Deck Boy, page 11
He caught the front of my T-shirt with a big fist and pushed me against the washbasins. “Let me tell you somethin’. I’m bosun here, an’ I hate deck boys! Lowest form of sea-life that ever crawled, an’ you’d better remember that. Only thing I hate more than deck boys is deck boys wi’ la-di-dah accents as thinks they’re better than the rest of us; deck boys as knocks about wi’ poofs; deck boys as looks about ten; deck boys as should still ’ave a dummy tit in their chops.” His grip tightened, his fist came up under my chin. “Innocent deck boys!”
I felt myself choking and struggled. Almost lifting me from the deck, he battered me against the mirrors above the basins.
What would have happened next I don’t know for the door suddenly crashed open and a group of seamen burst into the washroom. Aaron was in the lead, close behind him the black AB – whose name I discovered was Samuel – then Smoky and two others.
“What going on here?” Samuel’s voice was deep. He pushed past Aaron. “Leave the boy alone. Let go of him.” He tugged the bosun’s hands away.
I slid down from the washbasins.
With stern eyes Samuel regarded my tormentor. “Never you lay hand on another man. Never! You know that.”
“You keep your nose out o’ this.” The bosun reacted quickly. “Bloody ship’s full o’ nig-nogs and queers. Get your ’ands off of me!” He pulled away. “Give me cheek, the little toerag. Deck boy, still wet be’ind the ears, tells me to f— off.”
I stared at him.
“Next time I’ll take you up to the mate,” he warned me. “See what he has to say. Dock you a week’s pay. Black mark in your Discharge Book.” He straightened his jersey, twisted the thick ring on his thick finger. “So watch your dirty lip. You ’ear?”
“We all hear,” Samuel said. “And you lie. He never swear at you. Why you tell this other boy shut the door?” He was a giant man, calm and self-assured. “Now I tell you. Never you lay finger on him again. Or his friend you got cleaning your cabin. Or any of us. You do, you the one taken to the mate. No, to the captain. And you have me to deal with. You remember that.”
The rest gathered round him. Five to one.
There was silence. Then the bosun said, “Oh, to hell!” and barged through them to the door. “Get back to work, the lot o’ you.”
He was gone.
My neck hurt. I tugged my T-shirt straight.
“Back to work? What time is it?” Samuel pulled a battered watch from his pocket and flipped up the cover. “Two minutes to three. Smoko. Come on, young – what’s your name?”
“Ben,” I said.
“Benjamin – the youngest.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Ben what?”
“Ben – ” I caught myself just in time. “That’s only what people call me. It’s Joey, really, Joey Bennett.” My cheeks burned. “Ben from Bennett. It started at school, there was another boy called Joey in the same class.” The lies sprang from my lips.
He eyed me keenly and looked around. “All these good names from the Bible: Benjamin, Joseph, Aaron, Samuel. You think this means we are going to be friends? I hope so.” He held out a big hand, dirty with rust and grease.
I shook it.
“Come on, Benjamin the youngest. Everything stop for smoko. See if the baker sober enough to make any tabnabs yet. I am partial to a currant bun.” As we left the washroom he rested his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t you worry about this bosun. He not touch you again, he not dare. If he do, we take him to the bridge. He lose his job, end up in court. Never bosun again.”
He did his best to reassure me but I wasn’t too worried about a punch in the stomach or a smack on the ear. I was imagining that swim in the cold black waves, two thousand miles from land.
Word had reached Charlie and he came running down the alleyway. “You OK, mate?”
“Course.” I drew a shaky breath. “Don’t know what all the fuss is about. It’s only ol’ Cyclops.”
His eyes held mine. Slowly he broke into his big white grin.
I did my best to smile back..
Charlie turned to my rescuer. “Did you say something about tea and tabnabs, Sammy? Sounds good to me.”
He hung an arm round my shoulders as we started up the alleyway.
“Not Sammy, please.” A deep voice came from behind. “My name is Samuel, Samuel Isaiah Jones.”
The Curry Ladle
ON SHIPS all over the world, the morning and afternoon breaks to which hardworking sailors look forward so much are called smokoes. There is fresh tea in the pot and snacks that are known as tabnabs.
On board Pacific Trader, the tabnabs were a lottery. Sometimes when we turned up dirty from work there were plates of pastries that would have graced the Ritz. Other times we were presented with teacakes burned to charcoal and doughnuts so undercooked that the middles were yellow liquid. The reason was simple: Kenny the baker was an alcoholic. Occasionally this led to a fight which poor skinny Kenny, his hair thinning and a can in his hand, always lost – except on one famous occasion when he laid his attacker cold with a baking tray. This first afternoon was a good day with fresh cream éclairs and coloured cupcakes with icing-sugar writing on the top. Mine said Bon Voyage and Good Luck. It cheered everyone up and we returned to work with a lighter heart.
Lampie gave me clumsy rubber gloves and a set of steps with a little platform on top. I carried them to the washroom and mixed fresh suji. Then, bucket in one hand, cloth in the other, I began to wash the painted ceiling – or deckhead.
If it had been one of the labours of Hercules I could not have hated it more. The caustic suji dripped in my hair and stung my eyes, ran up my arms and spilled down my T-shirt, turning icy-cold and making it stick. My jeans got wet and twisted round my legs. It was a horrible job.
As I worked I wondered why the bosun hated me so much. Was it personal, because of the way I talked, because I’d been brought up to be polite? Was it because of Michael, so camp and gay, a friend of the dead Curly? Or the trouble at the Eight Bells? Or the fight on the landing where I had seen him humiliated? Or did he genuinely hate all ships’ boys, as he had said, simply because we were young and happy?
At last it was knocking-off time. Sailors tramped into the washroom, dirty from their work on deck.
“Come on, mate, down tools. On overtime are you? … What’s your name? Ben? You’re doing a good job, Ben. … Here, give us your bucket.”
The last of the suji vanished down a toilet. Steps and bucket were dumped in the alleyway.
Greatly relieved, I retreated to the cabin and stripped off my clothes. Dye from the cheap jeans had turned my legs blue. Towel round my waist, I returned to the washroom and took a shower. Despite a determined soaping, my legs retained their denim hue. Dripping, I collected both pairs of jeans from the cabin, dumped them in the shower and trampled them underfoot. Blue as ink, the dye flowed away down the plughole. Still in my towel, I carried them to the drying-room and draped them over a wooden spar. It was like walking into an oven. My shoulders scorched.
I dressed and wandered out on deck. Loading was complete. While I laboured in the washroom most of the hatches had been closed, all but a few of the derricks lowered, debris taken ashore, pallets of stores carried below deck. The ship had a keener, cleaner look, as if eager to cast off her moorings and head for the open sea.
At the head of the gangway a cadet in uniform, younger than Tony Fanshott-Williams, was lashing the sailing board to a rail. Details had been chalked in. I read past his shoulders:
This vessel will depart for
FIJI AND NEW ZEALAND
via
PANAMA
at 2230 hours
He straightened, slightly-built and fair-haired. I recognised him as the boy who had been with Tony at the disco.
I nodded at the board. “Thought we were sailing in the morning.”
“Nope. Finished ahead of time. Catch the night tide.” He wiped off a smudge and hurried away.
The detestable Rat’bone was on gangway duty. “Heard you got wrong side o’ the bosun this afternoon.”
“Not on purpose.” I wandered off and leaned on the rail.
“Hoity-toity! Not on purpose!” His voice pursued me. “You look very tidy. Finished for the day?”
“Have to turn-to after dinner I expect.” I gazed across the wharf.
“Aye, I expect you’re right. Just as well we’ve got you on board, eh? Show the rest of us what to do.”
I didn’t reply.
“Any idea what we’re getting?”
“For dinner?” I shook my head. “Smells good though.” I tested my eyesight – right eye, left eye – on the advertisement hoardings, far off on Dock Road.
“Smells like dead dogs to me.”
He was disgusting and I wished he’d leave me alone. After the events of the afternoon I didn’t want to talk to anyone, certainly not Rat’bone or one of his pals. I walked round to the far side of the ship. The last of the setting sun shone through a gap in the clouds. Smoke from our funnel blew across the brown water. Diesel fumes caught my throat. I moved to a better spot.
My knuckles were inflamed with the caustic. Idly I gazed from the vessels opposite to the lock gates and factory chimneys beyond the river. What was I doing here?
Fifteen minutes passed. A distant bell announced that dinner was ready. I glanced at my watch and went below.
A savoury smell of chops and curry issued from the galley. My mouth watered. Voices were raised in the messroom. As I approached, I recognised the high distressed tones of Ossie B. The other was Lenny Rat’bone. He had been relieved on the gangway and now vented his nasty humour on the hapless Ossie.
“What you call this?” He thrust out a plate on which curry had spilled to the rim and covered his thumb. “Are we goin’ to have this kind of slop all trip?”
“I’m sorry, Lenny.” Ossie was placating. “I just tried to give you a good helping.”
“Did I ask for a big helping? Look, it’s gone all underneath.” He clattered the plate on the counter. “Give us another one.” He snatched a tea-towel from Ossie’s shoulder and scrubbed his fingers clean. As he threw it back, the cloth landed half in the tray of curry.
“Sorry, Lenny,” Ossie said again. Hastily he cleared up the mess.
“Take more care feeding the dog than they do in this place,” Rat’bone said.
“Come on! Get a move on!” A dozen men stood waiting.
“I sailed with this bag o’ lard before.” Rat’bone turned to face them and showed his long teeth. “’Ere, d’you know what we called him? Maggot! Get it – Maggot. ’Cause that’s his name, see – Bagot. Ossie Bagot.” He laughed. “Come on, Maggot. You heard ’em. Get a move on. There’s men waitin’ here.”
“Leave him be,” came a voice. “What d’you want to upset him like that for?”
“What for? ’Cause he’s a nut case, look at ’im.”
Even before we set sail, Ossie’s worst fears had come to pass. He slumped against a tray-rack at his back. The curry ladle dripped on the deck.
“Come on, Ossie, mate.” Charlie pushed round the end of the counter. “I’ll take over here. You go off to your cabin.”
Limply Ossie surrendered the ladle. “Thanks, Charlie.” Then he pushed himself upright. “No, it’s my job. But could you lend a hand?”
“Sure, if that’s what you want.” Charlie took stock. “I’ll serve the first course, how about that? You look after the puddings.”
Ossie nodded. He groped in his pocket and I saw the yellow pills.
“Right,” Charlie was brisk. “What can I get you?”
“I told him,” Rat’bone said.
“All right, so now you tell me.”
“Don’t half fancy yourself. Bloody J.O.S.”
“Listen, Lenny, I’m being polite. There’s a crowd of sailors here. They’re tired, they’re impatient, they want their dinners. Now what do you want?”
“Curry, on a clean plate. Reckon you can manage that?” He looked round for approval. “Your sort of nosh, yeah? Paki git!”
Before he could move, Charlie whacked him across the side of the head with the curry ladle. Rat’bone staggered back. Charlie leaned across the counter. “I was being polite. I’ve said to the bosun and now I’ll tell you.” He pointed a threatening finger. “One more crack, just one, I’ll be on that bridge shoutin’ so loud the lawyers’ll hear me from here to Karachi. Got it?”
“Good on you, son,” came a scatter of voices. “Ignorant scruff.”
“Thanks.” Charlie was blazing. “What can I get you?” he said to the next man.
“Chop an’ peas.”
The queue shuffled forward. Ossie prepared to dispense apple tart and fresh fruit salad.
Several places back, Rat’bone mopped curry from his ear and regarded Charlie with venomous eyes.
PART THREE
OUTWARD BOUND:
THE ATLANTIC
Stations Aft
STRAIGHT AFTER dinner Charlie went off to work on deck. I had been given no instructions, so I gave Ossie a hand to clear up in the messroom then went out to join him.
From stem to stern the ship was floodlit and an anthill of activity. Hatch boards were being dropped into place, the last derricks lowered into their cradles, cargo lights unplugged and stored away in deck lockers, shore pipes uncoupled, lifeboats made secure, navigation lights tested, windlass checked, the pilot ladder carried out on deck and lashed to the rails.
“Here, Benjamin the youngest.” Samuel called me to number two hatch. “If you’re doing nothing else, give Chippy and me a hand to batten down.”
So I helped them to spread the three layers of heavy canvas – oldest on the bottom, newest on top – across the hatch boards and secure them with iron battens and wooden chocks. We moved aft to hatches five and six.
By the time we were finished most of the crew had gone below decks to shower and tidy their cabins for families to come aboard for an hour. Children sat with their dads, unmarried sailors hugged their girlfriends, tearful mums sipped gin and gazed about them. Samuel introduced me to his wife and two lovely children. A whole crowd, clutching bottles and shrieking at the strangeness of everything, arrived to give Michael and Barbara a cheerful send-off.
Charlie had warned me to be on the lookout for his parents but I didn’t expect them to turn up on the boat deck. Luckily I spotted them before they saw me. I pulled the woollen hat low over my eyes and fled to the stern.
For a while I sat on a coil of rope and watched the lights on the water.
Smoky joined me. “No one to see you off?” He pulled out his tobacco tin.
“Hardly.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well you should know.”
“Oh, aye.” He gave his gap-toothed grin. “Suppose they couldn’t.”
“What about you?”
“Never mentioned the bloody ship but the wife sniffed it out somehow. Nose like a blood’ound.” He nodded towards his cabin. “She’s in there with the kids.”
“Aren’t you going to – ?”
“An’ get my block knocked off? Not on your life.” He struck a light. “Keep out the road, that’s my motto. No point lookin’ for trouble. They’ll kick her off in a bit.”
We fell silent. Clouds covered the stars and after a while it came on to rain. Smoky moved to shelter. I crept back to the washroom and locked myself in a cubicle with an abandoned magazine.
I was there for over an hour. Even at Frankie’s I had never felt so lonely.
By ten o’clock all visitors were ashore. A deck officer with the two cadets searched the ship for stowaways. The gangway was raised. A few minutes later we were summoned to stations.
I changed into working gear. My jeans had dried in the baking heat. I pulled a pair on, hard as crumpled packing cases.
Charlie was sent for’ard with Jumbo Ryland and some others to work under the mate. Aaron and I went aft with Lampie and the second mate’s gang. He was the friendliest of the deck officers, a short, cheerful young man with red hair, prematurely balding, though for the moment this was hidden by his officer’s white cap. His name was Tim Nettles.
The rain had stopped. A scatter of relatives stood on the puddled quay, lit by the orange dock lights. Aaron leaned over the rail and talked to his girlfriend, a tearful, pretty girl with short fair hair. Samuel’s children stood at their mother’s side. Charlie’s mum and dad had gone home.
“Hey, Ben!”
Where had the shout come from?
“Over here.” A couple stood waving by a pile of crates, one tall as a lamp-post, the other barely up to his shoulder. Their faces were hidden by party masks: Frankenstein’s monster and a kiss-me-quick blonde with rosy cheeks and yellow curls.
“Everything OK, mate?” Joey’s bellow was like a foghorn.
“Yeah, great!” I gave a thumbs-up.
“Watch out for the girls,” Fizz called. “I’ve heard what all you sailors get up to.”
I grinned, happy to have friends to see me off. All at once the months ahead seemed brighter.
“Good luck with the – ”
“Ahhh!” A shriek pierced the night. “I see you there, Barry Crisp!”
Smoky, who was sitting on his heels behind a coil of rope, ducked lower.
“I’m not blind, you know – though God knows I must have been to marry a useless article like you.”
Realising he was out of reach, Smoky decided to brave it out. “Is that you, Dolores, darling?” Puffing jauntily on his cigarette, he crossed to the rail. “I didn’t know you were coming down. You should have told me. You haven’t been on board?”
“Been on board? What do you think? Of course we’ve been on board.”
“Why didn’t you come to the cabin?” He held up a thin, nicotine-stained hand. “As Davy Jones is my witness, I had no idea.”
“No idea! Oh, you liar! You’re rotten, Barry, just rotten. My, if I got my hands on you this minute you’d know about it.” She looked around. A broken shackle, a lump of iron big as two fists, lay by her feet. Dolores was a strong woman; she snatched it up and flung it at her husband’s head. Had it struck, it would have dashed his brains out. But her aim was poor. Missing Smoky by several feet, the heavy shackle rebounded off a piece of machinery and hit the second mate on the leg.
