The Restless Sea, page 26
Olivia is very close to him now. He tries to reach out to her through the grey-green, angry water – but he can’t. She smiles and her blue eyes flash in the dark, but he blinks and it isn’t her. It is Betsy, cold and alone, her scared, dark eyes melting into the darkness. He shuts his eyes one last time. Olivia. He can feel the richness of her hair, gold like the sinking sun. He can hear her voice like the burble of the burn where it falls into their pool on a lazy afternoon. He strains to make sense of what she is saying, but it is impossible above the spray and the foam and the guns and the screams. Then all noise is sucked away, and he slips after Betsy into the icy, empty, infinite dark.
CHAPTER 17
Charlie
Charlie has been with his new squadron for long enough that the dynamic is comfortable. He has spent a lot of time in the air, and the pain has eased, although there is not a day that he doesn’t miss Mole and Billy in the plane. Tonight his carrier is back in Lee-on-Solent, and the men have a chance to relax at the base onshore after gunnery practice.
It is a humid early summer evening. Beyond the blocks of hangars and the flatness of the runways lies the Solent – pale grey beneath an overcast sky. In the distance Charlie can see the Isle of Wight, dark and low in the water. He is nursing a drink with his new observer in the impressive old building that houses the Fleet Air Arm wardroom, on the southern edge of the airfield. Ned is short and stocky, with a mop of unruly ginger hair. He is a fine observer, but he is not Mole. The two of them are soon joined by more officers: you are never alone for long. The newcomers are mid-conversation, one of them shaking his head and saying, ‘What a bloody disaster …’ as he places his drink on the table and pulls back a chair without even glancing at Charlie and Ned.
‘Madness,’ says the other, also sitting down.
‘They actually say that the admiral is mad. Something wrong with his brain …’
‘Shh.’ They nudge each other as they suddenly notice Charlie and Ned; they do not want to be caught being dis-respectful about their seniors.
‘Don’t mind us,’ says Charlie.
‘Have you heard the news?’ says the first man.
‘What news?’
‘About the latest Russian convoy?’
Charlie shakes his head.
‘Terrible affair. Order came in to scatter. Escort left and didn’t go back.’
‘Not all the escort,’ says the other officer. ‘Some rescue ships stayed …’
‘So what happened?’ Charlie asks.
‘What do you think?’
‘Nazis starting taking them out one by one.’
‘It’s a complete fiasco.’
‘Don’t know why they don’t take you lot with them,’ says the man, pointing at Charlie’s wings. But Charlie has already slipped out into the night.
Charlie manages to reach Gladys on the telephone in the radio room at RNAS Yeovilton, where Olivia has been drafted since passing her training. Gladys confirms his fear, that Jack’s ship is missing.
‘You should come and see her,’ says Gladys. ‘Really. I think it would help.’
‘I’m not so sure …’
‘I am. She’s not in a good place at the moment. She won’t even eat.’
The phone crackles in the silence. Whatever has happened between them, Charlie knows better than anyone the devastation of losing those you care about.
‘Just come,’ says Gladys.
Charlie travels overnight to Somerset. Gladys escorts him to Olivia’s hut. This is a world of concrete, grey and hard. Nothing lives here: the base is a vast expanse of dreary asphalt runways set in a flat basin and surrounded by Nissen huts and hangars. Charlie takes in the lowering sky; there is a threat of rain in the air – fat, dark clouds moving slowly towards them, preceded by a warm, damp wind. In the background planes land and take off: circuits and bumps. He remembers them well, for this is where he trained four years ago. Four years! It seems like a lifetime.
Inside, the hut is as drab as the world outside. There are fourteen metal beds, fourteen chairs, and seven chests: half for each Wren. Olivia is alone, sitting on her bunk, fiddling with the pendant on her necklace, turning it over and over between her fingers. Her skin is pale – no longer weathered by the Scottish elements. But it is not just the pallid colour that marks a change in her. She is thin – too thin – and there is a haze of illness about her, a sheen to her skin. She is utterly different to the girl he remembers, who radiated health and vitality. It is only a year since he last saw her, but she has aged, and a light has gone out.
Gladys hangs back by the door. ‘I’ll come and get you for lunch,’ she says, before turning to make her way back across the windswept base. Olivia stands and allows Charlie to fold her into his arms. She seems to fit so perfectly there.
‘I’m so very sorry,’ he says. ‘I’ve chased up what I can. All we know for sure is that the Aurora definitely went down.’
‘Do you know if she managed to launch any lifeboats?’ she asks.
Her hope is so strong that he can almost touch it. He does not want to encourage it, but he wants to stave off her falling into the abyss for as long as possible. ‘Not yet. The Russians and the British are searching for survivors. But there’s not much news coming through, I’m afraid. It’s under strict embargo.’
‘Oh Charlie. Will you keep on trying?’ Her eyes are red from crying, and hollow from lack of sleep, but she is still beautiful.
‘I can’t promise anything …’ he says.
‘Thank you.’ She hugs him again and he briefly rests his face in her hair. She smells of despair, sweet and sickly.
‘What a terrible business,’ he says.
‘Why did they abandon them?’ she asks.
He sighs. The entire Navy was sickened by the news. They all feel it: from the lowliest stoker to the highest admiral, from the most ancient of veterans to the freshest recruit. It turned out that the German fleet wasn’t on its way, and the merchant ships were left defenceless in a place that is hard enough to get out of if you’re armed to the teeth. A bitter shame runs through the British Navy like a wire snare, threatening to choke. ‘It seems as though they were expecting an attack by the cream of the German fleet.’ He can feel her face, damp and hot, against his chest.
‘But why didn’t they go back when they realised it wasn’t coming?’
‘I think some of them did, but it was too late. I know they would have done what they could. Every one of those men would have wanted to stay and help. But we have to follow orders …’ Even as he says it, he can’t help thinking it sounds unsatisfactory.
‘Oh God,’ she says, her bottom lip trembling again. ‘I imagine the Nazis are having a field day … Those men have nothing to protect them …’
‘There’s always hope …’
‘Hope?’ She sounds bitter when she says it. ‘That’s what I always used to say. But what hope is there? If he has escaped the torpedoes and bombs, the cold will get him …’
‘Please, Olivia …’
‘Do you know how long men survive in the water out there? Seconds …’ She starts to sob.
‘Stop torturing yourself.’ Charlie’s voice is loud and strong; he needs to be firm. ‘Getting in a state won’t help him.’ Olivia pushes him away and collapses back down on her bunk, but at least she has stopped crying.
He lowers his voice. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘You’ve no idea what might be happening. It’s a big old ocean, and these men are made of strong stuff.’ He perches on the wooden chair at the foot of the bed. ‘I’ll do my best to find out what I can. But they’re going to keep as quiet as possible over this one. It’s a blow to the morale of all at sea, let alone the public at home.’
She sighs, a sad, long sound. The tears still glimmer in her blue eyes. She lays her hand on Charlie’s arm. It is small and pale on the dark of his sleeve. ‘Thank you for coming,’ she says. ‘Really. It means a lot.’
‘That’s what friends are for.’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t write to you about your squadron.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does. I was too wrapped up in my own world … And after we argued …’
‘Forget it,’ he says. ‘It’s in the past. Let’s start again.’
‘I’d like that.’ She wipes her eyes with her hands. ‘Look at me,’ she says, her voice stronger as she tries to smile up at him. ‘I must look frightful.’
He shakes his head. He thinks she looks fragile. ‘I promise you it gets better,’ he says.
‘Does it?’
‘It might not feel like it now, but yes. The sun keeps on rising, and you’ll stand up and dust yourself off, paint on a smile and get on with it.’
‘I can’t help thinking that if he’s gone, I’ll never get over it.’
‘Perhaps. But you will learn to live with it.’
‘Have you?’
He nods, thinking of his parents, and of Mole and Frank and Paddy, and realising with surprise that it’s true.
Gladys appears at the door. She makes her way towards them both.
‘Is there any news?’ Olivia asks.
Gladys shakes her head. ‘No. But it’s lunchtime.’
Olivia’s shoulders slump. ‘I’m really not hungry,’ she says.
‘You must eat.’
‘I can’t seem to hold anything down.’
‘Come on,’ says Charlie as brightly as he can. ‘No point in worrying until we know for sure. And you need to keep your strength up. What good will you be to anyone if you’re ill?’
Olivia rises from the bed reluctantly, and Gladys hugs her friend’s arm tightly as she propels her into the greyness outside.
Charlie follows. The rain is beginning to spit on to the asphalt. He tilts his face up to the darkened sky, feeling the drops, cool and fresh on his skin. He takes Olivia’s other arm, and together the three of them cross the air station.
After Charlie has visited Olivia, he heads to London for the night. He is pleased they have patched things up, but the feeling of guilt over how he behaved has been replaced by a new feeling: envy. He had hoped that she might forget Jack, but it is now evident that she won’t, and he cannot help feeling jealous that she has shared such intimacy and understanding with someone – that she is so bound to another person. The jealousy is partly of Jack, but also of the intensity of her feelings. He wants to be wanted like that, to share a longing, to taste that hunger.
He has an urge to find Betsy. He hopes she will be at Eddie’s Bar. He peers into the darkness, scanning the faces of the people that he passes. It is busy tonight, and he is almost ready to give up, when she suddenly appears at his elbow, her eyes shimmering in the dim light. ‘I’ve been looking out for you every night since you last came,’ she says.
He smiles back at her. ‘I don’t believe you. That’s fifty nights or something.’
‘It’s true,’ she says, pushing gently at his arm.
‘That’s good to hear.’
They find space on one of the plush benches that run alongside a table, squeezing in next to a woman who is lighting her cigarette from her neighbour’s, the glowing ash outlining her fur coat and the waves of her curled hair. On their other side is a couple so engrossed in conversation that their lips are almost touching. No one takes any notice of the newcomers. The table is littered with glasses and bottles and jugs and cigarette cases. On the other side of the tables, many of the chairs are turned towards the dance floor, and people come and go, resting their tired feet and downing their drinks before joining the dancers again.
‘So where have you been?’ says Betsy, tipping her head close to his ear so that he can hear her above the music.
‘All over the place. Mainly the Atlantic, though,’ says Charlie, pouring some wine.
‘How long have you got off?’
‘Only tonight.’
‘You look tired.’
‘I am. I’ve just had to visit a friend to give her some bad news.’
‘Someone missing?’
He nods. ‘A sailor. Ship’s been sunk and no idea whether the lifeboats were launched. Searching for anyone out there is like searching for a piece of ash in a bonfire.’
‘Won’t they have sent a signal or something?’
‘No. A distress signal is as likely to be picked up by a Jerry as a friendly.’
‘You can’t just lose someone …’
‘I’m afraid it happens all the time. It’s one of the hazards of the job. Ships disappear. They burn to nothingness. They sink and leave only an oil slick. No bodies. Nothing …’
‘You think he’s dead, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
And as he says it, he knows that’s exactly what he believes, and he feels so wretched that Olivia is going to be hurt, and so wretched for still wishing that it was him she was missing.
Betsy downs her drink, lays a hand on his arm. ‘Who will tell me if you get lost at sea?’
‘I won’t get lost.’
‘I hope not.’ She is looking at him as though he is the only thing she cares about in the world, and it makes him feel so good, that someone cares, that someone might miss him as much as Olivia misses Jack.
He feels his cheeks redden as she moves closer. He can sense the shape of her small breasts through her dress. He tries to quench the desire that is rising inside him by moving away, but she shuffles closer. And the thought flows through his mind that life is too short not to give in to desire, and even as he allows her hand to drop to his thigh and her lips to find his, he hates himself for allowing it, but he is also all too aware that these could be his last days on earth, and what’s the point of living if you don’t experience what living is about? Around them, the music steps up a gear, and the people dance as though they do not want tomorrow to come.
CHAPTER 18
Jack
When Jack wakes he can’t open his eyes. They are encrusted with salt. It is everywhere: scratching at his eyeballs, cracking his lips, rubbing his skin, sticking in his hair. The movement of each wave crunches into his throbbing bones. Shadows flicker behind his gummed up eyes. Someone cradles his head and gently dabs at his eyelids, then pushes a cold mug against his lips. ‘Only a sip, mind.’ The cool, clear liquid trickles into Jack’s mouth; absorbed by the salt, it barely makes it to his throat.
Eventually, he sees that he is lying under a canopy in the forepeak next to another man. There is room only for the two of them – and barely that. Jack pushes himself up on an elbow and squints into the brightness. The lifeboat is packed. The men sitting around the edge lean against each other, their eyes tight with fear and exhaustion. Jack scans the faces: Burts, the Chief, Grifter, and Fred, the galley boy, have made it. There is no sign of Mart or Andersson or Russell. There is no sign of Carl. The light hurts his sticky, sore eyes. The Chief bends down, blocking the sun, turning the world dark. He hands Jack a biscuit. It is tasteless, dry and salty. Jack can barely chew; his mouth is tacky with crumbs.
‘How long?’ he croaks, the words rasping and clutching at his throat. His voice sounds like a stranger’s.
‘Two days,’ says the Chief.
Jack crawls from beneath the shade, and another man immediately takes his place. Tired hands help haul Jack up and slot him into the new space on the wooden plank. He is grateful that they are jammed together. There are pins and needles in his legs. He is not sure he could hold himself up alone. He runs a shaky hand over his head: someone has stitched it up crudely.
The crew have already got the boat in order. The Chief and Burts take readings and study the chart that they have crudely drawn up to the best of their knowledge. One group pulls on the oars, while another bails water from the bottom of the lifeboat. Someone steers, and after a turn resting beneath the forepeak canopy, they rotate on lookout, wedging themselves in against the mast so they can more easily brace against the waves. Each man looks forward to his rest beneath the canopy – which isn’t exactly a rest because every time the boat slams against the water it jars their bones – but it is the only time they are able to stretch their legs and keep out of the relentless sunshine and sea spray.
‘Where are we headed?’ says Jack.
‘There are islands,’ says the Chief. ‘North of Russia.’
‘If we make those,’ adds Burts, ‘someone will find us.’
‘Let’s hope it’s not the Kriegsmarine,’ says Grifter.
Fred whimpers. It is a sound that reminds Jack of Betsy during the night raids.
There is always water in the bottom of the lifeboat, however hard they bail. At least the action keeps Jack’s body warm. But his feet are constantly cold. A hunger of the sort he had forgotten begins to eat away at his insides. There are a few biscuits and some tanks of fresh water, but not enough to keep fifteen men alive for long. There are cigarettes. There is a rifle. Everything is cold and everything is damp and covered in salt. His life jacket rubs and chafes at his body.
Another forty-eight hours and the men stop worrying about the Germans attacking and start worrying about the cold and the hunger. Jack sees now why Mart growled and spat like a tomcat to keep them in order. Some of these men have been in prison, most have had no other job than that in the merchant marine. It’s as tough as a life on the street. A man with a neck as thick as a carthorse discovers a cask of whisky. ‘Let’s drink it,’ he says. ‘It’ll warm us up.’
