Deep Water (14 page)

Looking around for Mike’s wife, Andrea felt her heart accelerate. She still scarcely understood why she needed to see her, and yet she did. Andrea imagined she would be in her late twenties or early
thirties, attractive, well-dressed. Two women looked possible candidates. If Sally was here,
she
would know her. But Sally had not come, and was not likely to, given her dislike of the vicar’s wife. Yet just as she was about to give up and leave, Andrea saw Miss Lawrence, the schoolmistress, and questioned her.

‘Mrs Harrington? She’s over there – the dark-haired woman with the doctor.’

‘He’s in the brown suit?’

‘That’s our Dr Lowther.’ Andrea was aware of a balding, pleasant looking man, but only for the brief moment before her eyes were drawn to the figure beside him. Mrs Harrington was not younger than she was, as Andrea had imagined, but older. She could easily have stepped from the pages of
Tatler
: the silver fox fur, the beautifully cut coat and stylish soft hat.

Miss Lawrence whispered, ‘Mrs Harrington came to our prize-giving with the commander.’

Mrs Jefferies bore down on them. For some reason she had a large ‘
M
’ written on her forehead in
indelible
pencil. ‘I’ve been given morphine,’ she explained, touching her brow, ‘so I mustn’t be given any more.’ She laughed quietly. ‘Moderation’s my motto. We’ll be breaking for tea and biscuits soon. You can meet Mrs Harrington then.’

‘Please don’t go to any trouble, I’m …’

But by now the doctor was coming in her
direction
, still talking to Mike’s wife. He said to Andrea, ‘You must be Sally’s American friend. I’m afraid I can’t remember your name. I’m John Lowther, by the way.’

After introductions had been made, and the doctor had promised the vicar’s wife that he would speak about burns after tea, Mrs Harrington, whose
Christian
name was Venetia, said, ‘If there’s one medical word I can’t stand, it’s
crepitus
.’

‘The condition’s worse than the word,’ suggested the doctor, smiling at Andrea, who did not know what it meant. As if suspecting this, he added, ‘There must be worse noises than the jarring of broken bones.’

‘Do you think so?’ laughed Andrea.

Venetia said in her low sweet voice, ‘Be honest, John, if a bomb fell on this village, wouldn’t these people run a mile rather than cope with the terrible injuries?’

‘I think they’d cope pretty well.’

Across the room, someone said, ‘Before giving artificial respiration to an unconscious man, you must pull out his tongue so he doesn’t swallow it.’

Mrs Harrington turned her heavy lidded eyes on Andrea. ‘So you’re a friend of the famously tactless Sally.’ Andrea could not help smiling. ‘Your wife is
such
good fun, John. I love Sal dearly, despite all her
faux
pas.
She’s the one person who kept me sane last winter.’

‘Are you still down here a lot?’ asked Andrea, in terror of her reply, yet managing to sound only mildly interested.

‘Depends what you mean by a lot. I’m here now, as you see,’ said Mrs Harrington in a decisive tone that seemed to close the subject. Andrea tried to imagine her being loving to Mike and failed. Although the
woman’s lips were full and soft and her eyes darkly expressive, there was a brittleness about her that seemed designed to keep people at arm’s length. Then, moments later, Venetia let slip something which Andrea had wanted to know. ‘Please get Sally to ring me, John. I’m not at Polwherne in the naval wifery, but staying in the new funk hole at Bonallack. She might find some of the guests amusing – a couple of
BBC
types, an American oil man, and me till Tuesday.’

‘Of course I’ll tell her,’ said the doctor, with a strained little smile which Venetia Harrington appeared not to notice.

When she had gone, John Lowther guided Andrea towards the tea urn. ‘Sally needs all the friends she can find at present.’

‘What’s happened?’

He looked away for a moment, towards three women practising resuscitation in a tangled heap near the tea urn; then he said quietly, ‘Just come and see her when you can. I can’t say more than that now.’

Andrea reached the door as Dr Lowther started to explain why medical experts were now saying that burns should not be smeared with jelly. Mrs Jefferies bustled up to her. ‘I do apologise, Mrs Pauling, but I quite forgot to ask whether you could play the organ for us on an important occasion. Our Miss Edgelow is getting too old to be reliable.’ Mrs Jefferies moved her face close to Andrea’s ear. ‘The navy retrieved the body of an
RAF
pilot this morning.’

Andrea shivered. ‘Was his name James?’

“James Hawnby. You knew him?’

‘Only by sight.’

‘My husband should have been the one to invite you to play at the funeral, but he’s down at the cottage hospital with a German survivor. Eighteen years old and both legs amputated.’

‘I’ll play,’ whispered Andrea before hurrying out, past the Sunday school books and chairs, into the village street.

On Sunday morning – not long after telling Rose he wouldn’t go to chapel with her – Justin announced to Leo that he wanted to visit the creek from which the trawler had emerged.

‘We may find out why I saw fishing nets when I got on board.’

An easterly wind had been blowing all morning, so they were able to run all the way up river to the mouth of the creek without tacking. The tiller vibrated in Leo’s hand and the boat’s bow surged exhilaratingly. Justin had refused to reveal exactly what they would be looking for in the inlet but Leo had not made an issue of it. He was intensely curious to learn what his friend had found out, and didn’t intend to give him any excuse for keeping things to himself.

‘Your mum was jolly depressed this morning,’ said Justin, gazing not at Leo but at a man digging for lugworms on the riverbank. When Leo said nothing, Justin added, ‘It’s because Mike isn’t back.’

‘Why should she be worried? He’s only on a training exercise.’

‘She doesn’t believe that.’

‘How do you know?’ demanded Leo.

‘Because she drove down to the river early this morning.’

‘So?’

‘So she saw the trawlers weren’t there.’

‘Pull the jib across. It’ll fill better on the other side,’ said Leo, and waited until Justin had done this. ‘Mum happens to be depressed because she knew the pilot who died yesterday. She’s playing the organ at his funeral.’

Justin whistled softly. ‘If she isn’t worried about Mike she should be.’

‘You never say why.’

‘Don’t rush me.’

Since the tide was low, and still falling, they
dispensed
with their sails and started to row after entering the creek. Soon the inlet narrowed, dwindling within minutes to a thin central channel that twisted in serpentine-fashion between high mudbanks.

‘We should be keeping a lookout,’ said Justin.

‘For what?’

‘Clues, of course.’

Justin’s solemn expression annoyed Leo. He might almost be a commando, the way he was looking from side to side. On the shimmering mudbanks, numerous birds were feeding. Leo wished his father was here. He would note the colours and markings of lots of these birds so he could identify them later. One solitary white wader stood taller than
the rest, and had a strange bill – long and yellow at the tip. There was no other bird like him, either among the gulls or ducks. Did birds ever feel lonely, Leo wondered. If they did, this tall white specimen certainly would, like being the only European in a Chinese town.

When the channel had become shallow enough for them to feel the bottom with the blades of their oars, Leo stopped rowing. ‘We’ll get stuck for hours if we go any further.’

‘Let’s leave the boat here and wade,’ said Justin.

‘We might sink up to our waists.’

‘Let’s test it.’ Justin stood and jabbed his oar down into the mud. He pulled it up and showed Leo several inches of mud on the blade.

‘It’s still going to be risky to wade,’ said Leo, thrusting down his own oar to see whether Justin’s experiment could be repeated. Finding it could, he rolled up his shorts and, grasping the boathook, slipped into the water. The mud on the oar had smelled like rotting leaf mould. He could feel this muck squishing about in his plimsolls as he waded to the bows to throw out the anchor.

As they splashed upstream, they were unnerved by the mournful calls of birds and the isolation of the creek. From time to time, Leo thrust the boathook into the mudbanks on either side. The pole always sank in about a foot or so. Both boys wondered how they could possibly cross the mud to reach the creek’s shoreline. Leo stopped wading.

‘How the hell did that trawler come in here?’

‘At high water. You saw it come out.’

Leo raised his eyebrows. ‘So it just chugged up here and chugged out again? Funny thing to do.’

Justin pointed to the thick oak woods. ‘They come here so nobody can see what they’re doing.’

‘Which is? Oh sorry …’ Leo pretended to peer through an invisible magnifying glass. ‘Got to find those clues.’ Justin stared ahead, ignoring him.
Suddenly
he let out a whoop.

‘Look!’

A fallen tree jutted out from the bank as far as the channel. They would be able to reach the shore by clambering along this bridge. High above the mud, balancing on the trunk, Leo pretended to stagger. ‘How’d you get me out if I went splat?’

‘I’d leave you to drown.’

They were soon on dry land, walking among oaks and hollies. ‘Okay,’ demanded Leo, ‘if the trawler came up here, why didn’t it fall over at low tide?’

‘They propped it on planks.’

‘Shouldn’t we find them?’

‘I’m looking.’

‘What else should I look for, clever clogs?’

Without speaking, Justin went down on his knees and pulled a used pot of grey paint from the
undergrowth
. He held it up like a lump of gold. ‘
Fantastic
!’

Leo wanted to fling it into the creek. Why would the navy go to the trouble of bringing a trawler here, just to paint it grey, when they could do that anywhere? If the solution was so bloody obvious, why couldn’t he see it?

‘Give me that,’ cried Justin, pulling the boathook
out of Leo’s hand and beginning to poke and hack at the brambles.

Leo stalked ahead between the twisted trees that marked the margins of the creek. Here, the oaks were producing catkins earlier than those deep in the wood. Scientists noticed things like that. Justin might think
he
was observant, but he wasn’t at all. In the open again, Leo looked across the mud. The dinghy appeared to be exactly where they had left it – probably aground by now. If they spent too much time here, they’d be stuck for hours.

Leo walked along the belt of shingle at the edge of the creek. In front of him on the shore lay a stout piece of timber, about six feet long. Close by were a couple more. Whether they’d been washed up or tossed here by people, he had no idea; but something about their appearance made him stare. All of them had traces of mud at one end or the other. On two, there were splatters of blue paint as well as grey. The third merely had grey brush marks. Looking more carefully, Leo noticed a few spots of brown paint, too. These brown marks were less numerous. He turned. Behind him, Justin was looking at the planks, wide-eyed.

‘Blimey!’ gasped Justin. ‘We’ve found them. They’re what they prop the ships up with.’

Leo asked hesitantly, ‘Do they paint on these colours to make their ships look like fishing boats?’

‘They do, they do,’ shrieked Justin, capering about. ‘But you didn’t see blue and brown boats in
Porthbeer
harbour.’ Leo frowned in puzzlement. ‘Why didn’t you?’ roared Justin, circling Leo as if he was a totem pole.

‘Because …,’ faltered Leo.

‘Say it,’ shouted Justin. He picked up one of the props and brandished it.

Leo hung his head. ‘I suppose because blue and brown are fishing colours in Brittany.’

‘They cross the Channel looking like French
fishing
boats. That’s why I saw nets on board.’

Leo couldn’t bring himself to look at Justin. He’d been wrong all along and hadn’t kept his doubts to himself. In fact he’d deserved to be kept in the dark. A most unexpected sob broke from Justin and Leo began to babble apologies.

‘Stop!’ spluttered Justin. ‘They must go dressed as fishermen. That’s terrible! Don’t you see?’ Leo shook his head. ‘It’s their clothes, silly.’ Justin covered his face. ‘People without uniforms are shot as spies.’

‘He’s too clever to get caught,’ soothed Leo.

Justin handed Leo the prop he had been carrying and pulled himself up onto the tree that bridged the mud. He looked down sadly at Leo. ‘Mike’s still not back from France.’

Leo was too dazed by their discovery to listen any more. He imagined sailors covering up the French colours with grey naval paint, so the trawler would cause no comment in the river. Then, when the boats were due to return to France, the grey would be replaced by brown and blue. French names and fishing numbers would be painted on, too. Though Justin was still tearful, Leo felt elated. Dad would have to admit they’d found out something he didn’t know.

Leo jumped down from the tree into the channel and
suddenly stopped dead. Mike really could be shot. ‘Summarily executed’ was how books on spying described it. The Germans would probably torture him to make him give away the names of the French people he was meeting. Then he’d be tied to a post and blindfolded. Leo felt the kind of shivers he had last experienced when waiting to be caned.

*

Peter went out into the lane. There were no bicycles propped against the hedge, so the boys had not yet returned from their sail. Since Andrea was out, too, Peter began to pack to avoid being in a rush later in the evening. He found it very touching that Leo hated to see him go back to Falmouth, but this didn’t ease Peter’s depression as he collected up his socks and handkerchiefs. Andrea had given no sign that
she
regretted his departure. Her detachment contrasted strangely with her distress before his last return to the dockyard. He was the uncommunicative one, she had always told him, unable or unwilling to express his feelings. Yet now she would herself sit for long periods saying nothing, and offering no explanation even when asked why she seemed sad or preoccupied. ‘I’m thinking,’ she would say; or, ‘Do I keep asking what’s on your mind?’

Her refusal to go out walking with him had spoken to Peter more clearly than words. Physical things – walking, tennis and cycling – had become
all-important
to their relationship after Andrea had stopped asking him about his work. Until this
holiday
, Peter had managed to persuade himself that polio hadn’t destroyed the few activities they’d still
shared. But now he knew better. He didn’t intend to make airy promises to Andrea before he left, but by the time he saw her again Peter was determined to have acquired whatever medical certificates might be needed to extract from the Admiralty a new deal on health grounds. Unless he saw Andrea more often, their marriage would end. To prevent this happening, he would resign if need be.

Peter was still folding shirts and ruminating as he heard a motorbike in the lane. When he reached the window, he saw that Mike Harrington had dismounted and was striding up the path. Rose was showing the naval officer into the sitting room by the time Peter reached the hall.

Mike turned and said cheerfully to Peter, ‘Thought I’d drop by and see if the boys would like a sailing lesson.’

‘They’re on the water already.’

‘Good for them. I’ll call back another time.’

Mike was wearing a leather sheepskin-lined jacket similar to those favoured by
RAF
pilots. He delved into an inner pocket and produced a bottle of wine.

‘Since you and your wife are in the know, I thought I’d give you a couple of bottles. The other one’s still on the bike.’

‘Very good of you.’

‘I get given plenty.’

Looking at Mike’s smiling face, Peter was
surprised
to find himself feeling a little brighter. Here was a man able to be cheerful and think of others though he might be dead in a month. So buck up. Though envying Mike his physical fitness and the
excitement of his work, he liked him, too. Not many men would think of doing favours for a couple of boys, just after returning from a mission. Peter might have suspected a homosexual interest but Harrington didn’t fit that picture – though
appearances
could be misleading.

Peter clapped his hands heartily, as if this was his usual style, and said, ‘I know the sun isn’t anywhere near the yardarm, but what about a spot of wine?’

‘The wine’s yours.’

Peter went out and returned with a corkscrew and two glasses. While drawing the cork, he asked Mike about his motorbike and learned that it was a Velocette similar to the machine that won the Manx
TT
in ’39. After sipping the wine appreciatively, he questioned Mike about the engines of his trawlers and was impressed to learn that he had bullied the navy into installing twin 500 hp Hall Scott engines like the ones used in the fastest
MTB
s.

Peter grinned widely. ‘Must be quite a sight, a fishing boat ripping along at twenty-five knots.’

‘Dead right,’ laughed Mike. ‘So we cross at night and slow right down when we’re five miles from home.’

Peter calculated that Mike was about thirty, almost ten years younger than him; yet age was not such a straightforward indicator of experience. Much of adult life involved endless repetition, except for people like Mike who rarely knew two weeks alike. Did this age them more quickly? Maybe not, since childhood was also full of new experiences, and this was what made a child’s life so vivid. A broken toy
or cancelled treat was terrible for a child because he thought the loss could never be put right. Like
children
, Mike and his men lived with losses. Longing to have a serious discussion, Peter felt he didn’t know Mike well enough to demand the honesty required to make such a conversation worthwhile. Being with Mike made Peter wonder what his own life would have been if he had not contracted polio. Such
speculation
caused him no resentment. Was that because he could live more adventurously through Mike? It embarrassed Peter to suspect that this was true.

The boys arrived without either man hearing them. The instantaneous delight on Justin’s face as he saw Mike touched Peter. Leo also seemed pleased, but in a more reserved way.

‘Vroom! Vroom! Will you take us on your Velocette?’ cried Justin.

‘I haven’t got a helmet for you.’

‘Do
you
wear one?’

‘Not always. But that’s different,’ insisted Mike with a smile.

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m not a minor.’

‘If you crashed and died your loss to England would be a zillion times worse than a schoolboy’s.’

‘Your mother might disagree.’ Mike turned to Peter. ‘My God! Does he press
you
like this?’

Peter smiled back. ‘I haven’t got a motorbike.’