She knew that to be so.
“Are you to continue as a pilot despite your more senior rank, Commander?”
“While we are short of pilots, I must. We shall have the better part of forty blimps flying by the end of this month and we have one half of that number of properly trained pilots yet. I am one of the senior men – and I have fewer than two hundred hours of flight to my name. When I was given my watch-keeping certificate as a midshipman, immediately before I was promoted sub, I had, at a rough guess, more than two thousand hours in total on a ship’s bridge. We are inventing our skills as we go. I must continue to fly for many months yet, until we know what we are doing.”
“Chasing submarines all the while, Commander?”
The question came from old Mrs Hawes-Parker, sat back observing the formality between the two with some amusement.
“That is our main function, ma’am. There has been some talk of using us to spot for bombarding ships of the Dunkirk Squadron, I understand. That may come to something, or it may just be talk. In the same way, there has been speculation of the possibility of blimps accompanying the Grand Fleet in a reconnaissance role. I think that must wait until the new, bigger Coastals come into service.”
“Speculation, as you say, Commander Naseby. You expect to remain with the RNAS, for the remainder of your career?”
“Probably, ma’am, but in wartime I shall go where I am sent with nothing to say on the matter. The RNAS seems most likely and has the old advantage of the big fish in the small pool.”
“Very few Commanders and only one who has a submarine to his credit – that can only be useful to you, young man.”
“It must be, ma’am.”
“So it must. Come now, you should not be sitting around in here talking to an old woman. Take my granddaughter out for some fresh air and buy her a lunch as well. I shall see you later.”
Peter gained the impression that a decision had been taken. He had been accepted as a suitor, was regarded as a fit and proper person to marry into her family.
Josephine ran for coat and scarf, was ready to go in a bare five minutes, to the amaze of the menfolk.
“A walk to the hotel, Josephine?”
“No. To the fishing harbour and the little restaurant there. It is owned by an Italian family and does wonders with crabs and lobster and flatfish. It is a treat we sometimes indulge in. The distance is a little far for my grandparents to walk and so we have to arrange a cab.”
He found himself holding her hand as they walked, rather fast for so early in their acquaintance but very pleasant.
They passed a shop towards the harbour, closed down and windows boarded up, graffiti scrawled in red paint.
“‘Bloody Huns’. Who were they?”
“The tailor, Mr Schultz. He has lived here all his life. His father came from Germany in the 1860s, so my grandfather said. His windows were smashed repeatedly last year and he gave up and left the town. I cannot think that to be right, Peter!”
“It is not. I have heard of the little German dogs, the Dachshunds, being killed for being Huns. People can be extremely unpleasant on occasion, and remarkably stupid.”
Lunch was all that she had promised, a meal that brought recollections of the Mediterranean where his ship had cruised in 1912. His reminiscences provided plenty to talk about.
“A pity we have no Russian restaurants that I know of to bring back memories of St Petersburg, Josephine.”
She shook her head.
“No. The Russians have no food of their own, the cuisine was all French, and very good. Those of us who had access to food, ate well.”
“You mentioned bread riots, I remember.”
“There will be revolution before long, because of those riots, Peter. The peasants are treated like animals, like dogs. If you are cruel to a dog, sooner or later, it will bite.”
It was a simple analysis and wholly convincing.
Peter called for the bill. The waiter came with a copy of the Daily Mail, opened to a large photograph of Peter stood in front of SS9.
“If you would autograph this, sir, we will put it up on the wall. Shoreham’s own war hero, sir. There is no bill.”
It was embarrassing; there was no alternative except to be churlish. He could fling a ten shilling note down on the table and storm out – it would be a shockingly ill-mannered response. He managed a smile and took the proffered fountain pen.
“Across the corner, sir. Thank you, sir. We shall have this framed, sir.”
Josephine said nothing, aware of Peter’s emotions, unable to think of anything useful to offer.
They took their coats and smiled their best and thanked the proprietor and walked off to the harbour.
“I did not expect that, Josephine.”
“No more did I… You were right to sign it, and to smile kindly, difficult though that must have been.”
“It was. They meant nothing other than the best. How disgraceful I would have been to refuse them!”
A slow walk back to the house.
“May I call in future, Josephine. Often, perhaps?”
“You will be more than welcome, Peter.”
They said no more on personal matters, it was far too soon to make any expressions of affection. The Crossley arrived for him soon after returning, carried him off to Polegate reflecting on his day, on balance enjoyable.
“Beg pardon, sir. Mr Troughton would like a word on your return.”
Peter made his way to the office, found Troughton in process of putting together his personal belongings.
“Folkestone for me, Naseby. I am to be the Grand Panjandrum, in charge of the stations along the south Kent and Sussex coasts. They have given me a fourth ring!”
“Post Captain, sir. My most sincere congratulations.”
“Thank’ee, Naseby. You are to continue as OIC Flying and another body will come into this office. You will be senior on the flying side under me. I expect to be on the telephone to you most days. As yet, all is up in the air, literally. The weather is set foul for the next two days, so you should go home for a forty-eight hour pass. You will be busy on your return.”
That sounded much like an order. Peter wondered why he must go home. It was not worth arguing about – he might be reading too much into a simple offer of two days of freedom.
He took the train to Brighton next morning and then express to London, was knocking on the front door by mid-morning. A maid gave him entry, to his surprise. There had always been a manservant as well as the butler.
“Charles has gone to the war, sir. Difficult to find a manservant now, sir.”
He had not expected a maid to be so talkative either. Times were changing.
His mother and Minnie were sat in their workroom, labouring over a mass of small boxes which they were filling from various open cartons.
“Peter! I did not hope to see you so soon. Are you well, my dear?”
He could see no reason why he should not be.
“Whatever are you doing? Have you taken up smoking, Mama?”
He gestured at the literally hundreds of packets of Woodbines cigarettes, one of the cheapest brands.
“A Christmas present for the troops, from the Committee to go to every volunteer from the borough. The funds permitted a box each with sixty cigarettes and two bars of chocolate and a balaclava helmet and a woollen scarf. I have the privilege of packing the boxes, being Chairlady of the Committee. They must go as soon as possible, being some four months late already. The previous chair was not an organiser!”