Submarine

It was cold when Farge reached the crest of the hill where the Roman remains still showed. The old bitch trailed behind him for the last half-mile, her tongue lolling from her mouth, her eyes reproachful. An old staghound which the kennels had spared for the Farges, Meg had been Julian's since moving to Newdyke. To his right the dark shoulder of Dunkery swept upwards, deep purple on the skyline, fiery sepia where the last light fell. Merging into the invisible combes and distant woods, the great sweep of the beacon hill was silhouetted against the darkening sky, not stark and cruel but with a warm welcome Farge always sensed when he came to it. Exmoor was as friendly as Dartmoor was mysterious and aloof.

Farge lay down, his back against one of the rocks on the ancient Exmoor barrow. Meg crept into the crook of his arm, her muzzle nuzzling against his thigh. Her grizzled face looked up at him, her brown eyes telling him that she was glad to have him home. She grunted with contentment as he fondled her soft muzzle; above him a gull mewed in the darkness as it flapped in from the sea. There would be wind tomorrow.

And tomorrow he must make his phone call to FOSM. Now, up here, he must make the decision. It was considerate of Rackham to allow him the choice: it would have been so easy to have assumed that his cos would automatically accept orders for even the most hazardous of patrols. This must be a very special job, for histrionics were anathema to Rackham.

Farge had left Northwood mentally and physically exhausted; his emphatic request to have Woolf-Gault replaced had left the Staff Captain unmoved. He slept for most of the journey to Taunton. After a good dinner and listening to his father's problems, he felt refreshed, better able to concentrate. He had never really known his father; his twin sister, Barbie, had been much closer, probably because she was a substitute from the earliest days for the mother whom they had never known. Barbie, born twenty minutes before Julian, had always been the bossy one. Even during those years of their childhood when a mysterious 'aunt' had been supervising the household, Barbie had been formidable. Father had not overcome his loneliness since Barbie left Newdyke on her marriage eighteen months ago. Father, a brilliant man in the industrial world, had proved incredibly insensitive among the community on Exmoor, whence he had only moved after receiving his peerage. Lord Farge was an introspective, shut-in person — and Julian realized that in some ways he must have inherited a few of his traits. This latest worry of his father's was a case in point….

Yesterday, Lord Farge had run over and killed their neighbour's working dog, a black-and-white border collie. Spinneycombe was farmed by a Mrs Prynne who Lord Farge had convinced himself was behind the local animosity towards him. He was an ardent follower of the stag-hunt, but Mrs Prynne detested it and all it stood for, though she supported the foxhounds. A feud had developed when, in retaliation for some suspected slight, Lord Farge had forbidden the fox-hunt to cross his estate. There was no answer from the farmhouse when Lord Farge rang to tell Mrs Prynne about the dog, and so Julian had been persuaded by his father to go over to Spinneycombe early tomorrow with the dead dog and to tender Lord Farge's apologies.

A fine start to a leave… but there was nothing he would enjoy more than to get stuck in down here, if his father would allow him. Lord Farge was sixty-six but ageing rapidly and might be relieved to hand over Newdyke to his son: he might even sell up and return to his beloved Yorkshire. Farge pitched a stone at a stump sticking up from the turf. The light was almost gone. He pulled his jacket closer about him: there was a touch of northerly in the wind. He had not worried his father with his own dilemma — the old man bore enough cares without having to worry over the fate of his son. Though the family heritage had rarely been mentioned, it was obvious that Lord Farge of Newdyke was proud of his property, of the niche he was trying to carve out for himself in this part of the world.

Farge swore to himself and the old dog looked up, eager to be off. Lieutenant-Commander Julian Farge, commanding officer of HM Submarine Orcus… if he and his crew failed to return, would the incident be a shattering loss to mankind? Twelve seconds of media time: 'The Ministry of Defence regrets to announce that HM Submarine Orcus has failed to return from patrol. Next of kin have been informed.' And for how long would they be remembered? If there was to be an afterwards, how soon would they be forgotten? Perhaps a plaque in the Dolphin chapel?