The Lion at Sea (19 page)

‘Any time you like.’

Verschoyle frowned. He had no real wish to indulge in fisticuffs. Standing in shorts and vest and gloves in the ring before the admiral and the rest of the fleet at a boxing tournament was one thing; brawling was another. He enjoyed the applause he got as a boxer but what lay in front of him now, he suspected, lay in an entirely different category. He had no fear of losing but he had an uneasy feeling that with this dour, dogged, hot-eyed youngster it was going to be a much more bloody affair.

‘Not here,’ he said quietly. ‘Wouldn’t be manners.’ He turned to direct another beaming smile at the two girls then swung back to Kelly. ‘Afterwards. There’s a moon.’

‘There’s also a shrubbery at the end of the drive. I’ll be waiting for you.’

Verschoyle smiled at the girls again. ‘I picked up a nickname at Gib,’ he pointed out. ‘For boxing.’

‘I heard it. “Cruiser.” I’m going to bloody well sink you.’

‘Tut, such language.’ Verschoyle’s smile was growing a little fixed. ‘Very well, then. When we leave.’ He turned to the two girls, his voice loud and cheerful again. ‘How about playing that thing, “Fall In and Follow Me,” Charlotte, so we can try a foxtrot or two?’

Charley shook her head, her face stiff and loyal to Kelly. ‘If any dancing’s being done,’ she said. ‘I’m dancing myself – with Kelly.’

‘Ah!’ Verschoyle was quite unperturbed. ‘Oh, well, perhaps we can use the gramophone instead.’

The evening passed tensely, with Kelly glaring across the room, Charley, aware of his dislike and troubled alongside him, watching him carefully. Unaware of the boiling hatred, Mabel stayed by the piano. They were both making a great effort to be brave and Kelly held on to his temper for their sake. Feeling that circumstances precluded anything lighter than classics, Mabel stuck to Chopin and it was Charley, heavy-handed and indifferent as a pianist, who went determinedly for ragtime.

‘Somebody’s got to behave as though nothing’s happened,’ she said. ‘The world’s got to go on, in spite of Father.’

Kelly stared at her determined young face with admiration and she managed a quick smile.

‘I play like the field coming up to the first fence at a point-to-point,’ she said.

But at least she played with verve and the evening proved just bearable. As Kelly left, Verschoyle was still saying goodbye to Mabel. Charley saw Kelly to the door.

‘What are you up to?’ she demanded.

‘Nothing.’

‘Yes, you are. I’ve seen it all night. You’re seething.’

‘Well, wouldn’t you be seething after what Verschoyle said? I didn’t run away.’

‘Of course you didn’t. I know that. But setting about Verschoyle won’t prove a thing.’

‘Who says I’m setting about him?’

‘Nobody, but I know you’re going to.’

‘How, for God’s sake?’

‘I just know you, that’s all.’ Charley looked at him sadly. ‘Why do boys always want to fight?’ she said. ‘Isn’t there enough pain in the world?’

Kelly stared at her unhappily. ‘It’s got to be done, Charley,’ he said doggedly. ‘If only to stop him spreading the story around. I’ve got a reputation and a career to think of. I’m sorry it’s got to be done now, but leaving it and doing it later would be damn silly. If I could I’d sue the swine, but I can’t afford that and wouldn’t know how to, anyway, and besides he’s got more money than I have and he’d get some rotten expensive lawyer to prove he was right, and then I’d be right back where I started – only worse.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know. I’m still thinking.’

He kissed her good night with the gentleness of an excited prizefighter about to begin a sparring match, and left her to look for Rumbelo.

Rumbelo studied him shrewdly. ‘Something up, sir?’

‘Yes, Rumbelo. I’ve arranged to fight Lieutenant Verschoyle,’

Rumbelo stared at him for a moment. ‘You’ve picked the wrong bloody man this time, sir, if you’ll excuse me saying so.’

‘No, I haven’t, Rumbelo!’

‘That one’s a boxer, sir. And he’s tall. He’ll make mincemeat of you.’

‘No, he won’t! I’ve wanted to punch him on his bloody handsome nose ever since I first met him at Dartmouth, and even if he knocks me out, I’m going to put my mark on him.’

Rumbelo was silent for a moment. ‘I saw him finish off Stoker Harben at Gibraltar, sir. And Stoker Harben–’

‘ – looks like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.’

Rumbelo’s eyebrows rose. ‘Does he, sir? I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met him.’

‘What am I going to do, Rumbelo? I’ve got to do something.’

Rumbelo considered for a moment. ‘Well, sir, I told you I was an orphanage entrant and when I was a little nipper I was very small–’

Kelly gave an impulsive grin. ‘I don’t believe you. I bet you were born six feet six and built like a brewer’s dray.’

Rumbelo grinned back. ‘No, sir, it’s true. And one of the first things I learned was that “Thrice blessed be he what gets his blow in fust”.’

‘Might not work with Mr Verschoyle.’

‘It might, sir,’ Rumbelo said, unperturbed. ‘Mind you, this is none of my affair. Officers aren’t supposed to have words in front of the lower deck, let alone using their dukes.’

‘Something’s got to be done, Rumbelo, ain’t it?’

‘All right, sir, how about this? I’ve seen Mr Verschoyle in action. He’ll box. So don’t let him.’

‘How do I stop him?’

‘Well, I’ve been in one or two rough-houses. Dockside pubs and that. I learned a thing or two. Get your blow in first. Tap his claret. Never mind this straight left to the jaw tripe. A set of fives on his hooter’s much better. It’ll bleed and spoil his shirt. It’ll also stop him breathing and, if you hit him hard enough, he’ll think it’s broke and he’s the sort to start worrying about his looks. Above all, it’ll make his eyes run and then he won’t be able to see you.’

Kelly grinned. ‘Go on, Rumbelo. I don’t think all this comes under
King’s Regulations and Admiralty Instructions
but we’ll forget that for the moment. Just now, you’re the family groom giving advice to the young master.’

Rumbelo grinned back. ‘Right, sir. So get in a couple of good ones on his conk and you’ve won. If you can manage to butt him on it accidentally on purpose so much the better. And once you’ve got him on the run, don’t let him get his breath back. Just keep on hitting him.’

‘You mean when he’s down?’

‘Up, down, anywhere,’ Rumbelo paused. ‘Well, if it’s a pub rough-house you do, but it’d mebbe get round the Fleet, so perhaps you’d better fight fair. Or fairly fair, anyway. Just keep hitting him instead. Just don’t give him a chance to come back at you. Keep him back-pedalling all the time. I reckon you’re as strong as he is. Just a bit shorter in the arm.’

‘A bit weaker in the head, too, I think. All right, Rumbelo. I’ll do as you suggest. And thanks for the tip. And Rumbelo, you’d better buzz off. If you’re seen, it’ll be bad.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

‘And not a word either.’

‘Not a peep, sir.’

There was no sign of Rumbelo when Verschoyle’s runabout came clattering down the drive. Kelly stepped in front of it and it slid to a halt with locked wheels, scoring the gravel.

Verschoyle beamed. ‘You’re determined to make an ass of yourself, aren’t you, young Maguire?’

‘Yes. And don’t call me “young Maguire”. You’re a liar and a swine and probably too yellow to get out of the car and fight.’

Verschoyle sighed. ‘Well, that’s one way of making me,’ he said. ‘One isn’t called a liar and a rotter and a coward often in the same sentence.’ He switched off the engine and lifted a long leg over the door. ‘Where do you fancy?’

‘Among the trees here.’

‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’

‘I know all right.’

‘How about that groom of yours? I saw one round the kitchen when I was saying goodbye. I don’t want him jumping on me and holding my hands behind me so you can hit me.’

The suggestion made Kelly see red and he forced himself to be calm. Rumbelo’s words were still in his ears: ‘Don’t let him get your rag out, sir. He’ll try. He’ll try to make you mad so you’ll do something daft. Don’t let him.’

Icily, he said, ‘He’s been sent on. There’s only me and you.’

Rumbelo, he guessed, was hiding in the bushes somewhere for a grandstand view.

Verschoyle began to unbutton his jacket. ‘Oh, very well then.’ He sounded thoroughly bored. ‘But let’s get this straight.’ His smile had vanished and his eyes were hard in the moonlight. ‘When people call me a liar and a coward, they must expect what’s coming to them.’

‘I’m ready.’

‘I hope you are.’

Verschoyle dropped his jacket to the grass. Kelly struggled out of his own jacket, fighting to contain his boiling temper. Verschoyle’s very calmness was acting as a goad.

‘Right?’

‘Right.’

Verschoyle straightened up, left foot and left arm forward, fight arm well back; right hand below his chin.

‘You can always back out,’ he said.

‘Not bloody likely.’

‘Very well, here goes.’

Verschoyle’s left jerked out and Kelly was immediately aware of tears in his eyes and a very painful mouth. Vaguely he heard a voice that sounded like Rumbelo’s murmur ‘Oh, Christ!’ somewhere in the shadows, then he forced himself to gather his senses and hold his temper in check. He knew exactly what he intended. He hadn’t a cat in hell’s chance of standing up to Verschoyle in a proper contest. His only hope was to make one of Rumbelo’s rough-houses of it.

He backed off, while Verschoyle stood watching, a smile on his lips. He was still smiling, when Kelly rushed at him.

Verschoyle hadn’t been expecting such sudden or such early aggression. His reputation usually went before him and most people he met in the ring sparred carefully round him a few times to see what he was going to do. This time, however, the whole weight of Kelly’s body hit him in the chest and sent him staggering backwards, his arms flailing as he struggled to keep his balance. While he was still wondering what had happened, he was aware of a sharp pain between the eyes and found himself lying on his back, staring at the sky. He put a hand up cautiously and realised his nose was bleeding.

‘I think it’s broken,’ Kelly said cheerfully.

‘Oh, Christ, no! Not that, you little bastard!’

As Verschoyle scrambled to his feet and pushed out his left arm again, he was bowled over once more by another violent rush and another heavy blow on his nose. His shirt was spattered with blood, and for a change this time, it was Verschoyle who lost his temper.

Rushing forward in a fury, he swung wildly, missed and tripped over Kelly’s leg as he ducked aside. As he scrambled to his feet again, a clout at the side of the head sent him reeling, then another closed his left eye.

‘You little bastard,’ he snarled. ‘That was cheating!’

‘Well, it ain’t the Marquess of Queensberry rules,’ Kelly panted. ‘But you’ve never known the meaning of fair play, anyway.’

Another clout sent Verschoyle reeling and, as he staggered back, a bunch of knuckles caught him in the mouth, splitting his lip and loosening a tooth. While he was still dizzy, a whole flurry of blows caught him about the head and he fell on one knee, aware suddenly that this was one fight he wasn’t going to win. As he straightened up again, the madman opposite rushed at him and he went down once more.

Again he struggled to his feet but Kelly was showing no mercy. Rumbelo had stressed very firmly that he hadn’t to let Verschoyle get his breath and as soon as he was on his feet and upright again, he flung himself at him, fists whirling. The fight had lasted no more than three minutes when Verschoyle found himself sprawled on the grass, his head in a bush, feebly waving a hand.

‘All right,’ he panted. ‘All right. Pax, you rotten little swine! You didn’t give me a chance.’

Kelly stared down at him, startled by the swiftness and completeness of his victory and knowing that Verschoyle’s bullying was finished for ever. ‘I’ll never give you a chance, Verschoyle,’ he grated. ‘Remember that. Never. Just keep clear of me or I’ll do it again. Somehow. Understood?’

Versehoyle’s hand waved gently and, picking up his jacket, Kelly flung it at him, then, snatching up his own, he marched out of the gate and set off for home.

When Admiral Maguire arrived home the next day, his wife’s father was with him. Kelly hadn’t seen his grandfather since the beginning of the war and the old man had aged. But the Irish fire was still there and he’d arrived in England to demand a job from the War Office.

‘You’re far too old, Father,’ the admiral was telling him.

‘Stuff!’ The old man snorted. ‘And nonsense! If they’ll take a fool like you, surely to God they’ll take me.’

As the door slammed behind him, the admiral looked at Kelly, uncertain whether to be irritated by the behaviour of his father-in-law, grieved by the death of his elder son or cheered by the growing reputation of his younger. ‘Tyrwhitt called on me,’ he said. ‘Told me he’s putting you in for a DSC. Good God, boy, you’ll soon have more ribbons up than I have. By the way, what happened to your lip?’

‘Walked into a wardrobe door, Father,’ Kelly said.

‘And who’s
the chap with the dog cart who met me at the station? He has the cut of a jolly jack.’

‘He
is
a jolly jack, sir. Able Seaman Rumbelo. He saved my life in Antwerp. I’m going to see he gets something. He was splendid. He had nowhere to go for his leave and he understands horses, so I said he could come here. He’s sleeping in the room over the stables. He helps Biddy with the ironing. Sailors make wonderful wives and mothers, I’m told.’

The admiral frowned. ‘Damned rotten about Gerald,’ he said.

‘Yes, Father, it is.’

‘Doing so damned well, too. Pushed up to captain. So many officers knocked out. Never thought Gerald would be. Such a quiet efficient chap. Never in trouble. Not like you.’

The admiral poured himself a stiff gin and downed it almost without thinking and without suggesting Kelly should join him. ‘It’s knocked your mother over, boy,’ he went on. ‘Especially with me heading for the Middle East. One thing I’ll do, though, before I go, and that’s see you get a good appointment – Scapa or Rosyth, in one of the battleships.’