Sir Anthony Layde rose briskly from his desk. A burly figure, with his characteristic purposeful stride, he had nearly reached the briefing desk when the red telephone on his desk shrilled. In the silence throughout the large underground room, only the purring of the ventilation system was audible. He glanced up from the instrument at his key officers. He nodded, murmured his thanks, then slowly put down the phone. He returned briskly to the briefing desk.
'The Prime Minister, gentlemen.' He glanced at the other two Defence Chiefs. 'The Americans are standing firm in Iceland. The Soviets have just informed the United States that they consider the American move to be one of aggression. The Soviets therefore have to review their relationship with NATO'S ally closest to the Soviet northern frontier. They also state that the communist minority element in Finnmark is demanding Soviet protection. As a precaution against similar NATO aggression in Northern Norway, the Soviets are starting their winter exercises forthwith: in the Murmansk area, the Kola Peninsular, and on the central front.' He faced them all, folded his arms: ' The Americans are calling for a show of resolution from the North Atlantic Alliance. The United States will begin reinforcing Europe across the Atlantic by air lift the instant that NATO shows its resolve to resist.' He paused. ' The Prime Minister has ordered me, as Chief of the Defence Staff, to bring the fighting Services immediately to Alert State Two, gentlemen.' He turned towards the VCNS:
'Get the Fleet to sea, Charles,' he ordered coolly. 'Quietly, without fuss. Inform the major NATO commanders what you are doing.'
14
A pallid sun dodged from behind the sombre clouds building up from the tors above Yelverton. Margaret Burns pulled the blanket up around the dark head crooked into the hollow of her shoulder. Corporal Roderick Burns, Royal Marines, her Roddy, had come home at last, a day earlier than expected — and she sighed with contentment as she glanced at her man lying in her arms.
These two hours would slip away too swiftly: Rod and she were on their own for two hours, the children being out until six o'clock — and she smiled to herself at the memory of his telephone call from the dockyard yesterday morning, just catching her before she left for the Saturday market.
They had been very good to her. The Royal Marine Barracks had somehow organized a sergeant to call round to tell her that Icarus was anchoring late in the Sound on that Friday night. In spite of the hour and the cold, she had wrapped up the kids and taken them down in the bus to the Civic Centre. She would remember for ages the excitement as they hurried up Lockyer Street to the Hoe — and then Cherry's cry as she saw the navigation lights of the frigate stealing slowly into the Sound. The green and red lights glowed so brightly, seemed so close — and then from the stillness on the Hoe they had heard the rattle of cable and her anchor splashing into the water. ' Is Daddy in that boat?' Cherry had asked, wide-eyed (Rod's favourite, she knew, though he would never confess it: he loved their two sons, but his only daughter, just beginning to boss her elder brothers, was very special).
Now he was stirring beside her and she thrilled to his touch while he slowly re-awakened: he always enjoyed the second time better, after these long partings. She was waiting impatiently, longing to give him more even than he craved: she gloried in these reunions, these fresh honeymoons when he came home. She half-turned, waiting for his eyes to open…
It was Rod who had the idea of parking out the kids this in
afternoon — tonight his mother and father were arriving for the Christmas week-end which meant that Rod and she camped out in the living-room. So she had thought of Merle Osgood who was always keen to have the sprogs, as amusement for their spoilt little Debbie. Merle was a bit shallow, but Margaret remained friendly with her because of their mutual friendship with the Fanes. Poor Gwen — she was knocked sideways by Niv's death. After the shock, she had let it be known that she preferred her own company for the time being: her friends had respected her wishes.
Merle had not been at home (three milk bottles were stacked by the backdoor) so Margaret had been round to her own parents. Giving her a huge wink, Dad had jumped at the chance of taking the kids for the afternoon. So she and Rod were sharing these two hours together… and then she saw the hands of their bedside clock already creeping to half-past three. She climbed over him and began brushing her lips across his mouth… he was reaching for her, loving her, when she thought she heard the chimes of their doorbell. She stiffened, listening for a repetition of the chime; then she heard it, definitely ringing again. She pulled herself from him, flung on her blue housecoat and pattered down the stairs. Through the stained glass she could see the shadow of a man, a big fellow, standing on the step outside. She smoothed her hair, glanced in the hall mirror and opened the door.
'Oh…' she forced a smile, felt her heart slump. ' It's you, Sergeant Phillips. You want Roddy?'
The sergeant was saluting, shifting from one foot to the other. 'Won't you come in? I'll fetch my husband.' She opened the door wide.
'No, thanks, Mrs Burns. I've come officially…' He glanced at the next-door house, hesitating. ' We don't want to advertise it, but your husband has to return to his ship at once.'
Her hand flew to her mouth, but the little cry escaped her lips. ' What's he done?' she asked softly. ' He's in trouble?'
'No, Mrs Burns, 'course not. It's just that his Commanding Officer is away in another ship. Corporal Burns is in charge of the Royal Marine detachment in Icarus.' ' What's he got to do then?'
'Report immediately on board, that's all I know. The ship's ordered to sea. Exercises.'
He saluted again, awkward, hesitating, then let himself out through the front gate and disappeared down the pavement.
Gwendoline Fane folded the cloth, threaded it through the drying-up arrangement Niv had made for her during his last leave. Hot and sticky after the Sunday dinner, she glanced at herself in the mirror: was the drawn face staring back at her that of the same Mrs Fane who ten days ago was longing for her husband's Christmas homecoming? She touched her black hair, swept up at the back as he had always liked it, even though the grey flecks showed more that way…. Although she was only twenty-seven that haggard face was ten years older, with grey half-moons beneath her eyes. And the eyes he had loved filled with tears, in spite of herself: for any little thing which reminded her of him, still triggered the agony of emotion….
She had stopped feeling sorry for herself, knowing how he would have despised her lack of guts. Mass this morning had helped. Father O'Connor had been understanding, given her the strength she needed. Thirteen days since Niv's death in the fire — eight days since the funeral on that terrible Saturday morning in the mizzling rain. They'd buried him in the Naval Cemetery, done the thing properly, as he would have liked.
Niv's parents took care of her for a couple of days, but she had wanted to come home, in spite of the memories; and today she'd done her best for the kids — they wouldn't get a joint like that again for a long while. She had cancelled Niv's order for a telephone and the neighbours were helping to find a smaller place close to the school which the kids enjoyed.
One ordeal she could not bring herself to face again for a bit was to read those wonderful letters from the ship. Captain Trevellion was coming to see her when he could manage it.
She was filling the kettle in the kitchen when she thought she heard a knock on the door; she turned off the tap… There it was again. She slipped out of her apron, smoothed back her hair, slicked her eyebrows with her fingertips, and hurried to the window: through the lace curtain she could see a man outside, a sailor in uniform, with his back to her. Her heart began racing as she hurried in to the hall and opened back the door.