Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

‘How long can you stay? I am sure they’ll ask you to when—’

There was a footfall at the top of the steps and her father hurried down to meet him.

‘It is good to see you, Mr Ransome – or should I call you Captain?’

He looked older, his face drawn to give him cheekbones where there had been none.

Ransome shook his hand, i hope you don’t mind, Canon?’

‘Call me Simon, eh?’ He looked around at the trees and some more aimless figures. ‘One does what one can of course.’ He did not continue.

Instead he said, ‘You must eat at our table. Things are a bit chaotic here, have been since the vicarage was destroyed. But still, God’s work cannot wait for the war-damage repairs, eh?’

He looked at his daughter. ‘You are a bit flushed, dear. Go and tell them we have a guest for dinner.’

Ransome tried to protest, but it was to no avail.

They walked together across the coarse grass where there had once been an elegant lawn. Canon Warwick wore a long black cassock with a small crucifix hung about his neck. His eyes were everywhere, probing, almost fanatical.

it’s been bad here?’

Warwick considered it. ‘Bad enough. It is an unending flow of people, searching for hope, loved ones, refugees in their own way as much as those who clogged the roads in Holland or Greece.’

He changed the subject. ‘Not married yet? That does surprise me.’

Ransome looked away. I love Eve. I always have, and always shall.

But he said, ‘There’s never enough time for anything these days.’

Warwick seemed satisfied. ‘Eve’s been a real blessing since her mother—’

Ransome started. ‘She’s not—?’

Warwick tucked his hands into his cassock and shook his head. ‘Betty had a lot of bad luck, poor dear. First the vicarage was bombed and she had a slight stroke. Then later on she was in the town at her stall – she helps the W.V.S., you know, selling tea and buns to the sailors, that kind of thing. There was a hit-and-run raid, and a bomb fell near to her little stall. Most of the servicemen who were queuing to be served were killed or badly maimed. It really upset her. She’s still not herself.’

Ransome pictured the dead servicemen. It had probably upset them too.

He asked quickly, ‘What does Eve do?’

‘My daughter?’ He smiled gently. ‘She shares her love of art with some of the patients here. But maybe you didn’t know she could paint and draw?’

Ransome thought of the picture in his cabin. ‘Yes, I knew.’

‘It’s worthwhile work.’ He nodded to emphasise it. ‘If she left to join one of the services, I’d be in a sorry state, I can tell you.’

‘Is that what she wanted to do?’

Warwick did not seem to hear the question. He said, ‘I’ll show you the kitchen garden – we are almost self-supporting here.’

It was a difficult meal, Ransome thought. And yet he would not have wanted to be anywhere else.

Eve’s mother, a frail, vague lady who seemed to laugh a lot, but looked very near to tears when she did so, fired questions at Ransome from start to finish.

And all the while he was conscious of the girl who sat opposite him, her eyes rarely leaving his as he tried to paint a picture of his ship, of Rob Roy’s people. Although he answered her questions they were all directed at the girl named Eve.

The canon’s wife looked fondly at her husband. ‘He is so busy, Mr Ransome. He never spares himself for the good of others.’

Warwick jerked from his thoughts. ‘Which reminds me. I have two hospital visits to do tonight.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘May I offer you a lift, Commander?’

Suddenly Ransome felt the girl’s shoe press against his foot, saw the sudden anxiety in her dark eyes.

He heard himself reply, ‘It’s all right. I’m at the R.N.B. Devon-port tonight at least. I can manage.’

Why was it he could not bring himself to call him Simon as he had requested?

‘Well, if you’re sure—’ He fumbled for his watch. ‘I’ve asked the porter to attend to the black-out, my dear.’ He smiled at his wife, but his eyes said that he was elsewhere. ‘I’ll be off then. Very nice to meet you again after all this time, er—’ Then he was gone.

Ransome helped the girl to clear away the table. To Mrs Warwick he said, ‘A fine meal. Made me feel really at home.’ But she had fallen asleep in her chair.

In the kitchen, which appeared to be stacked with every kind of ration from powdered milk to corned beef, she faced him.

‘I’m sorry. You didn’t hate it too much, did you?’

He held her at arms’ length. ‘Of course not. I was sorry to hear about your mother. Your father feels it badly.’

‘Oh, you noticed?’ She studied him sadly. ‘Many wouldn’t.’

He tried to laugh it off. ‘Believe me, my girl, when you command even a little ship in this man’s navy, you either learn fast about folk or you go under!’

She did not smile. ‘What you said – am I really your girl? Like it was, all that time back?’ She shook her head so that her long hair flowed across her shoulders. ‘I’m not a child any more. Please don’t treat me like one.’

Then she pressed her face into his jacket and shook; the sobbing seemed to burst out of her in a flood.

He tried to pacify her, stroked her hair, held her against him, but it was to no avail.

Between sobs she whispered, ‘You mustn’t laugh, but I have always loved you. I dreaded seeing you in case you had met someone else.’ She leaned back and stared at him, blinking tears from her eyes. ‘You haven’t, have you?’

‘No. Of course not.’ It came out so simply it was as if he had shouted his love from the housetops.

He added, ‘I’m a lot older than you—’

She hugged him and shook her head again. ‘I’m nineteen. Two days ago. So you see, I’m catching you up!’

They walked into another garden, the dishes abandoned.

It was a starry night, with a warm breeze to ruffle the leaves. Somewhere a wireless set or gramophone was playing a lilting Spanish tune, and a small night creature ran through the grass; searching for food, trying not to become it.

In the darkness it seemed somehow natural, he thought. His hand on her waist, her head against his arm.

As they walked he told her more stories about the people he served with. Moncrieff, the ancient mariner; Sherwood who had been with a famous firm which had built chandeliers. He left out the pieces about Sherwood’s grief, which was slowly driving him mad. About Hargrave’s ambition, for himself rather than the ship, of Midshipman Davenport who bragged to everyone about his upper-class upbringing, when in fact he had been to the same modest grammar school as young Boyes. Or about Fallows who had probably been the last link with life when Tinker had killed himself. Now Fallows was the haunted one because he could remember nothing at all about what had happened.

Above all, he told her nothing about the danger they faced every time they went to sea. Danger and death were things they knew about in Plymouth. For centuries. Since Drake had routed the Armada, and Nelson had sailed for the Nile, since the little Exeter had sailed home to Plymouth after beating the German Graf Spee into self-destruction. And now the bombing. Even here, on the outskirts, amidst the ageless oak trees you could smell the rawness, the scorched and shattered buildings. Oh yes, they knew all about that.

She said softly, ‘We didn’t choose the time, Ian. It was held out to us. For us.’ She looked up at him, only her eyes reflecting the stars. ‘It was not our choice!’

As if to some silent signal they both turned and looked through the trees towards the house. It was in darkness with all the black-out shutters and curtains in place.