along, Jones?’
‘I don’t really know, sir. It’s all on a need-to-know basis and I don’t expect I know any more about it than the average member of the public can get from the newspapers.’
‘Are Harvey McNichol & Drummond going to get a contract for a nuclear submarine?’
‘There again I don’t know, sir. Nobody’s mentioned it.’
‘Knowing them,’ said the Admiral, ‘I don’t suppose it has occurred to them. If I was their managing director, what’s his name again?’
‘Sir Rollo, sir?’
‘That’s the fellow. If I was him I would be on the telephone every day and submitting a tender once a week.’
‘I haven’t heard anything about it, sir.’
‘I wonder what sort of man will command these submarines, when we get ‘em,’ the Admiral said. ‘When I pressed the button in the old days I only sank some terrified little coaster. Sometimes the fish came back and nearly sank me! But when these fellows press the button they’re going to destroy the equivalent of half the population of London! They’re going to have more power in their little fingers than Nelson and all his captains had in their entire fleets. I trust they don’t get a sudden rush of blood to the head one day. If you let one of those off by mistake you can’t turn round and tell Admiral Submarines you’re very sorry and you promise not to do it again, eh? Can’t laugh one of those off, eh Jones?’
‘No sir, you can’t,’ said Dagwood.
The Admiral finished his soup in half a dozen quick mouthfuls. ‘Our local schoolmaster was telling me an interesting thing. It seems that when a Roman general had a triumph and rode through the streets of Rome in his chariot he always had a slave standing beside him who whispered in his ear to remind him that he was only mortal and not a god. In case the whole thing went to his head, I suppose. The Romans had as good an idea of the psychology of power as we have. Better, in some ways. But who’s going to stand behind these nuclear boys and whisper in their ears, eh Jones?’
‘That’s a point, sir,’ said Dagwood.
The Admiral wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘Met a fellow once, called himself a novelist. R.N.V.R. during the war. Said he was in corvettes. He had the infernal impudence to tell me that all submariners were either power maniacs, sadists or nautical romantics. Damned impudence! ‘
There was no doubt that the Admiral did himself well. After the soup, Patricia brought in grilled trout with white wine sauce, followed by beef olives tightly rolled in bay leaves sprinkled with mint, new potatoes and artichokes, Welsh rarebit with bitter sauce, and frozen chocolate mousse with grated nutmeg. By the time Dagwood started on his Caerphilly and his Ryvita biscuits and the Admiral passed round his madeira, Dagwood was beginning to feel quite groggy with food and drink.
Dagwood was puzzled by the absence of servants. There seemed to be nobody in the house except themselves. Patricia fetched the food from a hatch by the sideboard and took the plates away again afterwards. When Dagwood attempted to help, the Admiral said, ‘Sit down Jones, it’s better if one person does it and Patricia knows where everything is.’ It was as though the house were solely dedicated to keeping alive the Admiral’s dying spirit, with Patricia the acolyte tending the flame. Dagwood was awed by the girl’s fortitude; he wondered at the qualities of patience and self-denial which kept her here to look after her father instead of running off to marry a groom, or getting a housekeeper’s job in Ross & Cromarty, or emigrating to Australia, or doing any of the things Dagwood imagined girls in her position did. Patricia seemed to sense that Dagwood was wondering about her.
‘Tell us what you do in the dockyard, Mr Jones,’ she said.
‘Oh, I’m just standing by while the firm refit the submarine.’
‘How’s that rogue Tybalt?’ asked the Admiral. ‘Been battering at you with his theories
‘I don’t really know, sir. It’s all on a need-to-know basis and I don’t expect I know any more about it than the average member of the public can get from the newspapers.’
‘Are Harvey McNichol & Drummond going to get a contract for a nuclear submarine?’
‘There again I don’t know, sir. Nobody’s mentioned it.’
‘Knowing them,’ said the Admiral, ‘I don’t suppose it has occurred to them. If I was their managing director, what’s his name again?’
‘Sir Rollo, sir?’
‘That’s the fellow. If I was him I would be on the telephone every day and submitting a tender once a week.’
‘I haven’t heard anything about it, sir.’
‘I wonder what sort of man will command these submarines, when we get ‘em,’ the Admiral said. ‘When I pressed the button in the old days I only sank some terrified little coaster. Sometimes the fish came back and nearly sank me! But when these fellows press the button they’re going to destroy the equivalent of half the population of London! They’re going to have more power in their little fingers than Nelson and all his captains had in their entire fleets. I trust they don’t get a sudden rush of blood to the head one day. If you let one of those off by mistake you can’t turn round and tell Admiral Submarines you’re very sorry and you promise not to do it again, eh? Can’t laugh one of those off, eh Jones?’
‘No sir, you can’t,’ said Dagwood.
The Admiral finished his soup in half a dozen quick mouthfuls. ‘Our local schoolmaster was telling me an interesting thing. It seems that when a Roman general had a triumph and rode through the streets of Rome in his chariot he always had a slave standing beside him who whispered in his ear to remind him that he was only mortal and not a god. In case the whole thing went to his head, I suppose. The Romans had as good an idea of the psychology of power as we have. Better, in some ways. But who’s going to stand behind these nuclear boys and whisper in their ears, eh Jones?’
‘That’s a point, sir,’ said Dagwood.
The Admiral wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘Met a fellow once, called himself a novelist. R.N.V.R. during the war. Said he was in corvettes. He had the infernal impudence to tell me that all submariners were either power maniacs, sadists or nautical romantics. Damned impudence! ‘
There was no doubt that the Admiral did himself well. After the soup, Patricia brought in grilled trout with white wine sauce, followed by beef olives tightly rolled in bay leaves sprinkled with mint, new potatoes and artichokes, Welsh rarebit with bitter sauce, and frozen chocolate mousse with grated nutmeg. By the time Dagwood started on his Caerphilly and his Ryvita biscuits and the Admiral passed round his madeira, Dagwood was beginning to feel quite groggy with food and drink.
Dagwood was puzzled by the absence of servants. There seemed to be nobody in the house except themselves. Patricia fetched the food from a hatch by the sideboard and took the plates away again afterwards. When Dagwood attempted to help, the Admiral said, ‘Sit down Jones, it’s better if one person does it and Patricia knows where everything is.’ It was as though the house were solely dedicated to keeping alive the Admiral’s dying spirit, with Patricia the acolyte tending the flame. Dagwood was awed by the girl’s fortitude; he wondered at the qualities of patience and self-denial which kept her here to look after her father instead of running off to marry a groom, or getting a housekeeper’s job in Ross & Cromarty, or emigrating to Australia, or doing any of the things Dagwood imagined girls in her position did. Patricia seemed to sense that Dagwood was wondering about her.
‘Tell us what you do in the dockyard, Mr Jones,’ she said.
‘Oh, I’m just standing by while the firm refit the submarine.’
‘How’s that rogue Tybalt?’ asked the Admiral. ‘Been battering at you with his theories
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