'Did you know him well?' I asked.
She looked at me. 'George? Yes. I knew him — quite well.'
I hesitated. Then I said, 'Does this mean anything to you — if I should die, think only this of me?'
I wasn't prepared for the jolt my question gave her. She sat for a moment as though stunned. Then like a person in a trance, she murmured the remaining two lines — 'That there's some corner of a foreign field — that is forever England.' She looked up at me. Her eyes were wide. 'Where did you hear that?' she asked. 'How did you know-' She stopped and concentrated on the compass. 'Sorry. I'm off course.' Her voice was scarcely audible in the sound of the wind and the sea. She put the wheel over to port and the ship heeled again until her lee scuppers seethed with water and I could feel the weight of the wind bearing on the canvas. 'Why did you quote Rupert Brooke to me?' Her voice was hard, controlled. Then she looked up at me again. 'Was that what he said in his message?'
'Yes,' I said.
She turned her head and gazed out into the darkness. 'So he knew he was going to die.' The words were a whisper thrown back to me by the wind. 'Why did he send that message to you?' she asked, suddenly turning to me, her eyes searching my face.
'He didn't send it to me,' I replied. 'I don't know who it was sent to.' She made no comment and I said, 'When did you last see him?'
'I told you,' she answered. 'I met him when I was working for the Kompani Linge. Then he went on the Maloy road. He — he didn't come back.'
'And you never saw him after that?'
She laughed. 'All these questions.' Her laughter trailed away into silence. 'Don't let's talk about it any more.'