Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) (32 page)

Masters climbed into the car, suddenly drained. What had happened, what had made her leave without telling him?

Perhaps Fawcett had been trying to warn him, prepare him.

Don’t get involved. Keep your distance.

They stopped at the main gates where Jowitt, the master-at-arms, was still on duty, doubtless because of the rear-admiral’s visit.

The Wren, whose hair was so blonde that it looked white in the gloom, called out, ‘I’m on my way, Master!’

Jowitt peered into the car. ‘Take it easy on them roads, my girl!’

Masters said, ‘I saw you with Leading Wren Lovatt this morning.’

She gauged the first line of hedgerows, barely visible in the masked headlights.

‘I know. I saw you too, sir.’ She waited, seeming to consider it. ‘She wanted to make certain.’ She swung the wheel hard over, but did not appear to brake. ‘About her friend.’

Masters said, ‘He’s going to be all right.’ He thought of Fawcett again, and added deliberately, ‘Tell her from me, will you?’

The girl nodded. ‘She’s my best friend. A real mate, sir.’

The house loomed out of the darkness, the headlights glinting across the windows as the car swung into the driveway.

Perhaps he would find out now what had made Elaine
leave so suddenly. So that she would not compromise him? Or was it the other way round?

The Wren had wound down her window.

‘She’s been passed fit for duty, sir.’ It sounded like a question.

He said, ‘I’ll be glad to see her at the wheel again. Will you tell her that, too?’

He groped his way to the door in the darkness, half expecting her to open it. Like this morning.

But it was Coker who greeted him.

‘I ’eard the car, sir. Thought it was about time you got a stand-easy.’

Masters walked into the lamplight and looked around. Everything as it was, and yet so different.

He said, ‘Is Miss de Courcy here?’

‘Been an’ gone, sir. There was another car waitin’ for her when she came back. She only stopped for a few minutes. You might ’ave passed ’er on the road. She picked up a bag.’ He hesitated. ‘It was all packed an’ ready.’

Masters walked to the adjoining room. Another car. A bag packed and waiting. She must have known from the start, from this morning. All day, but she had said nothing.

He turned, off guard.

‘What is it?’

Coker was holding a small package. ‘She told me to give you this, sir.’

Masters took it to the table, beneath a standard lamp, and opened it with care, then stared at it as he held it in the palm of his hand. The brooch, the jasmine flower,
diamonds blazing now in the light as he had last seen it on her breast. There was a note, too. A scrap of paper she had torn from somewhere in her haste to get away, to avoid seeing him.

Something she prized dearly. She had written,
Keep this for me. Until we meet again.

The knowledge hit him like a fist. She had said nothing all day because she could not.

She was under orders.

The wind across the Bill of Portland was not strong, but it had an edge which seemed to pierce the thickest clothing. The sky was cloudless and very bright, and, to those who had ventured so far north, like the blue of the Arctic.

David Masters moved his shoulders inside his greatcoat and wished he had worn something more suitable. But senior officers were present, so that was that. He looked down at the sea, the strange contour of the Chesil Beach which pointed north-west towards Bridport. There were boats moving along the coast in line with the beach, and he could see figures hurrying along the water’s edge, keeping pace. Another experiment, this time a different fuse, with a photo-electric cell which the experts believed to be a copy of the one detonated by the old fishing boat at Bridport. And perhaps the one which had killed Lieutenant Sewell, down there on the opposite side of the Bill, by the road he had used this morning.

He looked at his watch. It was almost noon. He thought of the girl who had driven him, Margot Lovatt; she had not said very much, perhaps because of the other passenger. Philip Brayshaw had come along with the excuse that he had some correspondence for Chavasse’s opposite number, the captain of H.M.S.
Osprey
, the anti-submarine school and experimental base which was now just behind him. Brayshaw seemed to seize every opportunity to escape his more mundane duties for a touch of action.

Masters sensed that she had changed in some way. More confident and less reserved, perhaps more mature; a very different girl from the one who had told him about her brother upon his arrival from
Vernon
. Only two months ago? Less.

He had spoken to the P.M.O. about Foley. ‘Could have been worse, much worse.’ The great man had paused. ‘What can you expect when they send young chaps out to fight in wooden boats? In this day and age!’

Foley was going to be all right. The girl had spoken to him only once.

‘Thank you for your message, sir. My friend Julie told me. I felt a little better after that!’

He had seen her watching him a few times in the driving mirror. Had her blonde friend told her about Elaine de Courcy, how she had made such a hasty departure from the conference in Chavasse’s office? It might make an interesting topic of conversation at the Wrennery, or even here, for that matter.

He came out of his thoughts as a whistle shrilled,
and somebody yelled an order. Whatever it was, it bounced around these forbidding rocks and boulders like several different voices. Such a strange place . . . you could imagine a stagecoach clattering through, with Sioux warriors firing off arrows and looted Winchester rifles while they pranced up there against the sky.

There was a sharp bang, nothing more, not even a puff of smoke.

Masters heard one bearded commander growl, ‘Waste of bloody time! Another dud!’

He watched the huddle of uniforms around the admiral who had come from Plymouth to observe. In other groups he recognized several members of the countermeasures section, some new to the work, others who had been on the job for months.

He was reminded suddenly of Fawcett’s comment when he had mentioned Dicer Lewis.
Now he’s dead. Nothing we can do about it.
Was that all it meant to him?

He caught sight of Sub-Lieutenant Lincoln on the outskirts of the largest group. His assistant, Downie, was with him, as if they did not belong to the main body of the gathering.

He turned as he heard Brayshaw’s voice, or rather his laugh. Like Fawcett’s aide displaying his watch, it was his way of sending a signal.

Brayshaw said cheerfully, ‘Of course, David – you know Captain Wykes, don’t you?’

Wykes thrust out a bony hand before Masters could salute.

‘Good to see you again.’ He nodded towards the beach
and the dispersing onlookers. ‘I’ve seen better fireworks at the last night of the Proms!’

They walked along the path while Brayshaw found something to interest him amongst the scattered rocks.

‘I gather you are keen to see me?’

Masters said, ‘I was worried about Elaine. But I expect you know what happened yesterday after Rear-Admiral Fawcett’s inspection, the “post-mortem”, as it were.’

Wykes glanced sideways at him. ‘Bumper was in fiery spirits when he called me. Likes things to go his way.’ He quickened his pace. ‘I can’t tell you a thing. But you know the drill as well as anybody. It was rather sudden, not a lot to go on, but I had to act on it chop-chop, just in case.’

‘Dangerous?’

Wykes smiled. ‘I didn’t hear that, old chap.’

Masters felt the conversation slipping away from him. ‘But she’s a civilian.’

Wykes stopped in his tracks and looked at him. ‘So were a lot of people before the war.’ He gestured towards a column of sailors who were making their way back towards the harbour. ‘Them, for instance. But not everybody wears a uniform.’

Masters faced him. ‘Some time ago you mentioned the Channel Islands, how they might be connected with the supply of the new German explosives. Her father is or was involved. Responsible, even?’

‘Putting two and two together does not necessarily make four.’ Wykes looked back at the main group; the admiral’s brightly oak-leaved cap was moving. It was
over. For the moment. Wykes patted his pocket, ready for that first cigarette. Then he said, ‘You have a quick mind, old chap. And a good memory. I can use both.’ He reached out and touched his arm, like the day they had met. ‘And you care. I’ll keep you posted, when I can.’ A shutter seemed to drop and he turned to throw up a salute to the admiral as he strode past. ‘Good morning, Sir Richard. It’s all coming along, I see?’

The admiral was looking at Masters, but answered, ‘Still alive, are you, James? You must divulge the secret some time!’ He nodded to Masters. ‘Your people are doing fine work – tell them so from me, will you?’

Wykes watched the procession move on, and sighed.

‘God has spoken.’

Brayshaw had caught up with them. He glanced from one to the other and said hopefully, ‘Time for a glass before we leave?’

Masters stared at the sea, and measured the time and distance, recalling Fawcett’s warning. Or had he imagined that also?

He answered, ‘Always.’

He turned up the collar of his greatcoat. But the scent of her perfume had gone.

The yardmaster and his chief shipwright stood on ML366’s foredeck and compared their notes. It was the last of the four boats he had visited, and his patience had worn thin.

‘I’ve already told your senior officer what
I
think, so I don’t need to go over it all again.’ He glared at Allison’s single wavy stripe as if to emphasize the point. ‘I could
lose a month’s work in this boat alone, right, Ben?’ His companion nodded. ‘But I’m told I can have two weeks and no more. After that, the powers that be have other ideas for you. An’ besides, we’ll need the berth.’

Allison listened to the whine of drills and the thud of hammers. The yardmaster had got all of his men working at first light, or so it had felt. A handful of key ratings would remain aboard for some of the time; the rest were being given leave or billeted ashore. In small vessels it was always resented, like an intrusion. As Bass had remarked, ‘You need to screw everything down, or else the dockyard maties will nick it!’

Allison gazed across the inlet. Hardly a dockyard. ‘I think we need more time.’

The yardmaster snapped, ‘Tell
them
!’ He closed his battered notebook. ‘Say hello when you see your skipper again. I hear he’s eager to get out of the sick quarters.’

Allison followed him to the brow. ‘You know my C.O. then?’

The man opened his book again but changed his mind. ‘Chris Foley? Who doesn’t?’

‘I’ll tell him. And thanks.’ When he looked again, they had vanished.
Two weeks.
He stared along the deck, at the chips and scars on the side of the bridge, the blackened paintwork by the companion ladder. Each time he saw it he could feel the searing heat, the flames darting ahead of their extinguishers, the splintered planking. The dead telegraphist.

Their senior officer, Tony Brock, had already been aboard to see for himself.

‘You’ve got to keep an eye on things, Sub. All the
time. They’ll curl up and have a bloody snooze if they think they can get away with it.’

Allison had asked about the order and timing of things, but Brock had answered, ‘Tell them what
you
want. You’re the first lieutenant around here, so just get on with it.’

Allison and Bass had seen him over the side. The killick coxswain had remarked, ‘We’ll manage, sir. That’ll stop some people fartin’ in church!’

He had meant Brock.

The idea of some home leave had almost vanished. It would have been nice to be greeted like a hero by his mother and father, and maybe a girl he had got to know over the months and his irregular periods of leave.

Better still, a girl like the one he had bumped into at the sick quarters when he had visited the skipper. The one who had been here to see them return to their temporary base. A
real
girl. She was driving the Boss’s car again, so soon after the accident. Another Wolseley, not the Austin Seven she had joked about. Foley had told him about it. Shared it. He recalled the yardmaster’s comment, a man who was not, he guessed, easily impressed.
Chris Foley? Who doesn’t?

The cap she had been wearing was still in Foley’s locker. What would it be like, he wondered. Really like? He had become used to blushing at some of the crude descriptions and remarks deliberately uttered in his presence, to shock and embarrass him. He glanced along the scarred deck. Here, at least, they seemed to respect him. But what would
it
be like?

‘Anyone in charge ’ere?’

Allison came out of his thoughts with a jerk, and stared at the newcomer in the filthy boiler suit who was carrying what looked like a tool box.

‘I am.’

The man was unimpressed. ‘You’ll do, then. I’m the base engineer.’

Allison looked round for Bass but he had disappeared. ‘You want the Chief.’ He led the way. ‘I’ll take you.’

You’re the first lieutenant around here, so just get on with it.

When he returned to the deck he was surprised to find a Wren waiting by the brow.

She was holding an official envelope and a pad for signature, and he noticed that she had the crossed flags and letter ‘C’ of a coder on her sleeve. More to the point, she was very attractive.

‘Are you in charge?’ The slightest pause. ‘Sir?’

He nodded. ‘First lieutenant.’

She opened her pad. ‘I’d have thought . . .’ She stopped and held out the pad. Allison saw her looking at the damage and then remembered. She had been one of the Wrens with the skipper’s girl, on the wall when they had come alongside. Two days ago. It did not seem possible.

He ran his eyes over the envelope. ‘I’ll be seeing my C.O. later today. I’ll show him this. He likes to know what’s happening.’

Two yard workers were pedalling along the jetty on their bicycles. Both gave loud whistles, and one yelled, ‘Wot about it, darlin’?’