The Restless Sea, page 15
The Home’s arched door has an impressive decorated iron surround and gate that the four boys stand and stare at open-mouthed. There are golden mermaids and Neptune’s trident, a latticework of ropes, and, at the top, great fish entwined with wheels and flags, bugles and shells, and topped with a king’s crown. They hoist their sea bags up on to their shoulders again and make their way up the steps.
At the top, a group of seamen are pushing their way out of the door. The steps are wide enough for them all to pass, but when they see the younger men, they stop their chattering and start to sneer. One, a short, wiry man with a gruff voice and a surly face, eyeballs Jack. Jack braces his shoulder as the man slams into it. ‘Watch where you’re going, pretty boy,’ says the man, stopping on the step.
But instead of squaring up to him, Jack moves away. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he says.
The sailor’s friends cackle with laughter. ‘Ooh, “sir”, is it now, Mart?’
Mart breaks into a lurid grin. Half of his teeth are missing and his face is leathery and tough, scoured by sea winds. Without taking his eyes off Jack, he turns his head sideways and spits something brown that splats noisily on the pavement. ‘I do like the polite ones best,’ he says. Then he makes his way down the steps. His mates follow, still laughing.
‘Come on,’ says Carl, ushering them through the door. They find themselves in a huge hall with a galleried landing rising for five floors above their heads. Each landing is protected by painted iron railings. It is interminably noisy, the sound of footsteps and men calling and doors banging echoes through the air. There is the musty smell of an institution mingled with unwashed bodies and not helped by the fact that it is extremely warm due to the glass ceiling, which intensifies the heat and light of summer outside.
A thickset Irishman directs them to a room where they can register. It is cheap for a sailor to find a bed with breakfast included in the morning – there are numerous such places in every town or city with a port. ‘Although the breakfast tastes like shite, and make sure you lock your door at night,’ the man adds, his voice a warning. ‘And if you go out, be sure to be back by ten. That’s when we close the gates.’
The wood-panelled rooms are modelled on a ship’s cabin: cramped, with an iron bedstead, a small table, and just enough room to put a bag down. The bathroom is communal, and there is a large mess room downstairs that reeks of inedible food. Every corner of the building is filled with growling seamen of all ages, sizes, shapes, and colours.
In a spacious room on the ground floor, the boys find the register where the jobs are given out. There is a long counter, in front of which is an impatient queue of men. Along the counter is wire netting, and behind it are two hassled-looking men.
‘What’s the netting for?’ says Jack as they take their place in the queue.
‘You’ll see,’ says the man in front, without turning around.
As if on cue, there’s a commotion, and a swarthy man starts to rattle the metal, yelling at the men behind the counter. It is hard to make out what he is saying as he has a thick accent. His hands and face are black with coal dust. It is clear from his actions that the man is extremely cross about the ship he has just come from. Eventually, after much rattling and shouting, he stomps out of the room, and the queue shuffles up.
Jack makes it to the counter first. ‘Yes?’ says the man on the other side.
‘We’re from Training Ship Constance,’ says Jack, indicating at his friends, who squish in closer.
‘La-di-da,’ says a man behind them, the sweet smell of stale alcohol on his breath.
‘That’s enough,’ hisses the man behind the counter.
The man with the rotten breath slams his fist against the netting next to the boys. It shakes and pings alarmingly.
‘I told you to back off,’ says the counter man. ‘Or you won’t be going through today.’
The sailor mutters, but retreats. ‘What are you looking at?’ he says to Jack.
The man behind the counter studies their papers, glancing again at the boys, then shuffles the papers into a neat pile and hands them back. ‘You can all go through,’ he says, indicating the next-door room. They thank him, but he hurries them on before more violence erupts, nodding at another man who guards the entrance to let them past.
There are three more counters in here: ‘Firemen’, ‘Deck’, and ‘Catering’, also protected by wire mesh. The boys head for the Deck counter. There are more men behind it, sitting and standing, checking papers and peering out at them from the shadows. The man behind the pen looks Jack up and down.
‘Experience?’ he asks.
‘Three months on TS Constance,’ says Jack.
The man harrumphs and runs his finger down a list in a large ledger. He stops by one of the names. ‘The Aurora is looking for two apprentices,’ he says. He looks up at one of the faces in the semi-darkness, the man nods slowly. He is puffing on a pipe.
Jack pulls Carl forward. ‘My mate’s from the Constance. In fact, we all are,’ he says, indicating Si and David.
The man with the pipe leans forward and speaks in the man’s ear. ‘Only two apprentices, I’m afraid.’
‘Oy. Take what you get,’ says the man who was behind them before. ‘Can’t go making demands just because you’ve done some fancy training.’
Men lined up at the other desks start to mumble and stare at them. The man behind the counter continues to run his finger through the list.
‘Apprentice and deck boy needed on the Pluckston.’
Si and David look at each other. Deck boy is a bit of a step down when you’ve put in all the training, but they’d like to stick together. ‘Where do we sign?’ asks David.
The man scrawls in his book. ‘Papers?’ He holds out his hand, checking their certificates as he finishes scribbling in his book. ‘Right. Your first set of ship’s articles, I believe. Check and sign.’ The man hands them more papers. He points at a door marked ‘Doctor’. ‘Get the Doc to sign you off, and you’re done.’
There is a wizened old sea dog with a mop of shaggy hair and a straggly grey beard already waiting to see the doctor. He grins at Jack, a gummy toothless smile. Another gnarly old man comes out of the doctor’s room. As he passes the sea dog, he pulls the false teeth from his gums with a sucking noise and hands them over. The man swipes them over his top and slips them into his own mouth, sucking and clicking them into place. He raps on the door and enters. He reappears three minutes later and sidles away with his friend.
It is Jack’s turn. He enters the room. The doctor is in front of him, a rotund man leaning over a desk. He holds out a hand without even looking up. ‘Papers,’ he says.
Jack hands the papers over. ‘Drop your trousers,’ the doctor says, pushing his glasses up his bulbous nose.
He gropes Jack’s balls: first one, then the other. ‘Cough,’ he says. His hands are cold and clammy. ‘Cough.’ It is uncomfortable and humiliating, and Jack can’t wait to get out of there. ‘Open!’ says the doctor, peering inside Jack’s mouth. ‘Well, pull your trousers up, boy,’ he adds irritably. And it’s as easy as that.
Jack spends an uneasy night listening to men calling to each other, and metal clanging, and footsteps ringing out. He is grateful for the advice to keep his door locked: more than once, it rattles. He does not want anyone to see him weep for his mother. If only he had stayed, he might have got her to a shelter. But who is he kidding? He would have been out on the streets with Stoog, and his mother would still have died in an empty house with no one to hear her cries. Betsy is better off wherever she is. Without him. He stares into the darkness, willing himself to forget her until the pale morning light glows in the frosted windows.
It is a relief to be down at the docks after breakfast, where business grinds on among the stench of coal and burning oil and the bombed warehouses. Small gangs of snotty children wander about or sit and watch the ships and the men come and go. There’s no need for the boys to find an outfitter as they already have their kit from the training ship. Their articles don’t specify they need anything more.
The Aurora and the Pluckston are moored within sight of each other, but they could not be more different. The Aurora is bright and clean. Her cargo is being loaded neatly by the stevedores into her holds, her crew is orderly and calm. The Pluckston is a grimy tramp ship. Her crew seem chaotic and bad-tempered, and there is much arguing over orders.
‘Time to say goodbye,’ says Si.
‘For now,’ says Carl.
David slaps Carl and Jack on the back. Jack clasps their hands and smiles, but he bites his bottom lip too. It is a wrench after so many weeks together, and as Jack watches them walk slowly away he has a terrible feeling that he will never see them again.
The Aurora’s hull lies deep in the water, the load line that shows she is almost full to capacity only just visible. Two men are dangling over the side on a ladder strung between a rope that is cleated to the deck. The sailors’ backs are to the boys. They are painting the side of the ship with thick grey paint. The smell mingles with the stench of salt, burning, and sewage.
Suddenly they hear a voice. ‘Aha! Fresh blood,’ says a man in a peaked cap who is looking over the railings. ‘You must be our new apprentices? Come aboard! Come aboard!’ The cargo ship is very different to TS Constance. She is polished and scrubbed, but mostly metal, not much wood in sight. She has masts fore and aft, and a large funnel in the middle, behind the square bulk of bridge, where the captain keeps watch.
‘I’m Russell. First mate,’ says the man. ‘Welcome.’ He sticks out his hand. He is a genial-looking man, young, with a neatly-trimmed beard. ‘You must be our new apprentices. Hope you last longer than the last lot.’ He shakes their hands. ‘You’ll be needing the Bose, I should think. Bosun!’
‘On my way,’ a voice answers him from somewhere down below. They hear coughing and swearing, and then, ‘Ah, the pretty boy, is it?’ Jack’s heart plummets as a familiar face appears on deck.
‘You lot know each other already?’ says Russell.
‘You could say that,’ says Jack. Carl throws him a warning look.
‘Mart’s our bosun. He’ll show you to your cabin. Point out where everything is. Anything you’re not sure of, ask him. Anything he’s not sure of, he’ll ask me. Although I think Mart knows more about seamanship than I ever will.’ Russell tips his head in deference to the bosun.
With a sinking feeling Jack follows Mart into the belly of the ship. It is another sunny summer’s day, and inside the ship is already warm and smells of hot metal. Mart mutters along in front of them, clearing his nostrils every now and then with a deep snort.
Jack is pleased to discover that he is sharing a cabin with Carl. The cabin is small, barely big enough for the three of them to stand in, but it has bunks and is positively luxurious compared with what they are used to. Mart is insufferably close, and Jack can feel the vibration as he clears his nostrils again. ‘You might think you’re the business, but you won’t get no special treatment from me.’ He snorts again. ‘Last apprentices couldn’t hack it.’ He spits the words out like phlegm. ‘One disappeared, the other pleaded to be let go. Not prepared, you see. Don’t matter how much training you think you’ve had, the sea will pick out the lily-livered bastards from the true sailors sooner than you can say “Bosch”.’
Jack ignores the bosun, hoisting his bag up on to the top bunk. Carl chucks his on the bottom. There is one chair and a fold-down table. There is a sink with a bucket underneath to catch the water. The porthole is painted black, but at least they can open it. There is no light bulb in the fitting. ‘Hope you’re not scared of the dark, my lovelies,’ says Mart.
He sidles past them back out into the corridor. ‘Best follow me if you want to know where everything is.’ He leads them to the forecastle at the front of the ship, where her movement is most pronounced. ‘Me and Grifter’s cabin,’ Mart says, indicating a tiny room with one bunk in it. He points at the other cabins as they walk: ‘Able seamen Burts and Sheldon. And here’s the firemen and greasers.’ Two men scowl down at them from their bunks. The other berths are empty. They move past the chartroom, the master’s cabin, the first mate’s cabin, the mess room, the galley, the heads. ‘Sparks and Chippy in there. Stokehold down there.’ He indicates another ladder that leads below the waterline to the boiler room. ‘Purser, steward, cook, galley boy.’ Jack is beginning to sweat. The noise and the smell is different to Constance, more metallic and suffocating – as is the sensation of tidal water rather than canal beneath his feet. ‘The Chief and his men.’ Jack looks blank. ‘Engineers, boy. Don’t they teach you nothing on those fancy training ships?’ Jack needs to get back on deck. The heat, the dark, Mart’s breath, all these men crammed into this ship are making his stomach turn.
They burst into sunlight moments later. Mart clicks his fingers and one of the seamen hands Jack a bucket. Jack holds his face over it, but Mart cackles and shakes his head. ‘I want her shipshape before we sail,’ he says, as another seaman hands them some cloths.
There is a lot of it to polish, but polishing is something they’ve been trained for. They quickly get into a rhythm. Carl works behind Jack, rubbing, while Jack loosens the dirt first. Caustic soda has been added to the water to make the brass shine. Jack’s hands sting and his nails start to turn soft and brown. They have almost finished when Russell appears. ‘Nice work, boys,’ he says.
Relieved, they sit back on their heels, admiring the golden sheen. But not for long. Mart hands them a pot of paint: ‘Now paint them.’
‘But that’s black,’ says Jack.
‘Smart as well as pretty,’ says Mart.
‘But …’
‘Just get on with it.’
The paint is thick and heavy. It makes Jack’s head ache. Next they scrub the deck down and then check the limited woodwork, sanding down the scuffed bits, varnishing where needed. Occasionally, Mart swaggers past, inspecting their work and spitting over the side of the ship. ‘Redo the paint on the load hatch. Oil these davits. Check the lifeboats. Stow those ropes. Not like that! What a disgrace.’ On and on it goes.
Jack’s whole body throbs, and his nostrils are burning. He glances at the bridge, wonders who might be in there, looking out. ‘Fancy a break in the wheelhouse, boy? Go on then.’ Mart hands Jack another rag. ‘You can scrub the floor and polish the brass in there too.’ Jack starts to remember The Barker with fondness.
They stumble to the mess, ravenous. It is a comfortable room, meticulously clean, and very warm. At one end is the galley. Vast silver cauldrons steam on the cooker. The cook is shaking something in a frying pan. The smell of food permeates everything. There is a galley boy who looks about the same age as Betsy, but who must be older, all arms and legs like a newborn calf. He bears the brunt of Cook’s temper as he rushes about, wiping and cleaning, fetching knives and checking pots inside and on top of the oven. He also has to keep a load of water on the boil, ready to make cups of tea or to pour into buckets for washing things down.
The long table is laid with cutlery and mugs. There is even a white cloth spread over it. There is already a group of men sitting at one end, their forks clattering against their plates. When Carl and Jack enter the room, the men stop and stare at them, but only for a couple of seconds. They return to their food. They speak a language that the boys cannot understand. The galley boy indicates where they can sit. ‘I’m Fred,’ he says. He notices them staring at the men at the end of the table. ‘Norwegians,’ he adds as he puts their food in front of them. ‘Same as the Old Man. But them’s engineers.’
More men cram into the room as Carl and Jack greedily swallow their food down in lumps. It is strange being surrounded by so many men after being on the Constance. The voices are deep and gruff. There’s no formality – no grace or silence or passing the plates along – as they shovel their food in and glug from their mugs and bang the table with their large fists. They have obviously sailed together before. Mart holds court in the middle, relishing every mouthful of food.
First Mate Russell enters the room. He doesn’t sit down. The men stop eating and talking. Smoke curls up from their mugs. Russell smiles and nods at Carl and Jack. The men pick food from their teeth. Another man appears behind him: the man with the pipe from the shadows in the Sailors’ Home.
‘The Old Man,’ says Fred in a whisper.
The master is younger than Jack imagined he would be. His thick blond hair is slicked back. He occasionally draws on his pipe, the bowl glowing as he does so, lighting up his face before it plunges back into darkness. He is gaunt, the cheekbones pronounced, the eyes deep and unreadable. When he speaks, his accent is pronounced but easy to understand.
‘Well done on passing your medicals, men,’ he says. ‘I am happy to have you all back. And welcome to our new apprentices. I am Captain Andersson. I trust Bose has sorted you out.’ Mart glares at them. The boys nod. ‘Now. Olsen’s got a present for us all. Especially from the Ministry of War Transport, to help us on our way.’ Excited murmurs. The purser appears with a bundle of clothes. Andersson continues: ‘I’m sure you all want to know where we’re off to, but you’ll find out soon enough. I thank you for sticking with me. It means much.’ He looks at Russell, who nods at him. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Sorry for an interruption. Enjoy your food. We sail at 0600 hours.’
He leaves the room.
Mart helps Olsen distribute the clothes. ‘Looks like we’ve got ourselves some fine thick clothes to keep us cosy and warm,’ he says, holding them up.
‘Another Atlantic run?’ says one of the engineers.
‘Canada, for sure,’ says another.
‘Never been given woolly coats before.’
‘Maybe they’re finally showing a little appreciation.’
‘More like danger money.’
Mart snorts and spits into his mug. ‘None of that nonsense. I haven’t lost a ship yet,’ he says.
