Marshall Marmont’s pinnace thrust on up the length of the basin of the Port d’Echouage, past a tug and then the destroyers tied up at the quay to starboard, of which Sparrow was one. To port was the shipyard. At the head of the Port d’Echouage the way came off the pinnace as the engine slowed and she turned to slip in alongside the steps. Close by was the lock de la Citadelle that led to the basin where the French destroyers were berthed but right above was the quay where the fish market was held and its smell lingered.
Smith, by virtue of rank, was first out of the pinnace but then Garrick came up and they started to walk along the edge of the quay.
They headed for the Parc de la Marine and Trist’s headquarters, walking quickly. On their left was the old seamen’s quarter and as the doors of bars and cafes opened and closed they let out a murmur of sound and shafts of light, but for most of the time they were closed and the quayside lay dark and silent. There were gaps in the houses that made up the streets running back from the quay, marking where bombs had fallen. High above the town stood the Belfroi tower where the French had an observation post to watch for enemy aircraft or ships. But while they could warn of raiders, a lot still got through the guns and the fighters.
Smith walked in brooding silence. Garrick would be wondering about Smith’s plans for the flotilla and the bitter truth was that he had none. Not for a creeping monitor and an ancient torpedo-boat destroyer. He knew Trist had plans for them.
But Garrick asked, “This business of offensive action against U-boats, sir. What do you think about it?”
Smith told him.
Behind them in the Port d’Echouage the tug Lively Lady was snugged-in against the quay across from the shipyard and only fifty yards from Sparrow. Victoria Sevastopol Baines woke in her tiny cabin aboard the tug and lay for some minutes staring up at the deckhead. She thought it needed a lick of paint and she’d tell George, the tug’s master, about it. She believed in keeping the crew of the Lively Lady on their toes. The devil found work for idle hands. She lay still but not idle, planning work for those hands. Besides, she was long past the age for leaping out of bed.
Victoria’s middle name gave the clue to her years; she had been born as the news of the fall of Sevastopol reached England. At the age of sixty-one she preferred to let waking take its time. At the same time, normally she disapproved of sleeping during the day as being a foreign habit. This day, however, she felt justified because the Lively Lady had orders to sail that night so she thought this little sleep was like the wise virgins tending their lamps. Well, the virgin part wasn’t to be taken literally. There had, after all, been Captain Baines and the Captain had been a full-blooded man: she had borne him four sons. He had also been master and owner of the tug Lively Lady so his widow owned her now — and commanded her. Strictly the tug came under the orders of the Royal Navy and strictly she was commanded by her master, George, because he was Royal Naval Reserve and had a master’s ticket. But Victoria who had no ticket at all, refused to accept such red tape. She commanded the tug and George and the Navy accepted it. Early in the war she had been outspoken about an officer’s seamanship and he threatened to have her sent ashore. She had bawled at him from leather lungs: “Ashore? Put me ashore? I’ll write to The Times about you, my lad! Tear a widow woman from her only means of livelihood and throw her on the streets? A woman that’s trying to serve King and country and has four boys at sea this minute!” That was how she started. He heard a lot more but not the end because he wisely hauled clear before then.
Now she threw back the covers, knelt on the bunk and peeped out of the scuttle. The quay was a foot from her face and in the half-dark the pave of it gleamed wetly but the rain was not heavy. She thought a walk to stretch her legs and to get some fresh air would do her good. The Lively Lady was not due to sail for three hours. She drew the curtains over the scuttles because she knew Frenchmen got on to the quay and everyone knew about them. She crawled stiffly out of the bunk, a stocky lady set solidly on thick legs, and lit the lamp. In its light she peered into the mirror with sharp blue eyes and scowled at the bird’s nest of grey hair. She brushed it severely, setting it ship-shape in a tight bun. That done she washed and groaned red-faced into her stays, made all fast with two half-hitches then squeezed her feet into the high-heeled shoes. The young flibbertigibbet of a girl in the shop at Dover had tried to sell her a size six when she had worn a size five for close on fifty years. She’d even had the sauce to mumble some rubbish about her feet spreading. Fool.
She pulled her dress on over her head. Her hat went on the grey bun with a pin rammed in either side to secure it. She picked up coat, fur tippet, handbag and umbrella and went on deck. “George!”
Her bellow brought a tall, thin, sad man popping up from the hatch leading to the saloon.
“Yes, missus?”
“Do up me dress, George, there’s a good lad.”
George stepped around her and fastened the buttons between her shoulders, helped her on with her coat. “There y’are, missus.”
“Thank ye, George. I’m going for a breath of fresh air. Mind you see we’ve got steam for sailing.”
“Aye, missus.”
“Don’t let that Purvis feller get ashore to get drunk.”
“No, missus.”
“See you later then.” Victoria put up her umbrella and walked across the plank to the quay.
George watched her go and said sadly, “Yes, missus.”
She walked very straight in the back. As a young girl she had carried baskets of washing on her head for miles but that was far behind her. Her cronies in the Kent branch of the Temperance League knew her only as a woman of independent means and temper.
She passed the destroyers tied up in the Port d’Echouage, some singly and others in trots of three or four, and came to Sparrow. She tip-tapped precariously over the pavé on her high heels and called out from under the umbrella, “Good evening, young man!”
A voice answered from the head of the gangway in broad Scots. “Evening, ma’am!”
She knew Sparrow and her crew and thought they were a nice enough lot of boys. A little bit wild, maybe, but boys will be boys. Through a gap in the buildings that faced on to the quay she could see H.M. Barge Arctic in the basin beyond with the Coastal Motor Boats nestling alongside and she wondered if Jack Curtis’s boat was in — was sure she saw it. She liked Jack Curtis and she missed her four boys, all of them at sea.