The New Collected Short Stories Read online

  Diana was standing on the quay, her eyes frantically searching for her husband. Robin smiled and waved at her with the arm that wasn’t broken.

  It wasn’t until she read a full report in the Jersey Echo the following day that she realized just how close she’d been to becoming a widow. John Poynton described Robin’s decision to leave the boat to rescue the stranded couple, who undoubtedly owed their lives to him, as an act of selfless courage in the face of overwhelming odds. He had told Robin privately that he thought he was mad, and then shook him by the hand. It was the wrong hand, and Robin screamed again.

  All Robin had to say while he sat propped up in a hospital bed, one arm in plaster, the other attempting to handle a spoon and a bowl of cornflakes, was, ‘I won’t be able to play in the final of the President’s Cup.’

  A year later, Diana gave birth to a girl whom they christened Kate, and Robin fell in love for a second time.

  Chapman’s Cleaning Services continued to flourish, not least because Robin had become such a popular member of the community, with some of the residents now treating him as if he were a local and not a newcomer.

  The following year, he was elected a vice-president of the local rotary club, and when the head launcher stepped down, the RNLI committee voted unanimously to invite Robin to take his place. Despite these minor honours being bestowed upon him, he reminded his wife that he was no nearer to becoming a full member of the Royal Jersey, and as his handicap had begun to move in the wrong direction, he’d probably missed his one chance to win the President’s Cup and automatically become a life member.

  ‘You could always join another club,’ Diana suggested innocently. ‘After all, the Royal Jersey’s not the only golf club on the island.’

  ‘If I were to join another club, the committee would strike me off the waiting list without a second thought. No, I’m just going to have to be patient. After all, it should only be about another eight years before they get round to me,’ he said, not attempting to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

  Diana would have laughed if the klaxon hadn’t sounded for the ninth time that year. Robin dropped his paper and leapt up from the table without a second thought. Diana wondered if her husband had any idea of the anxiety she experienced every time he was away at sea. It hadn’t helped when a few weeks earlier one of the crew had been swept overboard during an abortive rescue attempt.

  Robin kissed his wife before leaving her with the familiar parting words, ‘See you when I see you, my darling.’

  When he returned, four hours later, he crept quietly into bed, not wanting to wake Diana. She wasn’t asleep.

  Robin smiled after he’d read the letter a second time. It was just a short note from the club secretary, nothing official, of course, but he was confident that it wouldn’t be too much longer before the committee was able to ratify his membership of the RJGC. What did ‘too much longer’ mean? Robin wondered. In theory he still had another four years to wait, and he was well aware that there were several other names ahead of his on the waiting list. However, Diana had told him that several members felt he should have been elected after he’d broken his arm and been forced to withdraw from the final of the President’s Cup.

  Robin’s spell as head launcher on the lifeboat was coming to an end, as the job required a younger man. Diana couldn’t wait for the day when her husband would become more preoccupied with propelling a little white ball towards a distant hole than with rescuing helpless bodies from a merciless sea.

  The following year, Robin opened a second shop in St Brêlade, and was considering a third, on Guernsey. He felt a little guilty because his brother Malcolm was now running four establishments on the mainland, and contributing far more to the company’s bottom line, while at the same time keeping an eye on his two children, who were at prep school on the mainland.

  Robin was a contented man, and on his thirty-sixth birthday he promised Diana that he would serve only one more year as head launcher, even if he wasn’t elected to the Royal Jersey. He raised his glass. To the future,’ he said.

  Diana raised her glass and smiled. To the future,’ she repeated, unaware that another man on the far side of Europe had other plans for Robin Chapman’s future.

  When Britain declared war on Germany on 3 September 1939, Robin’s first instinct was to return to England and sign up, especially as several younger members of his crew had already found their way to Portsmouth and joined the Royal Navy. Diana talked him out of the idea, convincing him that he was too old, and in any case his expertise would be needed on Jersey.

  They decided to leave the children at school in England, and Malcolm and his wife unhesitatingly agreed to look after them during the holidays.

  When the German army goose-stepped down the Champs-élysees nine months later, Robin knew it could only be a matter of weeks before Hitler decided to invade the Channel Islands. Thirty thousand islanders had been evacuated to Britain, including his own children, and German bombs had fallen on St Helier and St Peter Port on Guernsey.

  ‘I’ll have to stay on as head launcher,’ Robin told Diana. ‘With so few young men available, they’ll never find a replacement before the war is over.’

  Diana reluctantly agreed to what she imagined to be the lesser of two evils.

  When Lord Trent phoned Robin at home and asked if they could have a private meeting at the club, he assumed the old man was at last going to confirm his membership of the Royal Jersey.

  Robin arrived a few minutes early and the club steward ushered him straight into Lord Trent’s study. The look on the President’s face was not one that suggested glad tidings. Lord Trent rose from behind his desk, indicated that they should sit in the more comfortable leather chairs by the fire, and poured two large brandies.

  ‘I need to ask you a special favour, Robin,’ he said once he’d settled in his chair.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said Robin. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘As you know, the ferries from Weymouth and Southampton have been requisitioned by the Government as part of the war effort, and although I thoroughly approve this decision, it presents me with something of a problem, as the Prime Minister has asked me to return to England at the first possible opportunity.’

  Before Robin could ask why, Trent took a telegram from an inside pocket and handed it to him. Robin’s heart missed a beat when he saw the address: ‘No.10 Downing Street, London, SW1’. Trent waited until he had finished reading the telegram from Winston Churchill.

  ‘The Prime Minister may well wish to see me urgently,’ said Trent, ‘but he seems to have forgotten that I have no way of getting off this island.’ He took another sip of his brandy. ‘I rather hoped you might feel able to take Mary and me across to the mainland in the lifeboat.’

  Robin knew that the lifeboat was never meant to leave the harbour unless it was answering a distress call, but a direct request from the Prime Minister surely allowed him to tear up the rule book. Robin considered the request for some time before he responded. ‘We’d have to slip out after nightfall, then I could be back before sunrise and no one need be any the wiser.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ said Trent, command changing hands.

  ‘Would tomorrow night suit you, sir?’

  The old man nodded. ‘Thank you, Robin.’

  Robin rose from his place. ‘Then I’ll see you and Lady Trent on the quayside at nine tomorrow night, sir.’ He left without another word, his brandy untouched.

  Robin was assisted by two young crew members who also wanted to reach the mainland, as they wished to join up. He was surprised by how uneventful the Channel crossing turned out to be. It was a full moon that night and the sea was remarkably calm for October, although Lady Trent proved to be a far better sailor than his lordship, who never opened his mouth during the entire voyage except when he leaned over the side.

  When the lifeboat entered Weymouth harbour, a patrol boat escorted them to the dockside, where a Rolls-Royce was waiting to whisk the Trents off to London. R