HMS Marlborough Will Enter Harbour (1947) by Monsarrat Nicholas

Author:Monsarrat, Nicholas [Monsarrat, Nicholas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: WWII/Navel/Fiction
Published: 1947-08-31T23:00:00+00:00

Back at our table again, there came an odd interruption in the pattern of our evening.

We had noticed earlier on a man sitting by himself at the nearest table to ours, a morose-looking naval officer, who had attracted our attention by his solitude, his ferocious concentration on his own company, and the nervous tension which made him fidget, play with the cutlery, ruin a handsome poulet en casserole – do anything, in fact, but enjoy himself as he might have done. He was also rather drunk, in an unspectacular way; a state which he now advertised by gesturing at nothing with his arm, knocking over his glass, and sprinkling the hem of your dress with some hard-won brandy.

You were angelic – almost too angelic, I thought – when he apologized: this may or may not have been what prompted him to turn in his chair and introduce himself formally. But perhaps it was only boredom ...

‘Monsarrat.’ He slurred over the name, and tried again. ‘Monsarrat … It’s a difficult name, and I’m a bit pickled, anyway. Monsarrat – got it?’

‘Yes, I’ve got it,’ I reassured him. ‘Don’t you write books about the Navy?’

He looked pleased, and didn’t try to disguise it, which I rather liked.

‘Yes. You ought to read them.’ He nodded solemnly. ‘They’re very, very good. Have you read them?’

‘Good God, no!’

‘Spoken like a man ...’ He looked at his watch. ‘Have a brandy before I go?’

I glanced across at you, and you nodded. ‘Thanks – we’d like to. What are you celebrating – the end of leave, or the beginning?’

‘The end. God! It’s always the end of leave – nothing but saying goodbye and running for bloody trains.’ He caught a passing waiter’s eye. ‘Waiter! Nine brandies, please … The service is very slow here,’ he explained. ‘You have to take precautions … Nothing but saying goodbye, and catching bloody trains … Sorry,’ he said to you. ‘Just a rough sailor. Sad, also.’

I was beginning to decide that he was rather a bore after all, but you gave him another chance.

‘Who do you have to say goodbye to?’ you asked him.

‘Wife, child. This is where I produce my photograph.’ He brought out a snapshot of a pretty girl and a rather gangsterish-looking infant, sitting out-of-doors in the sun. ‘The kid was angry about something when that was taken. I forget what, but it rather hits you in the eye, doesn’t it?’

‘He looks sweet,’ you said.

‘Takes after father,’ said the naval officer.

‘Is he talking yet?’

‘Just a few simple phrases – “Religion is the opium of the people” – “You have nothing to lose but your chains” – oddments like that … I don’t see much of him,’ he went on: ‘not half enough, in fact – I seem to be missing the most interesting part, and saying goodbye is always a bit trying. But it’s quite a routine, by now. I have to leave the house about seven in the evening, so we bath him and put him to bed, and then I catch my train.

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