Deck Boy, page 12
“Ah! Ah!” Clutching his shin, he hopped around the deck and pulled up his trouser leg to examine the damage.
“Sorry, Second,” Smoky said. “You OK? She gets a bit carried away sometimes.” He looked back at the quay. “That wasn’t very nice, love. What’s the second done to you?”
“Aye, you’re the funny one, our Barry.” She yanked the squabbling children to her side and rocked the pushchair violently. “I’m going down the dock office first thing tomorrow morning. You’ll be laughing the other side of your face by the time I’ve finished with you.”
By this time the entire gang, with the exception of the second mate who was tying a handkerchief round his bleeding shin, had gathered along the rail.
“Aye, aye. Just as you say, love.” Smoky nodded agreeably. “Bye, Louise. Bye, our Gerry. Be good children now. Look after your baby brother. Daddy’ll be back soon.”
At this they let out a loud wail and clung to their mother’s coat.
I had almost forgotten about Joey and Fizz. Emboldened by their masks, they advanced to the ship’s side.
“Just as well the gangway’s up, Smoky,” Joey said.
Dolores shot him a black look.
“Beautiful ship, Ben,” Fizz called. “Nice cabin?”
“Yeah, I’m sharing with Charlie. He’s up for’ard with the mate.”
“What about the bosun?”
I made a face.
“But you’re going to be all right? I mean – ”
I lost the rest of it because at that moment the second mate’s walkie-talkie crackled into life. He listened briefly, trouser-leg rolled to his knee, and passed on the message from the bridge.
“Here we go, Lampie. Take the tug rope. Port quarter.”
A Close Shave
A POWERFUL tug, the Maid of Westport, had drifted alongside. The bow-legged little lamptrimmer summoned Smoky, another seaman and me and we crossed to the port quarter. Smoky threw a heaving-line to the tug crew who attached it to the heavy tow-rope. Hand over hand we hauled it across and dropped the eye over a pair of bitts. The tug took up the slack. We returned to the starboard side.
Joey and Fizz were still on the quay. “You’ll write to us,” Fizz shouted, “let us know how you get on.”
“You too,” I shouted back. “The football an’ that.”
Joey stuck up a thumb.
The walkie-talkie buzzed and crackled. A parrot voice issued from the bridge.
“Single-up, Lampie.” The second mate passed on the order. “Down to the wire.”
“Right you are, Second.” Lampie called the crew from the rail. “Come on, let’s be having you. We’ll take that one first. Ease her off, Brian.”
There were four mooring lines at the stern; three ropes leading aft and a wire called a backspring leading for’ard.
Brian, a middle-aged AB I hadn’t met yet, threw the massive coils of rope off a pair of bitts. Soon only a single figure-of-eight remained and the mooring line, dragged down by its own weight, slumped into the water. Workers on the dockside threw the eye off a bollard. With a splash it slid into the dock. Then Brian and Aaron heaved the rope to a winch drum and wrapped it round twice. Samuel took the controls, the drum revolved and the dripping rope snaked aboard.
“All right, young what’s-your-name,” Lampie said. “Ben is it? Coil it down on the rest. That’s your job.”
Glad to be given a proper task, I sprang to it. The plaited mooring line was heavy as a dead anaconda, especially the twenty metres that had been in the water. It took all my strength to heave it across the deck and arrange the coils. By the time I had finished another rope was waiting, and then a third. Aaron and Samuel gave me a hand and soon the job was complete. The moorings at the stern were reduced to the single wire.
“Good work, Lampie.” The second mate pressed a button on his walkie-talkie. “Singled up aft.”
The radio crackled again. “Thanks, Two-oh. Going out bow-first. Leave it there a minute.”
“Aye-aye.”
The masts and rigging of Pacific Trader swung slowly across the sky. I leaned over the starboard rail. Black water, glinting in the lights, was opening between the bow and the quay. I wanted to see everything and crossed to the port quarter. The Maid of Westport pressed her buffered nose against our stern, holding it alongside. At the bow a second tug, the Lancelot, was heaving us out towards the middle of the dock, clear of the vessels double-moored ahead of us. The towrope was bar-tight. Smoke poured from the Lancelot’s funnel. Dirty white water boiled at her stern. I returned to the others.
Soon we were at an angle of thirty or forty degrees to the quay. With a loud crack the backspring, the single line holding us to shore, jumped on the bitts. As Pacific Trader swung out, it was taking a lot of strain.
“Stand back, everybody. Ease her off a bit, Lampie.”
“Aye-aye, Second.”
Two men jumped forward to throw off a coil or two and let the wire slip. But someone had thrown a half-hitch over one of the bitts. The heavy wire had jammed.
“Come on, son. Feed it through, feed it through.”
“Can’t, Lampie.” It was Aaron. “She’s jammed solid.”
“Here, out the way.” Wearing gloves to protect his hands, the little lamptrimmer struggled with the wire. “Can’t budge her, Second. Tell them to stop heaving or she’ll go.”
As if in response, the wire gave an ominous crack and jumped again.
“Stern to bridge. Stop heaving! Wire’s jammed. Think she’s going.”
“Aye-aye, Two-oh.”
The ship’s whistle tooted a signal to the tug. But it was too late. Pacific Trader, twenty thousand tons fully loaded, continued swinging. The wire was thrumming, visibly vibrating. A cloud of ginger dust stood round it on all sides.
“Watch yourselves!”
With cries the seamen scattered. They were not a moment too soon. With a vicious BANG, loud as a pistol shot, the wire broke. The ragged end whipped back, too fast to see, so fierce it chopped straight through two iron rails and sent an oil drum flying. For seconds, like a beheaded snake, it thrashed about the deck.
I had been the last to dive for safety. The end of wire flashed past me.
“Anyone hurt?”
By good fortune nobody was. We gathered by the buckled and gaping rails. It was scary.
Smoky had a hand over his mouth. Abruptly he was sick over the side.
“You OK?” Samuel was concerned.
“Yeah.” Smoky wiped his lips. “Happened before. On the old Gypsy Queen.”
Samuel nodded. “Someone get hurt?”
“Pal o’ mine, standing right beside me. Wire broke on the fo’csle. Took his leg off – good as, anyway.” He rinsed his mouth with whisky and spat into the scupper.
“I heard of that sort of thing.”
Smoky took another mouthful, swallowed this time and returned the half-bottle to his pocket. “Died inside five minutes. Couldn’t stop the bleeding.”
I stood listening.
Aaron said, “What happened to your jacket?”
I looked down and saw a long rip across the chest. The denim flapped. I had felt nothing. I pulled it off. My jersey too was torn. In a panic I hitched it up. Then my T-shirt. My skin was unmarked.
The crew gathered round. “By God, Deck Boy.” Lampie sucked his gums. “You’ll never have a closer shave than that.”
The second mate double-checked that no one was hurt and reported to the bridge. “Wire’s gone, you probably heard it. Chopped up the rails a bit.”
The radio crackled back.
“No, all OK, thank heaven. Deck boy had a near miss.” He smiled at me to ease the tension. “Needs a new jacket. This one’s cut to ribbons.”
The parrot voice came again from the bridge.
“Will do,” the second mate said. “No, he’s fine. Thanks.” He switched off. “Old man says get a working jacket from slops and buy yourself a new one when we get to New Zealand. Never mind the cost, company’ll pay for it.”
Very shaken, I smiled back. “Thanks.”
“Sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” I took a deep breath and glanced at the sky. “I guess somebody up there likes me.”
It was a phrase of my gran’s but his gaze sharpened, clear eyes fixed on my own. The way I spoke was betraying me again.
He let it pass. “Right, Lampie. Let’s clear up then stand by”
Anxious voices came from the shore.
The second mate called back: “No, nobody hurt.”
I waved to Joey and Fizz.
They capered like clowns. Fizz blew a kiss.
Toooot! Toot-toot! At a signal from the ship’s whistle, the Maid of Westport backed off and began to heave. The gap between ship and quay widened.
Last shouts rang across the water.
“Good luck!” I recognised Joey’s booming voice.
Soon we were mid-dock and turning. Samuel wiped tears from his cheek. Smoky sat shakily on one of the bitts. Brian rigged a rope across the broken rails.
Deep swirls broke the surface as the propellers nudged us forward. It was dark out there. A thousand confusing lights shone across the water. Occasional seamen on other vessels gave us a wave. After a while the lock appeared before us. The massive gates swung wide. Slowly we slipped through and were brought to a halt. The lock gates closed. A single mooring line at bow and stern held us alongside.
It was a moment I was to dream about, my last chance of escape. I looked down at the wet cobbles. In seconds I could have swung my legs over the rail, jumped ashore and vanished into the shadows. I was a good runner, no one would have caught me. Only Charlie knew my real name – and Smoky. It would have been so easy.
But I didn’t. Instead I watched as the deep currents bloomed around us and Pacific Trader rose up the oozing walls of the lock. Then the gates ahead of us opened and we slid out into the broad, black, glinting river.
The tugs were let go and steamed off into the darkness. The second mate relayed a message from the bridge: “Finished stations, Lampie.”
The crew returned to their cabins but I stayed out on deck.
I shall never forget that night, leaning on the rail as we travelled downstream. The lights of Westport glittered from either bank. Flashing navigation lights, white, red and green, marked the channel. Dad had taught me what they meant and I tried to remember. The night wind blew my hair. Black water tugged at the ship’s side beneath me. Infinitely slowly, or so it seemed, the lights of the city fell astern. The river broadened and became the dark estuary. A launch came alongside and took off the pilot. The engine note picked up. The wake widened as we gathered speed. I looked up at the steaming light on the mainmast. The filmy moon appeared through a gap in the clouds. Somewhere ahead, beyond the dimly-lit funnel and superstructure, lay the Atlantic.
As I turned to go indoors, two figures appeared on the boat deck above me. I recognised them immediately for they were the only women on board. One was the captain’s wife, a happy and thick-waisted German lady called Heidi. The other was the mate’s wife, younger than her husband with blonde curls and the figure of a film star. “There’ll be trouble with that one before the trip’s out,” Lampie had predicted. Her name was Trish and it was said they were newly married. Her laugh reached me across the afterdeck. They passed from sight.
Charlie met me in the alleyway, mahogany brown with a towel round his waist. I followed him into the cabin. “Always like a shower when we sail. Wash off the dust of the streets.” He had heard about the broken wire. “Yeah, Aaron told me.”
I showed him my jacket.
“Boy, were you dead lucky.” He clambered up to his bunk and slid beneath the blankets. “Great! Pass us that magazine, there’s a pal.” He switched on the reading light behind his head.
Ten minutes later, wearing clean boxers, I climbed into the bunk beneath. It was warm and comfortable. The soft roar of the engines vibrated through the ship’s plates. The door curtain swung rhythmically as we met the first swell from the open sea.
Before I knew it I was asleep. Charlie told me later that he spoke to me, and spoke again quite loudly, and hung over his bunk to look down. I was dead to the world.
Thief
I SOON settled into the routine of a deck boy’s life. At seven o’clock each morning – six-thirty as we headed south and the days grew longer – Charlie and I rigged a hose and scrubbed down the decks from stem to stern. After breakfast we became peggies again, suji-ing and scrubbing our way into every last corner of the crew and petty-officers’ accommodation. It took three days. Once everything was spick and span, Charlie went off to work on deck and I was left to maintain it by myself. After lunch, when my peggy tasks were finished, I joined the rest of the crew, painting, chipping, holystoning, learning to splice, maintain equipment and all the other duties of a seaman.
There was a lot to do, but little by little, as I scoured and mopped and polished below decks, the accommodation began to shine. Brass portholes gleamed in the sun. Sailors who had been careless with their cigarette ends, stubbed them in ashtrays to keep the place clean. When they finished work, they scrubbed their shoes on mats I placed inside the doors.
“You’re doing a great job!” A dozen times I was clapped on the shoulder. “Good to have a deck boy that’s not afraid of a bit of honest sweat. Makes the place a bit more like home. Dirty little tykes, some of ’em, spend all day in their pits given half a chance.”
But when I got things wrong, Ryland and his cronies were there to give me a hard time: “Stupid little toerag! Leaving a bucket there for anyone to trip over!” An ill-tempered kick sent the suji flooding across the deck. If no one was present, a fist struck at my head. “Get it cleaned up. Useless bloody deck boys.” And at other times: “You an idiot or something? Did you learn nothing on your last ship?” Or “Hey, babyface, I left my fags up on number three. Fetch ’em down an’ quick about it.”
As the grey Atlantic slipped beneath our keel I learned what to do and what not to do, where to be and where not to be if I wanted to avoid trouble. My friendship with Charlie and Aaron grew stronger. As the sun climbed higher we played deck tennis and deck golf in the evenings. We wore shorts. My back turned dusky red and began to go brown.
A hundred times I thought about my dad and gran and Auntie Marjorie But as Pacific Trader took over my life and Westport retreated one thousand, two thousand miles astern, my feelings of guilt grew weaker. Frankie’s was another existence. By the time we were approaching the Windward Isles, that necklace of islands that forms the eastern rim of the Caribbean, I had settled comfortably into my new life.
Or so it seemed to me.
How wrong I was. For unknown to everyone on board, a bigger drama than my own, a drama that was to affect many lives, had already commenced and was about to gather pace.
My own part in it began one night when we were a day’s run short of the islands.
Normally I slept well. The moment my head hit the pillow I crashed out until a hand shook me awake at six-fifteen next morning.
That particular night, however, I woke some time after midnight with a feeling of unease. Had there been a flash of light? A noise? Was it the heat? The moon shining through a chink in the curtains? The shandy and toasted sardines I had eaten for supper? Whatever had disturbed me, I lay listening, my eyes wide in the semi-darkness. The feeling persisted. After a few minutes I swung my feet to the deck and pulled on shorts, T-shirt and trainers.
The cabin I shared with Charlie, as I have said, was at the after end of the crew alleyway. The washroom and drying room were situated more or less opposite. Astern stood a watertight metal door that led out on deck. In stormy weather this was kept shut and secured by clamps that operated from inside and out. In warm weather, such as we had at the moment, it was permanently hooked wide for ventilation. From the alleyway we looked directly out onto the crew deck with the sea and sky all around. The door had been open when I went to bed but now, to my surprise, it was shut, a single clamp pulled across. Perhaps it was the clang of the door that had wakened me. For some reason it made me uneasy. There was nothing sinister about a shut door – but why was it shut? Who had shut it? I pushed back the clamp and eased the door open.
The night was calm, the moon covered by patchy cloud. Before me lay the wooden crew deck – at least a section of it, bordered by the coaming and canvas of number four hatch to port and the ship’s rail to starboard. Astern and below lay the iron afterdeck.
Why was I so on edge? Just because of the storm door? Surely my imagination was working overtime.
Then a short distance away, down on the afterdeck, I heard a thud and muffled oath. It could have been one of the watch, and yet … I stepped over the sill, carefully shut the door at my back and pulled the clamp across. For a full minute I stood watching and listening. Nothing moved but the waves, a hanging rope, and the mainmast cutting arcs against the sky. The only sounds were the muted roar of the engines and creak of the ship.
No one accosted me, all remained peaceful. Softly I walked to the rail above the afterdeck. The position was exposed and I moved into the shadow created by a winch and samson post.
The afterdeck appeared deserted. After a while, gripping the handrail, I descended the steep metal steps.
Before me stood the winches and powerful cargo equipment of the afterdeck. Again I waited then walked on, my trainers silent as I passed number five hatch, the white mainmast housing, number six hatch and the poop. No one was there. Alone I stood at the stern rail. Had my imagination been playing tricks – the closed door, the bump, the muffled voice? I didn’t think so. My heart hammered as I looked down at the white boil of the propellers and the restless Atlantic on every side.
