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escorted her home when an air raid warning had been sounded. They were married the following year.
    He reached into an inside pocket and dragged out his old wallet. It was wrapped in a square of oilskin, the pieces stuck together, and he had not opened it since they had hauled him out of the sea.
    He prised the wallet open. Three one-pound notes, a theatre ticket, and an old mess bill from H.M.S. Hornet , the Coastal Forces base in Gosport.
    He turned the photograph of her toward the light. Cracked and badly stained, flaking apart even as he held it. He had never replied to that letter, nor would he. But suppose … The same smile. He thought of the way she used to poke out the tip of her tongue, to provoke him. Excite him.
    She might have read about him when he had been decorated. Or thought of him whenever the B.B.C. newsreader intoned, “… and last night our Light Coastal Forces were heavily engaged with the enemy in the North Sea …”
    The photograph had broken apart in his fingers. He must have fallen asleep against the table.
    It was more than that. Someone was rapping on the door. He tried to clear his throat.
    “I’m here!”
    Sturdy, round-faced: one of those anonymous seamen he had seen or spoken to. They all needed time. Like me .
    He saw the loose overall jacket, the inevitable oilstain. One of the Chief’s motor mechanics.
    “Rathbone, isn’t it?”
    The Chief had accidentally called him ‘Basil’, after the popular Hollywood villain Basil Rathbone, usually seen crossing swords with Errol Flynn or the like.
    He grinned. “S’right, sir!” and gestured vaguely. “I was down aft, workin’ on a generator, an’ I was told you was still up an’ about.” He was fumbling inside his jacket. “So I thought …” He thrust out something wrapped in a piece of spotless white paper. “You might be needin’ a smoke after a day like we’ve ’ad.”
    Kearton unfolded the paper and stared at the pipe in his hands. He had last seen it, snapped off at the stem, when they had emptied his pockets at the hospital. Like the stained wallet now lying on the table.
    “’Ope you didn’t mind, sir.”
    Kearton shook his head. “I thought it had been ditched. I had no idea …” and fell silent, staring at it.
    Eventually he said, “What were you before you joined up? A magician?”
    The grin was back, wider than ever.
    “Worked at Finlay’s garage on the Kingston by-pass, not that far from your dad’s boatyard when you thinks about it, sir. But once old Finlay took you under ’is wing you learned to tackle anything, Rolls-Royce to cigarette lighter!”
    They were both laughing.
    He dug into his other pocket and dragged out a tin labelled DUTY FREE. H.M.SHIPS ONLY.
    “Me an’ the lads thought you might be a bit short, sir.” He put it on the table.
    The door closed. As if he had dreamed or imagined it.
    He walked to the scuttle and opened it again; the air seemed cool, even cold. He could feel the hull moving beneath him, restless, impatient.
    People sometimes wanted to know the true difference between the ‘little ships’ and the bulk of the fleet. He looked at his pipe and the tobacco on the table.
    There was no easy answer. But this was the difference.
    Kearton stood by a broad window overlooking part of the anchorage, alive now with launches, and some quaint local vessels going about their affairs as if untouched by a hundred years of history. Outside, there was a stone balcony, and a telescope mounted on a tripod.
    He could see the Rock itself from here, dominating everything around and beneath it, hazed with low cloud which remained motionless despite the wind rippling the flags at various mastheads. And from this building with its old cannon, saluting guns in the vanished days of peace.
    He had been deeply asleep, although he could not recall having climbed into the bunk. And then the hand on his shoulder, and the momentary sense of danger. He was to present himself at the Signals Distribution