David Oldman - Dusk at Dawn

‘I suppose not,’ Paul agreed absently.

Pinker nodded at him. ‘Not in it yourself then, Filbert, if you don’t mind my asking.’

Paul wondered if, like the woman on the train, Pinker took him for a shirker as well.

‘Medical discharge,’ he said.

‘Best out of it if you want my opinion,’ Pinker agreed.

Paul hadn’t particularly so he said nothing else.

Pinker, oblivious, rubbed his hands together. ‘Well, Filbert, how do you feel? Got your sea legs yet? What about a bite to eat?’

Paul actually felt fine, despite discovering he was a bad sailor the last time he’d been on a ship. Odd given his parentage, he supposed. Although just because his father had joined the navy didn’t necessarily mean that he had been much of a sailor either. He certainly hadn’t been much of a swimmer.

‘So far so good,’ he told Pinker, and followed him out of the cabin.

They went on deck. What Paul had seen of the rest of the steamer hadn’t altered his first impression of the boat. The superstructure, he had been alarmed to find, seemed little more than metal hung together by a skein of rust. He wondered if it was cynical to think that when the War Office had released the vessel specifically to get him and Hart to Russia, they had taken the opportunity to rid themselves of a rusting tub no longer fit for service. It didn’t fill him with much confidence for the voyage ahead, particularly if they needed to out-run a U-boat. In fact the whole outlook looked gloomy. A thought that made him think of Hart again. Where on earth was the man? Paul was on his way to Finland and, contrary to Cumming’s assurances, on his way alone.

Hartless .

Which at that moment just seemed to sum up the entire business.

The wind had freshened. The steamer’s engine vibrated through the deck as it made headway into a swell. Paul followed Pinker into the dingy saloon. A sofa and a few worn armchairs circled a threadbare rug, all illuminated by dim lights. Small side tables had been bolted to the floor beside the chairs. As they entered a bar steward approached them, feet braced against the rising sea.

Paul asked for a whisky and soda; Pinker a bottle of beer.

‘Better make the most of it, sir,’ the steward said. ‘She’ll be a dry ship once out of British waters. Being Finnish we have to observe their prohibition on alcohol.’

Paul cast around for somewhere to sit. All the chairs were vacant although none looked very comfortable.

‘Didn’t I see two other passengers come aboard?’ Paul asked the steward as he placed the whisky on one of the tables, making Paul’s choice for him. ‘Dark fellows. Bearded.’

‘Very likely, sir,’ the steward said, his skin pockmarked, as if he’d had a brush with smallpox. His name was Turner, he told them.

‘Anyone else expected?’

‘In Hull, sir. A gentleman of the cloth, I believe.’

‘A priest?’

‘A parson. A reverend gentleman.’

‘Going to Finland? What on earth for?’

‘Couldn’t say, sir. To convert the ‘eathen Finn, perhaps. Cold cuts and a cheese platter in the dining room, when you’re ready, sir.’

Paul suspected Turner was being insolent but couldn’t tell from the expression on his cratered face. Not that he wasn’t used to insolence; men under his command had often been insolent. It had irritated him and he’d frequently lost his temper with them at first. Until they had started dying. After that it had seemed as if suffering a little insolence was a cheap price to pay for not being among their number.

He had another whisky before eating then decided to push the boat out if it was going to be a dry ship after Hull. He ordered wine to drink with the cheese and, by the time he’d drunk most of the bottle, was amused to think that he wasn’t really pushing the boat out since he was already in it. Pinker joined him in a glass and he ordered another bottle.

The boat began to roll.

‘Are we far out do you think?’ Pinker asked. Some of the primrose yellow had drained from his face.

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ Paul said. ‘Not with the U-boats.’

He felt relaxed. He even regarded the thought of U-boats with equanimity. The rolling of the steamer and the heat of the dining room had a calming effect. Looking at the dull light playing on the wine in his glass, he wondered what it was he had been worrying about earlier.

‘Bit of a swell,’ Pinker said.

Paul dragged his eyes off the mesmeric tilt of the wine. ‘Might be a rough crossing,’ he said.

‘Too rough for U-boats, do you think?’

Paul shrugged. ‘I don’t think it matters if you’re under water.’

‘What?’

‘The U-boats — under water.’

‘Oh,’ said Pinker. ‘I thought they had to come up to — to, you know…’

‘Use their torpedoes? Oh, I should think so.’

‘Then it might be too rough for them, perhaps.’ Pinker offered a weak smile. Colour had returned to his face although now it had a tinge of green.

Paul poured himself some more wine. It seemed to him that if the man was afraid of U-boats he shouldn’t be travelling by boat. It wasn’t as if he was in the army and was obliged to take orders. Not like he was. Except he wasn’t exactly in the army anymore. Still taking orders, though. Tricky position to be in. Might have talked it over with Pinker — he didn’t seem a bad sort of chap even if he was in a bit of a funk over U-boats. But he couldn’t talk it over with Pinker. It was hush-hush and Cumming wouldn’t like it. Could have talked it over with Hart if the damned man had shown his face like he was supposed to…

He turned to say as much to Pinker but the commercial traveller was no longer there. His plate was, along with a few dried cold cuts and a piece of cheese that still bore his teeth marks. But the man had gone.

Paul became aware of feeling suddenly unsteady. He looked around and saw the steward, Turner, smiling at him. For a second, Paul’s head began to swim and the steward managed to duplicate himself. He needed some air, he thought. It had all been too much on an empty stomach. A couple of scones and a piece of cake was no way for a soldier to embark upon a sea voyage. The cold meat and the cheese hardly counted.

Pushing himself up from the table, he decided it might be as well if he didn’t finish the bottle. He made a vague gesture at Turner then walked unsteadily back through the saloon and out on deck.

The wind hit him like a bucket of seawater. He staggered a step and lurched towards the rail. The boat began to spin as if caught in a maelstrom. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment or two before cautiously opening them again. He breathed deeply. He was drunk. ‘Not very clever,’ he said aloud. Left himself wide open. Could have been tipped over the side like a sack of potatoes if Kell’s agent had spotted him. Could have done nothing to stop it. Just as well he’d left him in the alley. If he had.

Bed. Sort it out in the morning. Get up early and watch for the other passengers coming on board.

A priest, that steward Turner had said. Now how likely was that?

His head ached. In the fog of half-sleep he took it for the throb of the engines. Until he realised that the engines had stopped.

The boat wasn’t even moving.

U-boats? He freed his arm from the sheet and looked at his watch. It was nine-thirty and sun was streaming through the porthole. He groaned and flopped back on the bunk. They had been due in Hull before first light. They must have been tied up for hours. The other passengers would already be on board and he hadn’t seen them. He could picture Browning’s reaction, eyes to heaven, shaking his head.

Paul pushed the blanket aside. Cheap wine, obviously. The thought of alcohol made his chest heave and he had to steel himself momentarily against the nausea. He needed air. Coffee…