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When he descends the steps into the belly of the trim little pleasure boat, dripping water, he freezes when he sees a pair of legs, then a body, then the wan face of young man lying on the bottom come into view. He steps over him, gingerly, and sits down on a carpeted bench, his eyes glued to the prone body.
The boy who has pulled him out of the water comes down the stairs, halts in front of the boy, and squats down next to him. He softly pushes him to the side, away from the puddle Collins has made on the floor, then lifts up his head and peels off a stuffed white bandage from the back. It comes away dark red with blood; the same colour as his jumper.
Collins watches, his exuberance at having been saved from drowning stifled by the way death haunts this room. Incongruously, the room is filled with grubby orange lifejackets stacked in piles on the seat next to him, on the floor, ready to make the difference between life and death. The boy lays his head on his friend’s chest, carefully, to listen for a heartbeat; apparently satisfied, he sits up again, and turns to look at Collins.
“You’re a pilot then?” he says. Mentally brushing over the inanity of the question, keen to lift the pall of grief, he says: “I sure am. Was having a grand old time busting up Jerries until one of them nabbed me. Lucky I was able to land her, really. Didn’t really fancy jumping out and getting my long johns wet. You might not have spotted me then.”
“You got them wet anyway, though,” the boy says. He is staring at his hands. The corner of Collins’ mouth lifts with the desire to make the inevitable childish joke, but seeing this boy, so much younger than him, so much more serious, makes him swallow it again.
He glances around, idly rubbing his arms against the cold setting in. The boy gets to his feet. “I’ll fetch you a towel.” He disappears into a closet and comes back with a large, fluffy white one.
“Thanks,” Collins murmurs, and begins drying his hair. The boy watches him.
“In the RAF?” he asks, shyly. Collins nods, rubbing the nape of his neck with the towel, pointing to his insignia with his other hand. "Obviously.”
“My brother was, too,” says the boy; his tone is almost fierce. “Maybe you knew him. Alex Dawson? He flew Hurricanes.”
Collins shakes his head, slowly. “Doesn’t ring any bells I’m afraid.”
“Oh,” the boy says. Collins looks up and sees his face has been pulled tight. I wish I had, he thinks. I wish I’d been there with him in his last moments, so I could pass on his last words. They deserve that. Perhaps he went the same way I nearly did. A shudder like a current runs through him, though not from the cold. He stands up and perfunctorily begins rubbing the towel over his uniform. He wishes he could take it off, but there are no dry clothes to be had. Still, to wring it out and dry off his skin would be a pleasure. His eyes land on the boy’s, who is watching him and now turns beet red, as if he can read his thoughts.
“There’s a bathroom over there,” he points. Collins follows his gaze, nods to the boy, and goes to change.
Once inside, he closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the small mirror above the sink, suddenly feeling bone-tired. Not convenient at all, he thinks. He feels a fierce tenderness for this boy, for the apple-cheeked, cable-jumpered, undeniable Englishness of him. It’s a boy like this who should be the symbol of England, rather than that old-fashioned tart with her shield and helmet. He lifts his head and stares in the mirror. He was a boy himself only two years ago, when he started training, but the man looking back at him now is infinitely older.
He shivers and starts peeling off his jacket and then his shirt, rubbing the towel roughly on his goose-pimpled skin.
--
When he goes back on deck, he decides to shake the old man’s hand first. He is standing behind the steering wheel, feet firmly planted on the ground, eyes scanning the horizon for the slightest irregularity. Collins waits a moment, then steps in and claps a hand on his shoulder.
“Cheers," he says, earnestly. "It was a close one for me.” The man turns, his eyes searching his face, brief but not unfriendly, before turning back to the sea.
“My son was one of you lot,” he says, by way of acknowledgement.
“Aye, I was told.”
“Died three weeks into the war,” Mr Dawson continues. I remind him of Alex, realises Collins. That’s why he won’t look at me.
“I’m sorry,” Collins says. Dawson nods, imperceptibly. Collins follows his gaze; the waves are getting rougher, spray flying off the bows as the little boat plods on.
“We’re going back there?”
“Yes,” Dawson says resolutely. “We have a job to do. Those poor boys are trapped there.”
And with me here, one less to protect them, Collins thinks. He pats the man on the shoulder again and wanders to the stern.
To his surprise, he finds a dark figure sitting there, huddled under a blanket. He isn’t shivering, but sits very still, staring out at the waves with a stony look. Now he glances up; his eyes are a flash of blue through his dark hair. He lets go of his knees and sits up a little straighter.
“Afternoon,” says Collins, noticing the army uniform and the stripes on his chest. “They picked you up too?”
The man stares at him. “I’m not going back there,” he says, grimly.
“We’ve got no choice, mate. They’re not turning this boat around. Maybe we can still be of some help, you never know.” He has sat down next to him. The army man turns away, slightly, and wraps his arms around his knees again. Collins feels tempted to pat his shoulder, if the other did not look like he would jump three feet if he did so.
The boy comes on deck, carrying two mugs of tea. He passes one to Collins and one to the army man, silently but with a half-smile to Collins. He nods, and pats the seat next to him. “Join us.”
The boy glances at the door, bites his lip, then sits down. Collins moves a few inches towards him. They exchange a smile.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” he begins. The boy’s eyes, warm and tired, grow large, and he flashes him a warning look. He inclines his head slightly towards the army man, and shakes his head. A quarrel, understands Collins. No-go area.
“What’s your name?” he asks him instead.
“Peter,” he responds. “Peter Dawson.”
Collins smiles at him. “I’m James. Jimmy, really. But here, in the war, it’s Collins.”
“Right,” Peter says. He holds his gaze for a second or two, his forehead wrinkled in thought, then awkwardly extends his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“And you.” Collins shakes it. “Though the circumstances could be better, eh?” Peter reddens again. He is easily flustered, he thinks; for God’s sake, I’m only partly doing it on purpose.
He turns away with a lopsided smile, and gently prods the army officer. “How about you, mate?”
There is no response, the man staunchly continues his vigil of the rolling waves. Collins turns back to Peter, questioningly. Peter shakes his head, stands up, and beckons him to come downstairs.
Clutching his mug of tea, Collins follows. He stands over the body of the boy while Peter checks his pulse again.
“What's happened?”
“The officer upstairs became violent,” Peter says, tonelessly. He gets to his feet, meeting Collins’ gaze. “He pushed George here down the stairs.” He fidgets, and has to force out his next words. “He’s bad, he’s very bad.”
“Come here.” Collins takes his hand and tugs him along, sitting him down on the bench. “I’m so sorry, lad.” He gazes at Peter, who is staring at George. He blinks, a tell-tale glaze comes over his eyes.
“I warned him not to come,” he whispers, furiously wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. “I told him it was going to be dangerous, but he insisted.”
“And why did you come?” Collins asks. He retracts his hand, previously resting on Peter’s left shoulder, and places it on the hot skin of Peter’s neck. Peter’s eyes flutter closed, briefly, as he leans into the touch. Tears roll down his cheeks.
“I couldn’t very well let my dad go alone, could I? Besides… I’m too young to fight. I had to do something.”
He glances up at Collins, who has watched him all this time. He quickly drops his gaze again, and begins to rub at a faded patch on his corduroy trousers.
“You want to join the forces?” Collins begins moving his thumb in circles, something his mother used to do when he was little and feeling poorly. He feels Peter slump a little towards him.
“Maybe. Of course there’s a war on now, but… I might’ve done it anyway. Dad’s an accountant, actually. I can’t really see myself doing that.”
Collins hums. “The world needs accountants.” He feels Peter’s muscles jerk as he scoffs. “I suppose. Not when you could be picking off Jerries like clay pigeons.”
Collins laughs. “It’s a little more complicated than that.” Softly, he squeezes Peter’s neck, feeling the tension there. “Don’t you want to join the RAF?”
Peter snorts. “Yeah. Maybe.”
He looks up at Collins, his smile disappearing. “I mean—it seems grand, it really does. I’m just not sure I’d be any good as a pilot. I’ve… I’ve always thought of myself as more of a Navy man.”
“You’ve got enough experience with boats already,” Collins concedes, taking a sip of his cold tea and setting the empty mug down. It makes sense he wouldn’t want to be a pilot, with his brother having died in battle.
“Yes,” Peter admits. “And, I don’t know. Ever since I was young… we’d go down to the harbour, my dad would fuss about in the boat, and I’d sit on the docks, watching the sailors go by…” He trails off. Collins can see it now: a little blond lad, legs swinging, sitting on a crate and watching a contingent from the Royal Navy stroll past. One of them, strong and handsome under his boyish white cap, stops in front of Peter, hands him some sweets. The moment fixes itself in Peter’s mind; from then on he knows what, or rather who, he wants to be. He wants to wear the uniform, wants to look handsome; wants to walk with the other men, the jokes, the intimacy…
His hand strokes the air; Peter has rushed to George’s side, who has briefly stirred.
Collins looks on, sympathetically, as Peter tends to his friend. His hands flutter over his body, unable to help but eager to do something, helpless in the face of death’s mysterious ways.
“I’m sure he’ll be alright,” he says, sympathetically. Peter looks over his shoulder. Something has closed off inside him; he looks annoyed, impatient.
“Yeah,” he says, then gets up and begins to make his way upstairs. I’ve scared him off, thinks Collins. I shouldn’t have touched him.
He doesn’t move, sitting in silence with the unconscious George while the boat pitches and heaves. There is the noise of footsteps on the deck, the voices of Peter and his father. After a while, he sees Peter’s shoes on the steps again.
“Brought you some more tea,” he says, extending another steaming mug.
Collins grins, shakes his head. “I’ve had enough, thank you. Have it, you could use some. Tighter than a duck’s butt, you are.” Almost guiltily, Peter sits back down, blowing on the mug of tea. He doesn’t look at Collins, and they sit silently for a while.
“What do you think we’ll see over there?” Peter is the first to break the silence
Collins folds his arms. “Thousands of men on the beaches. German planes, probably, strafing and bombing ‘em to smithereens. Sinking ships.” He hesitates, before he says: “Bodies floating in the water.”
Peter looks up at him now, stricken. “So bad as all that?”
“I’m afraid so.” He looks down at Peter’s knee in the faded corduroy, which almost brushes his own. Slowly, casually, he lays his hand there. Peter doesn’t move, or protest.
His father calls his name from upstairs, and Peter jumps up. Collins gets up, too, but doesn’t follow him upstairs. Instead he slowly walks towards George, squatting by his head, already certain of what he'll find. He puts two fingers under his jaw, feeling for a pulse. There is none.
George’s eyes are already closed. He looks peaceful, almost as if he’s sleeping. Collins feels a pang of sorrow. As if this day hasn’t claimed enough victims already.
He gets to his feet, then goes upstairs, joining Mr Dawson in the cabin. The sky has gone dark with clouds—no, it’s smoke, thick and black, billowing up from just below the horizon. He peers out, seeing Peter on the foredeck, then goes out to join him. Peter is pointing, shouting at his dad.
“—men in the water!”
A white behemoth, vomiting smoke, gradually comes into view. Around it he sees the sea move, reminding him briefly of carp in a pond jostling to catch a piece of bread; but they’re heads bobbing on the water, floating in a slick of oil that he can see is spreading rapidly. He can feel the boat turning, setting a course for the sinking ship.
“You’re about to find out what it’s like to be in the Navy,” he says to Peter. “Saving men from drowning.” In front of them, arms are going up, waving, as he waved while he slowly sunk into the sea. Peter looks at him, and actually smiles.
“I’ve got experience with that now, too.”