who had nevertheless taken up arms in the Home Guard, when his country was in such grave danger.

'It hasn't been that smooth for you either, Dad.'

'She needs someone.' He had filled his pipe with some of his son's naval tobacco. 'I know you don't like Chris, but he lets her run things for him. That's right up her street, you see?'

Marriott didn't, but said, 'If it does come off we hope to be going to Canada, Dad.'

Surprisingly, his father had laughed.

'But for my arthritis, and if I were twenty years younger, I'd be right with you, believe me!' Then he had continued in a serious tone, the one Marriott remembered from over the years. When an exam had gone wrong, or he had fallen off his bicycle.

'Look, Vere, I'm proud of you... more than I can say. I'm sure she's a lovely girl. Just promise me something, eh?' He had looked across the bar, his eyes far away. 'You will bring her home sometime,
before
–'

They had walked back together, an even stronger bond between them.

Marriott got up late one morning, mainly to avoid sharing the breakfast table with the all-knowing Chris.

His mother had come in from the garden, her breath smoking from the cold outside.

'Letter for you.' She had watched him impassively. 'Your final demobilisation, I suppose?'

Marriott slit open the brown envelope, hardly daring to anticipate its contents.

Then he turned over the pages, his eyes almost too blurred to read the neatly typed instructions.

His father had appeared from somewhere, a basket of firewood in his hand.

'What is it, son?'

Marriott looked up without seeing them.

'They've granted permission.' He had to listen to his own words before it finally sank in. 'I – I didn't really know –' He could not go on.

Then he saw a smaller envelope pinned to all the official papers. Printed on it was
From the Office of Captain Joseph Meikle, RNVR, KC.
The letter was short, typed Marriott suspected by the loyal Lavender.

It had obviously been Meikle's own pressure which had finally brought the action to reality.

I
wish you both every happiness. Something forged out of war will be stronger than steel.
He had finished his brief letter with,
In my present work I am often reminded that what you and your Ursula have found in one another is almost the only decent thing I have yet seen to come out of this war.

Beneath his familiar spiky signature he had written a Priority telephone number in his own hand.

Marriott walked along the road and back again, to give his mind time to settle down.

With the house silent around him he called the telephone operator, and after what seemed like an age of clicks and suspicious questions and demands for official confirmation, he heard a voice say, 'HMS
Royal Alfred.'

More squeaks and clicks and then she was here, right beside him at the foot of the stairs.
'Ja
... this is Fräulein Geghin speaking.. .'

'It's me!'
He heard a quick intake of breath.
'Everything's all right!'

He waited, suddenly dreading that she had changed her mind; that she had not understood.

When she spoke again her voice was shaking, but clear enough to catch the emotion of that single word.

'Together!'

It was all they both needed. The rest, was history.