Windflower Wedding

The sergeant opened the rear door and Keth got out to stare across the vast stretch of water, his shabby suitcase and the carrier bag at his feet.

All at once it was very real and he knew there was no going back. And all at once he knew he didn’t want to call it off. He wanted to go; get it over with. Luck didn’t enter into it. Now he felt no fear; merely a vague apprehension and a niggling irritation that getting to this point of departure had been such a long-drawn-out affair with everything checked and checked again. Just as if he were a village idiot from wildest Yorkshire and had to be watched every inch of the way.

The lieutenant tapped on the door of a low, square building at the top of the wooden jetty. It had a small sliding hatch in it which was immediately opened.

‘Good morning, sir.’ The face of a Wren appeared. ‘Can I help you?’

‘You can indeed! Will you let someone know we would like to get on board.’ He nodded towards the great ungainly ship at the centre of a cluster of submarines. ‘Transport for three if you’d be so kind, Jenny Wren.’

‘Don’t let him fool you,’ the sergeant said softly to Keth. ‘He likes to put on a Jack-the-lad act but he’s a damn fine operator. Been to France three times already. Not as stupid as he makes out.’

‘Can do, duckie?’ smiled the lieutenant.

‘Can I have your names?’ asked the Wren.

‘No names, sweetie; no pack drill. Just let your lot know we’re here. They’re expecting us.’

‘Very well. I’ll get a signal over to the bridge. You can walk down the jetty if you like – the gates are open. Watch out for the iron ladder when you climb down into the launch, sir – the rungs are very slippery.’

The hatch was slammed shut and a bolt pushed into place. One smashing Wren was having no truck with the charming lieutenant.

‘Send a signal to Omega, will you?’ she called to a signalman. ‘Shore Station to quarterdeck. Please send boat. Two pongos, one civvy.’

The sergeant picked up Keth’s luggage, then fell into step as they walked briskly down the jetty. From behind them came the flashing click of an Aldis lamp; ahead of them lay the 15th Submarine Flotilla to whom he would be handed like a parcel, Keth thought wryly, for onward transmission to France.

The air that swept the sea loch from the mouth of the River Clyde was salty and fresh, and it made him wish that Daisy could be here and not three floors underground where most times the air was stale and dusty.

Unspeaking, he followed the progress of a launch as it rounded the stern of the mother ship. It was crewed by women, dressed in sailor’s trousers and thick, navy sweaters. All were undeniably attractive. They handled the launch that bucked through the waves as if they had been born to it and when one of them jumped ashore, rope in hand, Keth noticed she did indeed have a lovely little bottom. All at once he was glad that Daisy worked three floors down in Liverpool and out of the gaze of lecherous lieutenants. And he was even more glad that just as soon as he got back from France they would be married. When he got back – not if!

Mealtimes, Blodwen Meredith considered, presented the best opportunities for what she called essential chats because if what she said didn’t suit Lyndis, it was hardly likely the girl would flounce off in a huff, leaving a half-eaten meal on the table. And today was the day for such a chat.

‘Well, that’s the last of the tomatoes till next year I shouldn’t wonder.’ She placed a bowl of salad on the table. ‘Remember once you could buy them all the year round.’

‘So why didn’t you tell me you’ve been writing regularly to my father since –’ Lyn left the sentence hanging in the air, concentrating on cutting a piece of cheese.

‘Well, you know now,’ came the defensive reply, Blodwen wondering how it was that her daughter seemed able to read thoughts. ‘I told you last time you were home we’d been in touch.’

‘But not regularly. Are you having an affair with him – again, I mean?’

‘Affair! How can we have an affair with me here and him there? And as for again – well, since it never finished as far as I was concerned, you can call me an old fool.’

‘No, cariad, I’d never call you that. Do you remember once telling me that you can’t stop loving someone to order? Well, you were right.’ Lyn gazed at her plate. ‘I won’t ever stop loving Drew, so who am I to say you shouldn’t still love my father – though what you see in him is a mystery!’

‘But you’re not me, are you? And you might as well know we’re going to be married.’

‘Married! Then why didn’t he tell me when he wrote?’

‘Because he doesn’t know. He won’t have got my letter yet. But I reckon the time has come, now that our Fan is gone, God rest her, for him to make an honest woman of me.’

‘You’d propose to him?’ Lyn speared a forkful of lettuce with great concentration.

‘I would. I have. I wrote a while back, suggesting it. When I get his reply I’ll know if he still wants me.’

‘B-but what good would it do either of you?’ Lyn spluttered. ‘You just said it yourself; you’re here and he’s in Kenya.’

‘Not a lot at the moment, I’ll grant you that, our Lyn. But this war isn’t going to last for ever and I’ve always had a fancy for your father; never wanted anyone else.’

‘So you’d marry a man who was engaged to one woman and carrying on with another? Because that’s what he was doing!’

‘Yes, but it takes two to make love, merchi, and I didn’t say no to Jack even though he and my sister had named the day. And I couldn’t tell him about you being on the way because I didn’t know till they were married, and him gone to Kenya. So I’m not losing him again. As far as I’m concerned, I’d have him tomorrow if he’s willing. Can you understand?’

‘Yes, I can. I know that if Kitty Sutton ever ditched Drew I’d be there waiting, pride on my sleeve – damn fool me!’

‘Well, that’s the way it goes. There’s no pride in loving. And I’m sorry about your Drew.’ She pushed back her chair. ‘Oh, come you here and have a bit of a cuddle. Your Auntie Blod understands how it is and she’d give anything to see her girl happy.’

‘I know you would,’ Lyn sniffed. ‘And I’m glad you’re my mother. I truly am.’

Keth looked again at Gaston Martin’s cheap watch, then lay back on the narrow bunk, hands behind head. This cramped sleeping space was where he had spent the better part of four nights and three days since sailing from Loch Ardneavie. It stood to reason. A submarine was a tight ship to run and there was no room in all the clutter of wheels and tubes and wires and instruments for a wandering civilian.

Soon they would be there, off the French coast. Enemy-occupied France. HM Submarine Selene had brought him safely this far and in a few hours he would be put ashore.

He would be glad to see the last of this bunk; had endured near-claustrophobic conditions only because he knew they could not last and because each night the submarine would surface to recharge the batteries and listen-out for any signals bearing Selene’s call sign.

That was when the welcome rush of cold air filled the boat, replacing air gone stale; was when submariners walked the upper casing, filling their lungs with damp salt air.

Some remained within the confines of the conning tower to smoke the cigarettes forbidden them when submerged. Everyone kept a careful lookout for intruders; for swift enemy E-boats and reconnaissance aircraft. At such times, when it seemed they were the only beings on a never-ending sea, Keth would close his eyes and let the quiet of the night wash over him, his mind a blank.

Few spoke when Selene rode on the surface. Sound carried far at sea. Some believed you could smell a man sucking a peppermint almost a mile away or see the glow of a cigarette end.

Keth blinked into the darkness, trying to define where the horizon merged with the land mass. A scudding night cloud covered the moon and someone said softly, ‘That’s more like it.’ Moonlight was not always a friend.

‘How far away now?’ Keth asked of the First Officer.

‘Far enough, but until we take you in we’ll stay in water deep enough to dive in.’

Number One. That really was his name. Not Tom nor Dick nor Harry. Not even Sublieutenant Smith, or Jones. Everyone with whom Keth came into contact was nameless and he, in return, was called Captain. Best that way, he supposed. What Gaston Martin didn’t know he couldn’t tell.

‘Do you want to eat, sir?’

Keth shook his head. Lately, he hadn’t even thought about food. These few remaining hours his thoughts were of the pill hidden in the cuff of his shirt; that obscene, fifty-seconds death pill. He thought, too, about Omega, the safe and solid mother ship, far away now in Loch Ardneavie and to which, before so very much longer, Selene would return. Without him.

Dot-dash-dot. Dit-da-dit. The letter R flashed from the shore and to which, when he landed he would reply with four short flashes: H – his own sign. For Hibou, owl, Gaston Martin’s codename. Someone, code-named Hirondelle would meet him. Hirondelle, a swallow. He wondered who thought up codenames.

‘I think you should eat, Captain.’

‘Maybe you’re right.’ Best he should. Only God knew when his next meal would be – and where. Keth felt his way carefully down the conning-tower ladder, then made for the galley.

‘Fancy something hot, sir, or a sarnie?’