A Kiss and a Promise (8 page)

It was common knowledge amongst the sailors now that the war must be drawing to a close. They had seen few enemy ships for many months, and though they knew that there were still submarine packs lurking beneath the surface of the waves, they had seen no sign of them on this convoy. The naval ships circled the heavily laden merchantmen, impatient now to get back to port with their much-needed cargoes.

Michael was looking forward eagerly to their return to Liverpool, counting the days, his eyes straining eagerly ahead for any sight of land. Storms might have held them up, but the weather was calm, the waves seeming almost to caress the sides of the
Thunderbolt
.

He was on watch, staring up at the arch of the night sky, at the brilliance of the stars, when the first intimation came that there was going to be a change in the weather. A little breeze had been blowing steadily against his left cheek and now, almost imperceptibly, he was aware that it was changing, coming from a different direction. He glanced up at the sky once more, but there wasn’t a cloud in sight. Yet the wind was definitely freshening. Michael knew his watch was coming to an end and hoped that if there was to be a change in the weather, it would not turn out to be a storm, which would make sleeping difficult. He had no desire to find himself thrown out of his hammock within an hour or so of entering it. But though the wind continued to be gusty, it seemed as though a storm was not imminent, for the sky remained clear.

Nearby, someone cleared his throat. Michael glanced around him, but could see no one. Odd! He walked over to the rail and peered down into the blackness below, and to his surprise he saw a sleek shape in the water, bobbing alongside the
Thunderbolt
, seeming to look back at Michael out of a pair of huge, liquid eyes.

A seal! Michael forgot about the wind change, the fact that his watch was almost over. At home, fishing trips were often accompanied by a seal or two. Some fishermen hated them, declaring that they took the catch, but the Gallaghers thought that there were fish enough in the sea for all, and liked the company of the huge, gentle creatures.

Michael leaned further over the rail. ‘Hello, me young pal,’ he said gently. ‘And are you after warnin’ me that there’s to be a change in the weather? Because if so, I’d already seen a sign or two …’

He had no sooner said the words than there was a tremendous explosion. Fragments of metal were hurled into the air and the ship began to list heavily. Michael was thrown to the deck, hurled against the rail, and for one moment could not think what had happened. Then he remembered the wolf pack, remembered too that both sides had sown the seas with mines … one or other, either a torpedo or a mine, must have hit them, for he could hear the sea roaring into the hull of the ship, feel the vessel’s list to starboard.

You have to hand it to the British seamen, Michael thought, as the men began to stream up from below. There was no sign of panic, no one was trying to shove others aside in their effort to reach their boat stations. Despite the enormous shock the scene was moderately calm, with officers adjuring the men to form orderly queues for the lifeboats.

Michael was joining the end of just such a queue when there was another enormous explosion. It nearly knocked him off his feet but he clung to a stanchion, guessing at once what had happened, for now the ship was sinking fast. Most likely another torpedo had been fired and had entered the magazine, starting a raging fire which was now blowing away so much of the hull that the ship was almost literally torn in half. No time now to form orderly queues let alone launch boats. The ship was going under too fast for such niceties. Within minutes of the explosion, Michael found himself in the water. He knew he must get away from the sinking vessel which could so easily drag him under, but the darkness was complete and he could not tell in which direction safety – or comparative safety – lay.

He glanced around him but the sea was now quite choppy and though silhouettes of other ships in the convoy occasionally came into view when he reached a crest, they were speedily lost as he plunged once more into a trough. A plank hit him, crashing heavily into the side of his head and making him feel sick and dizzy for a moment. Then he realised that it might save his life and turned wildly to stare after it as it bobbed away out of reach.

It seemed to him that he swam and floated for hours without seeing any sign of other men, but then he had a bit of luck. An oar floated past and this time he grabbed it and wedged it beneath his arms, unutterably relieved to be able to stop swimming if only for a moment.

The sea no longer seemed quite so rough and Michael felt a deep and terrible weariness overcoming him. He mustn’t sleep … he mustn’t sleep …

‘It’s over! Them Germans have signed a paper – an armistice they call it – and the guns stopped firing yesterday!’ Mrs Bennett’s normally pale and rather puddingy face was flushed with excitement, her eyes bright with it. ‘When d’you reckon your young feller will be home to make an honest woman of you, eh?’

The two women were in the kitchen. Stella was at the table breastfeeding Virginia whilst Mrs Bennett gobbled porridge. They smiled at one another, though it was an effort for Stella to smile at all right now. She was desperately worried about Michael, and despite her deep and abiding love for the baby in her arms she was still sure that he was, at any rate, in some sort of danger. Once more her placid nights had retreated under a hail of nightmares, all concerned with fire and enormous waves. She had been down to the shipping offices constantly, trying to get news, but so far she had been unsuccessful. Despite the fact that Germany had sued for peace at the end of October, the newspapers were full of conflicting reports. It seemed wicked, as well as absurd, that though peace had been agreed, the guns still thundered out their message of death until eleven o’clock on the eleventh day of the eleventh month. A cruel, needless way for perhaps hundreds of men to die, not defending their country, not even attacking the enemy, but simply dying so that some politician, somewhere, could boast that the armistice had been signed and the war ended at the exact hour of his choosing.

Rather impatiently, Mrs Bennett repeated her last remark. ‘I spoke to you, Madam Toffee Nose! I said when d’you think your young man’ll come home?’

‘Oh, Mam, I’ve told you, I don’t know,’ Stella said with what patience she could muster. ‘But when Virginia’s finished drinking, I’ll go down to the shipping office, see whether there’s any news. Last time I went, they told me the
Thunderbolt
had turned for home, but they’ve had no wireless messages from her for ten days. It could be a technical fault, the feller said, and maybe, as she gets nearer home, she’ll be able to contact another ship. But until she does, we’re all in the dark.’

‘All right, all right,’ Mrs Bennett grumbled. ‘I just hope you hears before Victory Day – that’s the fifteenth – because there’s bound to be parties and all sorts of carryings-on and the last thing folks will want is to see your long face.’

It was easily the nastiest thing her mother had ever said to her and Stella’s eyes widened in shock. Then she saw her mother’s anxious look and knew that she had only spoken so sharply because she was worried, perhaps not so much about Michael as about Stella herself. The baby had finished and Stella put her across her shoulder, stood up, and went and gave her mother a hug. ‘I’m sorry, Mam,’ she said gently. ‘It’s been a hard time for the whole family; you’ve lost one son, and a son-in-law, but you’ve managed to keep pretty cheerful on the whole. I
am
worried about Michael, who wouldn’t be, but I’ll still try to keep smiling for your sake. And now I’d best get down to the Admiralty office.’

And presently, with baby Virginia tucked warmly into the old perambulator, Stella made her way down Duke Street to Canning Place and the Admiralty office. She was a familiar figure in there by now and usually greeted by the elderly clerk with a smile. But this morning, he looked up quickly, nodded, and then began to arrange the papers on his desk with meticulous care, eyes downcast. Stella’s heart sank into her boots but she spoke as cheerfully as she could.

‘Good morning, Mr Fry! Any news of the
Thunderbolt
?’

‘Aye. HMS
Bideford
signalled that the
Thunderbolt
had been torpedoed but other ships in the convoy picked up a good few survivors.’ He looked up at her fleetingly then, his rather small eyes behind his steel-rimmed spectacles full of sympathy. ‘We’ve had no names as yet, but you mustn’t despair, miss. Just you pray your young feller’s one of them lucky ones what got fished out of the ‘oggin.’

Stella turned away. She felt quite cold. She remembered the strong feeling she had had when they had parted the previous July, that she would never see Michael again. Oh, God, and the nightmares! The flames, the scorching heat, the cries … and then the darkness of the water, the waves crashing down, the fear … but she remembered her promise to her mother and, at the door, turned resolutely back to give Mr Fry the benefit of her brightest – and most artificial – smile. ‘I’m sure you’re right, Mr Fry, and when the lists of names come through, his will be amongst them,’ she said, with only the slightest tremor in her voice. ‘But I’ll pray very hard, just in case.’

Victory Day dawned, but there had been no word at the shipping office, no list of survivors. ‘Since shipping will be making its way back to port, that may not mean much,’ Mr Fry had said wisely the previous day, when she had gone down to the docks in the vain hope of some good news. ‘You go off and enjoy the victory celebrations tomorrow, my dear; it’s been a terrible time for you, a terrible time, but I’m sure we’ll have some news soon.’

There were to be fireworks, street parties, no end of jollity. Some of the troops had already come home; Stella had seen them in the streets, pale and hollow-eyed, their skin grey and unhealthy-looking, their eyes dull. She remembered the last time she had seen Michael, how well he looked, how bronzed and strong. If he came home, she supposed he would look very different now, because the ordeal of being shipwrecked would surely put its mark upon him as plainly as soldiers were marked by their experiences in France. But then she had dragged her mind away from such thoughts and, pushing the big perambulator before her, returned to Victoria Court, where she had admitted to her mother that there was still no news.

‘Mr Fry says to enjoy the celebrations, but I don’t think I want to,’ she said, picking the baby out of the pram and holding the child’s still sleeping body in her arms. ‘To tell you the truth, Mam, I’m not feelin’ so good. I think I’ve mebbe gorra head cold comin’ on, so it’ll be best to stay indoors, in the warm.’

Mrs Bennett looked at her doubtfully. ‘I’m sorry there weren’t no good news for youse, queen, but I think you ought to wait until the mornin’ before you decide to stay cooped up in the house. A victory don’t happen every day o’ the week, you know, and in the years to come that littl’un …’ she pointed to the child in her daughter’s arms, ‘… will ask you what you did on Victory Day, and …’

Despite herself, Stella giggled. ‘Oh, Mam, you remind me of that awful recruiting poster – d’you remember it?’ She raised her voice to a squeak. ‘What did you do in the war, Daddy?’ But I really do feel as if … oh, all right, I’ll see how I feel tomorrow.’

Now Stella and her mother were sitting at the kitchen table, preparing vegetables for their evening meal, for Lizzie and a couple of her friends were going to end their celebrations with a visit to Victoria Court, when there was a knock on the door.

‘Come in,’ Mrs Bennett bawled cheerfully. She guessed it would be a neighbour or a relative, and looked astonished when a total stranger came hesitantly into the room.

Stella, however, recognised him at once. ‘Mr Fry!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, Mr Fry, have you – have you had news?’ Her hand flew to her throat and she could feel her heart beating there as though it had leaped from her chest. She dropped the potato she was peeling and jumped to her feet. ‘I can’t … I don’t know what …’

‘Aye, we’ve a list of survivors,’ Mr Fry said hesitantly. ‘Your – your young man
is
Able Seaman Michael Sean Gallagher?’

‘That’s right,’ Mrs Bennett said, when Stella found herself suddenly incapable of speech. ‘Aye, that’s right, Mr – Mr Fry, is it?’

‘That’s right,’ Mr Fry echoed. ‘Able Seaman Gallagher is on the list of those picked up by HMS … look out!’

For even as the words she had longed to hear came from his lips, Stella pitched forward, hearing his voice growing smaller as she plunged into unconsciousness.

‘You’re all right, chuck. It were the shock, though God knows you couldn’t have had better news if you’d been the Queen herself,’ a voice was saying. ‘Why, Stella, the war’s over, you’ve got a lovely, healthy baby, and now your feller’s comin’ back to you. I ask you, is that a reason to faint and scare us half to death?’

Stella opened her eyes; her sister Lizzie stood close, bending over the sofa on to which she must have been lifted. In the background her mother was ushering someone out of the kitchen door … now who could that be?

The man, for it was a man, turned in the doorway and everything came back to Stella in a rush. It was Mr Fry, and he had brought her good news, the best possible news! She struggled to a sitting position, though even that small action made her feel dizzy and sick again. ‘Mr Fry … you are so good, so kind! Oh, you’ve come all the way from the shipping office and – and I didn’t offer you so much as a cup o’ tea … Mam, is there something … ?’

Mr Fry turned and smiled self-consciously across at her. ‘The offices is closed for Victory Day. We got the lists last night, but it were too late to come and tell you then, so since I only live a few streets away I thought I’d pop over this morning,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the offer, queen, but I’m off home now, to start me own celebrations. No doubt you’ll call in some time during the week, to get all the details. I think Mr Gallagher will probably be back in port in a few weeks – perhaps even less.’

‘Thank God,’ Stella said devoutly. She closed her eyes, quite literally thanking God inside her head, and heard the soft click of the front door closing behind their visitor. She opened her eyes again and immediately the kitchen swung dizzily around her and Lizzie’s anxious face swelled like a balloon before shrinking to a more normal size. ‘Oh, what a fool I’ve been; I were so sure that me darlin’ wouldn’t be comin’ home to me, that I’d never see him again! Oh, Lizzie, the
relief
! He’s been saved, and I’m so very, very happy! I’ll gerrup off this perishin’ sofa just as soon as I’ve had a drink, because I’m rare thirsty and I reckon a cup o’ tea would just settle my queasy stomach.’