Sunset (29 page)

Kerr watched him, his face like stone. ‘Quarterdeck division, sir. From Liverpool.'

‘That's where it happened. His home was wiped out in an air raid. Big family. Only his father survived, apparently.' But neither of them was really thinking of the young sailor. It was something that happened, to others usually.

But not to the Coxswain, the core in any small warship. Friend, policeman, adviser, he filled all those roles and many more.

Brooke glanced up and saw Onslow, the yeoman of signals, watching him. He immediately looked away. He had already guessed, most likely. It had happened to him.

Brooke said, ‘I'll see them now in my quarters.'

Pike might know, too: they often did. It would soon run through the ship. This was no great carrier or battleship. This was
family
.

He went down the ladder and walked aft towards the quarterdeck, feeling the oily metal under his shoes where the wire springs and breast-ropes had been laid out only an hour ago.

His day cabin greeted him like a stranger. After the incident with the submarine he had been unable to leave his hutch when they were at sea. It had been a hard habit to break even before that.

Petty Officer Kingsmill was opening scuttles but did not look at him.

‘Will you need drinks, sir?' He turned then, his face genuinely sad. ‘Just 'eard, sir.'

How could they know already? But there was no point in questioning it.

‘Yes.' Brooke sat down, suddenly weary. Then with great care he removed the silver frame from the waterproof bag and stood it on the desk. As he had thought of her on the long night watches. How he always remembered her. Her eyes sparkling in the lights, her head partly turned to look across one bare shoulder. What would her father have thought of that?

Lian, help me . . .

There was a tap at the door. ‘Able Seaman Dalton, sir.'

‘Sit down, Dalton.' He watched the youth stare round the cabin, where he had never been before. An ordinary English face you would not even notice in some dockyard or seaport.

Dalton's eyes settled suddenly on the photograph, but when they moved on again they were filled with tears.

‘It's me mum, ain't it, sir?'

The same Liverpool twang you got so used to in Western Approaches. That battered city, which had given its heart to the escort vessels and their men.

Brooke said, ‘The signal says that apart from your father . . .' He got no further. The young seaman was staring past him, his wet eyes filled with despair.

‘Why them? They never done nuthin' to hurt anyone, sir!'

‘I know.' What was the point? There was no explanation to take away Dalton's grief. ‘Would you like a drink?' He watched emotions churning through the sailor's mind, then the fixed realisation that his family had gone. Love them, like them, or hate them, there was nothing left to look forward to.

‘Ta, thanks, sir.' He wiped his face with a surprisingly clean handkerchief. It was not easy to dhobi clothing in the crowded messdecks. But they managed.

Brooke said, ‘I
can
send you home. Get a replacement from the base here, I shouldn't wonder.'
Home
– where was that? In some barracks or hostel until he got another ship. Certainly not the pile of debris that was probably all that remained.

Dalton shook his head. Like Onslow, in some respects anyway. ‘No, sir. I was never close to me dad.' He stared at the glass that Kingsmill had placed by his hand. ‘I'll stay with me mates.'

Brooke poured himself a full glass and could feel the boy's eyes watching every movement.

‘I'm glad you said that. I think I'm going to need every good hand shortly.' He coughed: the Scotch was neat, and he guessed that Dalton had probably never had it in his young life. He added, ‘I shall write to your dad in any case.'

Dalton peered at him as if he had misheard. ‘
You
, sir?'

‘I'm your commanding officer. You are my responsibility, you
and all the people in this ship who don't know what it's all about . . .'

Words, only words. Someone like Dalton could not possibly know about all those other letters, to friends who had lost someone, to mothers who wanted to know
how it had happened
. Just as well they did not know. Better to leave it to the films and all the comforting lies.

And what am I to these same men? Do they really trust me? Am I merely the authority across the defaulters' table, or the unconcerned captain who refused their request for promotion or transfer?

He thought of her words.
They like you
. Had that ever been enough?

‘If you need any help, Dalton, please ask the first lieutenant. We're all on the same side.'

Kingsmill refilled the seaman's glass, then gently took his elbow.

‘This way, my son. In the pantry. Nobody'll bother you there.' Over his shoulder he added, ‘Cox'n's here, sir.'

The young seaman stared at them. ‘Not 'im too?'

The pantry door swung shut.

Not him too
. It hung in the cabin like an epitaph.

Pike took the vacated chair and looked at a point above Brooke's left shoulder.

‘Bad news, Swain.'

‘I see.' Pike turned his cap through his fingers, as if he was at the wheel again. After a moment he said, ‘I knew I made a mistake about shiftin' from London to the coast. Southsea, was it?'

Brooke felt drained. ‘Big raid. Lot of casualties. It says it was instantaneous.' Did they always say that?

Pike stood up, his boots creaking on the carpet. ‘I won't 'ave a drink just now, sir. I've some watch bills to check on.'

‘I see.' The Iron Man, but with every good reason.

‘Later, if you asks me, that'll be different.'

Brooke had never noticed how blue the coxwain's eyes were, like the ocean they had just left astern.

‘I
will
ask you, Swain. You can tell me some more about my father.'

The coxswain left the cabin and could soon be heard tearing a strip off a defaulter who was swabbing out the officers' heads.

If any ship had a living backbone, he was it.

Kerr was in the wardroom looking at the empty letter rack when a messman told him the captain was outside.

‘Sir?' But he knew what was wrong. The strain, the same tension was back again.

Kerr had seen the red-eyed sailor leave the pantry, while the ramrod coxswain had marched past him without a word.

Brooke asked, ‘Can you take the weight, Dick? If there's no word from the base to the contrary you can send all but the duty part of the watch ashore . . .'

He saw the concern in Kerr's eyes. ‘I'll be all right. I've left a number in case you need me. Won't be long.'

Kerr could smell the neat Scotch, but knew it was not that.

Brooke said, ‘It's just that I'm sick of
taking
it, not being able to hit back, and having to tell good men that their wives and lovers are gone. Killed. And for what?
I keep asking myself!
'

Kerr said, ‘I think you know the answer, sir.' He turned angrily as the quartermaster's legs appeared on the companion ladder. ‘
What?
'

The man peered at him resentfully. ‘Car at the dockyard gates, sir.' He looked at Brooke. ‘For you, sir.'

They followed Brooke on deck and into the noon sunlight. Kerr saw
Islip
's O.O.D. and quartermaster salute him as he crossed the big destroyer's deck, their eyes following while he walked down the brow to the wall.

Brooke knew they were staring at him. Kerr probably thought him round the bend.

He was still in his faded sea-going jacket and the white cap-cover had a smear of paint on it. He had been wearing the same shirt for twenty-four hours, and the Scotch was making his brain throb without mercy.

All he knew was that she was waiting for him. Had known he was back in Hong Kong.

He recalled the words of a famous admiral when questioned about his ability to perform some great deed.

The impossible we do at once. Miracles take a little longer
.

As he saw the great car waiting beyond the dockyard sentry he suddenly broke into a run. He was no longer the captain, the Old Man: all that he had left behind, if only for a while. It was surely a miracle.

The army stores van threw up a wave of muddy water and jerked to a halt outside the little apartment block.

Two white-clad figures jumped into the teeming rain and were drenched to the skin even before they reached the gate. Calvert waved to the young soldier who had taken pity on them when they had left the restaurant and the heavens had opened.

‘We'd have drowned without you! Thanks a lot!'

The soldier was a Canadian, one of the replacements in
Operation Boomerang
. This was his first proper posting: it must all be a great adventure for him.

Holding the girl's wet hand in his Calvert ran up the short path to the front door where they huddled together, laughing despite, or because of, the mess they were in.

A security man unlocked the door and sat down again at his desk. What residents and ‘passers-through' got up to was none of his concern.

She turned on the stairs, her shirt and skirt black with rain.

‘That was a
wonderful
meal, Toby! I can't remember when I've enjoyed myself so much!'

He watched her; like a happy child, he thought. As she must have been.

It had been a nice restaurant, small and very Chinese, just off Nathan Road. A street of lanterns and garish shops, of eating-houses and dark cafés, with hardly a serviceman to be seen: like Aladdin's Cave and treasure trove rolled into one, with street hawkers and a few hopeful rickshaws hovering.

Calvert had bought her a silk kimono at one of the stalls. The women who had taken his money had corrected him politely but firmly. ‘Happy Coat. Not kimono, Captain!'

At the restaurant, which
Islip
's gunnery officer had told him about, there had been no surprise or curiosity when they had walked in. It had even been funny to discover that few people in the restaurant spoke English, a far cry from the island.

They had managed. Beautiful duck, rice and noodles and a dozen other dishes which they enjoyed without knowing what they were. The proprietor even produced some beer which Calvert fortified with a measure of brandy from his flask.

The time had gone so fast. Watching each other across the small table, discovering, understanding.

He had given her a little jade-inlaid box, which he had bought in the shop the day he had felt close to tears. When they had met in the street.
How long ago was that?

Also some jade earrings. He had apologised when she had told him that she would get her ears pierced as soon as possible, and had brushed aside his offer to change them.

She had been looking down at the little box, her eyes hidden by her lashes.

‘I shall treasure them. Always.'

He had moved some empty dishes and reached across the table to hold her hand. With one another, they were alone, although they sat in a crowded restaurant.

She had been admiring the little box again when he had said, ‘I'll have to check up on the Star Ferry. They probably stop running at night.'

Then she looked up at him. Very directly, her expression strangely determined if a little frightened.

‘If you don't have to get back to the ship, Toby . . .' He had felt her fingers tighten around his as she had finished, ‘You can stay with me. If you like.'

They had gone out of the restaurant, saying nothing, but with so much to say.

Now, outside her apartment, Calvert hesitated. ‘I don't want you to think . . .'

She turned and had to rise on tip-toe to kiss his cheek. ‘I don't.'

She switched on the lights and wondered if Ruth Shelley was next door, listening.

The room was barely furnished, a place without a personality of its own. There was a framed print of a tall pagoda on one wall, and another of English Shire horses ploughing a field. A room which had had no time to glean anything from the steady stream
of occupants. But, as in the restaurant, she saw only the man who had come to it with her, someone she had met on a train.

‘I – I got some whisky, Toby.'

‘
Did you
?'

‘I think it might have come off the Brigadier's mess bill.' She covered her mouth and giggled. ‘I'm soaked. I'll have a rub down and then I'll put on my Happy Coat.' She smiled fondly. ‘That woman made me feel like a tourist!'

He made to hold her but she stepped away. He said, ‘You know that I love you, Sue.'

She reached for the door. ‘That's a lovely thing to say. You've never said it before.'

He tried to laugh it off. ‘I did, you know. You can read it in my letter when you get home.'

She was still staring at him as she backed into the other room, her eyes filling her face.

He heard her singing softly in the bathroom, and after a brief exploration he opened a low sideboard where a bottle of Johnny Walker stood in solitary splendour. It was unobtainable in England. For lowly lieutenants, anyway.

He called, ‘There's only one glass in the place, Sue!'

‘I've got another one in here.'

The door opened and she stood there in the silk robe he had bought for her in Nathan Road. Short and black, with scarlet flowers on the pockets.

She saluted smartly. ‘Excuse my rig, sir!' Then she turned and displayed the gold dragon etched down her spine. ‘Dragons are lucky, the Chinese say.'

She held up a fresh towel. ‘Take off your shirt, Toby.'

He held the chair while she dried his back, her face hidden from view.

She did not resist when he held her in his arms, her damp hair pressing against his chest. Calvert noticed that she had removed the wedding ring and its chain, which he had seen through her wet shirt.