Deck Boy, page 17
It gave me much to think about. Most of all, as we sailed placidly through the jungle-rimmed lakes and dropped down to the Pacific Ocean, I was glad I hadn’t been drinking like Charlie and the rest. My head ached just to think about it. Smoky Crisp, to my surprise, who I would have expected to be worse than anyone after his hours ashore, was on the contrary as chirpy as a cricket, teasing the rest and working on a new painting.
But the crew were strong and healthy and the sufferers soon recovered. That evening and all next day, as we headed out into the Pacific, the ship rang with laughter at stories of the great night ashore.
This was the day, through no fault of my own, I got into more trouble with the mate.
After lunch the bosun had sent me to work round the officers’ accommodation, up by number three hatch. My job was to paint the metal handrails. First I wrapped a heavy chain round the rail and pulled it back and forth. This removed the old paint and flakes of rust. The more resistant rust I chipped away with a chisel-edged hammer. Finally I scoured the metal with a wire brush. Later I would rub it with linseed oil, paint it with red lead and finish with a glossy coat of black.
The sun blazed down. I wore mesh goggles to protect my eyes, and my Panama cap, back to front to protect my neck. Dust clung to my sweating arms and legs. My shorts and T-shirt were filthy.
I was mopping my brow with a wrist when a shrill scream broke the stillness of the afternoon. It gave me such a shock I dropped the chipping hammer on my foot. A second later the mate’s wife, Trish the Dish, wearing her famous bikini, came running out on deck.
Her face and arms were wet. “Help!” She stared around. I was the only person in sight and she ran to my side. “Oh, help! In there!” She pointed wildly.
“What!”
“Oh, please!” She was shaking. “Get rid of it!”
“Get rid of what?”
“Here.” She grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the doorway.
I resisted but no one else appeared and her panic was so great that after a moment I followed. The officers’ alleyway was cool, freshly painted a soft green. Through an open doorway I saw a cabin, larger than my own, with a bedspread, and pictures screwed to the bulkhead.
We stopped at the next along. “In there.” A notice above the entrance read First Officer.
“Are you sure?” Where were the officers? I looked down at my filthy clothes.
“Yes, yes! Please!” She stood back, hand to her mouth. “Be careful.”
Reluctantly I went into the mate’s cabin. It smelled of perfume. Trish’s clothes lay strewn on the double bed. I looked all round and saw nothing alarming.
“By the washbasin.”
The cabin was en-suite. I stepped into the bathroom and jumped with fright. A huge praying mantis clung to the glass holder. I had never seen such an alarming insect, ten or twelve centimetres long with a triangular head, wings like leaves and powerful spiky forearms lifted to its chin. No wonder she had screamed. The washbasin was half-filled with water. I imagined Trish rinsing her face and finding those bulging green eyes and lethal limbs an inch from her nose.
Where had it come from? I assumed it had flown aboard as we sailed through the jungle. The truth, I discovered later, was that Michael, who couldn’t stand the mate, had found it in the bar at Madame Tamara’s and smuggled it aboard in a box. I wondered if it was poisonous.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Kill it, what do you think?” Trish stood back by the bed.
“It’s not doing any harm.”
“Not doing any harm! Are you off your head? Do you want to wait until it bites me? Watch me die?”
I hesitated.
“Go on.” She threw me a satin slipper. “Hit it with that.”
I caught it clumsily and took it back. “Have you got a bag?”
“Anything, just get rid of it.” She rummaged in the wardrobe and handed me a poly bag from Miss Dior.
I returned to the bathroom and lifted the tooth glass out the way. The mantis clung to the holder and rocked back and forth. I opened the bag around it and attempted to nudge the creature from its perch with a folded towel. Its grip was tenacious. The triangular head swivelled. A bead of brown saliva gathered at its jaws. Perhaps it could spit poison! Its front legs stirred as if preparing to strike. I wrapped the towel round my hand and prised it loose. But when I tried to drop it into the bag it clung to the towel. Gripping its hard, leggy body through the plastic, I pulled the towel free . The mantis jerked between my fingers and the two front legs slashed through the bag like knives. Uttering a cry of fright, I rolled the top shut.
“There you are.” Returning to the cabin, I held up Miss Dior.
The mantis withdrew its legs and rattled to the bottom, scratching and scrabbling.
“Keep it away from me!” Trish drew back. She had the figure of a film star. “I can’t stand things like that.”
“It’s safe now.” I held the bag away from her. “I’ll take it out on deck.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank goodness you were there. Oh!” She reached for a big pink comb. “What’s your name?”
“Ben,” I said. “Bennett.”
“What do you do on the ship? I mean, what’s your position?”
“Deck boy.”
“My husband’s the mate,” she said. “Mr Rose.”
“I know.”
She crossed to the hospitality cabinet. “Can I offer you … I don’t know what deck boys drink.”
“I’d better get back to work. Find somewhere to put …” I raised the bag.
She looked round the cabin. “Have a chocolate at least.” She opened the box.
“OK, thank you.” I chose one with a filthy hand.
“What the bloody hell’s going on here?” The mate stood in the doorway, his face furious. “What are you doing in my cabin?”
“Sorry, I was working – ” I pointed through the window.
“Get out!”
“Don’t be like that, Dunkie.” Trish took his arm. “He’s just saved my life. I was in the – ”
He shook her off violently. “Are you deaf, Bennett? Get out! Out! What’s in that bag?”
We spoke together: “It’s this enormous – ”
“Your wife wanted me to – ”
“Oh, never mind. Take the damned thing with you. Just go. Go!”
I beat a retreat down the alleyway. At the entrance I caught my shin a crack on the metal sill. Later I found a track of blood to my shoe but at the time I scarcely noticed.
The mate’s voice came from an open window: “Bloody deck boy! Both of you half dressed! Are you out of your mind? What do you think the crew are going to say? I’m the mate here, don’t you understand that? This is a ship, not the tennis club. You can’t just – ”
She began to shout back: “… huge great insect! He got rid of it for me, that’s all … a sweet boy! And don’t you dare raise your voice to me, Duncan Rose!”
“A sweet boy? He’s one of those peeping Toms, remember … a dirty tyke, that’s what he is … you saw him. They’re all sex mad. He’ll be telling …”
I set the mantis in some shade and took up my chipping hammer. But instead of starting work I stood listening openly. The mate saw me.
“Bennett, leave that. Get yourself down to the bosun. Tell him to give you some other job. Anything, just so long as I don’t have to clap eyes on you again today.”
“Very good, sir.” I nodded. “Right.” I gathered up my gear.
“And I don’t ever, ever want to see you hanging round this accommodation again. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
The window slammed shut.
Although I only told Charlie, the mate was heard raging at me, and by evening the story was round the whole ship. Rough hands clapped me on the shoulder:
“Trish’s toy-boy. Lucky beggar.”
“Baby-snatching.”
“What’s so special about you?”
I gave the praying mantis to Smoky who thought it was beautiful and made a cage. He kept it in his cabin and fed it cockroaches and silverfish from the galley. The mantis, which turned out to be a female, snatched them like lightning in its fearsome front legs and ate them alive.
“They eat their mates too,” he said. “Did you know that?”
He called it Dolores.
Black Bums
A SWIMMING pool was erected alongside number five hatch, on the port side of the afterdeck. It was made of heavy canvas inside a sturdy wooden frame supported by struts. If Pacific Trader had remained on an even keel it would have been about one metre sixty deep, but ships don’t stay on an even keel, they pitch and roll, and in even a moderate sea the water swashed from side to side and end to end, cascading in torrents to the deck. A gushing hose, snaking from a seawater hydrant by the rail, kept it constantly replenished. Even though three strokes took you from one end to the other, it was the best pool I’d ever been in. After hard work on a hot day it felt wonderful.
Hours were set, sessions for the officers, sessions for the crew. A ladder led from the deck to a latticed diving platform. Charlie and I bombed in with explosions that sent the glittering water so high that it was still pattering down as we surfaced. When Aaron appeared, Charlie snatched the hose and sprayed him head to foot.
As we steamed west-sou-west we were accompanied by dolphins. I saw whales and sharks. Two days out from Panama I looked down into the glassy sea and saw a turtle. A blue smudge of land lay on the horizon. I was told it was the Galapagos Islands.
That evening, in the pool, there was a crossing the line ceremony. Tim Nettles, his eyes and forehead lined with eyebrow pencil, played old King Neptune. He wore a fine rigout: long hair and a long beard, crown, trident, flippers and a cape of artificial seaweed that went over one shoulder. Four of us were to be baptised: the galley boy, a young engineer, Trish and myself – for although the real Joey Bennett had been through Panama, he had not crossed the equator.
It was a popular event. At half past six spectators started gathering, Captain Bell and the officers up on the boat deck, the crew, who had a much better view, on the crew deck below. Those of us who were involved made our way to the pool.
King Neptune and four beefy attendants wearing trunks, gold eye masks, broad gold wrist bands and gold chains around their necks, climbed the ladder to the diving platform. Neptune blew his horn and made a brief speech, then two of his servants jumped into the water and one at a time the four of us were summoned from the deck.
Trish went first, looking like an entry for Miss World in a new bikini and silver sandals, her hair dressed and make-up immaculate. What she expected I have no idea. Gravely Tim Nettles addressed her:
“Patricia Lucinda Rose, better known to all aboard this ship as Trish the Dish and Luscious Lucy, do you wish to be admitted to the court of King Neptune, whales, albatrosses, sex-starved sailors and all who cross the burning equator?”
Trish giggled.
“Answer! Yes or no – not that it makes any difference.”
“Yes,” she squeaked.
“Very well.” Neptune was no respecter of persons. “Servants, seize her!”
The two on the platform grabbed her arms. Trish screamed. From beneath his cloak Neptune produced an enormous dead fish. “I hereby pronounce you a member of the Royal Order of Neptune.” He gave her a stately slap across the face, right and left, with the fish’s tail. “Let her be ducked!” Trish could not resist. The masked sailors flung her headlong into the pool. The two who were waiting grabbed her by the arms and legs. Five times, in a tumult of shrieks and foam, she was plunged beneath the surface.
Coughing seawater, the mate’s young wife clung to the neck of one of Neptune’s attendants. Her hair trailed, her bikini was slipping, a ruined sandal floated nearby. The ceremony was complete. Laughing and rubbing her eyes, she looked for her husband up on the boat deck. The mate had gone.
Now the rest of us knew what was coming, or thought we did. My turn was next – the speech, the slap, the rough baptism – then the galley boy and lastly the fair-haired young engineer. It was great fun.
Neptune blew his horn a second time to show the ceremony was finished. It was a signal for half the crew to pile down to the afterdeck and jump into the pool, tight as sardines, larking and wrestling, blinded by spray. At the same time, unnoticed by the engineer, the galley boy and me, the ladies were led away and an old canvas was spread on deck in readiness.
The first I knew of this was when I was seized by a dozen hands, hoisted in the air and, though I struggled, stripped of my shorts. A shout went up as I was dragged from the pool and carried to the waiting canvas. There, with every hand on the ship taking part, it seemed, I was pinned down, flipped over and blacked from head to foot, even in the most intimate parts, from a bucket of engine sludge, graphite and liquefied shoe polish. My laughing attackers drew back. Stark naked and shining black, I stood alone in the middle of the canvas.
Flash! I turned round. Flash! Flash! Charlie was taking pictures.
“One for the girlfriend!” somebody shouted. Flash! “Good on you, deck boy!” Another shout went up and people clapped me on the back. “You put up a brave fight.”
“Hey!” A cry came from nearby. “The galley boy’s trying to escape!”
His name was Kevin and he came from Birmingham. Already he was halfway over the side of the pool. Strong hands grabbed his leg, his arm, the back of his trunks. Fighting like myself, he was hauled to the canvas. Still naked, I dug my hand into the bucket and joined in with the rest.
The engineer followed and soon it was all over. More cameras flashed. I wondered where the films would be developed.
“Good show! Great success! Get yourselves cleaned up and we’ll see you in the bar.” King Neptune, who had presided over the melee, strode away, trident in one hand, fish in the other.
We used the engineers’ washroom where there was a giant tub of Swarfega. Rub by rub, hair and skin emerged from the black. We scrubbed each others’ backs. The scummy water ran away down the plugholes. It took a long time to get clean. And when we were sure every cranny of our bodies must have been washed at least ten times, voices still said: “Behind your left ear … back of your knee … here, stand still a minute.”
At last it was done. Dripping in my shorts, I padded back to the cabin.
Then Kevin – a skinny red-headed boy with acne who became my friend – and I went to the engineer’s cabin and he took us to the officers’ bar. Tim Nettles, back in his whites, with Trish and one or two others, gave us a warm welcome. Four large tots of rum stood on the bar and we drank them down.
I had to drink another in the crew bar.
They tasted terrible and that night I went to bed with my head spinning. The pleasures of alcohol, whatever they were, were not worth the pain and I resolved never, ever, to get drunk again.
Famous last words.
Afternoon on the Bridge
SUNDAY WAS my birthday. Mine, Ben Thomson’s, not Joey Bennett’s. I was fifteen.
There was no one I could tell except Charlie – and possibly Smoky. Charlie took a risk and sang Happy Birthday to You. After breakfast he ironed one of his shirts that I had always liked and gave it to me as a present.
Smoky gave me an uncle’s hug. “Wish I was fifteen again.” Cigarette in one hand and can in the other, he pointed my life in the right direction: “Shag all the lasses but keep off the fags and booze.” I told him it sounded pretty good to me.
At ten-thirty that morning, as every Sunday at sea, Captain Bell conducted a short service. It was a peaceful half hour and always well attended. Michael and Barbara were there, Charlie, Luigi, Steve, Philip, Ossie, Tim Nettles and a few more. It took place in the Officers’ Dining Room where there was a piano. There was a reading from the psalms; we prayed, remembering fellow sailors and families at home; the mate read a lesson for Advent, Samuel read another, and we sang two hymns.
Afterwards some of us went to the messroom for tea and tabnabs. The baker was having an off-day, melted flap-jacks and burned gingerbread men. On the day I turned fifteen, they were the closest I got to a birthday cake.
At two o’clock I had to go on the bridge. As part of their training, deck boys have to learn to steer the ship. It’s not like driving a car, ships travel on rolling water, pushed this way and that by winds, waves and currents. Point a ship in the right direction, leave the wheel, and a minute later she’s twenty degrees off course. Bring her back with the rudder, start twenty thousand tons swinging, and it keeps on swinging. In a moderate sea it takes skill to keep a ship within a few degrees of the intended course.
Today the sea was calm, the wind light. Tim Nettles – the second officer usually takes the twelve-to-four watch – switched from automatic pilot to manual steering and I took the big spoked wheel.
“Steering two-four-two,” he told me formally, although it was written on a board.
“Two-four-two, sir.”
“Taken the wheel before have you?”
“Yes, sir.” Luckily I had, often, when I sailed with dad.
At the changeover the ship started swinging: two-four-seven, two-fifty, two-five-three. I spun the wheel to port and brought her back, countering the swing before we reached the intended course. Trader settled down. I lined up the stem post with a cloud.
“Very good.” He stood at my back. “I can see you’ve got the hang. Leave you to it, can I?”
“I think so.”
“Give me a shout if there’s any problem.” He moved away. “We’ll have a look at the course recorder when the hour’s up.”
