The Adjacent (10 page)

He leaned towards me, lifting his face towards mine, raising his voice.

‘I heard some of the crew talking about another ship going down,’ he said. ‘It was outside the harbour at Dieppe. The captain told
me it was thought to be a hospital ship. He said he and the other officers of the watch saw a flash in the east and heard an explosion.’ He paused, clearly appalled, as I was, at the consequences of that possibility. ‘The captain said he had been intending to divert to Dieppe, but had changed his mind.’

‘Was it a submarine? A U-boat?’

‘What else might it have been? A mine, possibly, but the approaches to the French Channel ports were swept recently. There are other ships in the area, so it might have been one of those that was sunk.’

‘A hospital ship! Good heavens.’ I was shocked by the news, the stark reminder yet again that we were involved in a desperate war. ‘I can’t imagine it. What a disaster that would be, if it were true.’

‘I know exactly how you feel.’

‘Is this your first time out of England since the war began?’ I said.

‘No, it’s my second. I was in France a few weeks ago, just briefly. What about you?’

‘My first time,’ I said.

I fell silent for a moment, because when I accepted this commission I had been expressly warned not to discuss anything about it with anyone. The work in which I was going to be engaged was deemed to be of the highest secrecy, although until I reached my destination in France even I was not to know any advance details. For the last two weeks, as I prepared to leave home and tried to understand how I could conceivably make a worthwhile contribution to the war effort, I had developed an inner guard against talking. I was in my middle fifties, far too old to be of any use to the army or navy, or so I had thought, but my name had been put forward. The call of loyalty to my country in times of war made me feel I should have to respond.

I sensed from his general bearing that my companion was the same sort of age as myself, and therefore not likely to be an officer on active duty. We stood together in awkward silence for a few more minutes, when suddenly we heard the ship’s telegraph and almost at once there was a burst of sparks and smoke from the stack. The great engine began to throb once more and a familiar vibration ran through the superstructure. From the saloons below there came the loud sound of ironic cheering as the troops realized the ship was getting under way again. They, like me, probably felt an irrational sense of greater safety, as if movement alone would protect us. While the ship was immobile I could never quite throw off the fear that a pack of German U-boats must be speeding towards us, lining up
their torpedo tubes. Our ship was so small, over-loaded, thin-hulled, seeming to me vulnerable to almost anything while it floated on this troubled sea.

My companion evidently felt the same as me because with the returning sound of the engine he said, ‘That’s much better. We’ll be disembarking soon. Even if we have to detour through Calais it won’t be a long journey. Let’s stand out of the wind for a while. Where are you heading, if I might ask?’

‘I’m not able to say. I’m travelling under orders.’

‘Let me think. Are you a co-opted civvy?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve been authorized to describe myself as a tactical consultant.’

‘Splendid! That’s exactly what I am too. Our missions to France are apparently alike, although no doubt not in detail. We have to keep our traps shut. The greater good they call it. German spies everywhere. But I suppose there would be no harm in exchanging names.’

‘Well –’

Now that I was up close to him and my eyes had adjusted to the night-time gloom I was able to make him out more clearly. He was shorter than me, stockily built, and whenever he spoke he bobbed around in an uncommon but attractive way. We were strangers making acquaintance in a tense situation, but I could detect he had a sense of fun, that he was not likely to take me or our situation all that seriously. Even though I took seriously the warnings about remaining tight-lipped, I could hardly imagine a more unlikely German spy.

Part of my professional stage act includes a presentation of mind-reading, which has required me to develop a fine ear for the different accents of English. This chap was well spoken but somewhere in his vowels, his intonation, was a trace of London Cockney, modified by class awareness and the influence of college education. I imagined him living in a well-appointed London suburb or in a prosperous market town somewhere in the south-east of the country. An interesting social mixture. From such fragments of intuition, and in my case years of practice of studying the ways of strangers, we form our early impressions. At that moment, with the lights of the port at Le Havre rising towards us in the distance, I was cold, travel-weary and extremely hungry. It was the sort of physical condition in which I have often found my mental senses to be best attuned. I was eager for intelligent talk to while away the rest of the journey. I wished to like him because I wanted his company.

After a moment’s reflection, following his suggestion that we
introduce ourselves, I said, ‘I suppose you could call me Tom.’

‘Tom! I’m glad to meet you.’

We shook hands again. ‘And you are?’ I said.

‘Let me see. You may if you wish call me… Bert.’

Our handshake now was firmer than before, more open to friendship. Tom and Bert, Bert and Tom. Two middle-aged Englishmen on a boat heading to war.

We remained standing together in that half-sheltered spot near the bow. About ten minutes later the ship navigated slowly between two huge walls to enter the harbour space. We barely spoke, each of us eager to see what we could of the place. The telegraph bells kept clanging and the engine changed note several times. Someone on the shore shouted up to the bridge and our ship let off a couple of siren blasts. Ropes were thrown and secured, the engine idled back and there was a series of mild, slow bumps as the hull settled against the wharf.

We could also detect noises and movement coming from the decks below.

‘I must collect my luggage,’ Bert said in a moment. ‘I imagine there will be a fearful scrap to board the train. I assume you too are travelling on by train?’

‘I have a warrant to travel first class,’ I said.

‘As have I,’ said Bert. ‘I don’t suppose a first-class ticket will make much difference on a troop train, but it might entitle us to seats.’

We made a quick and informal agreement to reunite, if we could, in the first-class carriage of whichever train we were told to board. Just in case we were not to meet again we said our farewells, wished each other a good journey, and then plunged down in search of our luggage, into the hot, odorous and still smoke-filled lower decks.

SOME TIME LATER I WAS OFF THE SHIP, HAD CROSSED THE WIDE
apron and after a certain amount of shoving and squeezing I was sitting on a train. I was beginning to lose track of the time – I felt as if I was enduring a night of never-ending delays, fatigue, noise, with my hands, face and feet freezing to death.

It must have been coming up to midnight. I had been travelling, if that is the word to describe what I had been doing, since just after an early breakfast.

The easiest part by far had been getting from my home in Bayswater
to Charing Cross Station, as I had called a cab which carried me and my luggage speedily and in some comfort. Thereafter everything degenerated and the rest of the day had been a particular kind of hell. My first-class warrant duly allowed me into the first-class carriage, but it was a mere technicality. I shared my compartment with what felt like two dozen ridiculously young soldiers, pink of face and shiny of expression, most of them with deep regional accents, all buckled up in khaki and webbing, weighed down with huge packs and strapped-on equipment. They were in good spirits, though, invariably addressed me as Sir, and all in all were a good crowd to be with. We were nonetheless crammed uncomfortably together.

Our slow journey to the port at Folkestone was torture: the train rarely travelled above walking speed and stopped, or so it seemed, at every signal between London and the Kent coast. When we finally reached the harbour station there was a mad scramble first to find a toilet, then to get in line for a mug of tea and some bread and butter. We embarked on the ship, but far from taking a relieved step into comparative comfort I discovered the ship was already crowded with soldiery who had arrived before us. Our own arrival vastly increased the confusion. I stuck it for a long time, knowing that these young men needed to be fed and watered as much as I did, and to stay in the ruck was probably my only chance of finding something to eat.

Once the ship was under way, instead of sailing across towards Boulogne it headed for the more distant Le Havre. It was when the choppy waves brought on the many cases of
mal de mer
and I escaped to the open boat deck that I encountered my new friend Bert.

I could not find Bert when I joined the train at Le Havre – perhaps I was too eager to gain myself a seat. However, I did manage to save a place beside me in case he should come along. The carriage filled up quickly, so I could not keep the seat next to me indefinitely. Soon a young private from the Lancashire Fusiliers thrust his weight down beside me. He offered me a cigarette and a swig from his bottle. His name was Frank Butler, he was nineteen years old and he was from Rochdale. It was his first time away from home. He talked enthusiastically about walking in the Pennine Hills, calling me Sir three times in every sentence. I started to doze in spite of Pvt. Butler’s constant chatter. Time began to pass more easefully than before.

Then my arm was shaken.

‘Lieutenant-Commander Trent, sir?’

I opened my eyes and saw a tall army lance-corporal standing over me, leaning down at an angle through the crush of bodies.

‘Are you Commander Trent, sir? The scientist?’

‘I’m Mr Trent, that’s right. But –’

‘I’ve been hunting all along the train for you, sir. I’m ordered to look after you as my responsibility, and you’re in the wrong seat, sir, if I may say so. If I don’t get you where you ought to be I’m in big trouble and no mistake.’

His manner was respectful and his tone was polite. I did not want to get him into trouble, so with a great deal of difficulty and the cheerful help of some of the soldiers I removed my two large cases from the overhead rack. The train still had not moved from the harbour station. The lance-corporal and I forced the compartment door open and we half jumped, half fell to the platform.

‘They was holding the train up until I found you, sir,’ he shouted back over his shoulder at me.

He took the larger of my two cases and we walked quickly along the side of the train. The troops appeared to have filled every carriage to the point of bursting open the doors and windows.

‘Just along here, sir. Much more comfortable than what you was putting up with back there. And the other gentleman’s already waiting for you.’

We came to the carriage at the back of the train, a box car with only two or three small windows. The lance-corporal led me up some narrow wooden steps, urging me to hurry. I was still trying to push my case up in front of me when I felt the train lurch and we began moving.

The carriage was the guard’s van: a large space with a caged storage area, and a multitude of flags and lanterns for use by
le chef de train.
It was warm in there, lit by lanterns. Sitting alone on a wooden chair inside the caged area was my friend Bert. He was upright but relaxed. He had folded both his hands over a walking cane and his chin was resting on those. A second chair had been placed next to his.

The lance-corporal politely saw me into the cage, put down my bags and made sure I would be comfortable. The train was already gathering a little speed, and knowing that there was no corridor I was growing worried for the able young man. Unconcerned, he showed me a cabinet where there was a flagon of fresh water and some glasses, two long loaves of French bread wrapped in white tissue paper, some cheese and a bottle of red wine. ‘I think the bread might be a little dry now, sir, but probably tasty enough.’ Indeed, it all looked extremely appetizing.

Not a moment too soon the lance-corporal bade me goodnight, and said he would look out for me and the captain when the train reached Béthune. As he began to clamber down the steps I could see the platform moving by. Then, as if his departure were a signal, the train stopped suddenly with a great squealing of brakes.

While this was going on Bert had roused. He was sitting fully upright, regarding me with his eyes blinking. We greeted each other.

‘So pleased you made it here,’ Bert said. ‘I was beginning to think you had gone on another train.’

I told him what had happened, then, because my stomach was rumbling, I said, ‘Would you care for some bread and water?’

‘Since we have been put inside a cage, it’s an appropriate choice of food.’ He crinkled his blue eyes in an amused way and we both went across to the cabinet. ‘But perhaps instead of water, a little wine?’

‘Yes indeed!’

We broke the bread, took a chunk of cheese each and filled two glasses from the wine bottle. We resumed our seats.

‘Did I hear the lance-corporal say you are a captain?’

‘Most certainly. I wouldn’t abandon my home and family, and suffer a French train, for anything less. You too? I see you are a Navy man.’

He was glancing at my uniform.

‘Not a captain. A lieutenant-commander.’

‘Aren’t you going a rather long way inland to join your ship?’

‘It’s a land-based installation, I believe.’ Again I felt the weight of necessary silence on me, so I prevaricated. ‘It was all a little unclear. You are in the army, I see?’

‘That’s right.’ He crunched on the bread, spilling large brown flakes of the crust on the carriage floor. ‘I insisted on being a general, thinking I could be negotiated down to colonel, but they would not go above captain. It’s more than a little ridiculous, in my view, but then the whole blessed war is ridiculous. I tried to tell them that two years ago, when it all got going.’