The Dearest and the Best Page 8

  ‘I will, I promise.’ He laughed and they joined in raucously. They began sloshing the pavement again and as he strode away he heard one call to the other: ‘Just a kid, really. Like our Billy.’

  ‘Terrible when they go and get theirselves killed at that age,’ called the other woman loudly. ‘Criminal,’ agreed Marge.

  Harry strode along the street and into the main thoroughfare. Naval Operations Headquarters, where he had to report, was directly ahead. There were sentries with upended bayonets on guard both inside and outside the building and the wide concourse within the main door was like a cavernous stage upon which actors were rushing to take their places moments before the curtain rose. He went to an office marked ‘Officers. Movements and Postings’, and stood with four midshipmen while a worn-looking petty officer and a confused clerk juggled papers behind a windowed desk. Eventually it was his turn.

  ‘Ah, yes, the Frenchie – Arromanches,’ said the petty officer looking at Harry’s papers. ‘She’s putting to sea this morning, sir.’ He leaned forward avuncularly: ‘She’s right alongside here now. Go and wave to her, if you like.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Harry surprised at the informality. ‘Yes . . . well, I will.’

  The petty officer glanced through the documents. ‘You’ve got another seven days’ leave, sir. That’ll make ten days altogether. Report to HMS Partridge on the seventeenth, unless previously recalled.’

  ‘When does she sail?’ asked Harry. He knew HMS Partridge was a shore establishment, a naval barracks and gunnery school. The petty officer had heard the joke too many times.

  ‘Just for holding, sir. They’ll post you to a ship from there, I expect. Just coming back from the French Navy, like you have, you’ve probably got overlooked. Wish they’d overlook me.’ He looked up, inclined to be friendly: ‘Anyway, it looks like there’s going to be more doing on the beach than on the ’oggin for a while. They been giving us rifle practice like blinding infantry.’ He looked at the clock, big as a gunnery target, on the concourse wall, and once more leaned confidingly. ‘If you want to see the Arromanches sail, young sir, I’d get moving now,’ he advised. ‘She’s just about due to cast off. If you show your pass at the rear door you can go straight out. You’ll see her. Number four berth.’

  Harry thanked him and went through the criss-crossing men in the long entrance hall. He opened his pass at the door and stepped out into the oily dockside sun. There was a mine-sweeper tied up immediately before the building, her super-structure a mangle of bomb-damage. One berth down, even now easing out from the quay, was the Arromanches. She was going out bow first into the open water like the hand of a clock. He hurried over cables and cobbles towards her.

  A group of senior French officers stood on the quay and the berth area was watched by a pair of stoic British sentries. One halted Harry, his bayonet altering its angle uncompromisingly. ‘I’ve just come off this ship,’ said Harry hurriedly, like a schoolboy explaining to an officious prefect. ‘I’d . . . I’d like to give them a wave.’ The man’s face remained unconvinced. Harry said with a self-conscious grin, ‘Wish them bon voyage.’

  ‘Can’t go through, sir,’ said the sentry and then, without a wrinkle of change in his expression, added, ‘You’ll have to bon voyage from over there.’ He nodded towards the quayside area outside the space he was guarding. Harry saluted formally as the sentry came to attention and then, like an admonished lad, he moved sideways to the edge of the dock.

  The forward part of the destroyer was out in the waterway to the full extent now, and the stern, with its depth charges stacked like barrels, began to budge away from the quay. The ship’s small band, half a dozen standing beneath the forward guns, began to play ‘La Marseillaise’ and everyone on the dock stood to attention. Harry, a figure remote from the rest, stood rigidly. The brave old martial tune floated over the morning ships, gulls looped away like pages of paper. Along the deck of the destroyer the crew were lined, the red pom-poms on their hats as vivid as poppies. By the time the final strain of the music had died the vessel was out in the mid-water of the dock. Harry watched her with real pride. She was his first ship. Then, from almost below his feet a motor launch appeared, its snout towards the grey vessel. Harry called: ‘Paul! Clovis!’ Briefly he turned to see if anyone else had heard. Nobody was looking. The two young Frenchmen stared up and their faces lit.

  They waved and wished him well. He called: ‘See you soon!’ as people do even when they doubt that they will.

  ‘Alors! See you soon!’ the shouts came back.

  ‘Au revoir! Good luck!’ he called. He waved and then self-consciously stood to attention and saluted. They returned the farewell.

  ‘Good-bye Loup de Mer,’ Clovis called. ‘Good-bye Sea Wolf!’

  Their young laughter echoed across the busy water as the launch nosed noisily towards the destroyer. ‘See you soon,’ he said once again, this time quietly, to himself.

  The afternoon was empty to the horizon, yellow shingle divided by old wooden groynes, sloping to the water; the concise touch of tide on shore the only sound apart from sudden outbreaks of shouting from the gulls. Some white washing blew outside a low line of coastguard cottages like a breezy signal of defiance.

  That day, Friday, 10 May, saw the rolling armoured army of Germany make fierce inroads across the level lands of Holland and Belgium. Each news bulletin related stories of optimistic resistance but the military innuendos – confused situations, strategic withdrawals, retreats to new, prepared positions – told the true tale. Within hours the invaders were across the newly cut Albert Canal, vaunted as a formidable ditch of defence. Panic, incompetence and mean treachery were rife. The fleeing Belgians omitted to destroy vital bridges and the Panzer Divisions’ tanks accepted the gift of an easy crossing.

  James had listened to the news and then said he was going for a walk. ‘I’ll come too,’ Millie had offered determinedly. ‘I’ll get Horace and we’ll go down to the beach, if you like. Just as we used to do. We might not get many more chances.:

  ‘Yes, all right,’ he had said. ‘If you like.’

  They reached the coast along the familiar mottled lanes and left the pony tethered to a winch, rusty and long unused. He helped her down to the shingle and they began to walk towards the east, the white and green flank of the Isle of Wight in their view.

  ‘I can’t see any point in you joining the women’s services,’ he said as they walked.

  ‘Why not? Yesterday you were saying that everyone should be doing something.’ She paused and picking up a pebble threw it angrily into the sea.

  ‘They’re just playing games,’ he said. ‘Most of those women are there for the fun. They’re being paid for it too.’

  She threw another pebble, a short pitch that splashed only a few feet away. ‘It sounds tempting,’ she said. Then: ‘I’ll have to do something. I’m not sitting on my backside knitting.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with knitting,’ he said. ‘Who’s that?’ He pointed ahead. A figure was moving towards them, climbing with difficulty over each succeeding wooden groyne. ‘It’s old Buck, from The Haven,’ he added.

  ‘Yes,’ said Millie, glad of the interruption. ‘He’s been putting out his lobster pots, I expect.’

  They walked on, the distant figure moving towards them. ‘Apparently they want people to help out at Moyles Court,’ she continued. ‘At the new RAF station.’

  ‘Help out?’

  ‘Serving drinks and suchlike.’

  ‘If you want to be a barmaid.’

  She choked back her anger, for Jeremiah Buck, the old fisherman, was now too near. Sonny had been his lifelong friend.

  They arrived at one of the groynes simultaneously and stood looking over like neighbours chatting at the garden wall.

  ‘It don’t look any too good, do it, Mr Lovatt?’ said the old man. He looked over his shoulder, towards the east, as if he half-expected an immediate attack.

  ‘It certainly doesn’t at the moment,’ a
greed James.

  Millie said: ‘It was a terrible thing with Sonny.’ She reached up and touched the brown, pitted hand.

  Jeremiah said solemnly: ‘Stanley Garnet Mountford, that was his name. Nobody ever knew ’is name till he was dead. Funny, ain’t it? Not me, even, and I was his old pal. Stanley Garnet Mountford, what a name to ’ave.’ He wiped his eye with the back of his hand, then regarded James squarely, as if he had been meaning to ask him something for a long time, as if their meeting was not merely fortuitous.

  ‘Mr Lovatt,’ he said, ‘we ’ave got some sort of plan, ’aven’t we?’

  The concern in the faded eyes turned on James. James waited. ‘I would imagine so,’ he answered.

  ‘I mean, we’re bound to ’ave. Stands to common sense,’ said the fisherman, disappointed at the reply. ‘We been in this war now close on a year, and God knows ’twas known it was coming, wasn’t it. Our men in London must have a plan. I reckon they’re just waiting for this Hitler to put his head in the pot – then bang, down comes the trap.’ He looked hopefully at James.

  James smiled tightly. ‘They don’t tell me what they have in store,’ he said, ‘but I imagine it’s all taken care of. And there’s France. We mustn’t forget the French – six million men in the army.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Jeremiah sagely. ‘The French. Well I always did worry a bit about they.’ He took a deep breath and prepared to climb the groyne. ‘We shall ’ave to see,’ he said. ‘Wait and see what the plan is. There must be one, else what we been doing all this time?’

  He climbed over and they waved him off before mounting the groyne and continuing in the opposite direction. They turned the headland and, their own quarrels, their own doubts put aside for a moment, looked over into the serene estuary of Binford Haven, the three sail-like hills bright in the sun, hardly a movement anywhere in the landscape.

  ‘A plan,’ muttered James bitterly. ‘He thinks we might have a plan.’

  With the day settling into an evening of comfortable shadows, birds in the house eaves and the garden branches, Robert sat in his armchair near the open french window and surveyed his grass, his flowers, and observed his dog Wadsworth saunter across the sections of late sunlight. Elizabeth brought him his gin and tonic and she poured herself a small sherry and they sat waiting for the wireless news.

  ‘It’s very strange to think that possibly everything could be changed, in the space of a few weeks,’ she said, breaking the silence.

  ‘You mean, I won’t be able to call my dog my own,’ he smiled. He leaned forward and tapped her wrist fondly. ‘They’ll never get here,’ he said. ‘Even if they got through France, they’ll find the English Channel is a bit wider than the Albert Canal.’

  She patted his hand in return, a touch of thanks. ‘There are great goings-on in Parliament,’ she said. ‘They’ve been talking about it all day. It looks as if Mr Chamberlain will be put firmly outside the door by tonight. He’ll get all the blame, poor soul.’

  Robert stood and went the one step out into the garden. May blossom was heavy by the wall. The hum of summer spiced the air. He paced around the lawn as if measuring it, pausing to push the lolling dog gently with his foot. A blackbird sang and a distinct shot sounded in the distant air.

  ‘Clakka after rabbits,’ said Robert arriving back at the french window. ‘He should be saving ammunition.’

  ‘We need the rabbits,’ smiled Elizabeth. ‘That’s probably your Sunday lunch you heard.’

  The news began at six o’clock. They sat closely together and listened intently, as if it were music. Behind the official bolstering communiqués it was clear that the Nazis were swarming through the Low Countries. The announcer with his anonymous, platonic voice read the catalogue of disaster. He ended: ‘And here is tonight’s sports news. Racing. Racing at Newmarket. Two-thirty. Anthony’s Crown. Second, My Beauty, third, Happy Warrior. Three-fifteen. Mary Mary. Second, Downland, third, Amadeus . . .’

  Irritably Robert reached up to turn the set off. It was a big brown radio, three years old, with polished knobs. ‘Racing,’ he grumbled. ‘Racing, for God’s sake, when the world’s falling apart . . .’ Then a hesitation in the announcer’s mechanically sepulchral tone caused him to wait. The voice said: ‘We interrupt the racing results for a special news bulletin. It has just been announced from Number 10, Downing Street, that Mr Neville Chamberlain has tendered his resignation as Prime Minister and that this has been accepted by His Majesty the King. His Majesty has asked Mr Winston Churchill to form a government. That is the end of the special announcement. Back now to the racing results. Newmarket, four o’clock. Gentleman Jim. Second, Trinity House, third . . .’

  Bess’s grandmother, Mrs Harriet Spofforth, had been wearing her gas mask for fifteen minutes, sitting in a high-back chair by the Queen Anne window of her house. She was outlined in an almost saintly fashion by evening light.

  ‘Look – Whistler’s Mother,’ giggled Bess as she and Harry approached the room. ‘Don’t laugh for God’s sake. She gets miffed as hell if you laugh.’

  They went into the tall room and Mrs Spofforth half turned. In the hideous black mask with its hanging snout she had the aspect of a thin and truncated elephant.

  ‘My grandmother is trying out her gas mask,’ said Bess loudly as they walked towards the old lady. A pair of red-rimmed, vehement ears pushed out from either side of the rubber. ‘Grandma, this is Harry Lovatt. You probably remember him.’

  Imprisoned eyes fixed on Harry through the celluloid oval window at the front of the rubber mutation. Grandmother tried to speak but her words were reduced to exhalations, dulled grunts, which caused the window to fog and the canister nose-piece of the mask to jog in and out in a drinking motion. Realizing she could not be heard Mrs Spofforth tugged at the straps and half eased the rubber from its tight clasp around her head. A segment of scarlet face was revealed. ‘I wouldn’t want to be shut in here for long,’ she shouted sideways through the aperture. ‘Hot as hell.’

  Bess tightened her lips and then suggested that Mrs Spofforth should take the mask off. The old lady replied by letting the straps snap against her head like a dancer’s garter against her thigh. She held up the fingers of one hand. ‘Five more minutes,’ sighed Bess. ‘She’s determined to keep it on for twenty minutes, which is more than I’d want to.’

  ‘Or me,’ agreed Harry. ‘I think she’s very brave.’

  Bess moved towards the door saying to Harry: ‘I won’t be long, I’ll be down in time for her to emerge from there. Make yourself at home. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Er . . . no . . . thanks.’

  ‘Just talk to gran then, will you. Tell her where you’ve been. Tell her about the navy.’

  Uncomfortably Harry turned back to the eyes behind the celluloid oval screen. The old lady moved the side of the mask from her face once more and hissed through the opening. ‘Talk, will you. If I start it steams up this idiotic window.’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, of course,’ hesitated Harry. He searched for something to say. The short trunk swung expectantly in his direction. ‘It’s . . . it’s been a lovely day, hasn’t it,’ he began laboriously. ‘They say it’s going to be a nice summer. I’m taking Bess to the Young Farmers’ Supper. In Lyndhurst.’

  Mrs Spofforth blahed something and then in exasperation tugged the side of the rubber wide again. ‘What about Chamberlain?’ she called in the imprisoned voice. ‘What about Churchill?’

  ‘Oh . . . yes. I heard. It was on the news.’ He felt incredibly juvenile with her. He bent closer as one would with someone deaf. ‘My parents were just discussing it. They seem to think it’s a good thing.’

  ‘The Dardanelles!’ she suddenly bellowed, lugging out the side of the mask again. ‘Remember the Dardanelles!’

  ‘The . . .? Oh, the Dardanelles. Yes, naturally. We mustn’t forget them.’ Desperately he tried to recall the Dardanelles.

  ‘That was Churchill, remember. Bloody fool.’ She abruptly pulled the gas mask away from her fa
ce. Below it her head was like a boiled beetroot. ‘That’s enough of that mad contraption,’ she announced, gasping for air. ‘They’ll have to gas me, that’s all. I can’t wear that for hours on end. You can’t hold a decent conversation.’

  ‘They are awful,’ Harry agreed. ‘Cumbersome.’

  ‘And ugly,’ she shouted angrily, as if it were his fault. She pointed at her own face. ‘It’s bad enough having a worn-out phizog like this anyway, but that thing’s even worse . . . Anyway, you can bet your life that if I was sitting there wearing it when the Nazis turned up, the buggers would bayonet me.’ She turned and saw that her granddaughter had appeared in the doorway. ‘Oh dear, that does look odd. Is it a barn dance?’

  Harry turned towards the door. Bess was wearing a white blouse, a plaid skirt and an annoyed expression. ‘No, gran.’ She gathered her voice. ‘It’s a farmers’ supper – and there’s a war on.’

  ‘Farmers!’ snorted the old lady. ‘Huh! They’ll never starve.’ She regarded Harry acutely. ‘Farmers and cooks never do,’ she said. ‘If ever you are captured always tell them you’re a cook. Cooks always survive.’

  She returned to inspecting Bess. ‘As long as you don’t go wearing trousers,’ she said. ‘They’re disgraceful.’ She was holding the gas mask by its straps, letting it hang down like some terrible executed head. ‘Girls who wear these trousers are merely taking a mean advantage of wartime conditions,’ she continued fiercely. She dropped the mask metallically on the floor with a kind of disgust. ‘We always went to dances, or even agricultural dinners, in a few fripperies, laces and suchlike.’ She looked towards Bess again. ‘Still, if that’s the mode, then that’s the mode. My God, Hitler must be delighted to know what he’s done to society in this country. Ravaged the Hunt Ball for a start.’

  Bess said firmly: ‘It’s not the Hunt Ball, grandma. It’s a five-bob supper.’

  ‘All this quick-stepping, fox-trotting, tangoing,’ pursued the old lady villainously. ‘I’m simply glad I was young in a more graceful age.’ She turned in a businesslike way to Harry. Now she had rid herself of the gas mask she seemed eager to talk. ‘Ah, yes, of course, I remember you now, young man. I couldn’t see you properly through that dratted window. The Lovatts’ boy.’ She turned her cheek and eye sideways as if drawing a rifle sight on him. ‘Hmm. Which one are you? The good-looking one or the other one?’