Liam's Story

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  Initially it was difficult to promote enthusiasm; only afterwards, having had a better time than any of them imagined possible did they suggest more. Stephen felt he had made a breakthrough when the 3rd Mate asked whether he might arrange another quiz for the following Saturday.

  ‘Providing we’re not in port, you can. We’ll get Saturdays organized yet – Board of Trade Sports in the morning, Quiz Night after dinner...’

  The lad looked blank. ‘Board of Trade Sports, sir?’

  ‘Old joke, Marcus,’ Stephen explained with a grin. ‘I mean boat drill and fire drill.’

  En route for Augusta, Sicily, Stephen’s main concern became that of their next destination. He was not at ease when charters and cargoes were difficult to come by in London. With the war in the Gulf, he dreaded the kind of desperation for work which might send him and his ship running the gauntlet through the Straits of Hormuz.

  Their cargo of Russian oil was discharged in Sicily without too many problems, but as the last marine surveyor drank his beer and said his farewells, a telex came through from London. The instructions were to proceed in the direction of the Suez Canal.

  ‘Oh, wow,’ Mac said in an acid impression of a gleeful schoolboy, ‘haven’t seen Port Said in years. Wonder if it’s changed any?’

  ‘One can always hope,’ Stephen responded. ‘Thank God we’re only passing through. Can you imagine the crew ashore? They’d come back bankrupt!’

  Mac chuckled. ‘After Odessa, I think we should telex ahead to every port, telling them to lock up their women. Our lot might not speak the lingo, but they can certainly make themselves understood! Mind you,’ he added slyly, ‘we didn’t do too badly when we were younger, did we?’

  ‘Not in bloody Port Said, though!’

  ‘No, not Port Said – Singapore was the place then. And Japan,’ he added nostalgically. ‘I remember a girl in Osaka-Ko…’

  ‘Mac,’ Stephen interrupted, staring at the telex. ‘They’re not telling us something. Why are we heading for Suez? Going through there costs money, and we’re in ballast, earning not a brass farthing. Whatever they’ve got in mind for us east of Suez, must be pretty bloody lucrative...’

  Picking up that sudden, overwhelming conviction, Mac slowly shook his head. ‘Oh, no – come on, Steve, they wouldn’t!’

  ‘Wouldn’t they bloody just!’ He slammed the paper down and quickly lit a cigarette, pacing Mac’s cabin like a caged tiger. ‘I bet you – I bet you anything you care to name that that’s where we’re going!’

  Mac stroked his beard. ‘Indonesia?’ he suggested hopefully. ‘Singapore? We are due for dry-dock.’

  ‘Stuff the bloody dry-dock, Mac – we’re going to the Gulf!’

  A few days later, told to proceed towards Singapore for further orders, Mac was convinced he would get his dry-dock after all. But as they cleared the Red Sea the telex came in which confirmed the worst of Stephen’s fears. Not just a single trip up the Gulf, but a charter which would have them in and out every week. For a limited period, the message said; but that could mean anything from six weeks to six months, as Stephen well knew. Furious that such orders had not warranted a personal telephone call via the satellite, he simply acknowledged the telex without comment. It was midday in London, so let them call him if necessary. If he spoke to the company now, in the heat of his anger, he might live to regret it.

  Over the internal telephone, he called the Mate’s cabin. He was off duty; as expected, he was in bed. Mac and the Second Engineer were in the bowels of the engine room, but within ten minutes all four were gathered in Stephen’s cabin with the outer door shut. The Radio Officer, with his professional commitment to keep the contents of telexes to himself, had already been sternly reminded of it. In deliberately neutral tones, Stephen read out the contents of the message to his senior officers. The Mate, unexpectedly, gave vent to a string of obscenities which were echoed, to a lesser extent, by the Second Engineer; Mac simply stared, his brown eyes hurt, as though Stephen had personally arranged to prove him wrong.

  With a defensive shrug, Stephen skimmed the paper across the table so that they could read it for themselves. He went to the fridge for four cans of beer and set them on the table. It was hot in the cabin and he was sweating, his shirt sticking to his back like tissue paper.

  ‘Technically speaking,’ he said slowly, ‘we are not obliged to carry on our occupation in what is officially termed a war zone. Technically, I could send a telex back, demanding reliefs for all of us…’

  ‘And we all know what sort of a reaction you’d get to that!’ Mac commented, red whiskers bristling. He took a long pull of his beer.

  ‘True, but I can try. However, we need to anticipate a refusal, no matter how it’s couched, and plan accordingly. Because no matter what pressure is brought to bear, certain people will want off, regardless.’

  ‘If they pay me enough,’ Mac growled, ‘I’ll sail the bloody ship for them – right up the main street of Tehran!’

  Laughter broke the tension, and for a few minutes they discussed money, and what should be demanded in return for their ‘loyalty’ to the company. Stephen let them carry on, knowing that certain figures and percentages would be offered, and that it would be up to him to negotiate the best deal. He had few illusions about the attitude to reliefs.

  Only the Mate seemed particularly unhappy. ‘I’ve got a wife and three kids, and as far as I’m concerned, they’re more important to me than any bloody job. What’s money if you’re blown to bits?’

  Stephen was inclined to agree with him, but forbore to do so. ‘I don’t have a wife,’ he said, ‘nor do I have children. My objections are those of principle. I hate war and I loathe what they’re doing.’ In the ensuing silence, his breathing sounded ragged, at odds with the chill in his voice. ‘However, what we have to face is our own economic reality. And I think – before we start telling the company where to get off – we have to consider our positions seriously.

  ‘I also think,’ he went on a moment later, ‘that those of you who are married should try to get in touch with your wives. In a sense, they’re just as involved as we are. But please, not until I’ve had a word with the office, and we have the official line on what the choices are.’

  Stephen took copies of the telex, had one posted in the bar, another on the bridge, while a third went down to the crew’s quarters with a message for the Bosun to contact him as soon as possible. Part of him wanted to break his own rule and telephone Zoe at once, but although he had a good idea of what the official line would be, he felt he must await its confirmation. And when it came, shortly after seven that evening, the voice of his respected ship-manager was hardened with a deliberate chill, like that of a 1916 officer informing his juniors of the next big push.

  The slight pause inflicted by the satellite link distanced them further. We were friends, Stephen thought, united by many a previous difficulty, mutually solved; and now we sound like enemies.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jack, but feeling here is running strong. Nobody wants to risk his neck just to keep a bunch of Muslim fundamentalists in Exocet missiles!’

  The voice, after a second’s delay, was colder than ever. ‘This charter is to the Kuwaitis, Captain — the oil is Kuwaiti oil!’

  ‘Balls!’ he retorted, infuriated by that insistence on something they both knew was little more than a technicality. The oil might be coming through Kuwaiti pipelines — it might even be from their own fields – but the money it was earning, that was a different matter. In a biased neutrality, the Kuwaitis were feeding financial aid to their war-torn Iraqi neighbours; and the Iranians, knowing exactly what was going on, were intent upon stopping the trade.

  Again the delay, but this time the voice had softened to a cajoling note. ‘Look, Stephen, I’m giving it to you from the horse’s mouth. We need this charter, it’s worth a lot of money to the company – we’re on the edge, believe me, and it might just tide us over till things improve. If they improve.’ There was an eloquent sigh. �
�We can’t afford to turn it down. Nor can we afford the delay while you and your crew prat about making up your minds. If we have to do a complete crew-change, I’m telling you the Filipinos will never work again – not at sea, anyway. And there’ll be that many black marks on the officers’ files, it won’t be worth their while applying elsewhere. The company has long arms and much influence, you know that.’

  Stephen did know; nevertheless he could not believe he was hearing it stated so unequivocally. He had expected pressure, but not a deadly determination underlined by Jack’s confidential tone. Had it come from anyone else, even the Chairman, he knew he would have been tempted to lay down the gauntlet of challenge. But he knew Jack, and Jack knew the company inside out. In the intimate world of shipping and ship-owners, these people were akin to the Cosa Nostra. How else had they survived, when almost every other British company had gone to the wall?

  Stephen knew, too, that however highly he was regarded, they would be prepared to fire him over this issue, and at the end of the day, when he needed a reference, his file would be marked unreliable, and there would be a tactful disinclination to comment. They had him over a barrel, and they knew it. Rage coursed through him. The iniquity of blackmail offended his principles and integrity even more than the nature of what he saw as being a very dirty job indeed. Biting back the urge to tell Jack what to do with it, Stephen shut his eyes and clamped his hand across the mouthpiece.

  It took all his self-control to remind himself of the vow made years ago: when you pack it in, Elliott, it’ll be when you are ready, and not before.

  This was not the time to call the odds.

  While Jack Porteous dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s of all he had said already, Stephen shuddered, as at a mouthful of bile. Releasing his cramped fingers, he said bitterly: ‘It’s a pity the company can’t use some of its fabled power to lobby the bloody government. If British shipping had more support from that quarter, Jack, maybe we wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. Tell that to the bloody Chairman!’

  It was, he felt, a suitable last word. Abruptly, he severed the connection, and it was some minutes before he had calmed down sufficiently to speak to anyone else.

  In the radio room, Sparks was lounging like a disc-jockey before the banks of electronic equipment. ‘So what are they going to pay?’ he asked laconically. ‘Over and above, that is.’

  ‘Not enough,’ Stephen answered tersely. ‘And if it was a couple of million in a Swiss bank account, it still wouldn’t be enough.’

  It was, however, a question asked by all the others. The bonus was to be a percentage of their monthly salaries, not ungenerous when considered in isolation, but worth little in the light of insurance policies made invalid by the war zone. Death or disability thus incurred was not standard cover.

  The Mate was the first to use the satellite phone. His wife apparently echoed his sentiments, because he repeated his request for a relief. Wearily, Stephen nodded. The younger officers, however, were oddly exhilarated by the thought of danger and the chance of extra money; the older ones resignedly counted the weeks still to run before they could legitimately apply for leave. Mac and Stephen, having been last to join, had something like four months ahead of them. The Third Engineer, with three months yet to do and a wife and baby at home, requested a relief.

  ‘I’ll get a job on the rigs,’ he said defiantly, ‘and stuff the bloody company.’

  Stephen rather admired the belligerency. Contrary to his expectations, the crew were unperturbed by the situation. He was not sure whether it was fatalism or greed on their part, but every one elected to stay. That should please Jack Porteous, he thought, returning to his cabin to make another call. With the receiver in his hand, however, he paused before dialling the London office, deciding to speak to Zoe first. He had some vague hope that she might persuade him otherwise, bring forth a string of incontrovertible reasons as to why he should say, like the Mate and the Third: ‘Stuff the company, I’ll find something else...’

  But deep down, at the heart of him, he did not want to say that, not yet...

  She was not at home. Envisaging the empty flat, he let the telephone ring and ring, willing her to dash up the stairs to answer it. Dejection gripped him; he had wanted, so much, to hear her voice; then he was furious, wondering where she was, and what could be more important that she must be out when he needed her...

  Still in that spirit of anger, with a sense of having all his exits cut off, Stephen called Jack Porteous, and their communication was terse and to the point. Now we know where we stand, Jack seemed to be saying, we can organize with lightning speed. As indeed they could. Nevertheless, Stephen did wonder who would be sent to replace the men he was losing.

  It was not until he tried to call Zoe again, later, that he realized something was wrong with the satellite link. He tried the telex and that too was down. Impotently furious, he was further incensed when Sparks, having checked everything and risked his neck up the mast, announced that it would take specialist engineers to cure the fault. For the next few days they were forced back to what seemed a prehistoric means of communication: morse code over the shortwave radio.

  The ship put into Fujairah, outside the Straits of Hormuz, landed the two officers and took aboard their replacements, together with the electronics experts. The only joyful moment for Stephen was in greeting the new Mate, that same John Walker with whom he had served aboard his last ship, the ill-famed Nordic. He had a feeling that Johnny’s irreverent humour was going to be a tonic they would all savour.

  ‘What the bloody hell made you agree to all this?’

  ‘I dunno, Captain – I think my bank manager said I could do with the money. Mind you, I was a bit pissed at the time, so don’t quote me.’

  Stephen laughed. ‘And what about the girlfriend?’

  ‘No problem – last time I saw her, she said she’d like to see me in hell anyway.’

  ‘Oh. All off, is it?’

  The long, lanky Mate shrugged, his nonchalance that of the seasoned campaigner. The new Third, unmarried, uncertificated, and well into his fifties, seemed to regard the situation as normal. Their combined attitudes put new heart into Stephen. They had been at home, living with the television news, and must know what they were getting into.

  At noon Stephen went ashore with the agent, his chest struggling against heat which pressed like a hot iron. About to phone Zoe, he was apprehensive at the thought of having to explain where he was and why; and awed by the commitment he was about to make. This time, the need to tell her that he loved her had not come from outside himself, but from deep within; and it was suddenly the most important thing in the world. He wanted desperately to say so, and to hear the same words from her lips.

  The thought of dying, Stephen realized, clarified the mind wonderfully, identifying priorities with the speed of a computer. Having accepted the situation as unavoidable, all he wanted to do now was get on with the job. He was still angry, but he treasured the anger, like his love for Zoe, as a talisman against fear. And when the job was over, please God, he would go home, sort out his life, and make proper plans for the future. He had drifted too long; it was time to set a definite course.

  Like a man with a terminal disease waiting impatiently for a solicitor to draft his will, Stephen drummed his fingers on the agent’s desk, a telephone within reach, while the agent complacently sorted business of his own. At last the man left him alone to make his calls. Time demanded he contact the office first, and when that lengthy business was complete, he dialled Zoe’s number. There was a silence, then interminable clicks and sighs; the phone rang four times and was then picked up.

  A man’s voice answered, light, cultured, faintly amused.

  The unexpectedness stabbed like a knife in the breast, stopped his breath for a moment. The voice at the other end was impatient, became peremptory. Almost stammering, Stephen asked for Zoe.

  ‘And your name?’

  ‘Elliott,’ he snapped back, b
arely controlling the urge to demand the other’s name, and the nature of his business at Zoe’s flat at ten on a Saturday morning.

  Muffled words, a voice – her voice – suddenly clear in the background; a rustle of movement which made him wonder where she had been, what doing; then flustered, breathy intensity.

  ‘Stephen – where are you calling from? This is a surprise!’

  Racked by the most painful suspicion, for a moment he almost hated her. It was with great difficulty that he controlled his words, his voice. ‘Just thought I’d ring – see how you were.’

  ‘I’m fine – just fine,’ she claimed, while a nervous laugh escaped her. ‘But how are you? You sound different. Is anything wrong – or is it just this awful line?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Well, good, I’m glad to hear it. Where are you?’

  ‘Some place you’ve probably never heard of. Fujairah – it’s part of the United Arab Emirates.’

  There was a pause on the line. Stephen could almost hear her thinking, raking over world geography, trying to place it exactly.

  ‘Zoe,’ he said with mounting urgency, aware of time passing as he was of the man in the background, and unable to ignore either, ‘we’re going into the Gulf. We’ll be in and out for the next few weeks, between Kuwait and Karachi. It’s annoying, and I can’t say it’s something I relish – but frankly, there’s nothing to be done about it. I just wanted to say…’ He broke off. ‘I just wanted to tell you where we are – in case you don’t hear from me for a while.’

  ‘The Gulf?’ she repeated faintly. ‘Not the Persian Gulf?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘But – there’s a war going on. I keep seeing it on the news – missiles, minesweepers…’ He could hear her breath coming sharp and deep. ‘Stephen — they can’t send you there.’

  ‘Why not?’ he demanded. ‘The rest of the world wants to buy what they’re still selling – and fools like us have to do the dirty work!’