He was far too young to be owner and master of this tug, but that had been forced upon him by the untimely death of his father, killed in a dockyard accident in 1935 when a haulage winch, being lifted on to the dockside, swung, crushing him against the harbour wall. The inquiry found it to be accidental death, but Jenkins could never be completely convinced. His father had made a handful of enemies in the salvage business. Bringing back to port an abandoned fishing boat after a storm had forced its crew to abandon her had entitled him to a proportion of the ship’s value. Too often, this was more than the mortgaged owner of a boat could afford and would bankrupt him. The boat would then be sold to pay the salvors. This was the long-written law of the sea, but it still created vicious divisions in a tight-knit fishing community.
‘Anyone aboard?’ piped a cheery voice, bringing Graeme Jenkins out of his brooding with a start. The voice was that of Lieutenant Commander Pringle, a retired First World War Royal Navy officer who was now the officer commanding the harbour during wartime. He was a still-sprightly, white-haired, sixty-five year old, who had rejoined as a reservist to do his bit for the war effort.
‘Not more bloody paperwork’, Graeme complained, using this as his permission to enter his cabin.
‘And how are you, Graeme, this fine morning? Good trip? I can’t see any new bullet holes, and the two convoys you were on didn’t lose a ship.’
‘Not a sniff of Jerry, but four days out there thinking there’s an E-boat hiding in every fog bank, and how little would be left of this old girl if we touched off a mine, doesn’t make for a pleasure cruise, now, does it?’, he replied.
‘Oh, come now’, Pringle said cheerily. ‘Thirty-six hours or so in harbour before the next convoy comes down from Newcastle, and what’s more you have someone requesting an audience at the dock gate.’
‘Tell him I’m going to sleep until the pubs open tonight. I’m not in the mood to see anyone.’
‘Not even if I were to tell you she’s a very bright young filly and good looking with it, too?’
The young single man home from the sea immediately perked up. ‘Who is she?’
‘Ah’, said Pringle, ‘now that’s for me to know and you to find out. Do you want me to tell her you’re too busy?’
‘Be damned you tell her that! Dump all those Admiralty orders and bullshit over there on my desk and tell her I’ll be at the dock gate in fifteen minutes, after I’ve cleaned up. Get the harbour wallahs to bring the collier alongside and start coaling. My report on the last four days will be with you in the morning. Now, if that’s all, then I’m sorry, but I must get moving if she’s that good looking.’
Pringle said his good-bye and left Vexatious, chuckling as he went up the steep gangplank to the quay.
Graeme stripped down to the waist, trying to wash the sea and the coal dust from his body. He was lean yet muscular, and with his skin tanned from the sun and the sea and at six feet tall, he was a rugged-looking man in his prime. As he shaved, he thought he really must get his somewhat wild, thick blonde hair cut this leave. This really would not do.
He selected a clean pair of trousers and a new white seaman’s sweater from his kit locker. Clean leather shoes felt good in place of sea boots. Macassar on his hair to control it left just his captain’s cap to don to complete his upgrade. Adjusting this to its normal rakish angle, he checked in his cracked mirror – the result of a bomb’s near miss – and decided he was fit to meet his mysterious caller.
The naval rating in the dock gate hut came to attention. When asked who was asking after him, the rating pointed to a young woman sitting across the quay on a mooring bollard. Looking through the rather murky hut window, Jenkins ran his professional eye over her. This was no longer the seaman’s eye; this was the eye of the red-blooded male.
She was a young woman of perhaps twenty years, slim, fairly tall, maybe five-foot-six, with long, dark brown, straight hair that fell to her shoulders – good-looking, too. She wore a crisp white fitted blouse and an equally well-fitting blue skirt, and her high-heeled shoes would put her almost on a par with a six-foot man such as himself.
Mmm, very tasty, Graeme thought.
He knew her from somewhere, but for the life of him could not recall where. It was so unlike him to forget a lovely, slim, good-looking creature like this. The war must be getting to him more than he knew. She looked far too classy to be seen in the pubs he frequented. So where did he know her from?
Thanking the naval rating, he walked out into the bright sunshine, across the quay, and approached her. She obviously knew who he was.
‘Graeme Jenkins, captain and owner of the armed tug Vexatious. I understand you wish to see me, young lady?’
Standing up, she replied, ‘I’m Jane Harrowden. We met in the summer of ’38, when I was fund-raising for the lifeboat. I was head girl at St Edmunds Grammar School and presented you with a cheque for £65.’
‘Of course, how unforgiveable of me to forget such a charming young woman’, he replied, remembering instantly at the prompt that day two summers ago: he had picked her up by the waist and plonked her on the deck of the lifeboat, where she was photographed for the Evening Post. The skinny teenager of two years ago had definitely blossomed, filling out perfectly in all the right places.
‘And how may I help you today?’ he said engagingly.
‘I have another donation to present, £118 this time, from my old school and my father’s business associates.’
Graeme responded: ‘I hope you understand that I am no longer as involved with the lifeboat now as I once was. The Royal Navy seems to take most of my time now. However, if you wish to give me your donation, I’ll try to ensure it’s delivered into the right hands.’
‘I hope you have brought your receipt book for such a large sum’, she said in a most professional manner.
‘Well, I don’t normally carry it with me, but if you wish to come to the ship, I’m sure I can accommodate you’, he replied.
Her eyes gave just the slightest hint of enthusiasm as she coyly added, ‘As long as it’s safe for me to be there.’
‘Come along with me. If I can protect a half-dozen merchant ships from the Nazis, I would be fairly sure you’ll come to no harm.’
Jane thought fleetingly of whether she ought to, but very quickly decided this was too good an opportunity to miss. She had waited two years for another chance to meet this man again. The impression made on that innocent eighteen year old, two years ago had gone very deep. She followed him as they walked back towards the dock office and the restricted quayside beyond.
‘The lady has business on Vexatious’, he informed the naval rating as they passed through. ‘If Pringle finds out, tell him I threatened you.’ It was strictly forbidden in wartime for civilians to be on the docks without the necessary warrant.
They strolled nonchalantly in the warm sunshine down the quayside to where the hulking tug lay. ‘Meet the lady in my life, Miss Harrowden. All two hundred seventy-five tons and nine hundred horsepower of her. Definitely not going to the ball: the armed tug Vexatious.’
He looked at the rusted side plating, burnt funnel paint, and, most tellingly, the neat row of bullet holes made by the Junkers bomber that had attacked them six weeks ago. The bombs had missed their intended target, but the bullets had riddled his bridge. That day he had been lucky. How long could he go on being so lucky was anyone’s guess.
‘Please, step aboard.’ He took her by the wrist to support her down the steep gangplank. As he released his grip at the bottom, their eyes met; hers quickly averted, but he knew exactly what they were communicating during that brief moment.