The war had moved closer again. Perhaps that was it. Along these shores they had seen enough of it, but never before had they been so involved in what was now inevitable.
Here in Polruan, directly opposite the place which even in memory had become his only home, Ransome could sense it. It was no longer the free-and-easy village it had been even during the darkest days of the war. There were troops and armoured vehicles all around, just as the vessels which would soon carry them into battle on the other side of the English Channel filled every creek and river, until invasion seemed to become a secret quite impossible to keep.
In other parts of the world the conflict raged on. In the Pacific and on the Russian front, where millions were said to have perished in that last bitter winter. In Burma, the forgotten Fourteenth Army was no longer in retreat, and even if the Allies in Italy were making only slow progress there were other benefits. The Italians, at least those lucky enough to be on the right side of the lines, had surrendered to the Allies, their fleet secured under the guns of Malta, a great achievement which had once seemed like a pipe-dream.
But the here and the now were more relevant. The sandbagged gun emplacements, the depressing barriers of barbed wire on tiny Cornish beaches where children had once explored and played. Many of them would now be in uniform, waiting for D-Day.
Ransome wondered what his parents really thought about the cottage in Polruan. Local people would know about it soon enough, but the events to come might put it into perspective.
He had mentioned this again to Eve when he had telephoned her to say that he was free at last to come to her.
She had replied, ‘Just come. I’ll be waiting. It has to be there, Ian. Don’t you see? I want it to be clean, decent. To be able to face anyone and say, This is how it was. No matter what.’
Ransome turned and looked at the little pub, The Lugger, where he had taken her on that, sunny day. Bare-legged, her eyes sometimes so grave, at other times laughing like another voice. Too young to go inside for a drink, but now he knew that she had loved him even then.
When he had called her from Falmouth to tell her he had secured the cottage she had gasped with disbelief.
‘How did you manage it?’
He smiled now. Manage it? Old Isaac Proby who owned three of the little cottages had been more than eager to let him take it. People did not come here for their holidays any more. There were too many restricted areas, warnings of minefields, forbidden walks along the cliffs.
Old Proby had added, ‘I’ll air the place out. They gets a bit damp, y’know.’
Ransome walked up the little pavement. On one side it was a wall, to lean on and reflect, with a lower bank of cottages below, and then the water.
He paused to rest his elbows on the worn stones. It was really happening. So it must be as she wanted it. There might be pain enough later. He stared hard at the racing current, the way some moored landing-craft tugged at their cables and nearly dragged their buoys beneath the surface.
It was going to be soon. They had been briefed and briefed until they could digest no more. Ships, commanders, landing instructions, army units, the whole strategy of invasion.
Many would fall that day, whenever it was. Some, like the disfigured airmen he had seen in the abbey, would wish they had.
He must give her no hint, no suggestion of what might smash down their happiness. It was a matter of odds, luck, and fate. He had now been over two years in command of Rob Roy, with thousands of miles steamed, and countless mines swept and rendered harmless. At the beginning he had imagined he would survive six months, and no longer. Today he was on borrowed time. The most dangerous of all.
He shook himself and walked more quickly up the sloping pavement.
There were plenty of khaki and blue uniforms about and he was glad to reach the tiny passageway which led to the cottage’s entrance. Away from the salutes, the curious stares, an occasional twitch of curtains as he passed.
The rugged stones of the cottage were newly painted, and the tiny garden at the rear was a vivid confusion of rhododendrons and blue and purple lupins. The gardens of these cottages were allowed to grow much as they pleased, but Ransome knew that somebody had made an effort to tidy this one up.
The door flew open and she held out her arms to him.
He held her very tightly, his mouth brushing her long hair, neither of them speaking.
Beyond her he saw more flowers, and some fresh rhododendrons which she must have cut from the bushes and had arranged in a large copper pot.
There was a fire burning in the grate of the living-room and she twisted round in his arms as he took her through the door.
She said, ‘I had to light it, May or not. It was so damp!’ She was laughing, helping him with his cap and jacket, waiting for him to lose his nervousness. It was something she had not felt for a long while. Since the last time they had been together? Or when she had discovered the hidden photograph? It seemed like something destined. What she had wanted, always wanted. Now, with the door closed, and the sunlight reflecting on a framed print of Polperro, she wanted only for him to be happy, to feel at peace.
Ransome looked at the table, the knives and forks. ‘But they’re—’
She nodded, her eyes shining. ‘Your father sent them across from your house, and some other things too.’ A little of her courage faded and she added, ‘I didn’t bring much. It was a bit difficult.’
She waited for him to sit beside, if not in front of the fire, and watched as he filled his pipe. She looked around the room, remembering all those holidays, but picturing it as it might have been. A dog perhaps, or a cat like Jellicoe drowsing on the wall with one eye on the gulls.
She knelt by his legs and rested her head on his knees so that her hair hung down to the floor.
She said, ‘I must ask. How long do we have?’
Ransome tried not to picture the ship, the other minesweepers waiting for the final decisions to be made. Sherwood had suggested that the whole thing might be postponed indefinitely despite all the weight of preparations. The Met reports were unfavourable. But so had they been before Sicily. And all the while the great armada waited. Ships and men. Flesh and steel.
if I’m not recalled, two days.’
‘There’s no telephone here.’ It was like a cry of protest.
He ruffled her hair. It was like warm silk. ‘They always find a way.’
The coastguard knew where he would be. A message would reach him in minutes. After that —
Eve said, ‘We can have some walks?’ She looked up at him, searching his face. ‘Please?’
‘Of course. Lots.’
She lowered her chin to his knee. ‘Your father sent a message too.’ Her mouth trembled but she made another effort. ‘He wrote that he would look after me when you left. That he would drive me—’ She broke off and wrapped her arms around him. ‘Not yet, dearest Ian. Please, not yet.’
Ransome reached out to his jacket, which hung on a chair. He had intended to wait, but now she needed him: it was no longer just the other way around.
He took out a small package. ‘I meant to get a proper box. Anyway you might not like it, it was just an impulse. I—’
She pulled off the wrapping and held the ring up to the sunlight. It seemed to glow, first red then white, the tiny rubies and diamonds flowing into each other.
In a small voice she asked, ‘Where did you get it?’
Ransome took it gently from her and looked at it. Rob Roy had been in Alexandria and he had been ordered to Cairo, to meet some senior officers who had apparently been involved in supplying weapons to the partisans. Their beliefs and their politics did not matter. If they hated the Germans enough to pull a trigger they would be given arms to use for the job. God alone knew whgt would happen when the partisans and the vague resistance groups went back to being bandits again.