Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) (33 page)

Allison was suddenly angry. ‘I’ll report you!’ He
shook his fist, but they were already out of sight amongst the litter of fittings and repair work.

She was watching him, surprised, but smiling.

‘Wow! That showed them!’

Allison tried to recover his dignity. She was very pretty, her hair a little longer than regulation requirements, and she had an accent which his mother would describe as ‘cultured’.

She said, ‘It looks even worse in this light. It must have been terrible. Your captain was injured.’ And seeing his confusion, she added gently, ‘His girl is a friend of mine.’

Allison walked with her to, and then down, the brow before he knew what he was doing.

She paused, looking at him, her lips parted as if she were going to say something.

Allison said, ‘I was wondering. If I can get ashore. Maybe you’d care to join me for a drink somewhere.’ He clenched his fists with embarrassment. It was happening again, after all this time. Like a hot flush. He was actually blushing.

‘There aren’t too many places around here.’

It was all going wrong. She probably thought he should have known, or maybe that he was too young. And she was right.

She pulled an old bicycle from behind a pile of oil drums and carefully dusted down the saddle.

‘But call the Wrennery when you get a spare moment. If I’m off watch, I might be able to meet you.’

She hitched up her skirt and hoisted her leg over the saddle.

Allison felt as if his face was on fire. Even the regulation stockings could not conceal that she had very nice legs.

‘Who shall I say . . . ?’

‘Ask for Toni. It’s what they call me!’

He watched her pedal unhurriedly down the road towards the Operations section, her hair blowing rebelliously beneath her cap.

He groped his way up the brow again.

Her name was Toni. What they called her. He thought of her smile when he had yelled at the dockyard maties.

Wow!

Bass was aft, apparently arguing with one of the work force. It had started.

He suddenly grinned and strode towards them.

He was the first lieutenant.

Chris Foley thrust his arm into his jacket and reached behind for the other sleeve, gritting his teeth against the pain. Perhaps because of the clean shirt, it seemed easier this time. He glanced at his reflection in the wall mirror as if he were studying a subordinate, or a total stranger. Looking for flaws. After the usual shabby seagoing gear he even looked different, he thought. Allison had brought him his proper Number Fives when he had made a visit to tell him about the repair work, and any other news he had been able to gather.

He buttoned the jacket carefully, but it felt looser than before. The going had been rough, but he had not thought that he might have lost weight.

He looked at the bed nearest the door, occupied by a casualty who had been brought in during the night, the skipper of one of the trawlers used for laying marker buoys. A boring but necessary job, hardly ever out of sight of land. It was impossible to be vigilant all the time. Sister Titmuss had told him a German aircraft had come out of the sunset, an accidental encounter, perhaps, with the pilot already thinking of getting back to his airfield in France.

The man’s jacket hung on a chair by the bed, bearing the single interwoven stripe of an R.N.R. skipper. Foley could see his head on the pillow; the sparse hair was almost white. A man who should have quit the sea long before this, but one who had been ready when he was needed. Foley was not sure how many the trawler had carried, but air-sea rescue had picked up only three. The trawler had disappeared.

The door opened an inch and Sister Titmuss murmured, ‘
That’s
more like it.’ He, too, looked at the occupied bed and pursed his lips. ‘P.M.O.’s on his way, so if you . . .’

‘I know. I’m going out right now.’

The SBA followed him into the corridor, watching every step. ‘Don’t try to climb Everest, will you? Not just yet, anyway!’

Foley walked out into the sunlight. Hard and bright, the air very cold like that last day on the bridge. He could hear the din of drills and saws from the yard, but made himself turn away towards the main buildings. They had their work cut out to meet the deadline; there was no time to be wasted looking after their commanding officer.
They knew how he felt. Sightseers, like passengers, were no use at all.

He had worried about Allison, but perhaps in its way it was the best thing which had happened in his short career. He was cheerful, confident, altered in some way Foley could not define.

He had reached the offices, and saw Brayshaw’s chief writer observing him from the door marked
Captain’s Secretary
.

‘He’s expecting you, sir.’ He glanced quickly over Foley’s uniform. ‘You look well, sir. I’m glad.’

Brayshaw gripped his hand but refrained from shaking it.

‘Still sore, is it?’ He waved him to a chair. ‘Good of you to trot over here!’

Foley leaned back, with care. He had noticed that the Wolseley was not parked in its usual place. Masters must be away somewhere, visiting the site of an incident, meeting new officers who had volunteered for special service, like all the others he had seen since bringing ML366 to this small, crowded place. Or perhaps over at Portland. Margot would be with him, driving again, when it had once seemed impossible.

Brayshaw said, ‘I suppose you’ve been told by just about everybody that you are still
officially
standing down from active duty?’ He nodded. ‘Thought so, although your S.O. will soon be screaming about being short-handed.’

‘But I thought Lieutenant Baldwin was the only death?’

Brayshaw looked away at something. ‘True. But
Lieutenant Claridge has been sent on leave, so his Number One’s holding the fort.’

Foley found that he was gripping the arm of the chair, his body suddenly chilled. ‘What’s happened?’

‘There was an air raid on Southampton the other night. Hit-and-run. Nothing new, I suppose.’ He looked at him directly. ‘Dick Claridge’s home bought it. His wife was killed.’

‘He was always worried about her. Because
she
worried about him every time he put to sea. He never said as much, but it was always there.’

Brayshaw frowned as a telephone began to ring on his desk. It stopped almost immediately, intercepted by the vigilant chief writer.

‘Situations change, people don’t. In war you take risks – some take risks all the time, as you know better than most. But it can’t change how you feel, how you
care
, right?’

He paused, looking towards the window. ‘Lieutenant-Commander Masters will be here at any second. He and I have to see the Old Man about one of the subbies. A Mention in Despatches has come through.’ He nodded. ‘There’s the car now. We should be tied up for an hour.’ The merest smile. ‘I shall make certain of it!’

Foley stood up. ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll not forget.’

Brayshaw called after him, ‘I shall expect an invitation . . .’ He broke off and sighed; Foley had gone. ‘You’re right for each other. The bloody war can wait!’

Masters came in and walked briskly to one of the big, old-fashioned radiators, and held his hands over the hot pipes.

‘Did you tell him, Philip?’

Brayshaw touched the gold lace on his sleeve. ‘About him being given a half-stripe?’ He shook his head. ‘About losing his ML and being given another command? I told him about Dick Claridge instead.’

Masters looked at him as if he had misheard. Then he nodded very slowly.

‘You did the right thing.’ He glanced at the window as a car door slammed. ‘I envy them.’

Brayshaw thought of the girl with the chestnut hair, the way they had looked together, been together, in a room filled with people.

But he said only, ‘We’d better not keep the Old Man waiting, eh?’

He had heard a lot about envy during his naval service. It was the first time he had seen it for himself.

She sat quite still, with her back pressed against the driving seat, her hands clasped in her lap. People who passed the parked car, going about their normal duties, would glance at her and imagine she was relaxed, perhaps bored, waiting for her passenger.

In fact Margot Lovatt could not recall ever being so tense. Even the smallest decision seemed beyond her; she could barely stop herself from looking at the dashboard clock.
Again.

She looked into the driving mirror and saw the driver from the car behind standing beside it, yawning as he waited for one of the staff officers. A Royal Marine, he had been friendly enough when she had been put on light duties after her return.

Her friend Julie, also a driver, had warned her about him. ‘Fancies himself, I can tell you, love. Fancies you too, so watch it. Don’t let him get the grabs on you.’

She moved the mirror slightly and looked at the building where most of the offices were situated. Where she had dropped Masters. Another conference about something or other. How he must hate that sort of thing after being at sea. She could even confront that now.
At sea in submarines.

Masters had been withdrawn, troubled. It was unlike him not to talk; in that respect he was so different from other officers she had driven. Julie had told her about the woman with the French name who had arrived here with him, and left alone. He had been surprised. Hurt. Julie was a little scatty sometimes, but she did not miss much.

She bit her lip. Chris would be coming out soon. She would have to decide, and quickly.

She was surprised at herself, that she could think about it at all. No wonder the others had thought her standoffish, a bit stuck-up, as Julie had put it. How could she have changed that much, even to consider it?

She thought of her parents, her home in Petersfield, her brother’s sealed room. How could she feel like a stranger there? It had been her whole life.

And her father, respected, trusted, loved. All the problems he must have encountered and solved, a new challenge every time the waiting room door opened. But when she had told him about Chris, he had compared love with gratitude. As if he did not know the difference.

She unclasped her hands and touched the door by her leg. She could still hear it, feel the shock and the pain of impact. The blood, the sense of helplessness, and fear.

And then his hands, holding, soothing her; talking to her all the time although she could not recall what he had said. Nor, probably, did he. It was simply an instinct to hold onto her, sustain her.

She tugged off her gloves and examined her hands. She had been surprised that she had managed to remain so calm that day when the boats, Chris’s boat, had returned. The silent onlookers, the scars and shot holes, the ambulances revving up by the jetty. Like undertakers’ men.

How she had managed to wave to him so jauntily she did not understand. She had changed. Maybe they both had.

She had telephoned her father and told him that Chris had been injured.

Give him our best wishes. I’m sure he’s getting the best treatment.

But her father had not suggested that Chris visit their home; he had somehow avoided it. Perhaps it had been then, when she had put down the telephone, that she had truly understood.

She saw the Royal Marine turn towards her and change his mind, then he saluted.

She wound down the window. ‘I’m here, Chris!’

He stood beside the car, one hand on the door, his eyes never leaving hers. Then he removed his cap and ducked his head through the window.

‘Chris! Somebody might see!’

‘Behaviour unbecoming an officer and a gentleman.’ He smiled for the first time. ‘Kiss me.’

His face was cold, but his mouth was warm. He kissed her again, harder.

She said, ‘Get into the car, Chris. I’m not made of iron!’

He got into the rear seat and closed the door. ‘I had to see you. I’m being discharged from sick quarters, tomorrow, I think.’ He saw her eyes in the mirror, felt her tense as he touched her arm between the seats, and then held it.

‘Oh God, Margot, I’ve missed seeing you. Do we both have to end up in hospital before we can meet?’

A squad of sailors tramped past, carrying rolled-up boiler suits, on their way to the yard. A petty officer in charge yelled, ‘Keep in step, Thomas! Gawd! A mother’s gift to a war-starved nation!’

She said, ‘I was going to ask you if you’d like to visit my home.’

He gripped her arm more tightly. ‘I was going to show you the Thames, where 366 was built.’

She lowered her face so that he could not see her expression.

‘But it’s not what I want. Not after what happened.’ She looked up again, her dark eyes very steady. ‘I want to be with you. Just you. Is that so awful?’

He looked across the road and thought of the captain’s secretary, Brayshaw. All the things he had said. And had made a point of not saying.

And Dick Claridge, back at what was left of his home,
and the girl he had known since school. Now he had nothing, except for his command.

He reached up and touched her face.

‘I want that, too. More than anything. Soon, before . . .’

She touched his lips and whispered, ‘
Soon.
’

A shadow fell across the window. It was one of the regulating petty officers, a Crusher from the main gates.

He touched his cap. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir.’ He looked at the girl. ‘But we’ve a big lorry comin’ into the establishment, so could you edge up a bit?’

He was being very polite. And enjoying it, Foley thought.

He said, ‘I’d better be off. I’ll call you when I know what’s happening.’

She pulled herself up onto the seat and put her arm around his neck.

She said, ‘Now kiss me.
Properly.
’

There were a few whistles, and somebody gave a cheer.

She sat for several minutes, staring directly ahead through the windscreen, imagining she could feel his face, the warmth of his mouth against hers. As if she had no control. Like discovering herself. Someone quite new to her.

She twisted round to look for him, but he had gone. As if it had all been a hallucination.