Submarine

'Julian! Are you there?' She was difficult to hear. 'But where… where?' 'I'll tell you later. Be ready to travel, that's all — from the Tuesday onwards.'

'What shall I bring?'

'You won't need much: outdoor things. I must go now.'

She was whispering something when he hung up. He felt the ridiculous thumping of his heart as he handed over the booth to the waiting woman. The meter had not even gobbled all his money. The woman pushed past, glancing at him. 'Worth it, wasn't it?' she laughed. 'Wish mine could be as good.' The door slammed in his face and he threaded his way back to the table in the lounge.

'Can't see what you've got to grin about,' Coombes told him. 'Personally, I'm doubling the value of my life insurance.'

'Cheers again.' Farge peered at the flaming beard across the table. 'It's a long time, Janner,' he gulped. 'Six years, isn't it, since we shared that cabin in Clyde Block?'

'Ah…' Coombes brooded. 'Footloose and all that, in those days.'

Farge did not intend to open old wounds. Margot belonged to another world, and he didn't care now, hadn't for a long time.

'When did they call you in for this lot?' Farge asked.

'When I got in from patrol. I left the boat with Number One,' Coombes murmured, glancing over Farge's shoulder. 'Rum coincidence, ain't it?'

'What d'you mean?'

'That it should be us — you and me — for Jake's little jaunt. Does it make any difference to you, the past?' Coombes asked.

Farge stared into those blue eyes, sensed the concern behind the banter.

'I forgot Margot long ago,' he replied. 'I've no hard feelings. She wasn't worth it, was she?'

'Thanks, Julian,' Coombes murmured. 'I married Trix in the end. Two marvellous kids.'

Farge drained his beer. 'Happy?' he asked, watching Coombes across the rim of his mug.

The leonine head was in profile, the red moustachios twirled to a point, like a sergeant-major's in the Guards. Coombes did not answer directly.

'Trix may have cancer,' he said. 'They did a biopsy just before I left for patrol.' He downed his pint to the dregs and slammed the empty glass on the table. 'How's that for you, mate? I haven't even had leave to see her.' He hurried on, adding, 'You're a West Countryman, aren't you?'

Farge covered up too. 'I was born in West Yorkshire. My father moved down to Exmoor when he retired three years ago.'

'He's a noble lord now, isn't he?'

'He's a lord,' Farge said. 'It doesn't make much difference but he finds it difficult to get used to. But aren't you from the West Country, too — I remember at Dolphin…' 'Yeah. Wurzels, mud on me boots and straw in me beard,' Coombes was laughing and it was good to hear his Devon burr. 'I've hardly been back since I was a sprog.' He was staring across the lounge, his thoughts miles away. 'Drink up. I could do with another.'

'I'll get it.' Farge pushed his way through to the bar. From here he could watch the man who first had nicked his girl, then the nuke upon which he had set his heart. Curiously, no resentment lingered: they were in at the deep end together now.

'Same again?' the barman asked.

Rough luck for Coombes — off on sow, with the burden of his personal tragedy to bear. He had certainly changed from the man Farge had known during that March perisher.

'Thanks.' Farge handed over the money. He began slopping his way back to the table when Coombes was threading through the throng to help.

'Get round this, Janner.'

They spent the last minutes of time swapping phone numbers at Barrow and Faslane.

'I've got Trix at Lochgoilhead,' Coombes said. 'Bloody awkward to get to. Luke and Sarah come home next week, but Trix isn't feeling too well at the moment, with the treatment they're giving her. I won't get her up to Loch Alsh. She has enough to worry about at the moment.' He gave a wry grin. 'What about you, Julian? How's about your love-life? You were always a crafty one.'

Farge took a long swig at his beer, 'I've escaped so far,' he said, changing the subject. 'But I've got one worry. How the hell do you, Janner, get rid of an officer in whom you've no confidence?'

'That's a tricky one,' Coombes said. 'With the officer shortage, unless he's buggered the cook or run off with the funds, he's unsackable.'

'Even in submarines?'

'Even in submarines.' Coombes was looking directly at Farge, those steady blue eyes weighing him up. 'What's your trouble?'

'Remember Woolf-Gault?'

'The spare Jimmy?'

Farge nodded. 'He needs operational experience before they can recommend him for perisher; he's been sent to me to understudy Tim Prout for a couple of patrols,' and Farge briefly recounted Woolf-Gault's failure.

'Your troops must have seen it all,' Coombes said. 'He ought to be shot straight back to "gens".'

'That's what I asked for. Not a hope. There aren't enough officers to go round, anyway. The usual story. Peacetime politics. No money.'

'You've got to lump it?'

'Yeah. You can imagine the effect on my wardroom.'