David Oldman - Dusk at Dawn

This remark, to the accompaniment of the clattering of dishes as Turner began serving the soup, brought forth a round of introductions from Captain Nordvik for those who had not yet met.

The Russians were named Solokov and Korbelov, although Paul never caught which was which. They were Social-Revolutionaries — or Democratic-Socialists, as they intimated they preferred to be called — returning to Russia to support the Revolution. The first officer, Arnie Gunnarson, was a Swede in his thirties and was clean-shaven and well-presented in a spotless white uniform that contrasted sharply with his captain’s dark blue naval jacket and roll-necked sweater.

The women were Mrs Hogarth, the Danish widow of a British major who had been killed at Mons, and her niece Miss Andresen. Mrs Hogarth was returning to Denmark to live with her family.

‘I was an Andresen before my marriage,’ she explained, waving a self-deprecating hand before adding, ‘the family are titled landowners although I am nothing more than a poor cousin. My niece, Ragna, has kindly agreed to accompany me.’

Mrs Hogarth had removed her veil to reveal a face sketched in deep lines arranged geometrically around a hard-set mouth. Her small eyes were like a rodent’s, Paul thought, and he could feel them on him when he wasn’t looking at her. Her niece, Ragna, was by contrast and as he had thought earlier, attractive in a vacant way. Slim and wearing a simple and tightly buttoned Edwardian dress, her hair had been cut unfashionably short. She had regarded everyone at the table with interest but did not speak.

Turner finished serving the soup and there was a general movement towards the cutlery. Valentine turned to Paul who he had — pointedly, Paul thought — ignored until then.

‘I don’t believe I caught your name, sir.’

Paul scowled at him. ‘Filbert, Harold—’

The Reverend Pater’s voice drowned the rest as he launched unexpectedly into a loud recitation of the Latin Grace.

The company froze, spoons in mid-air. They fell silent as Paul glanced around the table. The captain and first officer had bowed their heads; the Russians followed suit — oddly to Paul’s way of thinking as he had assumed they would be atheists. Pinker, to the captain’s left, was mouthing silently along with Pater as if his soul depended upon it. Mrs Hogarth, sitting between Valentine and the captain, had taken the opportunity of the hiatus to clean her spoon on her napkin. Ragna Andresen, to Paul’s astonishment, had made a start on her soup. Valentine grinned and winked at him.

Pater’s voice tailed off on a note of disharmony, sounding like a pipe organ that had run out of air. He caught sight of Ragna Andresen with her spoon to her lips and cleared his throat noisily. She ignored him.

The conversation resumed, swinging between the dangers of U-boats, the possibility of rough weather, and the inadequacies of small cabins which necessitated half of the company having to climb over the other half to get into an upper berth. Pinker made a joke of taking the top bunk in his and Paul’s cabin and a clumsy point of asking Ragna Andresen if she was in the upper berth. Miss Andresen smiled at Pinker but neither confirmed nor denied the fact.

Captain Nordvik, a grizzled Scandinavian of indeterminate nationality, exchanged a few words with his first officer in a language Paul didn’t recognise. The first officer’s knowledge of English, as Paul had discovered, was restricted to no more than a handful of words, all delivered with emphasis as if strength of delivery made up for a narrowness of vocabulary. Nordvik made an initial effort to translate his first officer’s remarks then appeared to tire of the task and abandoned the job, leaving Gunnarson marooned on a linguistic island. After a few fitful attempts at conversation in halting German with the Russians, the man lapsed into silence.

‘And are you travelling to Denmark, Mr Filbert?’ Mrs Hogarth suddenly enquired of Paul as she finished her soup.

‘Pit props,’ he said, running for cover without thinking. ‘Finland, don’t you know. Mines. I’m in mines.’ Then added, ‘Pinker’s in boots. Schleswig Holstein isn’t it Pinker? Mrs Hogarth can probably tell you all about the place.’

‘As a matter of fact…’ Pinker began, and promptly succeeded in monopolising Mrs Hogarth well into the next course: a rather grey lumpy affair that Paul took for boiled beef as it arrived accompanied by carrots.

Captain Nordvik, caught at the net behind Pinker’s parabolic questions and Mrs Hogarth’s terse returns, found himself as isolated as his first officer.

‘I saw a report in The Times today,’ Valentine remarked out of the blue to Korbelov, or possibly Solokov, ‘that you’ve shot your tsar. Do you have any details about the matter by any chance?’

An expectant silence fell over the table. Lenin put down his knife and fork, as if expecting to need both hands to defend himself.

‘We know no more than you, Mr Darling. As a functionary of the British government do you not have the latest news?’

Valentine appeared unabashed. ‘Not my corner of the service, old boy,’ he said. ‘I’m at the charitable end of things, I’m afraid.’

‘Having news from home is difficult since October Revolution,’ the fat Trotsky said.

‘That would be in our November, correct?’ Valentine asked. ‘Now remind me, did the Social-Revolutionaries support or oppose the Bolshevik seizure of power?’

The two put their heads together and whispered in Russian for a moment; to co-ordinate the Party line, Paul supposed. He stopped chewing on the beef to eavesdrop, picking up the words, calendar and November , before the podgy Trotsky noticed him and nudged his colleague in the ribs.

‘We were not opposed to the formal assumption of power, Mr Darling,’ Korbelov, or possibly Solokov, said, ‘as it was the Soviet of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies who already held power in all but name. We did not agree with the…’ he conferred with his compatriot again, ‘…with the nullification of the Constituent Assembly election but we are confident that since there is a majority of other parties in the Petrograd and Moscow Soviets we will be able to control any undemocratic ambitions the Bolsheviks might have.’

‘And shooting the tsar,’ Valentine persisted, ‘would that have been put to the vote?’

‘Whether it was or not, Mr Darling, I can assure you we shed no tears for the death of a tyrant.’

‘Would it not have been more democratic to have put him on trial? For the crimes he was said to have committed? What do you think, Miss Andresen?’ Valentine asked, turning to the younger woman. ‘Surely any man deserves a trial if accused of a crime?”

Miss Andresen’s intelligent eyes narrowed and she appeared to be on the verge of saying something when her aunt spoke for her.

‘My niece does not speak English very well, I’m afraid, Mr Darling. And we have no opinions on the matter, do we Ragna? Russian politics are no concern of ours.’

‘Ah well,’ Valentine said, looking at Paul, ‘the tsar’s death will change nothing as far as I can see. The die is cast and matters must run their course. What do you say, Filbert?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Paul said. ‘I go where my company sends me.’

‘Here here,’ Pinker piped up. ‘What else can a working man do? All the same, tyrant or not, it seems to me a man deserves a fair trial. After all, the French tried their king when they had their revolution.’

‘Before executing him,’ said Lenin.

‘And we tried Charles the First…’ Pinker continued before obviously remembering that that matter had been settled in much the same way. ‘Nevertheless,’ he finished determinedly, ‘it was put to the law.’