The Restless Sea, page 18
‘How am I supposed to write with this?’ He looks down at the shoulder.
‘Try your left hand?’
But he’s not going to do that. His writing would look ridiculous – malformed and childish.
A voice cuts in: ‘Here, let me do the honours.’
‘Mole! Thank God,’ says Charlie.
‘All right, boyo? Stop being grouchy to this poor nurse, and let’s get something written to your lovely lady.’ Mole pulls up a chair next to the bed. ‘We’ll lay it on thick. What a terrible injury. How brave you’ve been. She’s going to love it.’
Charlie allows himself to smile. The squadron has been sent to an airfield in Kent while their planes are given a proper going over and the Admiralty sort their next posting. It means that Mole – and even Frank and Paddy – have been able to visit if they can get away. But Charlie knows they hate this stifling place too. No one in their right mind wants to be here among the disinfectant and kidney bowls.
‘So tell me about operations,’ he says. ‘What am I missing out on?’
‘You don’t want to hear about all that. It’ll only make you miserable.’
‘It won’t. I just want to get back.’
‘It’s not healthy, my boy. You need to think about something else for a change. As I’ve told you before, there is life beyond flying …’
‘I know that.’
‘So what plans have you made?’
‘Plans? You make it sound like I’ve been written off. I’m going to be back up there with you as soon as they release me from this prison.’
‘I can’t wait for you to fly me into the jaws of danger again, but let’s focus on Olivia for now. Have you asked her to marry you yet?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Now’s the time to strike, boyo … She’ll find it impossible to say no when you’re in this state.’
‘I hope she’ll find it impossible to say no anyway.’
‘All I’m saying is you’d better get on with it. Girls are being snapped up left, right, and centre. I’m glad my Jeannie said yes before all this started.’
‘Don’t think you’d stand a chance now?’
‘Not with all you handsome young pilots hot on my heels.’
Charlie is serious for a moment. ‘Even if the time was right, I’m not sure I’d know how …’
‘Doesn’t matter how, boyo. Got to seize the moment. That’s what I did.’
‘Do you miss her?’
‘Like I’d miss my right arm – no offence, chappie. I’ve loved Jeannie since we were kids. And now I’ve got my beautiful Alis …’
‘She must be walking by now?’
‘Walking and talking. I’m so proud of her I could puff my chest out like a cockerel and strut around this ward.’
‘Don’t do that or they’ll have you in a strait jacket before you can say “cluck”.’
‘If I died tomorrow, I’d die happy – that I’ve been able to experience the feeling of being a father – there’s nothing else like it. I’m telling you, you need to get on with it …’
‘I think you’re jumping the gun …’
‘No, no,’ says Mole. ‘It’s what we need. More love and more Alises in the world.’
‘What if it’s a boy?’
‘You’ll call it Mole, of course.’
Charlie laughs for the first time in ages – he is so unused to doing it that he can feel the muscles in his face stretch and contort.
‘That’s better,’ says Mole. ‘Now let’s get writing. All I ask in exchange is “Cwm Rhondda” at the wedding, and me for best man.’
‘What if she says no?’
‘She’s not going to, is she? Look at you. Young and handsome and wounded defending your country. Even I’m finding you hard to resist …’
Charlie laughs again and pulls his pillow out from behind his back so that he can whack Mole with it.
Once they’ve written to tell Olivia that Charlie is safe but in hospital, Mole leans back in his chair. The afternoon light sloping in through the windows catches his face and he suddenly looks tired – even old.
‘So who are you flying with?’ Charlie asks.
‘Paddy,’ says Mole. ‘He’s good.’
Charlie’s eyes flick up to the ceiling in irritation.
‘Not as good as you, of course.’ Mole smiles. ‘Fancy some of these?’ He has managed to get hold of a couple of oranges.
Charlie shakes his head. ‘I want to know what’s going on out there,’ he says. ‘We don’t get told anything.’
‘You’ve heard about the Nazis doing the dirty on Uncle Joe, I take it?’
Charlie nods. ‘Yes. That at least we did hear.’
‘Well Uncle Joe’s not happy about it, and Hitler’s going to stamp and starve his country into submission.’
‘Might as well leave them to it. They’re as bad as each other. Both countries run by mad men.’
‘Problem is, we need one of those mad men on our side. If Russia goes, the Germans can put everything they’ve got into taking us out. Ironically, the Commies are the only thing standing between chaos and civilisation.’
Charlie struggles to get his head around this. He is used to being told the Russians are untrustworthy Bolsheviks, mad socialists intent on destroying the world order. ‘The whole world has gone crazy, and I’m stuck in here,’ he says.
‘It gets crazier still,’ says Mole. ‘I have it hot off the press that we’re going to be supplying Stalin with munitions, with help from the Americans.’
‘The Americans? They trust the Russians less than we do.’
‘I think the point is that Russia can’t survive without us, and we won’t win the war without them.’
‘And how are these supplies going to get to a country that’s been cut off by the Germans?’
‘There’s only one way: through the Arctic Circle.’
‘Is that even possible?’
‘It’ll have to be.’
Charlie shuffles into a more comfortable position. ‘I suppose anything’s better than sitting in this bloody ward,’ he says.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ says Mole.
A week later, Charlie is finally discharged. He dresses slowly, ignoring the ache in his chest. He rolls his shoulders, looks down at his arms. His navy jacket is neatly done up. The white collar and black tie tidily in place. There is the proof of his new ranking in the extra golden looped braid around his cuffs. The doctor is sitting at his desk, surrounded by mounds of paperwork. ‘You’re not to fly for six months, lieutenant,’ he says.
‘Six months!’ says Charlie, almost shouting.
‘That’s right.’ The doctor is irritatingly calm. ‘You’ve got to let it mend properly,’ he says.
‘But it’s fine.’ Charlie swings his right arm around in an arc, ignoring the stabbing pain.
‘You’re to keep it still as much as possible. It needs more time or it may never heal properly.’
‘Are you sure? Is it possible to ask someone else?’
The doctor glares at him, pen poised above Charlie’s papers. ‘You could. And I could change my recommendation and suggest that you never fly again.’
Charlie pales, and settles his arm back into the sling. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I just want to get back to it.’
‘You’re bloody lucky, thanks to that surgeon on your ship. Wish they could all be like that. Don’t waste your good fortune. Six months will pass in a flash – you never know, this madness might be over by then.’
Mole is waiting for him by the front door. ‘Do you want the good news or the good news first?’ he says.
‘Six months, Mole! How can there be any good news?’
The Welshman puts his arm around Charlie’s shoulders. ‘Someone told the CO you’ve got a connection up in Scotland. You’re being sent to help out at HMS Helicon until you’re better.’
Charlie feels his insides flip over. The new naval base has recently been commissioned at Aultbea, and Olivia is the only thing that could ever have sweetened the blow. He gives Mole a lopsided grin. ‘Guess I’ve got you to thank for that?’ he says.
‘As long as you keep your side of the bargain – I’ve got a great best man’s speech lined up … but don’t thank me quite yet, because we’ve got another treat in store …’ Charlie sees Frank and Paddy waiting in the Land Rover. ‘Hop in, boyo. We’re taking you to London.’ He winks. ‘You need a bit of help in the love department, and we all know a wounded pilot is irresistible.’
Charlie steps backwards, the shock evident in his face. ‘But you’re married,’ he says to Mole. ‘Surely you wouldn’t …’
‘Oh no,’ says the Welshman. ‘I’m just after a few drinks. I’m pretty adept between the sheets already. I told you I’ve known Jeannie since we were kids. But you need to get some practice in if you’re going to court this girl properly.’
Charlie looks at Frank and Paddy, who give him the thumbs-up. He sighs. He can’t let his friends down, but he has no intention of being unfaithful to Olivia. He relaxes on the journey up to the city, settling back into the easy banter of the men who are like his brothers. They head to the West End, to Eddie’s Bar, a popular haunt for naval officers. Wine flows freely. There are women everywhere. In the noisy, heady world of booze and flirting and dancing, it is like sitting in a sea fog. Mole buys the drinks. Charlie’s shoulder throbs. Faces appear and disappear in the dim light. Men and boys enjoying small moments of freedom. The music is so loud that sometimes Charlie can’t hear what anyone is saying. It doesn’t exactly matter. It is more about letting the alcohol work its magic: it is a relief to feel the fiery liquid trickle down his throat and take some of the edge off.
At a table in the corner some women are giving them the eye. They are pretty in a gaudy way, with brightly-painted lips and heavy, dark eyes, short dresses revealing tantalising stockings. The officers pick up their drinks and join the girls, who immediately start to cluck over Charlie’s shoulder.
‘Now’s your chance,’ says Mole, digging Charlie in the ribs. Charlie is grateful for the smoky, dim atmosphere; it hides his embarrassment. He sits on the other side of the observer, gripping his drink. The Welshman is the entertainer; he delights in an audience. The girls lean in and hang on his every word, giggling too loudly.
But the girl seated next to Charlie doesn’t laugh. She has long dark hair and large solemn eyes. It may be the alcohol talking, but when she glances at him, he feels some unspoken connection flitter between them – neither of them wants to be here. Like him, she is young. But unlike him, she is really young. Surely she can’t be more than fourteen. Her body is skinny, like a boy’s. Her breasts are just small mounds, hardly there. Of course, it could be lack of decent nourishment.
Another officer plonks himself down on the other side of the girl, squeezing between her and her neighbour. He rests his hand carelessly on her shoulder, as if they are together, looking down at her, but not at her face, only at her barely formed breasts. Her lipstick is garish; her cheeks are bright with make-up. And she’s probably had too much to drink. A child playing a grown-up game. Charlie’s stomach turns. The officer laughs and pulls the girl up for a dance. She appears willing, but Charlie can tell there’s resistance in every part of her body.
Mole nudges Charlie. ‘Go on, boyo. She’s obviously holding out for the injured pilot. Carpe diem!’
Charlie wants to say, ‘Can’t you see, she’s a child?’ But one look at Mole and Frank and Paddy, and he isn’t sure they can see anything. They have been flying so hard that they are making the most of this night out, and their words are slurring, their faces glowing.
Charlie looks at the rest of the men around the table, eyes too bright, top lips sweaty. He notices the spiv in the corner, watching. He sees the girls looking at the spiv. He thinks of Olivia and her wild freedom. Her innocence. Her ability to do whatever she wants. He sees this girl, with her made-up face and her primped-up hair, the dress that hangs from her boyish hips and her flat chest. He pities this girl. He will play along for her sake.
He ruffles his hair, takes a swig from his glass, feels the liquid warm his heart and soul. He takes hold of the girl’s hand. ‘Sorry, but she’s with me,’ he says. The officer looks pissed-off, but sees the sling and doesn’t argue. The girl is dead-eyed. She doesn’t say anything as Charlie gently man-oeuvres his right arm out so that he can use it, but her grip is tight as they move around the dance floor.
‘Look. I only want to dance,’ he says. ‘Nothing … well … nothing else.’ He isn’t sure if she has heard him above the noise. But after a while, he feels her body relax a little. He can’t think of anything else to say, apart from ‘What’s your name?’
He has to strain to hear her small voice above the sound of clinking glasses and music and chatter.
‘Bluebell,’ she says.
He looks down at her with raised eyebrows. ‘Your real name?’
She smiles shyly, looking directly up at him. Her eyes are dark and wide. ‘Betsy,’ she says. ‘My real name is Betsy.’
CHAPTER 12
Olivia
Another summer is coming to an end. The fruit is ripening on the trees: crisp round apples with impossibly red skin that deepens as the summer fades and autumn takes hold. The branches of the pear trees droop with the weight of their fat golden fruit. In the shrubs and hedges, plump blackberries hide between brambles. The vegetable patches are burgeoning with produce: carrots, potatoes, cabbages, broccoli, beetroot, and now the pumpkins are beginning to ripen and swell like fat bright stomachs. The sun stays up in the sky until late, bathing the loch in a warm orange glow, made all the brighter by the good news that Charlie is out of hospital. Olivia spends more time than ever outdoors, collecting blood-red rosehips to turn it into cordial rich in vitamin C with her sugar ration. She gathers enormous whelks, as big as her hands. Fish are bountiful in the warm sea, and business is brisk.
Today she is at Aultbea. She has sold a bucket-load of ling. It is early afternoon, and the loch is packed with clanking, anchored ships, the air thick with shouts and calls and whistles as sailors prepare for the evening. Small boats transfer men to and from shore, chopping and churning at the water. Olivia is slooshing the guts and blood from one of her empty buckets, leaning out over the side of the boat as it tips and rocks, thrown about by the motion of so many ships and people jostling for space. As she is drawing the bucket back out of the water, there is a crunch, and the rowing boat jerks sideways. She loses her footing momentarily, but manages to rebalance, cursing out loud at whoever has hit her, but letting go of the bucket as she does so. She tries to grab it, but her hands are slippery from the fish. Too late she realises that she has stupidly wound the rope tied to its handle around her left wrist and it is beginning to tighten as the bucket fills.
The bucket starts to disappear beneath the surface, its outline fracturing and distorting as it sucks murky water into its empty mouth. Now it is dragging at her, and, between trying to keep her balance as another wave slams beneath the boat, and trying to free the rope from her arm and berating herself for being so bloody stupid as well as the idiot who has steered into her, she cannot stop the panic from rising in her throat and she cannot think, and it’s so tight now that the circulation is being cut off and she can’t pull it up without toppling forwards and she really doesn’t want to fall into the water because once she’s in, she might not be able to get out.
She gasps, tries to call out, but the words don’t come. She struggles with the rope, but it only bites into her flesh more tightly. She is being pulled towards the edge. Her breath comes in ragged spurts. The jetty is full of people, and there are more along the shore, and everyone is too busy chatting and laughing in the afternoon sunshine to notice what is happening. Her knife. She remembers her knife. She tugs it free from her pocket with her right hand but she can’t open it. She fumbles at it, lifts it towards her mouth to use her teeth, but it slips from her grasp because her hands are still slimy. She tries to pick it up again, but her feet are slipping, and the side of the boat is digging into her knees when suddenly there is a shape behind her and someone is reaching out to tug the rope back towards her, and holding her within the circle of his arms, using his other hand to grasp her knife and hack at the rope until it breaks, and she stumbles backwards into the boat, landing against his chest, warm and solid.
It takes a moment for her breath to slow, to even out. Her arm is shaking – it feels as though it has been stretched – and there is a livid red mark around her wrist where the skin has been rubbed raw.
The body shifts behind her and they both struggle to their feet. ‘Sorry,’ says a voice. ‘Came in faster than I meant to. Are you all right?’
For a moment, Olivia is speechless, just grateful to be free of the tightening rope. Then anger takes over. ‘You nearly killed me,’ she says, still flexing her fingers and watching the blood seep back into her hand.
‘Actually I just saved you.’
‘If you hadn’t rammed my boat …’
‘If you hadn’t had a bucket tied to your wrist …’
‘My bucket … It’s gone … I’ll never get it back now.’
‘Look. Are you coming up or not?’ The stranger has clambered on to the jetty and is now leaning down, his large, rough hand outstretched. Olivia hesitates for a moment and then grabs hold of it crossly. He pulls her easily up and next to him. Now she takes the time to glance up. He is so close that she can feel the heat of his body, his breath on her hair. He is gazing directly at her, his black eyes sending a jolt through her body. She almost feels that she knows this boy. Ridiculous. She tucks her hair behind her ears.
They stand there side by side on the jetty for a moment, and then the boy clears his throat. ‘I’m Jack,’ he says.
She blushes. Damn. Why does she always blush? ‘Olivia,’ she says. His arms and face are burnished golden brown by reflected sun. His chest is broad. She reddens further as she realises she was pressed against it only moments ago. She is still covered in hard flecks of scales and salt. She probably smells of fish. But Jack is looking at her as if she’s the most special thing in the world. The water laps beneath them, green and alive, and the sun beats down, and she should turn away and head home, but it is only now that she realises they are still holding hands.
