Inside the office, Marina waited in a queue until it was her turn at the desk.
‘Could you tell me where the HMS Neptune is berthed?’ Marina asked a harassed-looking clerk.
‘Neptune? She’s berth nine. Next one down on the left. If you’ve got a letter for a sailor, you’d better hurry. The tug boat has been called to tow her out.’
Marina got held up behind a tide of carts carrying fruit and vegetables, and then she had to wait while a crane unloaded crates. Everywhere, men crying out, ‘Watch it! Step aside! Coming through!’ More than once Marina was pushed to the side by an impatient cart driver or hauler.
But she found the HMS Neptune. And she was beautiful. Marina looked up at her steep sides – enormous panels of steel riveted together and painted pale grey – and then tipped her head back to take in the gun turrets. No wonder this ship was the pride of the British navy. And her father was the Commander!
She started to climb up the gangplank.
‘Oi! Young lady! What are you doing?’ A young sailor stood on deck. ‘No civilians allowed on this boat!’
‘It’s all right – I’m here to see my father!’ Marina called out.
‘Who’s that?’
‘The Commander of the ship,’ Marina said with what she hoped was enough confidence to convince the sailor.
He frowned. ‘Well, you’d better hurry up, then.’ He whistled her up. ‘We’re almost due to leave. The minute that last crate of fruit is loaded, we’re off. The tug boat’s here and we’re ready to go!’
‘Oh, thank you, thank you.’ Marina felt a rush of gratitude.
‘Does the Commander know you’re coming? I wasn’t told there’d be visitors.’
Something in his tone sounded like a warning.
‘Of course!’ Marina smiled at him and accepted his hand as he helped her off the gangplank and on to the deck. ‘Oh, this ship is such a beauty,’ she said, looking around admiringly.
‘Indeed,’ he agreed. He hailed another young sailor and told him to ‘escort the young lady to the bridge’.
‘Not sure they’ll thank me for that,’ the sailor said, frowning.
‘They’ll chuck you overboard if you don’t! It’s the Commander’s daughter, you lemon!’
The sailor quickly saluted Marina, which delighted her. If only she could get her father to agree to let her stay . . .
She was taken up metal stairs, sailors turning to stare at her. Now that she was only moments away from seeing her father, she realized that her thumping heart might not be excitement. It could, possibly, be fear.
‘What’s she doing ’ere?’ a sailor growled as she walked past.
‘Bringing bad luck,’ his companion muttered.
‘Permission to bring a visitor on to the bridge, sir!’
Marina took a deep breath to try and get her hammering heart under control. She looked into her father’s domain: dials and instruments, a hydrophone for speaking to the engine room, and the barrels of two enormous guns shadowing the prow in front and framing the view of the sea. A man in a navy-blue jacket with gold at his shoulders and sleeves surveyed the horizon, where sparkling sea met a watercolour blue sky.
‘Papa!’ she cried.
The man turned, a look of surprise on his face. ‘Who . . . Who the deuce are you?’ This Commander was the same height as her father and had the same short, dark hair threaded with silver. But he was not her father.
Marina faltered. ‘But . . . you’re not Commander Denham!’
‘I am not, young lady! I am Commander Barham. And I would like to know how the devil you got on to my boat!’
‘She said she’s your daughter, sir!’ The young sailor had snapped to attention as the Commander looked at him, eyes blazing.
‘I’m Marina Denham. And my father, Patrick Denham, is the Commander of the HMS Neptune.’
The man’s eyes flickered. ‘There’s no one of that name on this ship, my dear,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘I think you must have made a mistake.’
‘But my father is Commander of the HMS Neptune.’
‘I am the Commander of the Neptune, my dear,’ the man said. ‘Now I don’t know how this mistake was made, but I’m sure they can tell you which ship your father is on in the harbour master’s office. That’s where they keep the lists of the men and the boats.’
He turned away. ‘Have the Chief Engineer start the engines, Marshall.’ His voice was sharp: a man used to being obeyed.
‘Yes, sir!’ The Second Officer unhooked an ear trumpet and mouthpiece. ‘Orders from the bridge. Start the engines!’
Marina was bustled down the metal stairs and marched down the gangplank. No sooner was her foot on the dock than the sailor turned and ran back up to the ship. The gangplank was pulled up. The HMS Neptune, the Orion-class dreadnought of His Majesty’s Imperial Navy, was leaving Portsmouth.
Alone on the quay, Marina dropped down on her haunches and watched the dark, oily water churn and slap against the dock. The powerful engines of the HMS Neptune were creating a wake that would rival the work of any sea god. She watched as that vast floating citadel edged away from the port: it didn’t seem possible that there was enough water in the ocean to hold up so many tonnes of guns and steel.
Only now did she fully realize the hopelessness of her situation. She was in Portsmouth rather than being met from a train somewhere in Hampshire. More worryingly, she had no idea where her father was or how she could contact him. The harbour master’s office had no record of her father or any boat
