We Saw The Sea Read online

  We Saw The Sea

  John Winton

  ©1960 by John Winton

  1

  The corridor was long and damp and painted a dark brown; it smelled of disinfectant and, in places, of cats. The high windows in one wall were grimy and the tiled floors were battered and chipped. Walking along, Michael Hobbes thought of a Crimean hospital before the advent of Florence Nightingale. The doors were painted an even darker brown and were numbered, according to a notice by the stairs, from 37 to 61. Michael was reassured that he was on the right floor, despite the hall porter’s ambiguous instructions. He was looking for Room 51.

  The room next to Room 50 was unmarked, but Michael knocked confidently. He could hear no answer. Slowly he opened the door.

  The room was dark except for a single unshaded light bulb burning over a table covered with a green baize cloth. A pair of empty red rubber gloves lay on the table, their fingers and thumbs touching, as though they were in the act of strangling a phantom throat. The room was silent, menacing, like the lair of a savage beast which had only just left and would presently return.

  Michael shut the door and tried the next room. It was clearly marked--”ROOM 51 KNOCK ONCE AND WAIT IF NO ANSWER DON'T BOTHER.” Michael knocked once and waited. Just as he was deciding not to bother, he heard a voice calling from inside.

  “How many more times do I have to say ‘Come in’?” the voice demanded irritably.

  Michael went into the room. By the window, a short red-faced man with ginger hair was putting on his overcoat. He slewed round, his overcoat still hanging from his shoulders, and glared at Michael.

  “Well?”

  “My name is Lieutenant Hobbes, sir, I . . .”

  “I suppose you've come about your next appointment?”

  ”Yes, sir.”

  “Hah. Well sit down then, sit down Godblastit.”

  The ginger-haired man put on his overcoat fully, wound a scarf round his neck, placed a hat on his head, and sat down opposite Michael.

  Michael glanced round the office. There was nothing in the room except the desk, with a chair on either side, and a large filing cabinet in one corner. On the desk a placard read, in gothic printing--”Commander J. P. Leanover, R.N., General Dogsbody and Chief Bottle Washer for any Civil Servant who opens his Fool Mouth.” Another placard at the other end read--”Beer Is Best.” Between the two placards lay a pair of leather gloves, one blank sheet of paper and four trays marked “Aye Aye,” “No No,” “Passing,” and “Waiting--too Difficult.” Three of the trays were empty but the fourth, “Waiting--Too Difficult,” contained a copy of The Times, open at the crossword.

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Hobbes, sir.”

  Commander Leanover took out a ballpoint pen. Slowly and carefully, as though unused to writing, he printed “Holmes” on the blank sheet of paper.

  “Just finished Greenwich haven’t you?”

  “That was some time ago, sir . . .”

  “Enjoy it?”

  “Very much, sir.”

  “Nonsense. Only queers and alcoholics enjoy Greenwich. What sort of ship d’you want?”

  “I’d like to go to a des . . .”

  “Like to go to a carrier, eh?”

  “No, sir. I’d rather go to a des . . .”

  “Battleship? We haven’t got any, anyway.” Commander Leanover chuckled. “Come on then, what sort of ship d’you want?”

  “I was rather hoping it would be a . . .”

  “Like to go to a cruiser?”

  “I’d prefertogotoadestroyersir,” Michael gabbled.

  “Hah.” Commander Leanover printed “Not Cruiser--Destroyer” on the sheet of paper.

  “I heard Carousel was just commissioning, sir . . .”

  “Never you mind about her. She’s commissioned already and anyway we only send people there who’re halfway round the bend to start with. Completes the process. Still, you don’t want a cruiser, do you?”

  “No, sir.”

  Commander Leanover printed Carousel and then, as an afterthought, firmly crossed out “cruiser.” As he did so, a telephone on the floor, behind the desk where Michael had not noticed it, began to ring. Commander Leanover shot out a foot and the telephone skidded along the bare boards to the limit of its lead. By a miracle the receiver remained on the rest and the telephone continued to ring.

  “Godblastit,” Commander Leanover muttered. He pulled the telephone towards him by its lead and growled into it.

  “Speak up! Yes. Speaking. Mr Smith-Smythe, if you will tell one of your assistants to bring his small pointed head up to my office this afternoon I’ll give him a whole filing cabinet full of correspondence.”

  Commander Leanover jammed the telephone down and kicked it back to the limit of the lead. Then he stared unbelievingly at Michael.

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Hobbes, sir. H-O-B-B . .

  “All right all right. No need to spell it. I’ve got it.” Commander Leanover crossed out “Holmes” and wrote “Hogg.” He leaned back and gazed at Michael triumphantly.

  “Tell you what Hogg, if there’s a chance of a destroyer in the next few days I’ll give you first shot at it. How’s that?”

  “That’s fine, sir! Thank you very much! But my name ...”

  “Good, first come first served. Now what was your name again. Just to make sure I’ve got it right.”

  “Hobbes, sir.”

  “Of course.”

  Painstakingly, with his tongue between his teeth, Commander Leanover wrote.

  “Right, Hobbes. That’s all. We always try to give people what they want. I wish you the very best of luck.”

  “Thank you very much, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me. We’re only here to help chaps like you. Not like the civil servants. Do you know what a civil servant had the bareface gall to tell me the other day?”

  “No, sir?”

  “He said ‘Of course, you know, we always look upon the Navy as just the “ships and men” side of the Admiralty.’ The sauce! B-loody pen-pusher! “

  Commander Leanover stood up and held out his hand. “We’re always glad to see people from sea here. Reminds us that there is a purpose in life. Don’t disturb them in the torture chamber next door as you go. They’re making out the new pay code in there.”

  Michael shook hands with Commander Leanover and found his way back through the corridors, down the stairs and out into the bright Westminster sunshine.

  Commander Leanover looked at the sheet of paper which now, through a mass of deletions, read--”Hobbes not destroyer--Carousel,” slipped it into his top drawer, and took out a pair of binoculars which he slung round his neck, settled his hat on his head, drew on his gloves, turned the notice on his door round to “TOO LATE” and sauntered leisurely towards lunch. At his table he tried to remember. What in hell was that keen young man’s name again. Hooper? Holland? Surely not Hotchkiss? Never mind, it was all on the sheet of paper. Commander Leanover happily ordered cottage pie and thanked God for the gift of a methodical mind.

  Glowing like a successful diplomat, Michael walked up Victoria Street to Westminster. At Parliament Square he turned into Storey’s Gate and so into St James’s Park.

  The trees had already begun to strip themselves for the winter. The bare grey bones of buildings stood up through the thinning branches and the paths in the park were piled with leaves where the keepers had swept them. It was the time of year when the starlings whirled earlier every evening in Trafalgar Square beneath a cherry red glow in the sky and the frost tingle in the mornings brought a stiffening of the spirit and a bracing of the muscles to resist the coming winter.

  Michael walked along beside the lake, up to the Mall and through
Green Park. There were telephone booths at Hyde Park Corner.

  “May I speak to Miss Mary Bendix, please?”

  “Michael darling, it is me!”

  “Oh hullo. How are you?”

  “Don’t you know my voice after all this time?”

  “Well, I always want to make sure. Did you know you could walk from Westminster to Kensington Palace in parks all the way? That’s miles.”

  “Darling Michael, that’s not an original thought.”

  “It is for me. People are always telling me London is all houses and it’s not true.”

  “Was that what you telephoned me for?”

  “Not really. I was going to ask you, would you like to come and have lunch with me?”

  “Oh Michael, I did tell you, I’m having lunch with a girl friend today. I’m sure I told you. She’s going to South Africa next week for a year and I promised I’d have lunch with her before she went.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  “But I expect it’ll be all right for you to come when we’ve finished. It’s that place in Conduit Street I told you about, where all the girls go for lunch. Do you want to come?”

  “Good God no.”

  “I’ll see you tonight then?”

  “What’s happening tonight?”

  “Darling, don’t sound so suspicious! It’s Sonia's party. You remember, the girl I used to share a flat with.”

  “Oh God yes, I remember her. Tall girl with black hair and come-to-bed eyes always saying ‘since Daddy got his title.’ “

  “Miauow.”

  “Well, it is what she’s always saying.”

  “I know, but it’s catty to mention it.”

  “Are you sure you can’t have lunch with me?”

  “Quite sure, darling. I promised her.”

  “Oh well, I’ll see you tonight then.”

  “Yes.”

  “Mary?”

  “Yes.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too, Michael. Aren’t we lucky? See you tonight.”

  The party was in a five-storeyed house in Earls Court which had been split into several small flats. Sonia’s flat was on the top floor but Michael and Mary could hear the sounds of the party as they came up the stairs.

  “What’s this party for, anyway?” Michael asked.

  “It’s a house-warming party. Sonia gives one every time she gets a new flat. And she normally has to get a new flat after every house-warming party so she moves around a bit.”

  “I wonder if one bottle will be enough?”

  They had to force their way through the room. Michael could see nobody he knew. A gramophone was humming unintelligibly in one corner. Next to it, a couple were swaying backwards and forwards, their arms clasped about each other’s necks. On a sofa along one wall another couple were sitting, their faces invisible. There was no sign of Sonia.

  “Shall we bother to say hullo to Sonia?” Michael asked.

  “She’s in the bathroom with a Royal Fusilier if you want her,” a tall young man said, over his shoulder. “Well, if it isn’t Mary! And you’ve brought your tame admirer with you.”

  “Oh, don’t be so unpleasant, Stephen,” Mary said.

  It was the first time Michael had seen Stephen since the party, almost six years before, when he first met Mary. Stephen was even bigger and more self-assured than Michael remembered him. He was wearing a brocade waistcoat embroidered with chrysanthemums; it seemed to Michael that chrysanthemums were Stephen’s trademark, what George Dewberry would have called his leitmotiv.

  “We’re supposed to congratulate Stephen, Michael,” Mary said.

  “Whatever for?”

  Stephen laughed the laugh which so infuriated Michael. “I’ve just been made Naval Correspondent.”

  “Not of the ‘Daily Disaster’?”

  “S’right. The word came down from Mount Sinai that we shall have a Naval Correspondent again. The question was, who? There was some talk about getting a retired N.O. for the job, but they’re always awkward. They insist on the details always being right and they’re ashamed to look their old chums in the face. I said I’d done my National Service in the Navy so they gave me the job.”

  “Perhaps now you’re a correspondent you’d like to know something about the Navy . . .”

  “Don’t fuss yourself, old man. The last one had the job for twenty years and never set foot in a ship in his life. He used to do the chess paragraph. That kept him occupied except on Navy Days or when some Admiral appeared in court when he put in a bit of overtime.”

  “Are you in the Navy?” asked the girl who had been talking to Stephen.

  “Anne, my dear!” said Stephen as though he had forgotten all about her, “I quite forgot! You haven’t met Michael and Mary. The biggest thing since Romeo and Juliet! It’s taken them a hell of a long time but they’re there now. Anne, this is Mary and the chap with the Players Please expression who looks as if he’d like to assault me is Michael. Michael does spend his off moments in the Navy. It’s a living.”

  Anne was a very pretty girl with dark wavy hair, deep blue eyes and a short turned-up nose. She looked innocent and eager to please. Michael wondered where she had met Stephen.

  “My brother was in the Navy,” Anne said.

  “Oh?” Michael was not surprised. Everyone he met had a brother or a cousin or a friend in the Navy; or else a sister, cousin or friend in the Wrens. It was always strange that Michael had never met them; their name was Smith and they were based at Portsmouth.

  “Was he doing his National Service in the Navy?” Michael asked politely.

  “Oh no, he was going to make it his career. Only he was drowned when he was a cadet.”

  “What was your brother’s name?” Michael asked slowly, with a terrible inkling.

  “Ted Maconochie. Did you know him?”

  “He was in my term.”

  “Was he. Then you know what happened?”

  “Honestly, Anne . . .”

  “Michael please! We had a telegram from the Admiralty and the Captain of the ship wrote to Daddy and then we had a sweet letter from someone called Lieutenant Commander Badger and then nothing more.”

  “Oh, I remember this,” Stephen said. “We had a picture of the capsized boat on the middle page and ...”

  “Shut up Stephen! “ Mary said fiercely.

  Michael was surprised to discover that he was still able, after so long a time, to be shocked by the memory of Ted Maconochie’s death. He remembered now the dark sky, the waves crashing in their faces, Paul Vincent counting the heads, Tom Bowles’s face, and the Australian Cartwright staying underwater longer than any of them and coming up without Maconochie. He described for Anne her brother’s death.

  “. . The boat just capsized and he didn’t come up with the rest of us,” he ended lamely. He was horrified to see the tears in Anne’s eyes.

  “He was so keen on the Navy,” Anne said. “He was going to do so well. When his Uniform came ... I thought Mummy was going to die of pride.”

  “Yes, well. . . Matters were now beyond Michael’s control. He thrust his hand through his hair and looked distractedly round the room. The couple by the gramophone had broken away from each other.

  “Excuse me,” Michael said. “I think there’s someone over there I know.”

  “Michael!” Mary put her hand on his arm. “You’re not going?”

  “Be back in a minute.”

  Michael pushed through to the gramophone.

  “Hullo Paul.”

  “Michael! You old son of a gun! How are you? How’s the great romance going? It’s good to see you again, Mike.” Paul Vincent was older and more handsome. His hair was greying and he had lines by his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. He was the only man present not wearing a lounge suit. He wore a red sweater, grey slacks and a black scarf. He reminded Michael of the leader of a French underground resistance cell.

  “Never mind anything just now, Paul. You see that girl over there
talking to Mary? She’s Ted Maconochie’s sister and I’m in trouble talking about that damn boat.”

  “She’s very good-looking.”

  “For God’s sake, Paul, come and help me out.” Recognizing an emergency, Paul dropped his partner and crossed the room with Michael.

  “Anne, I’d like you to meet a good friend of mine, Paul Vincent. He’s also in the Navy and he was, in fact, in that boat too. He plays cricket for the Navy as well and . . . um Paul, this is Anne.”

  Accelerating swiftly from Michael’s rather clumsy start, Paul took charge. He changed the subject and quickly changed Anne’s tears to smiles.

  “Thank God for that,” Michael breathed. “Trust him to notice her perfume. I wish I had half his finesse.”

  Mary brushed a lock of hair from Michael’s forehead. “Never mind darling. I love you just as you are. You couldn’t help that just now. It was very bad luck. And at least Paul’s got rid of Stephen.”

  Paul appeared beside them carrying a couple of drinks. “My!” he said, “Fancy old Ted having a sister. I would have thought she would have been some little horror who accused respectable men in court of having raped her and had crushes on the games mistress.”

  “I had a crush on my games mistress,” Mary said. “I was absolutely sponk on her.”

  “You were what?”

  “Sponk!”

  “Oh, did you have that word at your school too, Mary?”

  “Yes!”

  Mary and Anne together fell into a fit of giggling. “You’d better have this drink, Mike,” Paul said. “The distaff side appear to be getting their intoxication by mutual support. Now tell me, what have you been doing with yourself since I last saw you?”

  “Nothing wildly exciting. I thought of being a submariner but they were over-subscribed so I went as Pilot of Octopus doing Portland running for a year. Then I went to a coastal minesweeper and now I’m waiting for a new job. I hope to do a long ‘N’ course sometime.”

  “And what about all the others? I’ve been tucked away so long learning about engineering that I’ve got completely out of touch. I haven't seen a CW. List for two years.”

  “Tom Bowles and Ike Smith are both pilots. Tom’s at Lee and I think Ike’s just gone out to the Med. Raymond Ball’s a submariner in Australia. Freddie Spink is somebody’s assistant secretary in Hong Kong and George Dewberry is in Japan. What he’s doing there I can’t imagine. Colin Stacforth is Flags to C.-in-C. Rockall and Malin Approaches and Pete Cleghorn is Pilot in Vertigo. He’s engaged now.”