Free Good Enough For Nelson by John Winton Page A

half-guessing what was to come.
    ‘Well, sir, as soon as they hear the word “play” sir, down comes the rain. Very powerful white man’s rain-making juju, sir.’
    While Jimmy and the batting side were all chuckling, The Bodger told himself, you asked for that. You walked straight into that with your chin sticking out. Bombulada’s shining black face was absolutely expressionless, and, as so often at Dartmouth, The Bodger could not be sure whether he was having his leg pulled or not. But twenty, or even ten years ago, such a conversation would have been impossible. Even now, it was a bold midshipman who cracked such a joke with the Captain of the College, that is, if it were a joke. Bombulada’s face gave no sign.
    A wicket fell in the adjacent game. There was some clapping and ‘Bags of go, Jellicoe!’ The Bodger and Jimmy moved on.
    As they went round the College The Bodger was interested and flattered to see that the process of supercession was already well under way. By slow but steady degrees, Jimmy’s status in the College was diminishing, whilst his own was growing. It was ever thus: the Captain is dead, long live the Captain. It was to him that the College would now be looking for professional direction, just as they would look to Julia for a social lead.
    ‘Julia on her way is she?’ Jimmy asked, as they walked along the front of the College towards the Captain’s house that evening.
    ‘In a day or two. She’s tying up a few loose ends after we sold our house in Scotland. Hello, what’s this?’
    It was the sound of many bass voices raised in rough harmony.
    ‘A British tar … is a soaring soul ... As free as a mountain … bird ... His energetic fist... should be ready to resist... A dictatorial word...’ The Massed Port and Starboard Britannia Choirs were in good voice, and working well. Their diction was surprisingly clear. Monsignor would be delighted.
    ‘His... foot should stamp and his throat should growl his hair should twirl and his face should scowl his eye should flash and his breast protrude and this should be his customary attitude . . . His attitude . . . His attitude . . . His ATTI .... TUDE...!’
    ‘Make it so,’ said The Bodger.
     

CHAPTER IV
     
    The Bodger awoke with a start and knew exactly who and where he was. He was the Assyrian, to come down like a wolf on the fold. The Bodger sat bolt upright, and at once felt a violent pang in his temples. Seeing Jimmy Forster-Jones off the night before had been an arduous business. None of them, The Bodger conceded now, were as young as they were. And talking of the young, it was time for The Bodger to be up and about. Even now the little woolly lambs were assembling. The Bodger put on old sailing trousers, and an old submarine frock, and went outside.
    It was just after six o’clock, on a summer morning at Dartmouth. The harbour was hidden in a pearly mist which came lapping up the hill as far as the edge of the parade ground, so that the flagstaff seemed to be rising directly out of a foaming mysterious sea. Sounds of town and harbour in the early morning floated up through the mist, their impact and meanings blurred and filtered. The hard ground underfoot was damp, there was dew on the grass, and somewhere a lark was singing. It was summer at Dartmouth, and a moment just out of The Bodger’s memories. This was just as it had been. It was true that the place had a rejuvenating effect. The middle-aged came to it to refresh themselves, as though to drink from youth.
    There was a figure lurking on the parapet, in a beret and a woolly pully with lieutenant commander’s stripes on the shoulders. It was, unbelievably, the Captain’s Secretary.
    ‘Good morning, Scratch, what are you doing here?’
    ‘Good morning, sir. I’m here for the SLACOUT’s EMAs, sir.’
    ‘The what?’
    The Bodger fancied that his Secretary was looking at him almost pityingly. ‘The Supplementary List Aircrew Officers Under Training’s early morning