Liam's Story

by Ann Victoria Roberts

‘Have you called him up?’ Stephen asked, glancing at the radar plot and picking up the binoculars. The other ship was indeed right on the beam, and in these circumstances, a little too close for comfort.

  As he reached for the VHF radio, the Mate arrived, curious as ever, clad in flapping sandals and a pair of shorts. ‘What the hell’s he playing at?’ he muttered, gazing out over the bridge wing. ‘Is he blind or what?’

  ‘Probably gone to sleep.’ The engine room telephone began to ring. ‘Answer that, will you, Johnny? Should be the Chief.’

  Ignoring what was going on around him, Stephen started to transmit on Channel 16, the hailing frequency, anxiety controlled beneath a thin veneer of calm.

  ‘This is the Liberian ship Nordic, in position five degrees, three minutes south, and nine degrees, fifty-two minutes east, bound in a south-easterly direction, calling the northbound ship on my starboard side.’

  Releasing the transmit button, he waited for a reply. For perhaps half a minute he sweated as the distance closed between them. Had the other watch-keeper abandoned his bridge altogether?

  On his second call, a thickly-accented voice replied, sounding irritated. ‘Nordic, this is the Greek ship Lemnos. I receive you.’

  With fury edging his voice, Stephen called again. ‘Lemnos, this is Nordic – Channel 8, please.’

  ‘O.K. Nordic, with me that is fine. Channel 8, going down.’

  Changing channels, requesting confirmation that he could be heard, Stephen declared with cutting emphasis: ‘My vessel is not under command. I have engine failure and request a wide berth – do you understand?’

  English was the language of the sea, but sometimes understanding was limited, and this was no time to be wondering whether the message was clear.

  ‘O.K. Nordic, I understand fine. I alter my course to port.’

  ‘Sensible, sensible,’ the Mate whispered.

  ‘Lemnos, this is Nordic. Thank you. Have a pleasant voyage. Out.’

  On another wordy response, the transmission was over. Returning the VHF to Channel 16, Stephen let out a long, pent-up breath. ‘Seems we woke him up.’

  ‘Not before time, silly bugger.’

  ‘Just make sure he does turn to port.’

  As the Lemnos visibly changed course, Johnny called into the darkness, ‘That’s it, mate – you can do it. Left hand down a bit and you’ll be clear!’

  Stephen gave a dry smile as he watched the other ship come around their stern. He wondered why its name should seem familiar. Eventually it came to him. ‘Lemnos – that’s in the Aegean, isn’t it?’

  ‘No idea – the only Greek island I know is Crete. The girlfriend dragged me there last leave. In August – she got sunburn.’

  For a moment the name tugged at the back of Stephen’s mind. Dismissing it, he turned his attention to the breakdown. ‘So what did the Chief have to say?’

  ‘Main generator’s packed in – number two failed to start for some god-forsaken reason, and number three is lying around the engine room in bits. They’ve been working on it all day, he says.’

  ‘Wonderful. And what’s the prognosis?’

  ‘Didn’t want to commit himself at this stage.’

  ‘Well, he’s going to have to.’ Stephen pictured the engineers slaving below in intense heat and humidity, trying root out the cause of this too-frequent occurrence. He glanced at his watch. Almost eight, and the pilot booked for first light off Cabinda, about half-past five. With time in hand, he had planned to slow down for the next few hours; but could the repairs be done in that small margin? If not, it meant cancelling the pilot, cancelling their slot in the queue of ships waiting to load. Cancellations cost money. A lot of money. He would not be popular with his managers sitting tight in their London office. Nor with the charterers in Hong Kong.

  On the ledge below the bridge windows were matches and a packet of Marlboro. ‘Thought you were giving up?’ he remarked to the 3rd Mate, and at the young man’s sheepish grin, took a cigarette and handed the packet back to him. Then he telephoned the engine room.

  ‘We’ve got about an hour and a half. Two will be pushing it. After that we’ll need fifteen knots out of her to get us there in time. Can you do it?’

  The reply was brief, the other phone slammed down. Raising an eyebrow, Stephen replaced his receiver with exaggerated care. With no generators to power the air-conditioning, it was becoming hot and sticky even in the wheelhouse. In his cabin, it would be worse. He dreaded to think what it was like below, in the engine room.

  He pushed his cigarette into the sand box and went outside. ‘Johnny, get one of the stewards to take down a couple of cases of soft drinks, will you? Charge to the company account.’

  Unbuttoning his shirt, he breathed deeply, watching the lights of the Lemnos receding safely into the distance. Out on the bridge wing, scarcely a breeze touched his skin.

  ‘Well,’ he remarked softly as the Mate joined him, ‘thank God it’s a calm night.’

  Two weeks later they were battling a storm off Cape Hatteras when the Radio Officer arrived on the bridge with a telex from Portishead. Normally a cheery individual, today he was frowning.

  Suspecting bad news, Stephen was just about to ask what the office had dreamed up now, when Sparks said quietly, ‘It’s personal, Captain – you might want to read it in private.’

  Opening the envelope, Stephen retired to the chart room. The message was from his aunt in York. ‘SORRY TO LET YOU KNOW LIKE THIS STEPHEN BUT SARAH PASSED AWAY LAST NIGHT IN HER SLEEP. VERY PEACEFUL. LOVE JOAN.’

  The words shocked him, and yet he had been expecting it.

  Joan’s last news, received some weeks ago, had been that his grandmother Sarah was in hospital, recovering from a bout of pneumonia. He had thought then that it could be the beginning of the end. For a moment the words blurred. Poor Joan. Truly alone, now. He bowed his head, forming a silent prayer for her, and for the repose of his grandmother’s soul.

  Sarah Elliott had been a stiff, reserved woman, and yet she and Stephen had been on good terms, somehow closer since his father’s death. He’d wondered as he came away – as he had for years on similar occasions – whether he would see her again. As family grew older, the partings became more poignant.

  Sparks was waiting, watching mountains of spray leaping over the fo’c’sle. Huge green seas were rolling down the deck.

  ‘My grandmother,’ Stephen explained, drawing a deep breath. ‘She had her ninetieth birthday just days before I came away. Not quite a party,’ he added with a wry smile, ‘but she seemed to enjoy it.’

  ‘A good innings, then?’

  ‘Well, she had a long life – and a hard one, mostly.’ He stared at the turbulent waves, thinking of her, thinking of the sadness. ‘She lived through two world wars. She lost her husband while she was still young – and then her son, ten years ago. My father was only in his fifties.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Yes, not an easy life.’ After a moment, Stephen shook his head. ‘Ah well, I’d better compose a reply to this. I’ll bring it down later.’

  ‘Right you are, sir.’

  In the end he sent a message to his aunt saying that he would phone her. He was due to leave the ship in Philadelphia, and, having given Joan the expected date of his return, she agreed to delay the funeral by a day or so until he could be sure of being in York.

  Another twenty-four hours, he told her, and they should be picking up the Delaware pilot. A day to hand over the job to the new Master, and then he’d be home the day after that. Joan sounded grateful. There would be few enough relatives as it was. Stephen’s presence, she said, would be a comfort.

  With a sigh, later, he remembered the pretty water-clerk, the one he had hoped to spend some time with before leaving the States. Finding her telephone number, he made his apologies, explained the reason for his change of plan, and said – as he had said at other times, to other women – that he hoped they would meet again someday.

  It wa
s possible, but he prayed his next return to Philadelphia would be aboard some other ship. Stephen blamed Nordic’s problems on long-term neglect by other owners, but after a worrying series of minor accidents and near-disasters, the Mate claimed she was jinxed. Even the Chief, frustrated beyond reason, had started calling the old tanker a bitch, and saying she was out to get him. It was becoming personal.

  With Cape May on the starboard hand as they came into Delaware Bay, there was shipping everywhere. On the bridge, feeling the grip of apprehension, Stephen prayed for a smooth passage into Philadelphia. Please God, no more heart-stopping incidents: just let him get safely alongside, to the airport and home.

  Coming up the Delaware River on half speed, with the pilot safely aboard and the tug made fast, all seemed to be going well. On the pilot’s advice Stephen ordered Slow Ahead to facilitate the next manoeuvre, when the pilot ordered, ‘Stop Engines,’ to take off more way as they turned to approach the berth.

  ‘Stop Engines,’ the 2nd Mate echoed.

  Out on the bridge wing, Stephen heard the ring of the telegraph. Beside him, the pilot was judging distances.

  ‘Slow Astern,’ he shouted.

  Hard on the heels of that order came an asthmatic cough from the engines.

  From the wheelhouse, the 2nd Mate shouted: ‘Engine not running Astern, Captain!’

  Stephen raced in to look at the rev counter: down to zero. The engines had stopped with the previous order, failed to re-start. The silence was horrifying.

  He took the telegraph, jerked the levers to Stop and then again to Slow Astern. Again the jangling of bells as the message went through to the automated control system. A flicker of the rev counter, another cough, and then silence.

  He reached for the phone to call the engine control room. The phone was dead.

  Grabbing the emergency phone he cranked the handle. Seconds ticked by. The Chief picked up. ‘We’ve no revs,’ Stephen barked, ‘and we’re heading for the berth. What’s happening?’

  ‘Electrical failure. We’re onto it – starting her up on manual.’

  For several terrible, palpitating minutes Stephen could do nothing. Clenching the telegraph with whitening knuckles, he watched his ship heading under her own momentum for the berth and the airport’s main runway beyond. He visualized catastrophe: ripped and twisted bows embedded in concrete, a full cargo of oil spilling out into the river, fire-hoses, foam detergents, and a courtroom full of Federal lawyers baying for his blood.

  ‘What’s that tug doing, Mr Pilot?’

  ‘Full astern and pulling on the starboard shoulder, Captain.’ His voice was tense. ‘I doubt she can do it alone.’

  ‘It’s not enough,’ Stephen muttered.

  He prayed for a miracle. Just one response to Full Astern, just a minute or two of power to assist that tug...

  The airport lights were getting closer. Booms and hoses strung out along the berth were nightmare puppets: a monster waiting to devour them whole.

  Rigid beside him, the pilot held his breath.

  Suddenly, at the last possible moment, the engines jerked into life with a resounding thud and cough of thick black smoke. On a jangling of bells Stephen slammed the telegraph to Full Astern, handed over to the 2nd Mate and raced outside. The tug was hard astern against the quarter, the bow rope stretched taut. Please God the combined force would bring her round and stop her in time…

  It was a desperately close-run thing, but suddenly, miraculously, they were in position for the berth. With a shiver but no time for relief, Stephen took over, the pilot ordered Half Astern, Slow Astern, and moments later they were coming alongside. As they touched the berth lightly, ropes went out and shoreside workers began tying up. Out on the main deck, like actors called from the wings, seamen were rolling out the gangway.

  Gasping with relief, Stephen mopped his face and neck. ‘Thanks be to God,’ he murmured. His shirt was wet through.

  ‘You know, Mr Pilot,’ he confessed later as his heart rate began to slow, ‘for a while there, I thought I wouldn’t need a taxi for the airport!’

  The Chief, staggering up to the bridge in an oily, sweat-soaked boilersuit, spluttered with appreciative laughter. But the Delaware pilot seemed to find such levity in bad taste. He left with a very curt goodnight.

  As Customs and Immigration officers went through the ship’s papers in his office, Stephen closed the cabin door and tossed down a very large whisky. With no accidents, no catastrophes, and with his Master’s Certificate still intact, he told himself he was a lucky man. Unable to believe the truth of it, he was still sweating and trembling an hour later.

  By the time the relieving Master arrived, Stephen had calmed himself sufficiently to begin his handover. Fortunately his replacement was a man he knew well, and Stephen’s cautionary tale of the Nordic’s tendency to perform circus tricks was taken seriously.

  As the big American jet lifted off from the tarmac, Stephen could see the Nordic alongside the berth, just yards from Philadelphia’s main runway. With the spring sunshine winking back from the waters of the Delaware, he craned his head to take a last look. Those final minutes, replaying like a badly-staged melodrama in his mind’s eye, made his heart pound afresh. But if nothing else, that last trick had guaranteed an immediate trip to a lay-by berth and some major repairs. The Chief, for one, was a happier man.

  Leaving Kennedy just after six in the evening, he arrived at Heathrow in plenty of time to catch one of the mid-morning flights to Leeds-Bradford. His long limbs were aching and cramped with confinement, his eyes stinging from too little sleep, but as soon as he stepped onto the tarmac at Yeadon, a bracing blast of March air whipped exhaustion away.

  The sun was shining from a china blue sky, fleecy clouds scudding across that high, unprotected plateau; and way below, in the Wharfe valley, it would be a mild, slightly breezy morning. He knew, because he had lived there once. Just three miles from the airport, and convenient for a commuter, which was how he often described himself.

  Five years, he thought as the taxi sped down Pool Bank, taking those steep, snaking corners with contempt. Five years since his divorce from Ruth, but a journey like this, so familiar, so unchanging, could make it seem like yesterday.

  He wished it were otherwise, because in a strange way it still hurt, even after all this time. Was she happy, he wondered, with her new life and her safe, reliable husband? Secure in the conviction that he would come home each evening for his dinner, be there every weekend to dig the garden and put up shelves? Whenever he thought of her, Stephen always wondered that. No children though, and that continued to surprise him. She had wanted children. It was one of the reasons she gave for wanting to end their marriage.

  With children, she claimed, her life would have been that of a single-parent family, and that was not good enough. It was a hypothetical argument and, from Stephen’s point of view, unfair. She had known what he did for a living before she married him; known also that he had no plans to give it up. Known, but not believed it. Ruth had imagined that love and marriage would change him; that she, with all the power at her command, could persuade him that her ideas were best. And her ideas, being the most conventional, had to be right.

  Ruth hated being alone, and it seemed wrong to her that he should go away and leave her for months at a time. Stephen had countered that by saying she could give up teaching and travel with him. Other wives did. Sadly, her first voyage, undertaken during an extended summer break, had proved such a failure she refused to repeat it. Bored by endless days at sea, Ruth missed friends, family, shopping; she even missed her own cooking. Admittedly, the food that trip had been poor, and the long journey across the Pacific notable only for its sunbathing hours. But she had not tried to enjoy it. Unlike Stephen, she read very little for pleasure, while he could sit for hours with any kind of book, and frequently did. It was such relaxation, such a perfect escape. But Ruth had even accused him of escaping from her.

  At the time he had convinced himself, out of love fo
r her, that it was not her fault. Looking back he knew he had secretly resented her attitude. Now he wished he had tackled it, brought it out into the open. Wished too, with the clarity of hindsight, that he had been less enthralled by physical need; but that had always been his vulnerable point. Now that he was older, he could admit it, even laugh at the antics of his youth.

  What he could not laugh about was his wife’s betrayal. Stephen had remained faithful throughout the period of their marriage, wearing his virtue like a hair shirt and expecting a loving reward for his pains, yet that last couple of years had provided few rewards, loving or otherwise.

  When Ruth told him she had met someone else, he was stunned. When she admitted to a long-standing affair and said she wanted a divorce, his rage was uncontrollable. He had had to leave the house; had gone to his sister’s, which was a mistake. Pamela’s lack of real sympathy had made things worse; she could see the situation only through her best friend’s eyes, and for that Stephen had never really forgiven her. Even now he was careful in conversation with his sister. In the old days she and Ruth had told each other everything, and he had no reason to suppose their habits had changed.

  At that time, he remembered, he had sorely missed his parents, both of whom had died while he was away at sea. His mother from cancer, his father of a sudden heart-attack a few years later. As far as Stephen was aware they had enjoyed a good and happy relationship. With a sudden flash of insight, he realized that he had rather naively expected all marriages to be like that.

  For him, marriage had obviously been a mistake, yet he still missed his wife. Like every other awareness, it was so much more acute when he was returning home.

  While ever he remained at sea, Stephen knew he would not marry again. It was too hazardous a course to attempt twice in one lifetime. Nor, on the other hand, would he consider giving up his career simply for the sake of marriage. If he ever did give it up – and the idea pressed him more and more with every voyage – it would have to be for something better, something he really wanted to do. And as yet he had not found it. He wondered whether he ever would.