Epilogue: Monday 31st May 1979
Though the sun is shining the day is still a little chilly and the wind that blows in from the North Sea, ruffles the blue surface of the water and quickens the steps of the Spring bank holiday crowds. Southend Pier is reputedly the longest in the world, it juts into the Thames estuary from the Essex shoreline for more than a mile. Two men walk along it through the throng of people, the tinny noise of arcade games, the shouts of children, the smell of candy floss and fish and chips surround them as they hunch into their overcoats, their heads are bare and they exchange few words. One of them is in his 50s, his hair is greying and his overcoat hides a growing paunch, the other man is his father, a little stooped, his hair is white and thinning but his tread is still firm and his blue eyes sharp beneath the white of his brows.
There is a ship moored by the pier, she has been there for more than 20 years. Saved from the breakers by someone who thought she would make a good fairground attraction. She is rotting, rust streaks her flanks, her grey paint is flaking and where her side is close to the pier it is marked by graffiti. ‘MUFC OK’, ‘Rob wuz ere’and crude pictures of genitalia rendered in spray paint.
She is down by the bows and has developed a slight list to starboard. A mass of rubbish bobs in the scummy oil slicked water around her prow as it lifts in the light swell, it is just clear enough to pick out the tangle of weeds and barnacles that cling below the waterline. Some of the glass in her bridge work is broken and her gang plank has been pulled up. A carelessly handwritten sign on it says 'HMS Iron Duke closed until further notice '.
The men stop and stand looking at it for awhile. There is silence between them but the noise of small children laughing and chattering surrounds them. The children are in little paddle boats that are bobbing on a shallow artificial pond in front of the ship right on the pier itself. The younger man is the first to speak.
“Well Dad, I guess she's not looking her best.” The older man says nothing so he continues, his voice rising excitedly as he speaks.
“I've got some good news - some very good news actually - our campaign has paid off, the National Trust has put a Grade 1 listing on her, she's going to Portsmouth, they're going to restore her to how she was in 1918 and she's going to be moored near the Victory as a permanent monument.”He stops; breathless, waits a moment, to his surprise the old man says nothing, he is looking at the children in the little boats.
“Dad, aren't you pleased? It must break your heart to see her like this.” His father looks at him, an unreadable smile on his face, finally he says softly;
“That's good son, that's a good thing, yes, well done, I know you've worked hard to bring this about, well done.” His son waits, hoping for more, but his father's eyes are looking eastwards out into the sea to the indistinct horizon.
“I thought you'd be pleased.”
“Oh I am son, I am...” The older man takes a Polaroid camera from his pocket and snaps a picture of the ship, as the print emerges he flaps it slowly in his hand to dry the emulsion. His son says;
“Well you don't seem very pleased.” Again his father looks at him, looks at the slowly forming photograph and says;
“I don't know that it wouldn't be better just to leave her where she is.” His son is shocked, hurt.
“But I thought that you would be glad, I mean it's such a shame to leave her like this - forgotten, decaying, while mindless yobs spray her with graffiti and throw stones to smash her glass…” he stops, struggling to find words “…it's, it's just too sad...” he points at the children steering the little boats in the enclosure. “Those children there, they're playing in the shadow of a piece of history, but they don't understand it, it's just a meaningless background to them, their parents won't tell them, they can't be bothered, all these people walking up and down this pier, most of them don't even look at her any more, she's become an eyesore, a symbol of a past people aren't even familiar with, don't even care about - if we don't look after her how will they know? How will they understand the significance of it? Dad, you of all people... she was your ship...” He stops, frowning in frustration, why can't his father grasp this?
The Polaroid picture has finally come out. To his surprise his father did not take a picture only of the ship, it is in the background, the tripod mast towers over a foreground that is filled with the people on the pier, the little boats in the water. His father looks at the picture in silence for a while then he says;
“Yes, this was my ship, I was 15 years old at Jutland, I went through the whole war with her and I watched the high Seas Fleet sail into Scapa and surrender from her deck. She looks like those German ships did now, all banged up and streaked with rust. I was proud of her, proud of us - the Royal Navy, of the things we accomplished - and I lost some good friends in that war, too many, far too many. And all the other wars, all the other wars we fought in, we lost so many...” he hangs his head for a moment while the breeze ruffles his hair then looks up suddenly.
“Don't get me wrong son, I understand what you're trying to do and I'm grateful, I'm glad she is going to be restored, she'll look very nice in Portsmouth Harbour, the men who died deserve a monument, but in a way she is almost as good as a monument right here, as she is.” His son is baffled, he cannot grasp what he is saying. The old man sighs he struggles to find the words.
“When we went to war, when we were out there in the North Sea on all those endless patrols, standing to endless watches, or fighting the Germans, so frightened we could barely think; we knew then that we would get no gratitude for it, we knew then that the world would move on and all our struggles and all our suffering would become meaningless, incomprehensible, worn away by time and tide. But we did it all the same. It was our gift, our gift to our people, a gift so costly that it could only be given away for nothing, could only be given to those who didn't understand its value, because they can't understand its value, they could only understand if they went through it themselves, but they won't have to and that is its value, as all these people getting on with their daily business, fretting over their bank accounts, shouting at their children just trying to get by, just trying to understand their lives, they can do this because of what we did. And that is as it should be, and it's enough, enough for me at least, although I have got to say that part of me is grateful that it isn't enough for you.”
They stand in silence for a moment while wraiths of mist drift in from the open ocean and briefly cover the sun. The old man puts the photograph in his pocket and takes his son’s arm. As they walk together back down the pier the sound of children’s voices goes with them, neither man looks back.