Story, Volume I

by Dai Smith

  And I felt like this all the evening until we began to walk home. Before we had gone far Jessica said, ‘Wouldn’t you like to stay and listen for the nightingale, Frederick? We can find our way home without you.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Where can I hear her?’

  ‘The best place,’ said Jessica, ‘is to sit on the fallen tree – that is where I heard it. Go into the wood by the wild rose bush with pink roses on it. Do you know it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t be very late,’ said my aunt.

  ‘No,’ I answered, and left them.

  I went into the little wood and sat down on the fallen tree looking up and waiting, but there was no sound. I felt that there was nothing I wanted so much as to hear her sad notes. I remember thinking how Nietzsche said that Brahms’ melancholy was the melancholy of impotence, not of power, and I remember feeling that there was much truth in it when I thought of his Nachtigall and then of Keats. And I sat and waited for the song that came to:

  …the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home

  She stood in tears amid the alien corn.

  Suddenly I heard a sound, and, looking round, I saw Gwyneth coming through the trees. She caught sight of me and laughed.

  ‘You are here too,’ she said. ‘I came to hear Jessica’s nightingale.’

  ‘So did I,’ I said; ‘but I do not think she will sing tonight.’

  ‘It is a beautiful night,’ she said. ‘Anybody should want to sing on such a lovely night.’

  I took her back to her gate, and I said goodnight and closed the gate behind her. But, all the same, I shall remember always how beautiful she looked standing under the apple trees by the gate in the moonlight, her smile resting like the reflection of light on her carved face. Then, however, I walked home, feeling angry and annoyed with her; but of course that was foolish. Because it seems to me now that the world is made up of gay people and sad people, and however charming and beautiful the gay people are, their souls can never really meet the souls of those who are born for suffering and melancholy, simply because they are made in a different mould. Of course I see that this is a sort of dualism, but still it seems to me to be the truth, and I believe my friend, of whom I spoke, is a dualist, too, in some things.

  I did not stay more than a day or two after this, though my aunt and the girls begged me to do so. I did not see Gwyneth again, only something took place which was a little ridiculous in the circumstances.

  The evening before I went Ruthie came and said, half in an anxious whisper, ‘Frederick, will you do something very important for me?’

  ‘Yes, if I can,’ I said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well, it is Gwyneth’s birthday tomorrow, and she is so rich it is hard to think of something to give her.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, without much interest.

  ‘But do you know what I thought of? I have bought an almond tree – the man has just left it out in the shed – and I am going to plant it at the edge of the lawn so that she will see it tomorrow morning. So it will have to be planted in the middle of the night, and I wondered if you would come and help me.’

  ‘But is it the right time of the year to plant an almond tree – in August?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Ruthie; ‘but surely the man in the nursery would have said if it were not. You can sleep in the train, you know. You used always to do things with me.’

  ‘All right, I will,’ I said, ‘only we need not go in the middle of the night – early in the morning will do, before it is quite light.’

  ‘Oh, thank you so much,’ said Ruthie, trembling with gratitude and excitement. ‘But don’t tell anyone, will you – not even Jessica?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  Exceedingly early in the morning, long before it was light, Ruthie came into my room in her dressing gown to wake me, looking exactly as she used to do. We went quietly downstairs and through the wet grass to Gwyneth’s house, Ruthie carrying the spade and I the tree. It was still rather dark when we reached there, but Ruthie had planned the exact place before.

  We hurried with the work. I did the digging, and Ruthie stood with the tree in her hand looking up at the house. We hardly spoke.

  Ruthie whispered, ‘We must be quiet. That is her window. She will be able to see it as soon as she looks out. She is asleep now.’

  ‘Look here,’ I said, ‘don’t tell her that I planted it, because it may not grow. I can’t see very well.’

  ‘Oh, but she must never know that either of us did it.’

  ‘But are you going to give her a present and never let her know who it is from?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ruthie.

  ‘I think that is rather silly,’ I said.

  Ruthie turned away.

  We put the tree in. I have never heard whether it grew or not. Just as the sun was rising we walked back, and that morning I went away.

  THE LAST VOYAGE

  James Hanley

  The eight-to-twelve watch had just come up. The fo’c’sle was full. The four-to-eight crowd were awake now. Some were already getting out of bed.

  ‘Where is she now?’ asked a man named Brady.

  ‘She’s home, mate. Look through the bloody porthole. Why she’s past the Rock-Light.’

  And more of the four-to-eight watch began climbing out of bed. They commenced packing their bags. The air was full of smoke from cigarettes and black shag. A greaser came in.

  ‘Reilly here?’ he asked gruffly.

  A chorus of voices shouted: ‘Reilly! Reilly! Come on, you bloody old sod.’

  A figure emerged from a bottom bunk in the darkest corner of the fo’c’sle.

  ‘Who wants me?’ he growled.

  ‘Second wants you right away. Put a bloody move on.’

  The man put on his dungaree jacket, a sweat rag round his neck, and went out of the fo’c’sle.

  ‘His goose is cooked, anyhow,’ said a voice.

  ‘Nearly time too,’ said another.

  ‘These old sods think they rule the roost,’ said another.

  ‘He’s just too old for Rag-Annie,’ said yet another.

  And suddenly a voice, louder than the others, exclaimed: ‘What the hell’s wrong with him, anyhow? If some of you bastards knew your work as well as he does, you’d be all right. Who says his goose is cooked?’

  ‘The doctor.’

  ‘The second.’

  ‘Everybody knows it.’

  ‘That fall down the ladder fixed him all right.’

  ‘The old fool’l get jail. D’you know he’s sailin’ under false colours?’

  ‘False colours?’

  ‘Yes. False colours. The b—’s sixty-six, and he’s altered his birthdate. They’ve got him down on the papers as fifty-six.’

  ‘Has he been found out?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Some lousy sucker must have cribbed.’

  ‘Give us a rest, for Christ’s sake,’ shouted a Black Pan man. ‘You’d think it was sailin’ day to hear you talkin’. Don’t you know it’s dockin’ day? We’ll all be home for dinner.’

  ‘And a pint of the best, eh?’

  The packing of the bags continued, whilst the flow of conversation seemed unceasing.

  ‘This ship is the hottest and lousiest I ever sailed in,’ growled a trimmer. ‘A real furnace, by Jesus.’

  ‘Oh, listen to that,’ said a voice. ‘You want to sail on the Teutonic if you like the heat.’

  Suddenly the man Reilly appeared in the fo’c’sle. He walked back to his bunk past the crowd of men, who were now so occupied with bag-packing that they hardly noticed his return. Suddenly a voice exclaimed: ‘Well, Christ! Here he is back again.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Old Reilly.’

  All the faces turned then. All the eyes were focused upon the man Reilly.

  ‘Did you get your ticket, mate?’ asked one.

  ‘Did he kiss you behind the boiler?’ asked another.

  ‘Are you sacked then?’
asked another.

  Everybody laughed.

  ‘He went down to kiss the second’s —,’ growled one.

  The man Reilly was tall and thin. His eyes, once blue, were black. Heavy rings formed beneath them. His skin was pasty-looking, his hair was grey. He was very thin indeed. When he took off his singlet, they shouted:

  ‘His fifth rib’s like a lady’s.’

  ‘His arms would make good furnace slices.’

  ‘He’s like a bloody rake.’

  ‘The soft old b—. Why doesn’t he go in the blasted workhouse.’

  Suddenly Reilly said: ‘Go to hell.’

  Then he commenced to roll up his dirty clothes.

  ‘Here, you! Shut your bloody mouth and leave Reilly alone,’ exclaimed a man named John Duffy. ‘If half you suckers knew your job as well as he does, you’d get on a lot better.’

  ‘He’s an insolent old sod, anyhow,’ said a deep voice in the corner.

  ‘I’ve been twenty years in this ship,’ said Reilly.

  ‘Aye. And by Christ, the ship knows it too. I’ll bet you must have been growlin’ for that twenty years.’

  ‘Who’s growlin’?’ shouted Reilly. ‘You young fellers think you can do as you like,’ he went on. ‘Half of you don’t know your damn job, but you can come up to us old b— and get the information though. Who the hell told you I was sacked? Don’t you believe it. You’ll have me here next trip whether you like it or not.’

  ‘Oh Christ!’

  ‘By God! I’ll look for another packet, anyhow.’

  ‘So will I.’

  ‘Why in the name of Jesus don’t they let you take the ship home with you? Anyhow we don’t all kiss the second’s —.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ shouted Duffy.

  A silence fell amongst the group in the fo’c’sle. Reilly, having packed his bag, went out on the deck. He sat down on number 1 hatch. The ship already had the tugs, and was being pulled through the lock. He walked across to the rails and leaned over. He glared into the dark muddy waters of the river. He thought.

  ‘Good God! All my life’s been like that. Muddy.’

  Duffy came out and joined him. He spoke to him. ‘Hello, Johnny,’ he said. ‘How did you get on with Finch?’

  Finch was the second engineer, a huge man with black hair and blue eyes, and a chin with determination written all over it. It was known that he was the only second engineer who had ever tamed a Glasgow gang from the Govan Road.

  ‘This next trip,’ said Reilly, ‘is my last. It’s no use. I tried to kid them all along. But it wouldn’t come off. I just come up from the second’s room now.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘“Reilly,” he said, “I’m afraid you’ve got to make one more trip, and one only. You’ll have to retire.”

  ‘“Retire, Mr Finch,” I said.

  ‘“Yes. You’re too old. I’ll admit I like you, for I think you’re a good worker, a steady man. You know your job. What I have always liked about you is your honesty and your punctuality. I have never known you fail a job yet. That’s why I’ve hung on to you all this time. You’re a man who can always be trusted to be on the job. I’m sorry, but you know, Reilly, I’m not God Almighty. The Superintendent Engineer had you fixed last trip. But I asked him a favour and he did me one.”

  ‘“D’you mean that, Mr Finch?” I asked him.

  ‘“Yes, I do. Look here, Reilly. What have you been doing with that book of yours? You’re down as being ten years younger than you are.”

  ‘“Can’t I do my job?” I asked him.

  ‘“Of course you can, Reilly, but that’s not the point. You’re turned the age now. Once you become sixty-five the company expect you to retire.”

  ‘“On ten shillings a week,” I said to him.

  ‘“That’s not my business, Reilly,” he said: “I repeat that I’m sorry, very sorry, but I’m not very much higher than you, and if I disobeyed the Super, I wouldn’t be here five minutes.”

  ‘“By Christ!” I said.

  ‘“Look here, Reilly,” he said, “it’s your last trip this time. I can’t stand here talking to you all day. I’m sorry, very sorry. It might have been worse. You ran a chance of getting jail, altering the age in your book. Here. Take this.”’

  ‘He gave me a pound note,’ said Reilly to Duffy.

  ‘He did?’ Duffy wiped his mouth with his sweat rag. ‘He’s not a bad sort himself, isn’t the second. Not bad at all.’

  ‘Not much consolation to me though,’ said Reilly, ‘after thirty-nine years at sea. By Jesus! I tell you straight I don’t know how to face home this time. It’s awful. I’ve been expecting it, of course, but not all of a sudden like this. But d’you know what I think caused it?’

  ‘What?’ asked Duffy, and he spat a quid of tobacco juice into the river.

  ‘Falling down the engine room ladder three trips ago.’

  ‘But that was an accident,’ remarked Duffy.

  ‘Accident. Yes,’ said Reilly. ‘But don’t you see, if I’d been a younger man I’d have been all right in a few days. But I’m not young, though I can do my work with the best of them. I was laid up in the ship’s hospital all the run home.’

  ‘Ah, well. Never mind,’ said Duffy.

  ‘S’help me,’ exclaimed Reilly, ‘but those young fellers fairly have an easy time. Nothing to do only part their hair in the middle, and go off to French Annie’s or some other place. By God! They should have sailed in the old ships. D’you remember the Lucania?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the Etruria?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘D’you remember that trip in the big ship when she set out to capture the Liverpool to York speed record?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘D’you remember Kenny?’

  ‘I do,’ said Duffy. ‘The bloody sod! All he thought about was his medal and money gift from the bosses, but us poor b—. Every time we stuck our faces up to the fiddley grating to get a breath of air, there he was standing with a spanner, knocking you down again.’

  ‘“Get down there. Get down there.”’

  ‘Half boozed too,’ said Reilly. ‘I’ll swear he was.’

  ‘He was that,’ remarked Duffy. ‘All in all, nobody gives a damn for us. Work, work, work, and then—’

  ‘You’re a sack of rubbish,’ said Reilly. ‘And by Christ I know it. I know it. All my life. All my life. I’ve worked, worked, worked, and now—’

  ‘Will you have a pint at Higgenson’s when we get ashore?’ asked Duffy.

  ‘No. I won’t. Thanks all the same,’ said Reilly, and he suddenly turned and walked away towards the alloway amidships.

  ‘It’s hard lines,’ said Duffy to himself, as he returned to the fo’c’sle. All the men were now dressed in their go-ashore clothes. Duffy began to dress.

  ‘Where’s the old boy?’ they asked in chorus.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Duffy, and he put on his coat and cap. Overhead they could hear the first officer shouting orders through the megaphone; the roar of the winches as they took the ropes; the shouts of the boatswain as he gave orders to the port watch on the fo’c’sle head. The men went out on to the deck.

  ‘She’s in at last. Thank God.’

  She was made fast now. The shore gang were running the long gangway down the shed. A crowd of people stood in the shed, waiting. Customs officers, relatives of the crew, the dockers waiting to strip the hatches off and get the cargo out. All kinds of people. The gangway was up. The crew began to file down with their bags upon their backs.

  ‘There he is!’ shouted a woman. ‘Hello Andy!’

  ‘Here’s Teddy!’ shouted a boy excitedly.

  And as each member of the crew stepped on to dry land once more, some relative or other embraced him. The men commenced handing in their bags to a boy who gave each man a receipt for it. He placed each one in his cart. Now all the crew were ashore. The shore gang went on board. An old woman stood at the bottom of the gangway. She que
stioned an engineer coming down the gangway.

  ‘Has Mr Reilly come off yet, sir?’ she asked.

  ‘All the crew are ashore,’ he replied gruffly.

  But they were not. For Reilly was in the fo’c’sle. He was sitting at the table, his head in his hands. His eyes were full of tears.

  ‘What a time you’ve been, Johnny,’ exclaimed Mrs Reilly, when eventually her husband made his appearance. ‘The others came down long ago.’

  ‘I had something to do,’ said Reilly, and there was a huskiness in his voice. Near the end of the shed he suddenly stopped and put his bag down. ‘Have all those fellers cleared?’ he asked. ‘I wanted to send this bag home with Daly.’

  ‘I’ll carry it, Johnny,’ said his wife.

  ‘How the hell can you carry it?’ he said angrily. ‘I’ll carry it myself. Only for this here rheumatism. I’ve never been the same since that there fall down the stokehole.’

  He picked up the bag and put it on his shoulder. They walked on. At the dock gates they had to stop again, whilst the policeman examined his pass.

  ‘I haven’t got it,’ exclaimed Reilly, all of a flutter now, for he suddenly remembered that he had left it on the table in the fo’c’sle.

  ‘You’re a caution,’ said his wife. ‘Indeed you are.’

  ‘If you haven’t a pass, Mister, I’ll have to search your bag. Are you off the Oranian?’

  ‘Yes. I am. You ought to know me, anyhow. I’ve been on her for years.’

  ‘I don’t know you,’ said the policeman gruffly. ‘Let’s have a look at it.’ He picked the bag up and took it into the hut.

  ‘Good heavens,’ said Mrs Reilly. ‘How long will he be in there? I’m perished with the cold.’