Old Filth - Jane Gardam [72]
“Someone? Who? Please, who?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t ask. It was a girl. Quite a young voice. Yes, Isobel. Isobel Ingoldby. That would be a sister? Rather snooty we thought. La-di-da.”
“Did she leave a number?”
“No, no. Very quick she was. Now dear, no brooding. Let’s talk about you. And Singapore.”
“It’s Singapore you’re going to,” said Hilda. “Alistair’ll meet you there. Safest place in the world.”
“Did you pass your exams?” asked Muriel.
“Yes.”
“Jolly good. Something to look forward to after the War. Your tickets are all fixed up and you leave next week.”
“And bottoms up,” said Muriel, with the champagne. “Here’s to all of us.”
“And we have a present for you,” said Hilda. “He said you were to have it when you left school. We’ve kept it for you. It’s your father’s watch.”
TO COLOMBO
After a torrid and joyless Christmas with the brides- and grooms-to-be—gravy and turkey from somewhere and gin galore—Eddie was ready for the voyage to his father. He’d given ten pounds to Alice and promised her a postcard. He would have given wedding presents to Les Girls, but would have had to ask them for the money. He had only the money for the journey to Londonderry to pick up his ship; that and his Post Office Book with fifteen shillings in it and a new cheque book he didn’t know how to use.
The day dawned. The vestibule door slammed behind him and his luggage was in the car, the watch on his wrist.
Both brides had genuinely (they said) intended to see him off from Liverpool—the journey from Bolton was short—and had dressed for it in excellent pre-War mufti of tweed and diamond-pin brooches, uniforms set aside; but at the last minute Hilda was called away by her beau to discuss some marital arrangement, and Muriel drove Eddie to the dock alone. There they got out of the car, she landed him a smacking kiss, said how she envied him a wonderful voyage into the sunshine and out of the War—
“Aunt Muriel—?”
—and how they would miss him, and how she was looking forward to seeing him in Oxford after the War—
“Aunt Muriel, I’m sorry—”
“Yes?”
“It’s just that I have no money.”
“Dear boy, you’re going to have plenty of money. You’ll have all that we are having to give up, now that you’re gone. Your allowance.”
“Yes. But I mean for now. I’ve only about a pound.”
“You won’t need money on board ship.”
“Something might go wrong. We might be stuck half-way.”
“Oh, Eddie—what a fusspot. Alistair’s meeting you.”
“I’m not sure how long—”
“Well, I don’t know. I don’t know that I’ve much with me. Would five pounds—?”
“I think I shall need perhaps a bit more.”
She scratched in her purse and came up with seven pounds, twelve shillings and sixpence.
“There,” she said, “you’ve cleaned me out.”
Then she was gone, dropping from his life unlamented and unloved. He felt shaken and depressed, as if another boy, a sunny, golfing chap, would have done better.
She tooted her horn at the harbour barrier. The clashing and hooting, the crowd at the ferry. He saw her big amiable face as she turned the corner.
The ferry was no trouble. The sea, hatefully grey, was thank God calm. He stood at the rail watching the submarines of the English Navy busy in the Irish Sea practising the sinking of U-Boats. The West coast of England dwindled behind him.
There were tickets in code on his suitcase, and someone beside him watching the U-Boat exercises said, “You’ll find plenty of them things if you’s away over the water. Stiff with U-Boats.”
On the train towards Londonderry—blank scenery—the idea occurred to him that he should have roused himself to take an interest in what lay ahead. He did not even know the length of the journey. Then it all slid away. He wondered languidly if he’d even find his ship.
But somehow here he was at the dock of a huge bay and some sort of official had his name on a list.
“Travelling alone? No group? Don’t think we’ll tie a label on you” (Eddie towered over him). “All plain sailing up to now?”
“Yes thanks.”
“But no more plain sailing for a while. The convoy’s not ready. She’ll be in harbour at least three weeks.