Good Enough For Nelson (8 page)

They stopped by one game, where the batting side were sitting on the grass slope or on the nearby steps leading up from one main playing field to the other. Looking over the scorer’s shoulder, The Bodger saw that the batting side were Bingley, Bombulada, Brightwell, Broad, Burslem, Callaghan, and so on.

‘Ey oop,’ one of the batting side was saying, as he helped another to put on his pads. ‘Ey oop, lad, they’re batting pads not shin pads.’ The lad clearly spoke as an expert on cricket, in a broad Yorkshire accent. With his ruddy face, his prominent cheek-bones and his tufty, straw-coloured hair, he even looked like a Yorkshireman. The Bodger was charmed and refreshed by the thought; so many Yorkshiremen he had met did not play cricket, just as so many Welshmen could not sing or play rugby football.

‘What’s your name?’ The Bodger asked.

‘Bingley, sir. John Bingley. From Bingley. In Yorkshire, sir.’

‘Isn’t that where Len Hutton comes from?’

‘Sir Leonard Hootton, sir,’ Bingley said, sharply. ‘No, that’s Poodsey, sir.’

‘Ah. And you play a lot of cricket, do you, Bingley?’

‘Oh yes. I’ve played it all me life. Love it. My father once had a trial for Yorkshire, sir.’

‘Ah,’ said The Bodger, recognising that in Bingley and in Pudsey, that was better than being a Knight of the Garter.

The scorer was a coal-black Gromboolian.

‘What’s your name?’ The Bodger asked him.

‘Bombulada, sir.’

‘And where are you from?’

‘Nigeria, sir.’

‘Do you play cricket at home?’

‘Oh yes, sir, all the time.’

‘All the time? Why do you play it all the time?’

‘Well, sir, we dress eleven players in white flannels, sir, and put six wooden stumps in the ground a certain distance apart, and then one of the players picks up a little red ball and then the witch-doctor shouts “play”, sir.’

Bombulada paused and looked at The Bodger.

‘Yes?’ said The Bodger helplessly, though already half-guessing what was to come.

‘Well, sir, as soon as they hear the word “play” sir, down comes the rain. Very powerful white man’s rain-making juju, sir.’

While Jimmy and the batting side were all chuckling, The Bodger told himself, you asked for that. You walked straight into that with your chin sticking out. Bombulada’s shining black face was absolutely expressionless, and, as so often at Dartmouth, The Bodger could not be sure whether he was having his leg pulled or not. But twenty, or even ten years ago, such a conversation would have been impossible. Even now, it was a bold midshipman who cracked such a joke with the Captain of the College, that is, if it were a joke. Bombulada’s face gave no sign.

A wicket fell in the adjacent game. There was some clapping and ‘Bags of go, Jellicoe!’ The Bodger and Jimmy moved on.

As they went round the College The Bodger was interested and flattered to see that the process of supercession was already well under way. By slow but steady degrees, Jimmy’s status in the College was diminishing, whilst his own was growing. It was ever thus: the Captain is dead, long live the Captain. It was to him that the College would now be looking for professional direction, just as they would look to Julia for a social lead.

‘Julia on her way is she?’ Jimmy asked, as they walked along the front of the College towards the Captain’s house that evening.

‘In a day or two. She’s tying up a few loose ends after we sold our house in Scotland. Hello, what’s this?’

It was the sound of many bass voices raised in rough harmony.

‘A British tar … is a soaring soul ... As free as a mountain … bird ... His energetic fist... should be ready to resist... A dictatorial word...’ The Massed Port and Starboard Britannia Choirs were in good voice, and working well. Their diction was surprisingly clear. Monsignor would be delighted.

‘His...
foot
should stamp and his
throat
should growl his
hair
should twirl and his
face
should scowl his
eye
should flash and his
breast
protrude and
this
should be his customary attitude . . . His attitude . . . His attitude . . . His ATTI .... TUDE...!’

‘Make it so,’ said The Bodger.

The Bodger awoke with a start and knew exactly who and where he was. He was the Assyrian, to come down like a wolf on the fold. The Bodger sat bolt upright, and at once felt a violent pang in his temples. Seeing Jimmy Forster-Jones off the night before had been an arduous business. None of them, The Bodger conceded now, were as young as they were. And talking of the young, it was time for The Bodger to be up and about. Even now the little woolly lambs were assembling. The Bodger put on old sailing trousers, and an old submarine frock, and went outside.

It was just after six o’clock, on a summer morning at Dartmouth. The harbour was hidden in a pearly mist which came lapping up the hill as far as the edge of the parade ground, so that the flagstaff seemed to be rising directly out of a foaming mysterious sea. Sounds of town and harbour in the early morning floated up through the mist, their impact and meanings blurred and filtered. The hard ground underfoot was damp, there was dew on the grass, and somewhere a lark was singing. It was summer at Dartmouth, and a moment just out of The Bodger’s memories. This was just as it had been. It was true that the place had a rejuvenating effect. The middle-aged came to it to refresh themselves, as though to drink from youth.

There was a figure lurking on the parapet, in a beret and a woolly pully with lieutenant commander’s stripes on the shoulders. It was, unbelievably, the Captain’s Secretary.

‘Good morning, Scratch, what are you doing here?’

‘Good morning, sir. I’m here for the SLACOUT’s EMAs, sir.’

‘The what?’

The Bodger fancied that his Secretary was looking at him almost pityingly. ‘The Supplementary List Aircrew Officers Under Training’s early morning activities, sir.’

The Bodger was no wiser, but he was far more interested in the Secretary’s presence, there, at that time. Officers of the Supply and Secretariat Branch were not noted for early activities, even when they were only watching them. One could expect a Captain’s Secretary to get up with the lark, if there was a lark getting up at a reasonable hour, after colours.

‘But why
you
, Scratch?’

‘I’m affiliated to Hawke Division, sir. One of the DOs has to be present for every divisional activity, sir.’

The Bodger mentally kicked himself. He should have known that. He
did
know that, but the early hour had fuddled him.

As so often at Dartmouth, the peacefulness of the scene was strenuously at odds with the frantic activity of its inhabitants. There was a rapid thudding of running feet and a ragged platoon in shirts and singlets came doubling round the corner of the parade ground, crossed in front of the flagstaff, and disappeared to The Bodger’s left.

‘Brace up there, Hawkes!’ barked the Secretary, so suddenly that The Bodger jumped. ‘You’re a
shambles
, Hawkes!’

On an impulse, The Bodger ran down and followed them. As he swung round the end of the ramp and began to run uphill he was surprised and delighted to find how quickly and easily he could catch them up. The last runner in the platoon, a Gromboolian, glanced round when he fancied he heard The Bodger’s footsteps and the whites of his eyes showed when he realised who his pursuer was. He accelerated. The Bodger matched him. He spurted again, and again The Bodger responded. All at once, the young man seemed to give up and, so suddenly The Bodger almost ran over him, he stopped, turned round, fell on his knees, and put his hands together in an appealing gesture of supplication. The Bodger reeled back from him, amazed.

‘It was me, sir.’

‘It was you what?’ said The Bodger, trying to control his hard breathing. He was not nearly as fit as he had thought.

‘It was me, sir.’

‘You what?’

‘Me using all those rolls of bog-papers, sir. Hundreds and thousands of them, sir.’

The Bodger’s mind staggered back from yet another surrealist Dartmouth conversation.

‘You have found me out, sir, and discovered me. So you are following me up the hill, sir.’

A harsh imperious voice sailed down the hill from the direction of the tennis courts. ‘Come on Qureshi, you bloody skulker, get up this hill before I have to come down and boot you up here! Qureshi, do you
hear
me?’

Qureshi rolled the whites of his eyes at The Bodger again. ‘It’s excusing me now, sir, please.’ Qureshi unfolded himself gracefully and fluidly to his feet, saluted with a delicate flip of his hand, and then ran off, with his hands firmly clasped together, as in prayer.

As The Bodger was still marvelling over the encounter, actually wondering whether it had ever happened, another midshipman in shorts and singlet came doubling down the other way, towards the river. He stopped at The Bodger’s wave, though still marking time smartly on the spot. Finally he stood to attention, his thumbs correctly in line with the seams on his shorts.

There was something familiar about his face. He was the same midshipman who had been doubling down the drive when The Bodger first drove up on his first morning. Now that The Bodger came to consider it more carefully, he had seen this young man doubling around the College on other occasions. In fact, he was always doubling round the College. The Bodger was reluctant to ask, fearful of unleashing some further improbability.

‘Haven’t I seen you before, doubling about the place?’

‘Yes, sir. I’m under punishment, sir.’

‘What for? What did you or didn’t do?’

‘Slack doubling at EMAs, sir.”

The boy’s face was still familiar, in some other, more remote way, which set The Bodger’s memory prickling. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Persimmons, sir.’

‘And what entry are you, Persimmons?’

‘Basic B, sir.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘We take an exam, sir, and then the interview, sir, and then we come here, sir.’

‘No university course, or anything like that?’

‘No, sir. We just come here, sir, and then go to sea, sir. If we pass, sir.’

‘How very refreshing to hear that.’ It was indeed refreshing to meet a young man with a recognisable training scheme. But Persimmons himself did not look refreshed. In fact, he looked tired out. There was a weary stoop to his shoulders and he had a lack-lustre way of answering questions, odd in so young a man. The Bodger’s memory still troubled him.

‘Tell me ... Are you ... Have you got any relatives in the Navy?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Persimmons was obviously reluctant. ‘My father is an admiral.’

Black Sebastian! Involuntarily, The Bodger stepped back half a pace at that name. Admiral Sir Jasper Abercrombie Sebastian Persimmons KGB, DSO and Bar, DSC and Bar, the ex-submariner who had forsaken the trade and become the most ferocious submarine hunter ever read of in books or dreamed of in dreams. Now Sixth Sea Lord, a power in the Service, and still a name to cow disobedient children.

So this was Black Sebastian’s son. That dreaded figure was now represented by a very thin young man, not much more than five foot six tall, who was constantly in trouble for slack doubling. That terrible man had delivered up a hostage to the Navy, a boy with black hair like his father, but who looked as though he was not getting enough sleep.

‘Did your father suggest you joined the Navy?’ It was the old cliché. The uncertain son press-ganged into the Navy to carry on the name.

‘Oh not at all, sir! My father was not too keen on me joining. Nor was my mother, sir. It was all my idea, sir.’

‘And are you enjoying it, now you are here?’

‘Oh yes, sir, very much!’

He said yes, but his eyes said no. His eyes said, I volunteered for this, and I would rather die than admit I made a mistake, least of all to my father. Persimmons, The Bodger could see, would have to resolve his problems by himself. The Bodger understood his dilemma. He would be miserable if he stayed. If he left, he would make himself miserable with accusations of failure and feelings of guilt.

‘OK Persimmons, double off then.’

When The Bodger got back for breakfast, Julia was already sitting at table, surrounded by letters and newspapers and looking, as always, as though she expected great things of the day.

‘Gee,’ said The Bodger, ‘you sure are lookin’ sharp this morning.’

‘It’s this place,’ said Julia. ‘Everybody’s so on their toes. I get the feeling I ought to be the same. But I see I’m going to have to make some changes around these parts.’

‘Me too,’ said The Bodger.

‘There are always more problems after taking over from a man living on his own. What a
pity
Jimmy ever separated from Meryll. As it is, the stewards have been allowed to get some very funny ideas of their own. I know Purvis served with you in the old whatever it was, but he’s going to have to change one or two things. I’m going to have to try and bring certain people round to my way of thinking.’

‘Me too.’

‘Jimmy seems to have had such a peculiar order of priorities. He and Purvis seem to have been horse-mad. The
Sporting Life
and the
Sporting Chronicle
were delivered religiously until I stopped them, but the dish-washer is out of action and Purvis tells me it has been for the last five weeks. Obviously, I’m going to have to change the order of priorities here.’

‘Me too.’

‘I must say I’m wondering what sort of job it’s going to turn out to be.’

‘Me too.’

‘I have to admit I’m slightly terrified by it all.’

‘Me too.’

‘Oh do stop saying that,’ said Julia sharply. ‘You know what I mean. Am I to be one of the girls, hobbing and nobbing with everybody, or is it going to be a touch of the old colonel’s lady? I don’t know who to ask. I’ve just looked through the Baby List and there isn’t a single name on it I recognise.’

‘The what list?’

‘Baby List. It’s a sort of Navy List for wives and families, I suppose you could call it.’

‘Is that it there? Let’s have a look.’

The Baby List was several typed sheets, stapled together, which gave the name and Christian name of every officer and lecturer, also his wife’s Christian name, their address and telephone number, and the names, ages and sexes of all their children. It was, as The Bodger could readily see, a most valuable document, containing a great deal of information, all carefully tabulated for easy reference, which The Bodger and Julia in their position would otherwise have had to ferret out for themselves.