The Restless Sea, page 13
Carl hasn’t asked about Jack’s mum or Betsy since his friend arrived blank-eyed on his doorstep. Not even when Jack wakes in the darkness, trembling and sweating. In their world, it is not unusual for families to disappear overnight. He has given Jack a change of clothes, but apart from that, Jack has nothing. He is not alone; he glances at the boys next to him. A couple had parents to wave them off back at the station, but most have the hangdog air that suggests they belong to no one.
There are about forty boys, a few the same age as Jack, some possibly as young as twelve, their limbs still gangly, their knees knobbly, as if they haven’t yet grown into their bodies. In their ragged short trousers and stained tops, the jaw-clenched new recruits are a stark contrast to the naval officer’s uniform of the men who collected them from the station. The younger of these two men – tall with grey eyes – is addressing them now. ‘Welcome to Training Ship Constance,’ he says. ‘I’m Mr O’Brien. This is Mr Harker. We’re the poor fools who are going to wrestle you sorry lot into seamen. Follow me.’ He turns with a click of his heels and starts to walk up one of the two gangways that protrude stiffly from the ship, linking her to dry land.
‘Quick march!’ shouts the other man. He is red-faced and broad, his chest straining at the buttons of his jacket.
The new boys fall into a line behind O’Brien. The wooden gangway is narrow, so there is room for only one at a time. They follow him like stray dogs, heads down. If they had tails, they would be curled between their legs. Mr Harker brings up the rear. ‘Step to it,’ he says. His voice is laced with disgust, as though he finds himself doing something beneath a man of his qualifications.
Jack inhales the familiar smell of dampness, of being near water. He hears their footsteps shuffling along, feels the gangway bounce beneath his feet. He stops for a second to glance back along the canal, to the world he knows. Immediately, he feels something shove against his back. It is Mr Harker, whose red face and cold eyes are only inches from his own.
‘If I say, “Step to it”, then you step to it!’
Jack doesn’t budge. ‘Don’t touch me again,’ he says.
But Mr Harker will not be deterred. He prods Jack once more. ‘You have a choice, sonny. Either you do what you’re told, or you get off this ship right now and crawl back into the stinking piss-hole that you came from.’ Mr Harker smiles, his mouth disappearing into his ruddy cheeks. He cocks his head and stands aside, indicating a space for Jack to pass and step back on to the path.
Jack is ready to elbow his way through, but Carl grabs hold of him. ‘Where are you going to go?’ he asks.
‘I was wrong. I shouldn’t have come. I’m not cut out for this.’
‘You can’t go back. You’re better than that. It’s time you did something with your life.’
He is right. Jack turns away from Mr Harker and steps on to a ship for the very first time.
A narrow door leads to a steep ladder. The boys descend gingerly, watching they don’t bump their heads. They find themselves in a long, low room, with tables and benches down each side of it. Running along the ceiling above them are metal bars, with white hammocks slung between them.
‘Welcome home,’ says Mr Harker, pacing up and down, the tread of his boots determined on the polished wooden floor. ‘This is where you will eat, sleep and live for the next twelve weeks.’ He stops in front of Jack. His brown eyes are flecked with yellow. ‘Or at least those of you who stick it out.’ He prowls on. ‘This is my mess deck. You’re to keep it spotless. Otherwise you’ll be up in front of the captain superintendent. Understand?’ Everyone but Jack stares at their feet. O’Brien reads down his clipboard, and, calling the boys by surname, separates them into deck and catering. The catering contingent are marched elsewhere by O’Brien. Mr Harker indicates the hammocks, and snaps, ‘Fall out and choose yourselves a berth.’
Jack and Carl make sure they are next to each other. On the other side of Jack is a boy with a large mole on his cheek; beyond him, a curly-haired boy with sallow skin.
‘Take note of where your hammock is. It must be stowed properly every morning.’ Carl catches Jack’s eye and raises an eyebrow. ‘Mr Harker?’ he whispers. ‘More like The Barker.’ The boys try not to smile. Mr Harker is immediately bearing down on them: ‘Something you’d like to share?’ he says. Jack feels the anger simmer in his bones. The boys shake their heads, but The Barker sticks.
The Barker stalks off again. He stops in front of the boy with curly hair, using the end of the cane to lift his dark curls, shaking his head in despair. ‘Fall in. After me. Quick march.’ And the boys file after him, through the maze of corridors until they are pushed into another room where a couple of older boys are waiting.
First, they are made to strip, and then, one by one, their hair is shaved off, falling to the floor in clumps of blond, brown, red, black, where it lies in a sorry heap with their clothes. Bewildered, they stand, shorn and naked, while they are measured and poked and eventually handed new clothes: long trousers, woollen jumpers, tops, vests, pants, thick socks, and even a blanket. Jack clambers into the uniform, feeling the unfamiliar weight of decent material against his skin. He cannot remember when he last had new clothes to wear. He slings the extras over one arm, using the hand of the other to receive a sailor’s cap and a pair of new plimsolls.
Barefoot, the boys return to the mess deck where O’Brien is waiting. He nods, pleased with what he sees. ‘At least you look the part now,’ he says. ‘Ten minutes. Then you eat.’
The officers disappear, and the atmosphere immediately changes. The boys begin to talk, touching their own and each other’s velvety heads, as if trying to remember who they are. It is dark outside now, and inside is dimly lit: the old gun ports have been turned into windows, but they have blackout screens fitted. Jack climbs into his hammock. It tips, but balances quickly. It is not comfortable.
‘Not sure I’ll be able to sleep without falling out,’ says the boy with the mole on his cheek. ‘I’m Si,’ he adds, putting out a hand. He has pale brown eyes and an open face. He points at the boy who used to have curly hair. ‘That’s David.’ David waves at them, revealing crooked teeth.
Jack ignores the proffered hand. He is not here to make friends.
‘Take no notice of Jack,’ says Carl. ‘He’ll be fine come tomorrow. I’m Carl, by the way.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Southwark. You?’
‘Highgate. Wish I was back there.’
‘Why’d you come here in the first place, then?’ says Jack, swinging himself back out of the hammock and landing on the ground with a thud.
‘Why’d you come?’
Jack shrugs. ‘Ask him,’ he says, tipping his head at Carl.
‘It’s a good place to start. Gives us prospects.’
‘Me too,’ says Si.
‘And it gives us a chance to have a pop at them Nazis,’ says David.
‘He tried to join the army six times …’
‘Not my fault I’m too short to pretend I’m eighteen …’
‘How old are you?’
‘Sixteen.’
‘Same.’
Another group of boys files into the room, making their way down the other side of the ship, where the hammocks are coiled up neatly against the metal bars. They are all smart in their neatly pressed uniforms. They are the last intake of recruits, and they hiss at Jack and the other boys across the floor: ‘Ready to run home to mummy yet, new boys?’
‘You look like you’ll last all of five minutes.’
‘They’re down to the dregs now.’
Jack clenches and unclenches his fists.
Suddenly two ear-splitting notes fill the air. It is the first time they have heard the boatswain’s call, and some of the new recruits jump, their hands flicking to their ears. The boys from London don’t move. They are used to loud noises.
The sound has come from a small boy with a metal whistle in his hand. ‘Like dogs,’ whispers Carl.
The Barker and O’Brien appear again. ‘Obey the last pipe!’ yells The Barker. Then, shaking his head at their stupefied expressions, he adds, ‘Cadets, demonstrate how to lash up and stow!’ The previous recruits cross the mess deck, each choosing a new boy to show how to roll up their hammocks and tie them out of the way of the tables. ‘Not so brave now, are you?’ says Jack, trying to catch the eye of the boy who is demonstrating the seven evenly spaced knots.
‘You’ll shut up and watch, if you know what’s good for you,’ the boy whispers back. Jack digs an elbow into the boy’s side, just as The Barker strides over, and, with barely a movement, jabs the side of his hand against Jack’s throat, leaving him bent double and gasping for air. No one dares react. The other boys simply stare straight ahead.
The catering recruits march in bearing tea: bread and butter, and some kind of cold meat. The boys seat themselves at their allocated tables, mixed in with some of the older recruits. Jack rubs at his neck. Everything is done in silence until The Barker says, ‘Grace!’ The boys stand and bow their heads, and O’Brien thanks the Lord for the food they are about to eat.
Once the prayer is over, they sit down again. Carl starts to help himself, but a metal serving spoon is brought down hard on his knuckles by one of the older boys. ‘Seniors first,’ he says, piling his plate high. By the time it is Jack’s turn, there is not much left. He isn’t bothered; he is used to feeling hungry. Besides, his neck is still throbbing. He takes a slice of the meat and passes it on.
The boys stare at their plates until the call squeals again and they start to eat. Jack chews at the fatty meat, the dry bread, washing it down with the water. The only sound is the clattering of plates and chomping of teeth, followed by a rush to collect any leftovers.
Carl grunts. ‘I’m bleeding starving,’ he says. The senior boy gives him a dirty look and he shuts up.
When they have finished, the piper blows his call again and there is a cacophonous din as the boys start chattering while the plates are cleared away. The noise lasts for about four minutes and then the call blasts again. Silence. O’Brien says, ‘Cleaning stations.’ The boys collect buckets and mops and start to scrub at the tables and at the floor. They work silently. For the boy who finishes last, there is a flick of the cane from The Barker.
Once the mess deck is spotless, there seems to be time to relax. Jack watches from the corner while the others strike up stilted conversations, or stroke their bare heads, or fold and refold their new clothes into their wooden chests. A few of the boys simply sit and stare, too shell-shocked to do anything. Another pipe signals that it’s time to unravel their hammocks again. Within minutes, the beds are swinging freely from the bars. They are marched down the gangway for ablutions. Jack has never heard the word ‘ablutions’ before, but it is obvious what this is. In a stone building beside the towpath, there are twelve holes in a plank of wood. Through the holes, Jack can see the tidal water of the Severn reaching up to wash the effluent away. There are a few small basins and some icy water. The boys strip naked, splashing the freezing water over their shivering bodies. They jog back to the ship in an attempt to warm themselves up. On board it is as cold as outside, the only heating supposedly coming through a pipe that is never more than tepid to the touch. Jack bunches himself into his hammock. He is so close to Carl that he can hear him breathing. Carl shifts and leans towards him. ‘How’s your throat?’ he asks.
‘Fuck off.’
‘Shh.’ The older boys tell them to shut up. It’s a proper flogging on the quarterdeck for boys caught talking after lights-out. There is a faint movement from the water beneath the ship. They lie in a silence broken only by the occasional sniff.
It is the kind of quiet that Jack hasn’t experienced for a long time. He struggles to keep images of home from filling the space in his head. He keeps his eyes open for as long as possible, staring up into the blackness, listening to the snoring and whimpering, until eventually he gives in and sleeps.
They are woken by the shrill scream of the reveille. It is still dark outside. ‘Show a leg,’ someone yells, and there is the sound of banging on the metal pipes. The boys’ bare feet thump on to the wooden floor. Again, they file back to the toilet block, splashing cold water on their tired and puffy faces. The older boys shave. Everything is performed in silence until the right pipe is heard.
The Barker and O’Brien appear. ‘Why haven’t these hammocks been stowed?’
Si starts to say, ‘We didn’t know …’
‘I don’t want your life history. Just do it!’
The boys start to try and make sense of the tangle of knots and stow the hammocks in as tidy a fashion as possible. When they are done, there are two beds left hanging. Their occupants are nowhere to be seen.
From the corner of his mouth, Carl says, ‘Must have sneaked out in the night.’
The rumour soon spreads down the line.
‘Silence!’ shouts The Barker. He points at the empty hammocks with his cane, and then at Jack. ‘You! Clear them away. We don’t want boys like that anyway.’ He narrows his eyes at Jack meaningfully. Jack removes the hammocks, and O’Brien collects them from him. No one can recall the faces of the boys they belonged to. It doesn’t matter. They are never seen again.
‘Prepare for morning inspection,’ says The Barker. The new boys get into line, facing the boys on the other side. The Barker walks past them, using his cane to point out a flap of something untucked here and a sleeve turned down there. ‘Since this is your first morning,’ he says, ‘I’ll let it go. But if there’s anything amiss tomorrow …’ The threat hangs like a noose in the air as he taps the rod against his leg.
The catering recruits bring cutlery and breakfast to the tables. Gloopy porridge steams in bowls. The older boys get jam. There are more thick slices of bread. It’s the same as last night: grace, senior boys serving themselves first, and all in silence.
Almost before Jack has swallowed his last stodgy mouthful of gruel, it is cleaning stations again. A boy is assigned to polish each table. Another the metal bars. The Barker watches all the time, ready to strike somewhere soft and prominent if he disapproves of anything: behind the knee if they’re standing, or on the knuckles if they’re kneeling – even behind the ear if he can’t reach anywhere else. When the mess deck is clean and sparkling again, and the boys are back in line, The Barker shouts, ‘All hands on deck.’
The new boys fall in. Carl is in front, and Jack has to stop himself from pushing his friend out of the way in his scramble to get into the fresh air. One by one they come blinking into the fresh morning sunlight, a ragtag bunch of new recruits, slack-shouldered and feeling sorry for themselves. The deck is vast and smooth, the wooden planks worn from years in service. A chilly wind whines in the rigging. Si sniffs.
‘Stop snivelling,’ says The Barker.
O’Brien joins them. The boatswain’s mate pipes. The boys line up against the rails at the side of the ship. There are more than a hundred boys up here: the entire ship’s company. Beneath them the water is murky. Above them the ropes bang and tap eerily against the mast.
An older man appears. ‘I am Training Officer Turner,’ he says. ‘You can call me Mr Turner.’ He is a tall, thin man. The hair beneath his peaked cap is snow-white, as is his beard. His voice is clear and loud, carried on the wind along the deck into the ears of the cadets. Jack shivers.
Mr Turner marches up and down the deck in front of them. His boots make a firm, positive sound on the wood. ‘I’m in charge of your general deck training. We’ll be covering basic seamanship: navigation, steering, lifeboats, fire drill, survival at sea. By the time you leave us, you will be an asset to any merchant ship.
‘You’ll be divided into two watches. You’ – he points at the boys who arrived last night – ‘are port watch. You’ – he indicates the older recruits – ‘are starboard watch.’
The boys shift a bit. The wind bites at their hands and cheeks.
‘Port watch: this morning you are on physical. Starboard: below deck.’ Somewhere a bell rings, another signal. ‘Left turn. Quick march.’ Jack watches them file back down to the classrooms.
Port watch learn to swab the deck, half of them attacking it with brushes while the rest, including Carl and Jack, kneel, rubbing at the wood with a gritty holystone until their hands are chapped and stinging from the cold. The water seeps through to their knees. If they are too slow, The Barker snaps at their bare heels with a rope. Then they learn to polish the brass until it shines like a new penny. The bell clangs, and it’s a run along the canal; another bell means parade, standing and moving in line like soldiers while the drill instructor yells at them. The next bell brings O’Brien to give them a lesson in ropework. He sits them in a row and demonstrates how to make a loop with a bowline and how a rolling hitch won’t slip; the sheepshank to shorten a length of rope and the clove hitch to start lashing. The Barker advances with his cane when he notices the boys losing interest, but O’Brien holds up his hand to stop him. ‘You’d do well to pay attention,’ he says. ‘A knot could be the difference between living or drowning.’ The boys practise on a long piece of rope with their own little piece attached to it, a line of bowed heads deep in concentration. Jack soaks it up, finds the practical work begins to fill the empty space inside him. Soon he is as deft as O’Brien at splicing. And all the time, the bell clangs to mark a change in the half-hour.
By midday they are starving, and this time Jack makes sure he gets a fair ration. Even this slop tastes good after the morning they’ve had. The afternoon is spent below deck, shuffling down the companionway to the classrooms on the lower deck. The officer in charge of most of their classroom activity is a bristly-looking man with a limp. He is called Signals Officer Scott. He is fair, and he explains things well – but Jack still struggles. The classroom never was his strong point.
Officer Scott introduces them to signals and how to identify the Pole Star. He scratches numbers and diagrams on to a blackboard. They cover some maths and science. In time, they will learn how to recognise different international flags and how to read an angle from a sextant, holding the telescope to their eyes and measuring the altitude of the sun above the horizon, how to work out longitude from the shiny and perfect chronometer in its little wooden box. They will get used to the weight of the Aldis lamp, and how to use it to communicate with another ship by Morse code, begin to understand the rudiments of meteorology and how to use semaphore: holding the flags above their heads, to the side, one up, one down – a strange folk dance performed by boys acting as men.
