Deck Boy, page 13
The three-quarter moon emerged then vanished and appeared again as the clouds reformed. My white T-shirt shone like a beacon. I tugged it off, rolled it up small and tucked it into the waistband of my shorts. The soft wind tickled my skin as I returned along the deck.
Abruptly, almost at my side, the noise came again. A scrape, a soft grunt, a thump. I froze and looked about me. There was no one there. It came from a spot between number five hatch and the mainmast housing. Despite a confusion of shadows, I could see well enough. Nothing occupied the space but a rectangular booby hatch, a sort of raised manhole, eighty centimetres high, that gave access to the hold. In port the heavy lid was hooked up, for this was the entrance used by dockers. Every night it was lowered and locked to prevent pilfering. At sea it was locked permanently
Now, though the lid was shut, the padlock hung open from the hasp. Someone, or several people, were down among the cargo where they had no right to be. Was there an accomplice on deck, someone to keep lookout? I stared all round. Keeping well back, I circled the mainmast and scanned the upper decks. Nothing moved. No unaccounted shape deepened the shadows. I was alone, I was sure of it.
Softly I approached the booby hatch and listened. No voices, no sounds at all. I put my ear to the cold lid. Silence. Then after a while a mutter, a shuffle, a soft clink. Silence again, then a scrape of feet mounting the fixed metal ladder inside. A glimmer of light appeared round the lid.
I flitted the length of the hatch and disappeared into a hiding place I had selected, a corner behind a winch and under the steps by which I had descended from the crew deck.
It was not a second too soon. The lid of the booby hatch was raised. A cautious head appeared. I could not see who it was for he had switched off his torch and the lid cast shadow. The pale blotch of face turned left and right. All seemed safe. He hooked the iron lid open and descended again. A flicker of torchlight shone at the opening.
When he appeared again he was carrying something, or several things. Leaning over the trunk of the booby hatch, he set them on the deck. I heard a soft slap, the chink of glass. He swung his legs out and lowered the lid. There was a tiny clang and the rattle of keys. He straightened. At that instant I recognised him: Tony Fanshott-Williams, the senior cadet. As if to confirm it, the moon emerged from a wispy edge of cloud and bathed the afterdeck in light.
He wore black – at least it looked black in the moonlight – black jeans, black sweater, his head of curls dark too, good camouflage for the night but very visible against the white masthouse. Bending quickly, he collected whatever he had taken from the hold and ran towards me along the deck. I shrank back into my hiding place.
There was a glint of white teeth, Tony was smiling. Hooking a finger round the rail, for both hands were full, he started up the flight of steps. Had he looked down he might well have seen me, my shoulders paler than the shadow. But he didn’t look down. Midway he paused, raising his head to scan the crew deck above. I was so close I could have reached out and touched his foot. The moonlight revealed what he was carrying: over one arm a snorkel, a face mask and a set of flippers, in his hands two bottles of whisky. I guessed it was whisky because we had loaded several hundred cases the day we sailed.
The deck was clear. He continued to the top of the steps. I heard a swift patter of feet. The sound faded For a minute I waited, terrified to be seen, then followed. I was alone. Tony had gone. The storm door, which had been shut, stood open.
I was shocked. The senior cadet, so confident and sneering, sneaking the hatch keys and robbing the cargo. A common thief.
It was a relief to reach my cabin. At the curtain I paused and looked back at the moonlit decks. Beyond the doorway all lay spread before me. Anyone doing the same – one of the watch, a sailor visiting the washroom – might easily have spotted Tony and wondered what he was up to. Shutting the door was an obvious precaution.
I was shivering, my head damp with perspiration. I scrubbed myself with a towel, tugged off my shorts and pulled on the crumpled T-shirt. My bunk was warm and comfortable. Charlie did not stir. I reached up and touched the base of his bunk with my fingertips, then turned on my side and pulled the bedclothes about my neck.
The Fight on Deck
“NO,” CHARLIE said. “I’ve told you what I think.”
“But he’s an officer – a junior officer anyway.”
It was smoko the next morning and we were sailing through the Guadeloupe Passage into the Caribbean. Lush volcanic islands rose to port and starboard, our first sight of land in over a week. Charlie and I leaned on a rail and watched the smoking peak of Soufrière.
“So you keep saying,” he said. “And a thief and a total pig, I agree. There’s nothing I’d like better than to see him dragged off screaming. But think about it. If you hadn’t woken up who’d be any the wiser? Do you want people to start taking an interest in you? Do you want to forge Joey’s signature on a statement? Do you think the mate’s going to thank you for stirring up trouble?” He took a mouthful of tea. “Let it go. He’s not the first and he’ll not be the last.”
“I just hate it.”
“Me too, but we’re not talking about what’s right, we’re talking about the best thing to do.”
I sighed and threw the remains of my burned tabnab into the waves.
Aaron arrived. “Hey, come an’ look at this.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Come on.”
He led us up to the funnel deck. We hurried between the lifeboats and engine room ventilators.
“Sshhh!” Aaron put a finger to his lips then fell to his belly and wriggled forward. Two sailors, also lying on their bellies, glanced up as we arrived.
Below us lay number three hatch, just astern of the bridge and deck officers’ accommodation. A beach towel was spread on the canvas. The mate’s wife, known throughout the ship as Trish the Dish, lay sunbathing. She wore the tiniest of bikinis and had loosened her straps for an even tan.
“Could I do with a basinful o’ that?” murmured one of the ABs.
“Aye, wouldn’t kick her out the bed,” agreed his pal
She looked terrific. “Aren’t you scared she’ll see you?” I said.
“Already has, I reckon. Likes to know there’s somebody watching.”
“Got somethin’ to show an’ all.”
Trish sat up, carefully holding her top in place, and adjusted a large pair of sunglasses. A tube of sunscreen and a long fruit drink lay at her side. She took a sip and lay down again, on her back this time, arm behind her head.
“What a brama!” Aaron said.
He was right but I didn’t like being a peeping Tom, especially if Trish knew we were there.
“I’m going down.”
“Me too,” Charlie started backwards.
But before we would get away there was a shout from an open window and the mate came bursting from the officers’ entrance.
“You men! What the hell do you think you’re playing at? Get away aft.” He shaded his eyes. “I see who you are. Even the deck boy – mucky little tyke. Get out of it, the lot of you. Catch you hanging round here again, I’ll have you on a charge. Understand?”
We understood all right and scrambled away down the funnel deck. I was shocked but the others seemed not to mind.
“What a cracker!” Aaron said again.
“Got his hands full with that one,” said one of the ABs.
“Wouldn’t mind havin’ my hands full neither,” said the other. “Any time.”
Behind us the mate’s voice was raised in anger: “What d’you expect on a ship full of sailors? Have you got no sense? Didn’t you see them all up there slavering down at you?”
I didn’t catch her reply.
“Get away indoors,” he said, “off the deck. Your shoulders are burning anyway. If you want to sunbathe go up on the monkey island. They’ll have to climb the foremast to see you there – mind I wouldn’t put it past them.”
“Aye, but that’s not her game, is it?” One of the ABs stood beside me. “She likes men looking at her. Mate should have more sense than marryin’ a bit o’ jail-bait like that, bringin’ her on board with him.”
That afternoon, Charlie and I were sent to holystone the boat deck. This involved spraying the planks with seawater, scattering them with sand, and scouring them with a heavy sandstone block on a long handle. A section had just been completed and I was rinsing the sand into the scuppers while Charlie went to fetch a broom from Lampie. The sun was hot. The water sparkled. Little drifts of sand tumbled away in the jet of my hose.
I was happy in my work and thinking about nothing in particular when Tony Fanshott-Williams appeared round the corner. The senior cadet was carrying some papers. He wore his officer’s whites: blancoed shoes, socks to his knees, crisp white shorts and a short-sleeved shirt with epaulettes. His head was bare, dark curls gleaming. Expensive sunglasses.
What happened was an accident. The jet from the hose was quite powerful for I had opened the stopcock wide. As Tony walked past it hit a bracket on the deck and splashed his legs, not much but enough to make him jump back.
“Sorry!” Instantly I swung the jet away.
But the damage was done. Tony looked down at his knees and shorts. “Clumsy – ! Look at me! Clean on.” He was hot-tempered, as I remembered from the night at Black Sunrise. “You did that on purpose!”
“I didn’t even see you. It hit that – ”
“Stupid bloody deck boy.”
“I said sorry. What more d’you want me to – ?”
“Think you’re funny, don’t you.”
“No.”
“I’ve got a good mind to – ”
“It was an accident!”
“Some accident!” And before I could resist, he snatched the hose out of my hands and turned it full force onto my belly and legs.
It didn’t matter because I was only wearing a T–shirt, black cotton shorts and trainers. I was wet already and on that hot afternoon the cold seawater, though a bit of a shock, was refreshing. If Charlie had done it I would have laughed. But Tony wasn’t laughing.
“There! See how you like it.”
My own temper flared up. “What did you do that for?” Without thinking I rushed at him, battered by the water, and wrestled the hose from his grasp. Bright jets flew in every direction, sparkling in the sunshine. If he had been dressed as I was, I mightn’t have succeeded but Tony wanted to keep his whites clean. So far only his legs were splashed. Not for long. Before he could dodge aside, I swung the nozzle and sprayed him head to foot. The jet smacked him full in the face and sent his sunglasses flying.
In the heat of the moment, neither of us spotted Smoky at the end of the deck. Fag in his mouth, pot of paint in his hand, he stood watching.
“There, how do you like it?” I swung the hose away. “That’s quits.”
Tony’s hair hung over his face. His shirt clung to his chest. His underpants showed black through his shorts. Mouth open, he stood gaping. He could not believe what I had done. Then rage and pure poison came into his eyes and he flung himself at me.
It could have been funny, two boys fighting over a threshing hose, but this was in deadly earnest. Though I struggled and punched I had little chance for he was a good three years older, heavier and stronger. Also he fought dirty, kneeing and head-butting. Inside a minute I was flat on my back with Tony sitting astride my chest. He drew back a fist.
“Hit me an’ I’ll tell!” I cried.
“Tell what?”
“Thief!”
The blow never landed. “What do you mean?”
I bucked beneath him.
“What?” He slapped me across the head. “Eh?”
I spat in his face.
“Dirty little – !” He scrubbed his cheek and slapped me again, harder this time. “Tell me!”
“I saw you.”
“Saw? Saw what? You saw nothing.”
Footsteps came running. “What the hell’s going on?” Charlie had returned. “Get off him.” He grabbed Tony by the hair and yanked him aside. “You OK?” He crouched beside me.
“Yeah, I guess.” I dabbed my mouth with the back of a hand. My lip was split. My left eye was closing.
Tony was unmarked though his uniform was filthy. Buttons had been torn from his shirt, an epaulette hung flapping.
Charlie was appalled. “What started all this?”
Before I could open my mouth, Tony jabbed a finger in my face. “You’ll be on a charge!” He turned to Charlie. “Coming round the corner. Little bastard sees me and sprays my feet. I jump back, tell him to watch it. Before you can say squit he lets me have it right in the chest. Then when I go to take it off him he flies at me like a wildcat.”
“That’s not true!” I said.
“Aye, well. Let’s take it to the mate, shall we? See who he believes.”
“Can I come an’ all?” For the first time I saw Smoky. “I seen the whole thing. It’s you went for him, you lyin’ git! Ben done nothin’. That first splash, it were an accident.”
“You’d take his side anyway, wouldn’t you? One of the crew, stands to reason.”
“What about me?” A young engineer looked from his porthole. His hair was wet, drips fell from his chin. “I’ve been watching too – and listening. Good fight. But the young lad didn’t start it, you did, an’ you’re lying in your teeth. If I were you I’d say sorry an’ push off smartish, keep my trap shut. Cause if he wants to take it further, cadet picking a quarrel with a rating, you’re in deep doo-doo.”
Tony’s face was dark. He pushed the curls from his eyes. “Ah, to hell with the lot of you.” He picked up his soggy papers and turned away up the deck.
“Now will one of you turn off that damned hose,” the engineer said. “Came right in through the porthole.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“No harm done. Mop it up with a towel.” He vanished inside.
Charlie hosed me down to wash off the sand then turned the red wheel on the stopcock. The jet subsided to a trickle.
Smoky clapped my shoulder. “You’re some fighter, boy.”
“It’s the last thing I wanted,” I said.
“Anyway,” Charlie looked round. “Let’s keep it between the three of us.”
I shivered and looked out at the sea.
Chocolates, Sausages and Ash
THAT SAME evening, shortly after seven, I went round to see Michael. His cabin, as usual, was crowded. Ossie sat on Michael’s bunk with Attila, the big marmalade tom cat, purring at his side like an engine. Barbara, resplendent in a straw hat, Tahiti shirt and wrap-around, his legs as hairy as a gorilla, occupied the chair. Michael and Luigi sat on the day bed. A half-empty bottle of gin with ice, lemon and tonic stood on the table.
“Oh, Ben! Come in, we’ve just been talking about you.” Michael gave a scream. “Darling, your face! They didn’t say. Is it sore?”
I touched my lip and the bruise on my cheek. “No, I’m fine.”
“Oh, that brute! Come and sit down.” He shifted along the day bed and patted the seat. “Here, beside me. Now, we want to hear all about it.”
“You mean this afternoon?”
“What else?”
“How did you know?”
“How did I know? Oh, isn’t he lovely! The whole ship’s abuzz, nobody’s talking about anything else. How that horrible, stuck-up Miss Fanshott-Williams picked on you and you took her down a peg or two. Let her have it with the hose, right in the tropicals.”
“Quite right too.” Barbara, who detested working in the engine room and wore six clean shirts a day, was cleaning his nails with a cocktail stick. “Swanning round the ship like God’s gift.”
“Well, I was just holystoning with Charlie …” I outlined what had happened.
“Brilliant!” Michael said. “I love it! Here,” he reached for the gin bottle.
“Not for me.”
“Just one. Come on, to celebrate.”
I shook my head. “No, really.”
“Michael, don’t force him.”
“I don’t think I’ve got anything non-alcoholic.” He rummaged in a locker. “Fanta, Coke – ugh! Got some chocolates.” He produced the box we’d all been given first day at sea, a good-will gift from the captain. Mine was long finished. “All for you, Ben.” He tore off the cellophane. “Stick in till ye stick oot, as my granny used to say. Just so long as you don’t ruin that schoolgirl complexion.”
I listened as they swapped stories. Luigi told us about his boyhood in Naples.
After a while Ossie tossed back the last of his gin and floundered from the bunk. “I’ve g-got to go.”
His high-pitched voice still caught me unawares.
“You’re coming back?” Michael said.
“If that’s O-OK.”
“Any time, Ossie. You know that.”
“Thanks, M-Michael.” He hovered beside me. “Can I have one of your ch-chocolates, B-Ben?”
“They’re not mine, they’re Michael’s.” I held the box out.
“Thanks.” Carefully he selected one. “Strawberry c-creme. M-mum’s favourite.”
The curtain closed behind him.
“Poor old Ossie,” Michael said.
It was cramped on the day bed. I took Ossie’s place on the bunk. “What’s happened to his voice? He didn’t use to stutter.”
“He did on the Star,” Barbara said.
“Lost it by the time he signed-on here,” Michael said. “All that hospital treatment, I suppose.”
“Living on pills again,” Barbara said. “Not surprised, picking on him the way they do.”
It was true. Rat’bone mocked Ossie at every opportunity. Steve joined in. It was their cruel game, hunt the messman. Every day, as he served breakfast, lunch and dinner, he was the victim of their jibes:
“Ugh! I’m not eating that muck, there’s a big white maggot been crawling all over it … Look, it’s the blob … Tater-head! Oystereyes! Barmy Baggot! … Hey, handsome, Hollywood been on the phone yet?”
Ossie was helpless. His eyes filled, his hands shook. Several of us spoke up for him. Barbara said: “You don’t have to put up with it, Ossie, love. Complain to the chief steward. You’re a big man, fight back.” But Ossie was one of life’s victims. He just couldn’t.
