Chapter Text
A walk to the tip of Portland peninsula was always a welcome activity for the Captain on his rare afternoons off. If the mood possessed him, he would get there via an amble over Chesil Beach. Failing that, a quick trip by road to Southwell and a walk along the cliffs to the Trinity House Obelisk never failed to please him. On this particular occasion, he had chosen the former, skirting the shoreline, his tunic still buttoned firmly around his torso and his tie not a millimetre looser than when he was on duty. The propensity of the smaller beach pebbles to weasel their way into his standard issue boots hindered his otherwise quite respectable progress, but he wouldn’t dare be seen in his bare feet, and so his afternoon began with one hundred yards of walking, stopping, untying his laces, removing half the beach, returning his feet to his shoes, then continuing on for another hundred yards or so, occasionally stopping again (once he got to Portland proper) to take in the view of the breakwater fort to his left across the harbour.
The Captain felt he could never become bored of the sight of it, even after nearly eighteen months stationed at Weymouth. Something about its imposing shape, military rigidity and industrial scale pleased him immensely, and against the soft white cusps of the breakwater and the sharp blue sky of early summer it appeared all the more breathtaking. Even during the tempestuous winter, where the sea and the sky fuse into one indiscernible slate, the breakwater fort still stands apart, the impervious concrete quelling the unpredictable churn of the waves.
A leisurely amble through Fortuneswell brought him to St John’s Church; A squat little Norman thing with plain glass windows and a clock that often ran a quarter of an hour ahead or behind, as the herring gulls had a habit of perching on the minute hand, their weight pushing it towards half-past. The door to the inside of the church stood open, and the Captain slipped inside on a whim. A religious man he was not, but what else could one do but pray when one feared daily for the life of a person whom they had no means of finding?
He didn’t address a divine being, or an omniscient presence. He addressed the man he needed to find, in the ridiculous hope that somehow it might help.
As the sun rose higher in the sky towards midday, the Captain was forced to remove his tunic. Though at this point he had left Fortuneswell, Easton, Southwell, and their respective populations behind, he still felt a keen pang of apprehension at the idea that he was now dressed down. Swinging the heavy woollen garment over his right shoulder, he continued his stroll, smatterings of pasture disrupting the otherwise bleak landscape of sandy grassland.
The soil on the path beneath his feet became gradually looser and lighter in colour until he could see ahead of him the tip of the peninsula and the Trinity House Obelisk keeping watch over the ships on the horizon.
***
After tripping over the flat rocks to reach the front of the monument, the Captain found himself a nice spot to sit, looking out to sea. The purposes of his visits to the coast were usually fauna related, and today was no exception. The lad who worked at the Butcher in Weymouth had told him that he recently saw a couple of Sandwich Terns diving in and out of the water from a vantage point at Portland Bill Lighthouse, so the aim was to spot one for himself.
So far, the Channel seemed quiet, with just the occasional gull skimming across the water, but the Captain was a patient man, happy to while away hour upon hour in his own company, so he made himself comfortable and waited.
At around twenty to two, the Captain could hear the unmistakable shuffle of shoes on gritty sand somewhere behind him. Silently, he hoped this pedestrian simply continued their trek around him, not stopping to take in this particular view. Alas, they had other plans, and the footsteps got progressively closer as the Captain braced himself for the inevitable small talk. He may even have to cut short his trip if the passer-by didn’t take the hint to leave him be. What a shame that would be, for he hadn’t yet had any luck with the Sandwich Terns. Standing in anticipation for the arrival of the stranger, the Captain instinctively turned away from the stone to face the threat head on.
‘Good afternoon!’ the chipper stranger chimed, a broad smile on his face.
He wore a service uniform similar to the Captain’s, but with a different regiment number, so there was no chance of them being familiar to one another. All the better, thought the Captain, he didn’t want to be stuck in a longer conversation with a man he’d have to see that very evening. Much better to meet someone unknown and never have to revisit the moment.
‘Good afternoon to you, sir,’ the Captain replied officiously, clearing his throat slightly at the end of his greeting and bouncing on the balls of his feet.
No sooner had he said this, the gentleman in front of him made a face that the Captain couldn’t read. A moment later and he could identify it as…recognition? Then a moment after that, elation, sure and certain as day.
‘Good God! James?’ the man exclaimed, seeming to go momentarily weak at the knees.
The Captain looked harder at the other Captain (ascertained from the three pips adorning his epaulettes), at the scar across the side of his face, at his brown eyes, wide with disbelief, trying desperately to find an explanation for how this man knows his name. Oh God.
‘Anthony?’
‘It is you!’ Anthony said, almost in a shriek, lunging forward into what appeared to be the beginnings of a hug, before faltering into an enthusiastic handshake.
James reciprocated the sentiment, his arm moving up and down mechanically as his mind worked frantically to come to terms with the turn of events. He stood in a dumbfounded silence for a fraction too long, as Anthony then looked to fill it.
‘I didn’t think I’d ever see you again! You’re stationed at Weymouth now?’
‘I…er…yes, I suppose…since, well erm…yes since, well it would have been December ’41 I was transferred. Just six months after yourself, I believe,’ he managed to splutter out, though it didn’t feel as if the words were coming from his own mouth. A faintness had overcome him, and he felt his head spin as he leant on the stone for support. ‘Your face…’ he said before he had a chance to stop himself. Immediately he covered his mouth, as if trying to put the words back where they came from.
Anthony smiled sadly. ‘Sorry sight, isn’t it?’ Instinctively he reached up and traced the lines of blistered skin with his index and middle finger, averting his gaze.
‘No, not at all, no…I misspoke, Lieutenant—Captain, gosh I do apologise. Force of habit, you see. No, I only meant I refuse to believe I didn’t recognise that face – your face. I should have known it was you, I…gosh it really has been a terribly long time!’
‘Are you looking for Sandwich Terns, James?’ Anthony asked, disregarding his old CO’s earlier ramble entirely. That conversation, he decided, would get absolutely nowhere meaningful. His voice possessed a softness which James found soothing, but also made him feel something else that he couldn’t quite name.
‘How did you…?’
Anthony smiled one of his big broad smiles. ‘I walked down here early yesterday morning and saw a couple of them just out there.’ He pointed across from the stone to the east, to where a buoy beacon bobbed on the waves. ‘I assumed that the resident ornithologist at Button House would want to catch a glimpse of one.’
James couldn’t help but smile at the perceptiveness and accuracy of Anthony’s deductions. No wonder he had done so well for himself in the force. ‘I am, but no luck today. I’ve been here over an hour, and not a peep.’
‘How much do you know about them, James?’ he asked. How the Captain loved the way Anthony said James.
‘Oh a great deal,’ he replied eagerly. ‘Their diet consists mainly of sprats, sandeels and whiting, they can have a wingspan of up to around 5ft, they migrate from southwest Africa to Britain during the summer months to breed, and they are most active in early morning…’ the Captain paused as his words sank in, and a moment of realisation dawned on his face. ‘I should have come early this morning! That’s when they are most active because it’s the best time to catch food for their young. Why did I not think of that sooner?’
‘I have an idea,’ Anthony interrupted, silencing James’ monologue. ‘It’s Sunday tomorrow, how about we meet here at six o’clock-ish and see if we can’t spot a couple of them between us. It would be nice to spend a little time in each other’s company, and I remember you are not much of a social drinker, so perhaps this can be our version of a trip to the Black Dog?’
‘What an absolutely splendid idea!’ the Captain exclaimed, a glimmer of his characteristic enthusiasm shining through the slurry of confusion, relief and elation. ‘Zero-six-hundred hours. Jolly good.’
Anthony knew that the surprise encounter would have short-circuited every fuse in the Captain’s head, and so the morning meet provided him with enough time to process what had happened, and then perhaps improve his ability to string together a couple of coherent sentences. As desperate as he was to be with him now, this was probably for the best, and it gave him something to look forward to.
‘I’m staying in a guest house in Fortuneswell, so perhaps we could meet there at around five o’clock and walk down to the obelisk together?’ Anthony proposed, aware that James would have a near two-hour walk from the Barracks.
‘Yes, that sounds like a plan. Are you holidaying here, Lieu—Captain?’ James asked. He could have deduced the answer himself, but he didn’t want the conversation to end. He didn’t want Anthony to walk away just in case tomorrow never came.
‘I am indeed. It’s quiet in North Africa at the moment, and I’d been there since ’41, so they granted me two weeks of leave. I spent the first with my father in Cheltenham, visiting old friends and family, then took this second week away by myself. I used to visit Weymouth with my mother every few years or so; she had a couple of friends down here, so when she was sitting in their front rooms discussing nothing of importance with a cup of tea weaker than her ability to converse with other people, I would take myself around the coastline with a biscuit or two, often stopping here to see if I could spot any boats. They were scarcer across the Channel back then,’ he remarked with a chuckle. James too made a sound akin to amusement, as the horizon was now packed with navy vessels, and had been since the beginning of the war.
‘You were in Africa for over two years?’ James asked, baffled that he had never thought logistically how leave from another continent would work.
Anthony’s face darkened just a fraction. In the sunlight it was almost immeasurable, but James saw it nonetheless. ‘Yes,’ he replied with a dry laugh. ‘Two years. It was worse at first, because there was no way to send a letter home that would arrive in good time. All the post had to be sailed around the Cape of Good Hope because of the Axis occupation of the Mediterranean. I sent a letter to my father when I first arrived, in July 1940, and he didn’t receive it until the New Year. When the Post Office introduced Airgraph in ’41, home felt much closer. But this is the first time I’ve been back in Britain since I left Button House in preparation for my transfer.’
‘That’s awfully brave,’ James commented, transfixed by this selfless act of heroism. He couldn’t even imagine what it would have been like to be away from home for just two months, let alone two years.
‘I didn’t have a choice once I arrived, James.’ He took a moment, with nothing but the sound of the water breaking the silence, then he continued. ‘We’ll have much to talk about tomorrow, I’m sure. But I should be getting on my way now, or I’ll be late back for supper.’
‘Ah yes, jolly good. Well, I agree with you there. One mustn’t be late for that sort of thing. I’ll see you tomorrow, yes?’ James asked with a slight tone of apprehension. We’ll definitely see each other again? I can’t let you disappear like a figment of my imagination; I can’t let you leave for Africa without seeing you properly.
‘Absolutely. Wait outside the Royal Portland Arms when you get to Fortuneswell tomorrow, and I’ll be there. I promise.’ Anthony reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. ‘I don’t smoke, but I carry a lighter in case anyone might need one. Consider it a sort of collateral, proof we’ll meet again tomorrow morning. Don’t forget to bring it with you, mind,’ he said as he handed over the little silver case to James. ‘I do want it back!’
‘Yes, absolutely. I’ll keep it safe as can be. Guard it like a state secret!’ James assured, slipping it into his breast pocket.
‘Thank you, Captain,’ Anthony said, saluting and turning on his heel back to where he left the path, where James had dreaded the arrival of another person, and wished they would carry on their way so as not to disrupt his precious solitude. Goodness how glad he was that it didn’t happen that way.
***