David Oldman - Dusk at Dawn

‘Of course,’ said Korbelov handing it to him.

Written Russian script, Paul remembered, varied slightly from the printed form of the language, which complicated matters, and Korbelov’s execrable handwriting could have been Arabic for all he could tell. He recognised a word or two: справедливость and товарищ , which were justice and comrade , but beyond that the speech was a meaningless scribble.

Korbelov was observing him closely.

‘My handwriting is careless, Mr Filbert,’ he apologised.

‘Even so,’ Paul admitted, ‘I couldn’t make head nor tail of it.’

‘Perhaps you will meet some Russians on your travels and learn something of our language.’

‘You never can tell,’ he said, excusing himself.

He went below. Pinker was standing at the porthole staring out at the sea as it rose and fell beyond the thick murky glass.

‘Filbert! I was wondering where you’d got to,’ he said as Paul opened the cabin door.

‘Oh, just walking around the deck. Then talking to those Russians. I thought I might lie down till dinner.’

‘Feeling all right?’

‘What, you mean the weather? It’s starting to blow a bit but so far so good.’

‘As long as it keeps the U-boats away,’ Pinker said, ‘it can get as rough as it likes.’

Paul rolled onto his bunk and Pinker went back to staring out of the porthole. Looking for periscopes, Paul supposed. He closed his eyes and wondered if he would be sick if it got any rougher. The boat out to France had been a nightmare. They had embarked at Portsmouth, packed in like the proverbial sardines. Between the choppy water and the thought of action the decks had been awash with vomit before they’d cleared the harbour. Standing in it, being sprayed by it, smelling it, had been enough to start off even those not normally susceptible to seasickness. He’d been below but feeling queasy had been forced to abandon his section for the crowded deck. It hadn’t been any better up there but at least one had the wind in one’s face. He’d still been sick, however, and had only been able to console himself that whatever he’d find in France couldn’t be any worse than the hell of the troopship. Well, he’d soon been disabused of that notion. Within a month he would have taken sliding around in a little vomit as welcome light relief.

Pinker interrupted his train of thought.

‘Thought I’d go up top before dinner,’ he said, standing over Paul in the lower bunk.

The colour had drained from his face again leaving it wan and oddly pinched. Paul became aware that the ship was canting to one side, the gimballed basin and jug sitting at an odd angle to the cabin bulkhead.

‘Are you all right?’ Paul asked, leaning on an elbow.

‘Right as rain,’ Pinker replied looking anything but. ‘Just thought I’d get some air before dinner.’

‘Dinner?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Have I slept? Well, I’ll see you up there, I suppose.’

The cabin was too warm, heat rising through the floor from the boilers below. What it must be like for the stokers he couldn’t imagine. Something like hell no doubt — hot, acrid with coal dust, and with the added discomfort in rough weather of being tossed around like a cork in a river. He wondered if they thought much about U-boats.

He washed his face and put on his only clean shirt, sorting out the rest of his soiled laundry for the cabin steward. He didn’t feel much like eating, he had to confess, and supposed he was beginning to feel the effects of the weather. All he really felt like at that moment was a stiff whisky and wished he’d had the foresight to buy a bottle in Hull. He considered passing up dinner altogether and not eat until he got his sea legs, reasoning there was little point in eating at present to lose the benefit in a woozy future. Still, perhaps a little light broth wouldn’t hurt. He grabbed the greatcoat to wear against the wind and made his way up top again.

Pinker was in the saloon, grey-faced and staring at the floor. Next to him and trying to converse despite getting no response sat Pater, seemingly quite unperturbed by the worsening conditions. The Russians looked less composed, perched on the edge of their chairs in a manner suggestive of a readiness to leave at short notice.

The door opened behind him and Ragna Andresen entered followed by Valentine.

‘…feeling better soon,’ he heard Valentine say but since Miss Andresen looked as unruffled as she had at lunch he assumed Valentine didn’t mean her. She walked straight past Paul, opened the door to the dining room and walked through.

‘Filbert,’ Valentine said to Paul by way of greeting. ‘Miss Andresen’s aunt is feeling under the weather. She won’t be joining us.’

‘Pinker’s none too well either by the look of him,’ Paul said.

‘Pater on hand for the last rights?’

Paul couldn’t see much humour in the situation. His own stomach had suddenly adopted a movement counter to that of the ship and he wondered if he ought to excuse himself. But Valentine appeared as fresh as a man from a good night’s sleep and Paul was determined not to lose face in front of him.

‘I wonder what’s for dinner,’ he said, caring neither one way nor the other. Then, as if in answer, the dining room doors opened again and an aroma of mutton stew wafted out followed by Ragna Andresen, striding back with a crewman in tow carrying the broth to which Paul had aspired.

‘Just what your aunt needs,’ Valentine said as Ragna Andresen passed, studiously ignoring him.

Pater glared at her and the captain turned up, issuing them through to the dining table like a shepherd chivvying his flock.

They had just seated themselves when the steamer encountered the first of a series of large rollers. Lifting and swaying sideways, it seemed to stop for a moment, levitating above the water. Then it began a sickening descent, hitting the bottom of each trough with a thunderous clap. The boat began to vibrate, shaking like a dog fresh from a river.

Pinker stared in alarm. His chest convulsed and he scrambled out of his chair and rushed back into the saloon.

‘Heavy weather,’ Captain Nordvik commented.

The meal proved more subdued than had lunch. The first officer did not appear, having to remain on duty, Nordvik explained. The captain then proceeded to regale them with morose descriptions of the worst North Sea weather systems he had had the misfortune to encounter.

Paul stopped listening. In lieu of the broth he had glimpsed earlier, a limp salad appeared, remaining lifeless despite the provocation of being harried by Paul’s fork. The steamer alternately pitched and yawed, throwing in an occasional roll for variety. The mutton stew arrived and Solokov left. Korbelov and Pater, neither looking well, faced each other across the table in a battle of attrition between God and Marx as the champion of human endurance. Indifferent to religion and philosophy, Paul spooned at his stew, avoiding the pools of oily liquid accreting upon the surface.

The remainder of dinner was conducted in silence. Sometime before pudding, with a last despairing groan, Reverend Pater conceded the future to the new scientific theory of history and retired, despondent, to his cabin. Korbelov, his pallor having taken on a viridian hue, remained long enough only to assert his victory. Soon after it turned Pyrrhic and he vomited by the door into the saloon.

Turner, taking advantage of a brief moment of equilibrium, began collecting dishes before an abrupt cant to port brought him up short by the sideboard. He slewed the dishes in his hand for a moment, like a juggler spinning plates, then dropped them. They crashed to the floor and were joined a second later by Turner himself as he slipped on the spilled residue.