Alexander Fullerton: Surface!

“Sorry, Young. Nearly missed it.”

“Nothing doing, Mr Ferris. You’ll ‘ave to find one of your own: this one’s mine.” The truth of his statement was only too obvious.

They seemed surprised when he eventually turned up.

“Thought we’d have to go hungry. What d’you get?”

“Sausage-rolls. You ought to see Young’s girl-friend. I’d like to be Young, till London.”

“Trust a torpedoman,” observed the Captain. The train rattled and rumbled into the south. Throughout the length of it soldiers, sailors and airmen dozed and slept. Most of them were going on leave: some for a weekend, some, just home from overseas, for a longer, gay, embarrassing reunion: some, like the Seahounds, to say good-bye to people and things that they had always known and might not know again. The train was part of the war-time life: whether the end was an end or a beginning it was all the same to the engine: crash, rattle, wallop down the line, down to London and the fleshpots of the south.

Early morning in London: the train stood steaming, exhausted, in a grey station that smelled of hangover. Long after the other passengers had dispersed, Very Important Persons slumbered on in their sleepers. They were getting the Govemment’s money’s-worth. The attendants brewed tea, and waited for tips.

The Sub leant forward to hear what the taxi-man was saying. He was a stranger in Ambershott, and any local information would be of interest.

“You’ll find it a bit of a dead-end up there, sir.”

“Dead-end?”

“Ah, sir. Quiet. Big old ’ouses, they are, quiet as the grave, you might say. Which p’ticular ‘ouse, sir?”

“It’s called Tregowan.”

“Tregowan, sir?” The old head whisked round in surprise, and the taxi swerved savagely across the empty sodden street.

“Tregowan, sir?”

“Yes. Why – is it haunted, or something?” The driver steadied his course, said nothing while he blew his horn at a tabby cat.

“No, sir, not as I’ve ’eard. But that’s where the big boss lives, sir. Foreigner, ’e is.”

“Foreigner?”

“Yessir. Canadian. A General, too: boss o’ the ‘ole bag o’ tricks, ’e is. Perhaps you got the name wrong, sir?”

“No. That’ll be the one.” The driver made no further comment: he was wondering how to explain all this to his wife. There would have to be a good reason for a young Naval fellow taking all his bags and such to Tregowan, and the driver’s wife was satisfied only with the fullest details. The taxi rattled along the narrow streets, under the grim, Victorian house-fronts, an absorbed and worried man at the wheel.

“Shall I drive in, sir?”

“If there’s room. You’re right: it is quiet, up here.”

“Ah. Quiet as the grave.” The gateposts drew slowly past, as though the taxi, or its driver, or both, were unwilling to enter the domain of so exalted a foreigner.

“You wouldn’t be a Canadian, now, would you, sir?”

“No, I’m English. But my mother’s married to a Canadian. The General.” The driver expelled a long breath. So that was it. One more of the town girls got swept off her feet. There’d be a pretty to-do when the lads came back: he had often said so. Not that they were bad chaps, these Canadians: only a bit queer, being from foreign parts.

“‘Ere’s y’ bags, sir. Four shillings.”

“Five to you?”

“Thank ye, sir. But I can see you ain’t no Canadian. I’d get more ‘n that, from a Canadian.”

“Perhaps they get paid more.”

“They do that. And y’ see, sir, I’ve ’eard as ’ow there ain’t nothing in Canada for ’em to spend money on. So of course, when they gets to Ambershott, well!” The old man spread out his hands: what did you expect? “I ‘ope you’ll like it ‘ere, sir. Better ring the bell.”

“Thanks. I will.” But he waited until the taxi had trundled itself backwards out through the gates: then he rang, heard the ringing deep inside the house. It was half-past nine on a Sunday morning.

It was later on the same day that the Captain took a taxi: he climbed into it at Portsmouth station, paid it off outside the Queens Hotel. When he had unpacked his grip, he went downstairs to the phone box.

Pamela was delighted to hear of his arrival: she was on duty, she told him, all day, but he could pick her up at five at the Wrennery. She’d have to break her date with George Witherton. Arthur said that he didn’t think she’d have a date, when they were almost engaged: he meant it as a joke, but Pamela took it seriously, just sighed and said that she’d see him at five.

Rather a silly girl, he thought. But she’s fun, when she gets what she wants and nothing is difficult. The Captain had a feeling that she only tolerated Naval Officers because, being a Wren, she found them handy, usually presentable escorts. He had a feeling that she regarded men as something to be made use of: when she wanted one to be nice to her, she was nice to him, but only for a good reason.

Arthur had dropped in to see his mother, in London, before he caught the Portsmouth train. He had been permitted to see her in bed, having breakfast. Mrs Hallet was a self-preserved woman of middle age: she never rose before ten, and began her war-work after lunch. For want of anything better to say, Arthur told her that he was thinking of becoming engaged.

“Ridiculous, Arthur! At your age! Who is she?”

“She’s a Wren: Pamela Sainsbury.”

“Sounds like a grocer’s daughter. You had better go and shave, Arthur. Was there no hot water in the train?”

He left the phone booth, deciding to spend a little time in the bar, before lunch. It was lonely in the crowd of strangers, and he was beginning to wonder why he had left London, when a couple of friends whom he hadn’t seen for years emerged from the throng beside him. Of course, this was Pompey, where you always met your friends.

Friends? Well, acquaintances: brother officers. Not necessarily friends: only one in a hundred came into that category. Most of them you’d known since you were thirteen: by the time you were seventeen and Chief Cadet Captain at Dartmouth, few of them were friends. They were careful to stay on good terms with you: they watched carefully, waiting for you to slip up. Then, perhaps, “Remember Hallet? He was Chief C.C. You’d never think so, now. Going down the drain, old boy… Missed getting an operational command… Got hat frightful Southsea slut for a mistress… Flash in the pan, old boy.”

They couldn’t say it yet.

The tankards were empty:

“Three more, please,” he called, and he watched the barmaid as she dragged the handles down: she thought of her permanent wave, and while her hands and wrists moved the handles her bright smile faded and she wondered about whether or not she’d have to lose a tooth the next time she visited the dentist.

The bell pealed again inside the house called Tregowan. It was remote, nothing to do with the bell-push: like the cry of pain that came separately, a little moment after the squeeze on the trigger. Obviously nobody was going to answer the door: the Sub left the porch, walked round to the back door. It was locked, and there was no sound from inside: probably this was where the bell rang when he pressed the button on the front.

The top part of the window was open. It was a small window, and limited in its opening, but there might be room to worm through. The Sub wedged one foot on the curve of the kitchen waste-pipe, curled the fingers of one hand round the edge of the window-frame. He stuck his head and shoulders into the kitchen, leant on the inner sill, slid through. He stood up, dusted down his Number One uniform.