The first lieutenant had opened the door of the adjoining compartment, the petty officers' mess. Much younger, some only twenty-two years of age, the petty officers were typical of this age-group in today's Britain. After talking to them, he sensed that several had joined with one eye on the world outside — he would have to get to know these men better: they had decorated their mess in an effort to transform the rectangular steel box into a facsimile of a London pub. But instead of the royal portraits and the restrained prints of pastoral England adorning the chiefs' mess, the bulkheads in the petty officers' mess were garishly decorated with nudes from girlie magazines. Continuing his rounds, he visited the junior rates' messdecks — in one of which he recognized L/RO Osgood; then the galleys; the combined recreation room and dining-rooms. In the sleeping accommodation — where each man had his own fore-and-aft bunk — the junior rates were packed in close, the senior rates being marginally better off.
'The petty officers' quarters, sir.'
The first lieutenant stood with his back against the door. The communications yeoman, one of the senior petty officers, was standing by the bunks which were adorned by pin-ups of ladies wearing nothing but toothsome smiles. Here was another key man on whom Trevellion would greatly depend. He was broad-shouldered and squat, with the dark skin and steady eyes of a Cornishman.
'Where you from, Yeoman?'
'Sennen Cove, sir.'
The music in the name struck a chord in Trevellion's memory: Rowena and he had often driven out to the cove during the winter months to watch the Atlantic seas smashing against the rocks and rolling up the beach….
'You're the only other Cornishman, sir,' the yeoman grinned. ' The ship'll be all right now, sir.'
Trevellion smiled: the relationship between yeoman and cap-So tain was special. He edged out from the cabin, the first lieutenant backing from the door; on the door against which Jewkes had been leaning was a huge, rampant phallic symbol, complete with genitalia.
Pascoe glanced at it; then at the petty officer; finally at Jewkes who turned away in embarrassment, uttering something which the captain ignored. Trevellion walked on in silence to visit the next cabin, before inspecting the sonar compartment deep in the bowels of the ship; then into the diesel generator compartment and the engine-room, before finally visiting the Weapons Engineer Officer's department: the radio rooms, the electronic warfare offices and the switchboards.
Last night, during the hours when sleep eluded him, his sense of unease about this ship had been impossible to dispel. Now, as exhaustion propelled him to sleep, he realized that he must bide his time, an exercise at which he knew he was inept: what he had heard and seen during his rounds yesterday afternoon were only first impressions and probably superficial. As he lapsed into sleep, his thoughts were of Rowena to whom he had not yet had a chance to write.
'Four-thirty, sir.'
Trevellion heard Rowlans' words, but he was disorientated, unable at once to grasp where he was — and then he saw the steward's friendly face, the proffered cup of tea. ' The navigator is ready to see you, sir.'
Pascoe hauled himself from his bunk, downed the strong tea, pulled himself together: he felt refreshed and he could at least now think straight. He could see the outline of the navigator outside the curtained doorway, charts and books in his hands.
'Come in, Pilot.'
Trevellion knew he could lay on an easy manner when he wished, but today he would remain remote — and particularly with his navigating officer, Lieutenant Brian Neame.
'Draw up a chair, Pilot. Spread the chart on the table: more comfortable here than up in the charthouse.'
According to the Appointer, Neame had collected a bad report. But while discussing the passage plans with him, Trevellion suspected that Neame's supercilious facade was covering up a lack of confidence.
'You're under report,' Trevellion said, facing Neame squarely. ' Let's forget that. Do your job to the best of your ability, that's all I ask of you. Now, how are we going to get Icarus out of Bermuda and through the Narrows?'
Neame was an 'ex-Dart', heavily built and beefy with a red face and small pouting mouth. He began to relax as he presented his passage plan but Trevellion could not help sensing the considerable chip on Neame's shoulder. He seemed to have little time for anyone and his sarcasm irritated Trevellion — a pity, because the navigating officer could take much of the weight from a captain's shoulders even if, as in Neame's case, he has not excelled in his navigating course.
The first lieutenant was tapping on the doorway. He peered through the curtain:
'I forgot to ask you, sir… you'll join us for sherry before dinner?'
'Certainly, Number One. Thanks.'
Neame was rolling up the charts; Rowlans was laying out Trevellion's mess undress for dinner. Pascoe Trevellion looked forward with mixed feelings to meeting his officers unofficially.
5
'Coming ashore, Oz?'
L/RO Osgood heard his oppo shouting through the hatchway.
'How long have I got?' he yelled back.
'Seven minutes to libertymen.'
It was rare for Niv Fane and he to share a run ashore: Niv, a Leading Marine Engineering Mechanic, worked a different watchkeeping rota when the engine room was hard pressed.
It took Niv and Oz over an hour to reach Hamilton. Loaded with British, Americans, Dutch and Germans from the STANAVFORLANT force, the craft wallowed past Hogfish Beacon and up the Big Ship Channel to Two Rock Passage; it was hard to believe that Bermuda had always been the base for the Royal Navy's American and West Indies Squadron….
Then they were ashore, idly wandering through Hamilton's bustling mainstreet, one side flanked by its green, pink and chocolate-coloured shop fronts. Gharries, drawn by flea-bitten nags, threaded through the crowd of American tourists. The tang of cedarwood smelt sweet and the varnished woodwork of the shop facades gleamed in the sunlight — evidence of the days when, before disease killed them, Bermuda was clothed by its cedar trees. Niv and Oz bought their presents, their last chance before returning to Plymouth. 'What've you got Merle?' Niv asked.
Osgood held up the print, an airy watercolour of delicate blues, white walls and hot, grey dust.
'It's different from the usual,' he said. ' Don't suppose we'll be back again and it'll be something to remember.'
Niv was fingering a pink coral bracelet. ' My old woman'll like this___'
Back in the glare of the sunlight, Osgood took a photograph of the harbour to show Merle. He felt at ease with Niv: though he was two years older he had developed into a good friend. They walked on swapping yarns about their families, sharing the confidences of their private lives. Niv was a good messmate, patient when listening to eulogies about Merle, Oz's 22-year-old wife, and Debbie, their year-old daughter. During those first difficult months when Oz was rated-up to leading hand, Niv had backed him up.
'C'mon, Oz,' Niv said, elbowing him through the jostling herd on the street. 'Let's get out of this. The place stinks of money.'
Cut-away power boats with towering top-hampers careered across the bays, bow-waves splashing in the sparkling blue. Under-dressed and over-weight matrons in Bermuda shorts, with clacking mouths and clicking cameras monopolized the pavements.
'Let's get out to the coast, up to Gibb's Hill,' Osgood suggested. 'The old shopkeeper told me you can see the whole island from the lighthouse.' They carried on a desultory conversation but failed to avoid the subject of the ship and her new captain.