Jermain realised with a jerk that the car had covered several miles without his noticing the distance. Houses and open shops flashed past, and the car’s low bonnet seemed to cleave its way through a mad maelstrom of scurrying Chinese, loaded handcarts and the white and khaki of off-duty servicemen.

  He said, ‘Will you be there this evening?’

  ‘For a bit. But I have a date tonight.’ She glanced at him. ‘But don’t worry, you’ll get a car to take you back to the base.’

  Jermain lapsed into silence. She reminded him of the girl in the dinghy which had crashed into the Temeraire’s bows. There was something so fresh and natural about her, and he felt strangely unnerved. It was, of course, ridiculous even to think along these lines. He had been too long under strain, too long at sea. That was all there was to it.

  She said, ‘I was sorry to hear about the officer who was killed.’

  Jermain stiffened. ‘There’s not much security around here!’

  ‘I thought I might go and see his widow when I get back to U.K., to see if there’s anything I can do to help.’

  She sounded so completely genuine in her concern that Jermain felt confused. ‘I’m sorry.’ He turned to stare at her. ‘I didn’t mean to yell at you.’

  Her lips parted across her even teeth. ‘Like your men said. You really are a pig when you want to be!’ But she was smiling.

  Jermain grinned in spite of his embarrassment. ‘I must say, I’d rather have you as a companion than some idiotic Member of Parliament!’

  The car screeched sideways between two open gates where a dozing native constable leaned against a tree, and ground to a violent halt outside a square, shuttered house. She said, ‘We’ve arrived, Commander!’

  Jermain stood beside the car as she climbed from the driving seat and pushed the hair from her forehead. She was taller than he had imagined, and beneath the crumpled dress he could see the smooth lines of her body, the firmness of her breasts.

  She stood looking at him. ‘Now tell me, Commander, do you really like what you see?’

  He coughed. ‘Was I staring?’

  She nodded gravely. ‘A trifle.’ She turned as Conway appeared at the top of the entrance stairway. ‘Well, I must be off. Need a shower.’ She gave Jermain a mock salute. ‘May see you later, then?’

  Jermain stared at Conway. He was indeed wearing a creased suit and his tie was hanging loosely around his shoulders.

  Conway held out his hand. ‘Come into the house, Commander.’ He guided Jermain into the cool passageway. ‘I see you got the car all right.’

  Jermain asked carefully, ‘Who was that girl?’

  Conway grimaced. ‘That was Jill. My daughter!’

  *  *  *

  Max Colquhoun wandered thoughtfully through the deserted control room and shone his torch across the gleaming panels. It was unnaturally peaceful in the boat and he found himself wondering why he had offered to relieve Kitson as officer-of-the-day. The latter had hurried ashore immediately, loaded down with golf clubs and a tennis racquet. It was too late in the evening to play anything, Colquhoun thought, but no doubt Kitson was eager to arrange a full programme of games while the submarine was in port.

  The ensign had been lowered, and he felt that he might easily be the only soul aboard. From the direction of the chief and petty officers’ mess he caught the distant strain of dance music and then he heard a man whistling in time with the radio. He felt vaguely comforted and paused to massage his back. He could feel the angry bruises and the dressing which Griffin had pasted across the cuts he had sustained on the rudder. It was odd how the others looked on him as some sort of hero. He had not even been able to save Archer when the lifeline had parted. He conjured up a stark picture of the water rising to meet him and the suffocating crush of salt in his lungs. It had been a near thing all right. Maybe that was why he did not want to join the others ashore. He needed to reassemble himself. To sort out his confused thoughts.

  He climbed down a ladder and stood for a few moments looking along the full length of the upper crew space. The lines of empty bunks seemed to be waiting expectantly for their drunken owners when the libertymen came off shore. Perhaps they would feel the benefit of a good ‘booze-up’. Some of the gloom and apprehension left by Victor’s death and the boat’s near disaster might be lost in a bout of drunkenness and all that went with it. Then only the married men would still be affected, Colquhoun thought. They always seemed to be more worried with mortgages and children’s schooling than anything that occurred within the Service.

  He was about to carry on with his rounds when he saw a solitary figure squatting beside one of the mess tables. It was Lightfoot. He was leaning on his elbows, his eyes unseeing as he stared down at a crumpled sheet of notepaper. Beside it, neatly arranged like part of a pattern, was an equally grubby envelope.

  Colquhoun felt a sudden pang of guilt. Apart from the usual tongue-tied words he had hardly found a suitable opportunity to thank the boy for saving his life. That was one of the troubles with the Navy. Outstanding acts of kindness or bravery were hardly mentioned. It was simply not done. Small gripes and irritations, on the other hand, found plenty of outlets in wardroom and lower deck alike.

  He tucked his cap under his arm and coughed quietly. ‘Hello, Lightfoot. I’d have thought you’d be ashore with your mates?’ He smiled. ‘You’re not duty, are you?’

  Lightfoot looked up startled and half rose to his feet.

  Colquhoun slung one leg over a bench seat and tossed his cap on the table. ‘Don’t get up for me. This is your home!’

  Lightfoot sat down with a jerk, like a puppet, the strings of which have been severed. He said, ‘I didn’t hear you, sir.’

  He stuffed the letter inside his shirt. ‘I stood in for another bloke. I didn’t feel like a run ashore.’

  Colquhoun nodded. ‘Like me.’ He had another disconnected picture of his father sitting in state in his spacious headquarters. Maybe that was why he had taken Kitson’s duty. To avoid meeting his father. Not that he need have bothered, he thought bitterly. The admiral had sent neither invitation nor greeting since he had left the boat.

  Lightfoot said suddenly, ‘Are you feeling all right now, sir?’

  ‘Not too bad, thanks.’ Colquhoun saw with a start that the young seaman’s eyes were red-rimmed. As if tears were not far away. He added quietly, ‘Nothing wrong, is there?’

  ‘It’s me mum, sir.’ Lightfoot tapped his pocket. ‘She’s dead.’ He stared wretchedly at the table. ‘The first letter I’ve ever had from me father and it’s to tell me that she’s dead!’ He sounded stunned.

  Colquhoun leaned forward. ‘I’m terribly sorry.’ He saw the boy’s eyes studying him emptily. ‘Really. I mean it.’

  Lightfoot said, ‘She worked her guts out for us. For him in particular.’ He closed his eyes and two bright tears showed on his lashes. ‘The lousy, stinking bastard!’

  ‘I don’t quite understand? Do you mean your father?’

  ‘That’s who I mean all right!’ Lightfoot brushed his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Never given her nothing! Just moan, moan, moan! Pub every night, even when we were kids. Even when he was on strike or laid off he always had his fags and beer. Never mind about Mum!’ He shook with an inner convulsion. ‘Now this! On top of everything else!’

  Colquhoun swallowed. ‘I was going to write to her, too.’ It had been a lie but he found that he meant it. ‘To tell her what you did.’

  ‘D’you mean it, sir?’ The washed-out eyes were staring at him.

  ‘You saved my life, and don’t forget it.’ He forced a smile. ‘I know I won’t.’ He became serious. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll get the captain to make a signal and have you flown home. He’s bound to release you.’

  Lightfoot’s head dropped. ‘You don’t understand, sir. This letter is asking for more money. Mum’s been buried already!’ He stared hard at the table. ‘Dead and buried, and I never knew!’

  Colquhoun did not know what to say to him. The boy’s father could have contacted the authorities. A signal would have been flashed to Temeraire. Perhaps too late for him to be flown back in time for the funeral. But it would have been a worthwhile try.

  ‘He says he can’t afford all the expenses for the burial, sir.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘The bastard! I’ll bet he was at the Falcon for his pint just as usual!’

  There was a thump overhead and the sound of a door slamming. The first of the returning libertymen no doubt, Colquhoun thought. The duty P.O. could deal with them on his own. In fact, he was better suited for the job. A quick thump on the chin would not be taken amiss from a petty officer by an unruly sailor on the rampage. But Lightfoot was in no state to be here when his messmates returned. Understanding or not, their fogged questions and commiserations would turn into a nightmare.

  He said quickly, ‘I suggest you come with me. You can sit in my cabin for a bit until things quieten down.’ He picked up his cap. ‘Sub-Lieutenant Luard won’t be aboard for hours yet. He’s dated a little nurse from the hospital.’ He remark seemed to fall flat, but Lightfoot was already on his feet, his face suddenly defenceless.

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’d like that.’

  Colquhoun led the way past the empty galley with its gleaming stove and regimented pots. ‘It’s time we had a yarn about that dinghy sailing, too.’ he said easily. ‘You need time to think. To get your system dear.’

  He switched on his cabin light and gestured towards a chair. ‘Help yourself.’ Another switch connected the cabin with the boat’s piped music. ‘As you can see, your officers are not as tidy as you chaps!’

  Lightfoot perched on the edge of his chair, his eyes wandering around the chaos of discarded uniforms, magazines and the visual junior officer’s clutter.

  Colquhoun pulled open a drawer. ‘This is strictly against regulations, but I think you can do with a drink.’ He poured two measures of gin. ‘It’s on its own. I’m afraid, but Mr. Luard has scoffed all the tonic!’

  Lightfoot took the glass and turned it in his hands as if it was some delicate crucible.

  Colquhoun said, ‘Well, here’s to us. Thanks to you, I’m able to say this. And I’ll not forget what you did for me!’

  He felt himself knocked sideways as the door burst open behind him. The pain was all the more intense because the door’s edge had struck his bruised back, and with a gasp he found himself on top of Lightfoot, his hands and face soaked with gin.

  He staggered to his feet and turned round. ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’ He paused as he saw that it was the first lieutenant’s square shoulders which were framed in the rectangle of light from the passageway. Behind him, his face bobbing anxiously from one side to the other, was Mason, the duty petty officer.

  Wolfe was wearing a lightweight shoregoing suit and seemed to be breathing very heavily. For several seconds he stood in the doorway, his hands on his hips, his hair falling across his forehead

  He said at length, ‘So this is where you are!’ He put his head on one side but the passage light threw a shadow across his face. ‘I might have bloody well guessed it!’

  Colquhoun felt the blood rising to his face. ‘Now just a minute, Number One!’

  Wolfe threw back his head and roared, ‘Say sir when you address me, Mister Colquhoun!’ He walked stiffly into the cabin, his eyes moving round the place like a dog searching for clues. ‘I have just come aboard In time it seems!’ He peered down at Lightfoot who was standing stockstill as if mesmerised. ‘Who are you staring at?’

  ‘I was just discussing a personal matter with…’

  ‘Keep silence!’ Wolfe stood inches away from Colquhoun, his chest heaving with anger. ‘I came aboard to find the trot sentry swilling tea in the radio room and the duty P.O. sculling about the crew space like a first-year recruit!’ His voice dropped so that he sounded almost reasonable. ‘And where was the duty officer?’ He took a half-pace forward and Colquhoun could feel the man’s fury, could almost taste the drink in his throat. Wolfe yelled, ‘Where was he?’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘He was in his bloody cabin with his young friend!’ He glared round at the wretched Mason.

  The petty officer said thickly, ‘But, sir, I was just explainin’.’

  Wolfe thundered, ‘Save it, Mason!’ He swung round. ‘And as for you, Sub-Lieutenant Colquhoun, I can only say it is exactly what I expected! Not content with balling up your duties and sheltering behind your father’s rank, you apparently think you can get away with this sort of thing!’

  Colquhoun tried to control the tremor in his voice. ‘Are you implying that we, that I…’

  Wolfe prodded him in the chest. ‘Yes, you bloody little ponce, that’s exactly what I am suggesting!’

  Colquhoun thought of his father’s cold eyes, of Lightfoot’s pathetic gratitude, of all the other tormenting acts and incidents which had dogged him for so long. His first fear was slowly giving way to anger. Not a reasonable reaction to Wolfe’s insinuations, but something worse, like madness.

  In a surprisingly clear voice he said, ‘As officer-of-the-day, I am placing you under arrest, sir! In my opinion you are under the influence of drink and therefore in an unfit state to perform your duties.’

  Mason stared at Lightfoot and muttered, ‘My Gawd!’

  Wolfe swayed against the bunk. ‘You’re doing what?’

  Colquhoun felt the strength leaving his legs but continued quickly, ‘I would advise you to go to your quarters and await the commanding officer’s return.’

  Wolfe looked as if he was going to hit him. Then, to Colquhoun’s shocked surprise, he said quite calmly, ‘Suit yourself. It’ll all be the same in a hundred years!’

  He left the cabin, and Petty Officer Mason said shakily, ‘I ’ave a feelin’ that this is goin’ to be one of them nights, sir!’

  8

  And Goodbye

  The Malay houseboy cleared away the plates and then placed a larger silver coffee-pot on the table.

  Conway, whose wife had quietly left the room a few moments earlier, loosened his tie which he had previously knotted for her benefit, and grinned across at Jermain. ‘That feels better! I like to unwind when I’m out of the public eye!’

  Jermain allowed his body to relax slightly. It had been a simple but excellent meal and not a bit as he had imagined it would be.

  When he had first arrived at the house he had expected Conway to brush aside the preliminaries with his usual outspoken forcefulness and then continue along much the same lines as the admiral. But it was not to be. Both Conway and his rather frail wife had been more than pleasant. The big M.P. had questioned him about the Temeraire and her crew, and his wife had rambled vaguely through her memories of Cornwall when she heard that it was Jermain’s home.

  It seemed that Mrs. Conway was not very strong and Singapore’s harsh climate, coupled with her husband’s whirl of activities, left her little in reserve. She apparently retired to bed early, no doubt to wonder at Big Jim’s widening horizons.

  Conway pushed a cigar-box along the dark table-top. ‘Try one of these if you like. I’m not a cigar man myself.’ He pulled an old pipe from his breast pocket. ‘I make the most of this at these moments. If I smoke it in public my lass says it’s just to impress the voters!’ He grinned to himself. ‘She’s a cheeky one!’

  Jermain dropped his eyes. Jill Conway had joined them for pre-dinner drinks and then after a brief explanation to her father had driven back into town. To her date. She had been wearing a short dress of black silk, against which her tanned skin and supple arms had shown to perfection. Without the sunglasses her eyes were large and candid, and Jermain had observed that they were a strange grey-green, like light shining through clear water.

  He realised that he too had pulled out his own pipe and he smiled awkwardly. ‘Me too. I enjoy my old pipe.’

  The coffee and brandy warmed Jermain’s stomach like soothing fire. He said, ‘I’m very glad I came. The first time I’ve relaxed for some time.’

  Conway swilled the brandy around his glass and frowned. ‘I asked you here because I was impressed when we last met.’ He looked directly across the table. ‘I’m not being pompous. It’s a fact. You and I have a lot in common, you know. We’re both doing something we like, but neither of us has all that much co-operation, right?’

  Jermain eyed him steadily. ‘I’m not sure I follow you.’

  ‘That’s all right. I’m not trying to trap you. You’re too smart for that.’ He leaned on one elbow and watched the smoke drifting from his pipe and vanishing into the fans. ‘It’s very hard to make some of the old stagers out here understand what the government is trying to do. Any sort of change is suspect. Any kind of reorganisation is shunned. You can’t reason with men like them. Sir John Colquhoun, f’rinstance. Thinks he’s only second to God. And that’s just due to seniority!’ He grinned openly. ‘Don’t worry! I’m not asking you to take sides. You’ve had enough of that since you came out here!’ He became serious. ‘I read your report. A lot of it was complete mumbo-jumbo to me, but I have my own experts to worry over that!’

  Jermain sat very still. Conway was not so empty as he had first appeared. As he had made himself appear.

  As if reading his mind Conway continued, ‘I came up the hard way, Jermain. Hard and rough. Before the war I was a truck driver up in Manchester. I got a reputation for looking after the lads when there was a strike in the offing or when the bosses got a bit mean. It just seemed to happen to me. Then there was the war.’ His eyes were glazed as he stared into the smoke. ‘Dunkirk taught me a lot of things. That was where I learned to love the Navy, when there was only the bloody sea at my back! It also taught me a lot more. About government stupidity, and the crass negligence which had got us all in that unholy mess!’

  He paused to pour some more brandy. ‘There was a young subaltern in charge of my lot. No more than a kid. Rather like your young Colquhoun, in point of fact. I was just a lance-corporal at the time. Green as grass, and sick of the whole business. We had one empty Bren and half a dozen rifles between the lot of us. And coming smack down the road was a great Jerry tank! I nearly wet my pants, I can tell you! We’d been fighting and running for six days, and I was all in. We still had half a mile go to to the sea where the Navy was waiting to lift us off. Half a bloody mile, and this tank squatting there like a great iron toad. I knew we’d never make it. We’d be like the others. Just dusty corpses on that ruddy road!’ He drank fiercely. ‘I looked at this kid, this poor, terrified subaltern who’d hardly got his boots dirty since leaving Sandhurst, and I asked him what we should do. He just looked at me. I can sec him now. Just looked at me as if I should have known what to do.’