‘Gresley,’ he said. ‘Ernest Gresley. Rorke’s Drift, Ladysmith, Mons. They retired me after Mons. Too old, they said.’
Cal shook the hand. There was a tacit invitation to join him. The old man was older than he thought. He’d stated his credentials, rattled off his resume-and he must be eightyish to have seen Rorke’s Drift. Cal was in awe of the old boy. He was fascinated. This man had fought as a redcoat. The uniform had scarcely changed from the Battle of Long Island in 1776 to the Zulu Wars a hundred years later. Imagine being back in Washington and being able to say he’d met with a real redcoat.
But he had no idea what to say to this. Stating his own credentials was pointless. He’d encountered the enemy only once in his life-and that was last night. He could not hold his own with this. He couldn’t sit and make small talk with an old redcoat. It was an English day. Let them have their day. He knew it was shitty behaviour, but he muttered an ‘excuse me’ and left. An entire crew lost. Good God, they didn’t need his two cents’ worth.
He found himself in Soho-killing time. He sat in cafés, watched the English hunched over their newspapers, spread the width of tables, nicotined fingers stabbing down at the paper-the strategy of the Cafeteria Corps. After a couple of cafés he knew there was unanimity among the armchair warriors-we, it always was ‘we’, were going to get the Bismarck. The Earth was not big enough to hide her. He bought a copy of the Evening Herald’s early edition-the loss of the Hood was, it seemed, a body blow. If Dunkirk had been victory snatched from the jaws of defeat, then this was plainly irredeemable by propaganda. Fourteen hundred men had died on the pride of the fleet, and the Bismarck had steamed away from the battle. There was an article, an obituary for a ship, written by Alexei Troy-he’d heard that name before somewhere, hadn’t he?-recalling the twenty or more years in which the Hood had sailed the world as an ironic ambassador for peace; how the Hood had flown the flag in all the old ports of empire, and how he himself had seen the largest battleship afloat glide through the Golden Gate into San Francisco to the roaring cheers of an old enemy. And then how its first taste of action had been the unenviable, ignominious sinking of the French fleet at Oran after the surrender. Fourteen hundred men had gone down with the Hood. And with the British still in pursuit of the Bismarck, the death toll could not but rise.
Early in the evening, he was lying on his bed. The telephone rang and announced Sergeant Stilton. He could hardly believe this. What was Kitty thinking of? He found out soon enough.
She was in civvies, a plain black two-piece. Her face scraped white with misery. Eyes red and watery. A handbag, scarcely big enough to hold a handkerchief. He’d never seen her with a handbag before. He’d never seen her out of uniform before. He’d seen her strip it off ad libidinum-but she’d never arrived wearing anything else.
‘You gotta come home with me. I can’t stand it no more. I been there since breakfast. It’s driving me mad.’
‘Kitty-I can’t intrude on your family’s grief
‘Intrude ain’t got nothing to do with it. If you come they’ll pay attention to something outside their own misery. If something doesn’t snap ‘em to we’ll all drown. Just get your coat and come with me, please.’
‘Kitty-it’s been less than a day!’
‘It’s been thirteen bleedin’ hours. I counted every bleedin’ minute of ‘em. An’ I can’t take no more. Get yer coat!’
They caught a cab outside the hotel. Cal had half-wondered on the way down whether he’d find her motorbike outside-but she flagged a cab and said, ‘You’ll have to pay. I got no money.’ He was happy to pay. Anything was better than the thought of driving up to Jubilee Street on the back of that motorbike. It seemed an indignity pushed to an insult-an insult to Walter and Edna Stilton and their two dead boys.
‘Who’s there?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘At your parents’. I mean, is the whole family there?”An’ the rest. Half the neighbours. Me mum’s sisters been there most of the day. The vicar been round. That was nice for me mum. Told her Kev and Trev was ‘eroes. Me dad wouldn’t talk to him. Atheist me dad is. Me mum cries all the time an’ me dad puffs on his pipe and says nothin’. Would you believe it, he’s been married to her for thirty-odd years an’ ‘e don’t know what to say to ‘er? Vera’s taken over the kitchen. She’s in her element. And she’s in control. Miss Greenlees makes a thousand pots of tea and keeps askin’ everyone if they want more. She’s shot through a fortnight’s tea ration in less than a day. If she asks me again I’ll clock ‘er one. They don’t need me. Really they don’t. They got all the fuss one family can ‘andle. But I can’t duck out of it. I only got out by tagging on to the aunts when they left. But I got to go back. They won’t let me duck out.’
‘So I have to duck in?’
‘You got it. That’s exactly what it is. I need you. Right now I need you.’
They were emotive words, uttered wholly without emotion. He was not a necessity in her life. He was a convenience.
§48
Walter was standing in the hallway when they arrived. The telephone pressed to his ear, saying ‘I see’ over and over.
Kitty waited till he’d finished.
‘News, dad?’
‘Aye. That mate o’ mine at the Admiralty. Those three blokes the Navy picked up. A midshipman, a signalman and an able seaman. No leading seamen.’
For a moment Cal was not there. They could neither of them see him or acknowledge him. Then Kitty said ‘That’s it then. We know now, don’t we.’
Walter disappeared into the parlour to shatter his wife’s last hope. Kitty led Cal down the stairs to the basement, pulling on his hand like a child dragging a reluctant father to the shops.
Vera was at the range, swapping pans around like a juggler. Grim-faced, stripped of make-up, sleeves up and tearless. Losing herself in her own efficiency. Miss Greenlees hovered with the kettle until Vera swore at her and snatched it away.
‘I was only going to make a cup of tea. I’m sure Captain Cormack would like a nice cup of tea.’
‘He’d love a nice cup of tea,’ said Kitty. ‘We both would.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Vera. ‘How much bleedin’ tea do you have to drink to bring back the dead?’
She slammed the kettle onto the hob. Miss Greenlees fled in tears. Cal wished he could follow her.
‘Vera, for God’s sake…’ Kitty began.
‘Don’t Vera me. She’s been wittering on at me all day. You sloped off, you sly tart. You’ve had a break from her. You’ve had a break from all of ‘em. Don’t start on me!’
‘I did not slope off!’
‘You sloped off all the way to Claridge’s. You been up West. If that ain’t slopin’ off I don’t know what is. You left me ‘ere on me jack jones to get a meal for us all. Kitty, you’re me sister, me own flesh and blood, and you’re about as much use as a fart in a colander.’
Walter appeared in the doorway.
‘Will you two shut up. This is meant to be a house in mournin’-or had neither of you noticed?’
The women turned their backs on him. Walter’s attention turned to Cal.
‘The missis’d like a word, Calvin. If you’ve a moment.’
Cal had not anticipated this. He had come for Kitty. He’d sink back into the wallpaper. No one would notice him. No one would ask anything of him.
‘I’ve all the time in the world, Walter. But I’ve no idea what I can possibly say.’
‘You don’t have to say anythin’ lad. Let our Edna do the talking. You’re a servin’ soldier, after all. That’s what matters to our Edna. Just to be able to talk to another man in uniform. Someone as knows what it’s like.’