Frigate

'I've seen enough of the bloody Atlantic to last me my life,' Hob replied. 'I've got other ideas…' and he had loved her again before getting ready for church. ' I'm thinking things out a bit, Allie,' he said quietly, as they swallowed their coffee afterwards. ' In choppers we get used to casualties, but that death we had in the ship… and the fact that we've now got a bloody good CO, a man who makes us think about why we're really flogging about the Atlantic…'

'If you will fly those rotating machines,' she added softly, leaning across the wooden table to kiss him. ' I don't want my lovely husband taken from me.'

He'd told her not to be so bloody silly, and they had gone up to the little chapel. It was warm inside, as the Cornish voices lifted to the Christmas carols. 'Who said that the church was dead?' he asked afterwards, as they drove off to lunch with his mother.

Never had she been so happy.

They left Hob's mother when the light began drawing in. He had switched on his headlights just after Wendron.

'Here we go,' he shouted above the revving of the engine as he changed down to swing into the home straight. ' Tea and bed, Mrs Gamble.'

The kettle was simmering even before he had locked up. Mascot, their black and grey setter, wriggled off his wetness, from nose-tip to tail. ' Filthy animal,' Hob shouted, before drying off the bedraggled hound.

'Cornish cream…' she said. ' Your mum gave it to me.'

'She's happy about us, isn't she?' he said. 'You know she's longing for us to have a family.'

She nodded, stared into his eyes. 'Are you changing your mind, Hob… about our family, I mean?'

'Do you want our child?' he asked. ' My parents' separation has made me cautious. I want to be absolutely certain.' He tried to take her into his arms, but she held him off:

'Why did they part, Hob?'

'Dad became obsessed with his questionable politics. He only held on to his civil service job through influence and bloody good luck. He's a bitter, twisted little man, they say. It's all washed up…'

'That won't ever happen to us,' she said softly, sliding into his arms. She hauled his sweater over his head, began unbuttoning his shirt. ' We're wasting time,' she said softly. ' It takes time making babies…'

'Not so very long,' he said. As he came for her, she heard the scrabbling of gravel outside in the lane. She drew away from him, listening… there, the clunk of a car door.

'Bloody hell,' he muttered.' Who the hell's this?'

She zipped up her jeans, then opened the green door between the bay windows. A black-and-white police car was stopped outside. One of the policemen was already trying the gate.

'Mrs Gamble? Is your husband in?'

'Yes-what is it?'

'We're sorry to disturb you on a Sunday afternoon, but Culdrose have got through to us. They couldn't raise you on the telephone this morning.'

'We've been out most of the day.'

'Sorry, madam… but Lieutenant Gamble has to report back to his ship.' She felt Hob's hands on her shoulders.

'You want me?' he asked, an edge to his question.

'Yes, sir. Your Commanding Officer wants you to report back to your ship.'

'Immediately?'

'Those are our instructions, sir. We are to drive you back to Devonport, if you have no transport. We can wait while you pack your things.'

She could sense his anger. She felt uneasy, aware of his quick temper.

'Can I see your papers, please?' he asked curtly. ' This doesn't make sense.'

The policeman fumbled for his identity card. ' Police Constable Trelawny, sir. PC Penfold is the driver,' he said tersely.

Hob sounded weary. ' Okay — but I'll put a call through first. Come in.'

She poured them lukewarm tea while she listened to Hob's resentful voice in the hall. ' Right, Number One. Bloody hell… I suppose so. There's no train now, but the police are being obliging. I'll pick up Rollo.'

He was pale and dragging at a cigarette when he returned to the kitchen.

'I'll drive you,' she said firmly. ' I can stay with Lucy for the night.' She glanced at the policemen: ' Thanks, we're sorry you've had to come out all this way.'

They picked up their chequered caps, moved awkwardly to the front door.

'Sorry, sir,' the driver said. 'But we often have to do this around here — your search and rescue squadron is on our beat.'

She glanced at her husband, pride warming her. He remained silent as he closed the garden gate on them. He put his arm about her, pushing her gently back into the cottage. Something choked in her throat and she could not speak.

There were nine others in the church on that Sunday, 23 December; nine regulars, not counting Miss Bakewell who was wrestling with the harmonium. Rowena Trevellion lowered her head, as the vicar pronounced the blessing. She heard him rustling down the aisle and then she climbed to her feet. Shivering from the dank cold of this little church, Wesleyan in style, towerless, ugly, but of rugged granite which befitted so well the Cornish character, she turned to help Pascoe with the wheel chair. Ben had behaved as well as was within his power; the parishioners were used to him and appeared to ignore his ceaseless grunts and jumbled laughter which were part of her existence. The Trevellions passed the time of day at the door, then they were out in the bitter wind, past the white latch-gate and into the lane for the walk back to the house via the pretty way. Pascoe enjoyed the glimpse of Carrick Roads, but they could not be too long today, because she was worried about the automatic oven and the leg of lamb…

She watched the tall, stooping figure she loved so much, jogging down the lane ahead of them and jostling the chair back-and-forth, while Ben chortled his delight. Pascoe cherished these moments, walking together as a family when he was home on leave. ' This gives me the stability I need,' he told her once after the accident. 'I want to bring up our family the way / want, not the way our modern society tries to make me do.' She had not forgotten his words and never had allowed the housekeeping chores to intervene, to separate her from him during these precious days.

'Over there, Ben… look, just above the rushes,' he called excitedly to them all.

As she caught up with them, she sighted the geese, a pair which had arrived last winter. Their white feathers were bright among the bulrushes at the head of the creek. Tears sprang to her eyes: why couldn't these golden moments last for ever? And why, for a few interludes only, once or twice a year when he was on leave?

Rags, their old Springer spaniel, suddenly burst upon them and floundered around them with frenzied barking.

'Ben, look, here's Rags. Down, old boy, down,' and Pascoe quietened the dog, allowing him to lick Ben's outstretched fingers. Ro hurried past them into the warmth of the hall; she had left on the gas heater for his homecoming yesterday. Without removing her coat, she went straight into the kitchen. As she opened the oven door, she heard the telephone ringing in the hall…. Still holding the oven cloth, she moved to the door.

Pascoe's back was turned to her, as he stared through the windows overlooking the bare beeches. He seemed to be listening, saying little, nodding his head. Then she heard his words, '… yes, sir, right away. I'll phone the First Lieutenant.'

She hurried into the hall, threw the cloth on to the bench in the corner.' No, Pascoe, no. Not today, Pascoe.'

He turned to her, his gaunt face strained:

'Merry Christmas,' he said, kissing her. 'That was my duty officer. Fleet has ordered Icarus to sea with all dispatch.'

He put his arms about her, held her tightly. ' If you'll drive me to the dockyard, I can be there by four.'

She dragged herself from him, rushed into the kitchen, blinded by her tears. She couldn't talk to him now: all her anxieties, the Bank Manager wanting to see her, the fees and Ben's first instalment for the residential home. She dashed the hot tears from her eyes, itched to hurl the spuds through the window.