Sam Bourne - Pantheon

He turned such thoughts over in his mind for hours at a stretch. Some, especially among the crew, lamented the tedium but James had no such complaint. One gift of a Quaker childhood: a high boredom threshold. Besides, on at least one occasion during that ten-day voyage, there was a moment of high drama.

One came after the Santa Clara had been at sea for a little over four days. They had already bade farewell to their warship escort and were now officially unprotected and on their own. The powers that be had decided that, at this distance, they were beyond the reach of the long arm of the enemy. A crewman who had become something of a pal to James — a Pole called Andrzej, early twenties and a fanatical anti-communist — had already tipped him the wink that something was up, that there had been an outbreak of alarmed activity on the bridge. He spoke to James as a fellow soldier, once he had heard about his combat experience in Spain, granting him a respect which surprised James. He had assumed that Andrzej would regard him as a dirty communist for having taken up arms against Franco. But, as he slowly understood, there is a bond that unites men who have seen war and which separates them from those that have not. Far from providing James with any smug satisfaction, it reminded him that in the current, essential conflict he was a mere spectator.

Thanks to Andrzej’s tip-off, James was not surprised when he heard the order ring out over the ship’s address system, instructing everyone on board either to go down below or to remain stationary on deck. There was to be no visible movement.

Despite the order, James stayed close to Andrzej, watching as he removed the cover from the fixed gun on the starboard side of the ship. There was a great hush, as if the whole ship were watching and waiting, and then the grinding, wheezing sound of the boilers cranked up to maximum effort, so that the ship might forge ahead at speed. Still, Andrzej kept his hands on that gun. James was carrying his lifejacket but, unlike the handful of other passengers who remained frozen still on deck rather than risk movement by going down into the ship, bravado prevented him putting it on. All they could do was wait, hoping that somehow the bridge had been mistaken, that there were no enemy subs in this area, that the threat, if it had existed, had passed.

And then, at great speed, there was a foaming, hissing sound below. James leaned over the railing just in time to see a torpedo passing, just yards astern of the ship. Seconds later, there came another of these ‘tin fish’, this one passing within six feet of the hull, certainly no more.

There was a massive jolt, the ship lurching to one side — but it had not been hit. Andrzej explained that they had been saved by the torpedo having turned upright, rather than horizontal, at the last moment. James imagined such a feat, like a circus seal standing on its hind paws, and gave thanks for such good luck. His gratitude, he realized once he felt it, was not that his own life had been saved — but that the life of Florence’s husband and Harry’s father had been spared. Did that make any sense? It did to him.

Suddenly, hands on the lower decks were hurling white canisters overboard, which exploded with a judder that made the spine shake, as if the liner had just hit a rock. ‘Depth charges,’ Andrzej explained.

The Pole waited a little longer, concluding that the U-boat was ‘too chicken’ to surface, doubtless because the Germans wrongly believed the Santa Clara was still under armed escort. He replaced the gun cover and went to check down below. James looked at his hands and saw that his fist was still balled around the lifejacket he had been holding since the order had first come across the ship’s address system. His knuckles were white. As he relaxed his fingers, he saw his palm was shiny with sweat, the strap of the jacket where he had clutched it drenched.

Two more days passed before they saw icebergs, the first glimpse of something solid after nearly a week at sea. James imagined how Harry — who had surely passed through this same stretch of water a few days earlier — had reacted on seeing these majestic, almost mythical structures: mountains of glistening white ice, the brilliance of the white rendered dazzling by the bright sunshine. Some had broken up, their fragments, mammoth in themselves, taking on all kinds of shapes in the imagination. He pictured Florence pointing at these very shards, comparing that one to a shark, the other to a submarine and that one there to a fairytale castle. In the hour after he first saw them, James opened up his notebook and wrote a poem for his son: ‘The Iceberg Dragon’. He doubted it was much good as literature. But he liked imagining the moment he would read it to Harry, picturing the boy laughing at the story of the hapless seagull who had landed on what it thought was ice only to find himself lost in the fiery mouth of a dragon.

They had been at sea eight long days when they first saw land ahead, passing eventually through the straits of Belle Isle and then along the coasts of Labrador and Newfoundland. The St Lawrence estuary was gorgeous, as stunning as any of the Highland lochs: tall mountains, broken up by the occasional clearing on the wooded slopes, containing a small settlement of twenty or so wooden huts or white cottages, with a church spire towering above them.

It was beautiful but James Zennor had no time for beauty. As the ship finally came to dock in Quebec, ten days after it had grunted and groaned its way out of the mouth of the Mersey, he was impatient to set his foot on the North American continent and begin the final stage of his journey. Only the Canadian border with the United States and the train journey south to New Haven stood in his way now. Soon he would walk into Yale and be reunited with his wife and child.

London

She had turned her back on him now, the clear signal that at last she was sated. He looked closely at her skin, paler than he was used to in the American girls he had had. Not that she was a girl; twenty years too late for that. Lady was not quite right either, though that would be the word most would use for the wife of an eminent Tory MP. But during the last hour and a half she had behaved like the most outlandish whore.

Taylor Hastings let his eye rest on a dark spot beneath her right shoulder blade. What was that? A birthmark? A mole? A beauty spot? It was far from the only one. In fact, now that he looked closely, there were little imperfections all over. The skin on her arms was not taut; the traces of past pregnancies were visible on her hips and thighs. Very different to the young flesh he was used to. And yet he didn’t mind. The opposite: her age excited him, somehow confirming with every caress that he was sleeping with another man’s wife.

She was breathing heavily now, falling into a deep, exhausted sleep. She had tired his body, as always, but she had not been able to still his mind. The dinner had ended more than three hours ago but the thrill of it remained fresh.

Back in the States they always liked to talk about big names and he had grown up among plenty of them at St Albans and Princeton. But no names as big as this. He smiled at the thought of who had steered the evening’s conversation, acting as informal chairman: only the fifth Duke of Wellington! How do you like that, Pa? That beats the Deputy Undersecretary of State for Near-East Paperclips?

He had sat next to a Lord Redesdale, father of the famous Mitford girls. ‘You ought to meet my daughter,’ he had said to Taylor within minutes of shaking hands. ‘Not Decca, she’s mad of course. Red as a bullfighter’s cape. But Diana. She’s sound.’

He had counted several other lords — though, he had learned tonight, you were meant to call them ‘peers’. There was a Galloway and an Agnew, though he suspected one of them was a ‘sir’. Or rather a knight.