Story, Volume I

by Dai Smith

  ‘He’s a tough old devil, all right,’ said this man.

  Reilly had turned the corner. He had nearly been knocked down by a car. He had jumped smartly out of the way. A man who was young and very tall laughed. He said to the girl who was with him: ‘Can’t beat that, can you? An old sod like that trying to appear like a schoolboy.’

  Reilly walked on. He was near the docks now. He walked down the shed. Were many men in this shed who knew him. They halloed him. Waved hands.

  ‘Hello there?’

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘How goes it, Jack?’

  ‘How do?’

  Reilly smiled and shouted: ‘Fine.’ ‘Middlin’.’ ‘Not so bad.’ ‘In the pink.’ He was walking up the gangway now. A large number of men were standing about in the alloway, waiting to pass the doctor.

  ‘Hello there?’

  ‘How do?’

  ‘Christ, he’s back again!’

  ‘Bloody old sucker.’

  ‘How do, Reilly, old lad?’

  All the men shouting and joking with him. He stood by the wall. He had his book in his hand.

  ‘Whose — will you kiss this time?’

  ‘How’s your arm?’

  ‘Did you have a bite this time home?’

  All men taunting him. Were young men. Could not protest. Must hang on to his job.

  ‘Leave the old fellow alone.’

  ‘He’s all right.’

  ‘A wet dream is more correct.’

  Reilly’s heart was almost bursting. Could do nothing. Was tragic for him. ‘I feel like a piece of dirt,’ he said to himself. He was nearly in tears through anger, humiliation, threats, taunts.

  ‘Doctor.’

  All the men commenced to move down the alloway. Reilly was last. He shivered. Was afraid. He drove his nails into the palms of his hands but hands were hard and horny through much gripping of steel slice. He bit his lip until some blood came.

  ‘Jesus, help me!’ he said in his heart. ‘Don’t shiver. Don’t be afraid. Be like the others. Remember now. All at home waiting for you. Waiting. Waiting for money. Little children expecting something. Wife expecting to go to the pictures. Keep cool.’ The thoughts careered round and round his brain. He felt he was in a kind of whirlpool. ‘Keep calm.’

  The file moved along and it came Reilly’s turn. He was in the doctor’s room now. The doctor was young, and whilst Reilly dropped his trousers down, he cast look of appeal at doctor, whose cheeks were rosy, and his teeth beautifully white. Very clean he was. ‘Like those men from university with white soft hands,’ thought Reilly as he looked him in the face. Terribly clean. And strong too. The doctor spoke to him.

  Reilly looked up at him with the eyes of a dying dog. ‘Tell the truth now,’ he said to himself. ‘Anyhow it’s your last trip.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Sixty-four, sir,’ replied Reilly. ‘I’ve been in this ship since she was built.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean that you can stay in her forever,’ said the doctor. Was cruel. Was like a stab in the heart. Was bitter, Reilly thought.

  ‘Step over,’ he said to Reilly.

  The man stepped across and stood before the doctor. He was a head above Reilly. He examined his chest.

  ‘All right there,’ he said quietly.

  Then he looked lower down. He stroked his hair with his hand. He placed his hand on Reilly, and he felt how soft it was. Like silk. Beautiful hands. And his own were like steel. ‘How long have you had this rupture, Reilly?’

  ‘About six years, sir. I think I got it in the Lucania.’

  ‘You didn’t happen to get it anywhere else,’ said the doctor.

  ‘Again he is sarcastic,’ thought Reilly.

  ‘Oh,’ exclaimed the doctor. ‘Who’s been passing you with these varicose veins?’

  There was a bitter taste in Reilly’s mouth. Like gall.

  ‘On and off, sir,’ he said: ‘Dr Hunter always passed me. I can do my work well. Second engineer will tell you that, sir.’

  The doctor smiled. ‘I don’t want to know anything about that,’ he said. ‘I am quite capable of handling you, thank you.’

  ‘Christ!’ muttered Reilly: ‘How bitter he can be. Bitter as hell.’

  ‘Bend down,’ said the doctor.

  Reilly bent down. Doctor looked hard at him. Felt him. All over. Legs, thighs, heels.

  ‘All right,’ said the doctor. ‘But I won’t pass you again after this. Next.’

  The blood stirred in Reilly’s heart. He was angry. He did not, he could not, make any reply to the doctor. He seemed to fly from that room.

  ‘Did you get tickled?’

  ‘Did you cough?’

  ‘Did you do it?’

  Again were voices in his ears as he walked down the alloway. Again were many men waiting to pass through to the pay table. Suddenly a voice of a master-at-arms shouted: ‘Pass through as your names are called.’

  Pay table was in grand saloon where rich carpets are deep and feet sink into them. Was beautiful and rich. Very quiet. Warm. Beautiful pictures on walls. Great marble pillars stretching up to ceiling. Was a place where first-class passengers dined on trips to America, but crew were not allowed to go there, for crew must stay for’ard in fo’c’sle. Crew must eat off wooden table through which iron poles were pushed up to deckhead, to hold table and prevent food from upsetting when weather was rough. Was well for’ard, the men’s fo’c’sle. Where, when ship was up against heavy head swell, fo’c’sle seemed to pitch and toss, and often when she pitched badly food would be flung from table into men’s bunks. And was dark too, for portholes were down near waterline, and must have deadlights screwed over them, for fear waters poured in, drowning men in their bunks. Men filed past the pay table.

  ‘Reilly.’

  His name now. And he stood whilst another man said: ‘Five pounds, eighteen and threepence.’ Was handed the notes, and they were new and crackled in his horny hand.

  ‘Your book.’ And another man handed him his book.

  ‘John Reilly, ship’s fireman.’ He passed through another room, where he signed on. He handed his book to the officer. He passed out to the other side, and walked along saloon deck, which crew were not allowed to stand on during voyage, descended the companion ladder, walked along well-deck, and then down gangway. Again many men in the dock shed. ‘Union,’ one said, and that was seventeen shillings.

  ‘Help the blind!’ said a voice, and that was one shilling.

  ‘Here y’are,’ and it was a bill for carrying the bag to and fro from ship to house for four trips, and that was eleven shillings.

  Near gates were Salvation Army women with boxes, and these rattled, for were full of poor men’s pennies, that kept hostels open for poor men. Was also a man holding a large box for collection. A card read: ‘For widow of Bernard Dollin. Scalded to death on the Europesa. No compensation. Please help.’ More shillings. Reilly hung desperately on to his money now. He put two shillings in the box for Dollin’s widow. On dock road was a woman selling flags that were made of yellow rag. Was for homes for tired horses at Broadgreen.

  ‘Jesus Christ! For tired horses!’ exclaimed Reilly, and laughed aloud. He turned up Juniper Street. At Hangmans he stopped and went in with men who had been waiting for him.

  ‘Have a drink on me, mates,’ he said.

  The bar-lady served seven pints of bitter. ‘Good health, Johnny. Best of luck next trip.’

  All wished him good health and good luck. He said ‘same to you’, and drank his pint quickly, like a thirsty horse drinking at a trough.

  ‘Same again,’ he said to the bar-lady. ‘I must go now, lads,’ he said. ‘See you again. Good luck.’

  ‘Good luck, Johnny,’ all said in chorus, and he went out.

  He came up the street and again were women talking on steps as he passed. Also children like pigeons in gutters.

  ‘Good day, Mr Reilly.’

  ‘Good day,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, John
ny, how are you?’

  ‘Not so bad,’ he said.

  People were nice in one’s face, and some people had cursed him when he had gone up the street. Was at his home now. Mother had clean tablecloth on the table and children were waiting for him.

  ‘Hello, Dad,’ said Clara, and then Anthony said, ‘Hello, Dad,’ and Eileen too. ‘Hello, Dad,’ she said. He kissed them all. He sat down in the chair by the fire. Looked in the flames for a long time. Children looked up into eyes of father who had come to them out of great ocean and dark night and was wonder in their eyes. Mother came in from back-kitchen and said: ‘Dinner is ready, Johnny.’

  He said he was ready too and sat down. Children were seated now. Wild freshness of youth on their faces was a feast for his eyes, and his dinner was going cold through watching them. He looked at them longingly and blood stirred in him when he remembered humiliations of last trip.

  ‘Lovely children. God help them,’ he said in his heart.

  The children were finished dinner so they got up and went out.

  ‘Here,’ he said, and gave each of them sixpence, and they smiled. He kissed them all. ‘How happy they are,’ he thought. They went out then.

  Mrs Reilly said: ‘Did you sign, Johnny,’ and he said: ‘Yes.’

  He pushed back his plate and put his hand in his pocket. Gave her four pounds.

  ‘Is that all?’ she asked, and was a sadness in her voice.

  ‘That’s all,’ he said. ‘Had to give seventeen shillings to union, and coppers here and there. Was going to buy a pair of drawers this trip, but can’t afford it.’

  ‘Good God!’ she said. ‘That’s terrible, Johnny.’

  ‘Good Jesus!’ he said. ‘Can’t do any more, can I? You get my allotment money. You can’t have it both ways, woman. If you hadn’t drawn thirty shillings a week from my wages I could have given you about eight pounds.’

  ‘God! I don’t know,’ she said, and sighed deeply.

  ‘Can’t do any more,’ he said. ‘Will you go to the pictures tonight?’ He stood up and put his hands on her shoulders.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  ‘Heavens above,’ he said. ‘Always something wrong. What would you do if I hadn’t signed?’ He became suddenly silent. No use to talk like that. Forget all that. Try and be happy.

  ‘Come on, old girl,’ he said, ‘get cleaned up. We’ll go to the theatre or somewhere.’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘You go and have a lie down.’

  Reilly went upstairs to bed. He was not long with his head on the pillow before he snored. Below Mrs Reilly cleaned up. When she was finished she washed herself. Changed. Was all ready now and sitting by the fire. Kettle was boiling on the hob. At five Johnny came down. Was feeling a little better after his sleep. He said: ‘Good. I see you’re ready. Where’ll we go, old girl?’

  ‘Anywhere you like,’ she replied.

  ‘Righto,’ he said, and went to get a wash in the back-kitchen.

  When the children came in she said to them: ‘Your father and me are going out to the pictures. Now please be good and look after the place.’ And to Eileen she said: ‘Look after them, Eileen. Tomorrow me and you will go somewhere.’

  Were gone now and children all alone in house. Mrs Reilly and her husband got on a tram and it took them to the picture house. Was dark in there but band played nice music and Mrs Reilly said she liked it. He said nothing at all. When picture came it was a story of a man and two women. Mrs Reilly said last time she was at the pictures story was about two men and one woman. Johnny laughed. ‘Story was very nice,’ he said. Always the people in the pictures were nice-looking, and always plenty of stuff on tables and no trouble for them to get whisky. She said women wore lovely dresses. Interval then and lights went up. Band played music again.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, and they got up and went outside. They went to a pub, and he said: ‘What’ll you have, old woman?’

  She said: ‘A bottle of stout.’

  ‘All right,’ he said.

  He drank a lemon dash himself. Was all smoke and spit and sawdust in the pub. Many men and women were drinking there. He said: ‘It’s cosy here.’

  ‘Have another?’ said Reilly, and she said: ‘No. Not now.’

  ‘I’m having another dash,’ he said. When it came he drank it quickly. Back to pictures. All was dark again. In the next seat to them they could hear the giggling of a girl.

  ‘Gettin’ her bloody leg felt,’ he said and lighted his pipe.

  ‘Ought to be ashamed of herself,’ she said, and was looking at a picture of a comic man throwing pies when she said this. He laughed, and she thought he was laughing at the picture and she said: ‘He’s a corker, isn’t he?’

  He said: ‘I should think so,’ and was thinking of the man who was with the girl who his wife said should be ashamed of herself.

  ‘I’m tired,’ he said. ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘Near the end now,’ she said. ‘Wait, Johnny.’

  Comic man had just been chased by a policeman. He knew it was near the end of the picture. Did not want to stand when ‘God Save the King’ was played by band.

  He said: ‘Come on,’ and pulled her arm. They went out. They hurried home in the tram through dark roads where pale light of gas lamps made all people’s faces look yellow as if everybody had yellow jaundice.

  ‘I feel so tired,’ he said.

  ‘Will you have a glass of bitter?’ she asked him as they were walking up the street.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m going to bed now. Too tired for anything.’ When they got in he went straight upstairs. As he was closing the kitchen door, he said: ‘Don’t be long now.’

  Mrs Reilly made herself a drink of tea before she went up herself. She ate some bread that the children had left. ‘Poor Johnny,’ she said. ‘Gets tired quickly these days. Is not the man he used to be: God help him.

  She put out the light and went upstairs. Undressed and got into bed. Candle was burning on table at his side of the bed and light fell on her husband’s face. His eyes were closed.

  ‘He is asleep,’ she said. Looked at his face. Was very thin, she thought. ‘Good God!’ she whispered. ‘I hope he doesn’t catch consumption.’ She kissed him on the forehead where many furrows were. She fell asleep watching him.

  Morning for going away had come and he was up early. Mrs Reilly and the children were up. Bag was packed and was standing in the corner by the door. Was beautiful and clean for his wife had scrubbed it well. Was hard work for it was made of canvas. All were at the table having their breakfast. Egg each and some bacon. It was the same each sailing day. An egg each and a slice of bacon for the children. Mr Reilly was shaving in the back. Was sadness in his eyes and he did not like looking at himself in the glass whilst he was shaving. He tried to look downward just where razor was scraping. He finished and washed himself. Came into the kitchen. Were two eggs and a piece of bacon for him. He could not eat all that, he said. Wasn’t hungry, he told his wife. But she said, ‘Try, because you haven’t ate much this trip,’ and children were looking from father to mother and to his plate, and each was thinking: ‘He will give me the egg that’s over.’ Mr Reilly started to have his breakfast. His wife said: ‘Won’t you eat any more?’ and he said: ‘No.’ Children looked only at the mother now, but were disappointed for she said: ‘I’ll have the odd egg myself.’

  Children had gone out into yard. Was quiet now and clock could be heard ticking. Was five past seven by it.

  ‘Must go now,’ he said, and voice was soft.

  ‘Now, Johnny,’ she said, and got up from the table. Whilst she crossed to the back door to call in the children to say goodbye to their father, she wiped pieces of egg from her mouth, for her husband always kissed her on the lips on sailing day. Children came in. He embraced each one, saying: ‘Goodbye. God bless you.’ Now his wife. She clung to him.

  Nearly in tears he was, for was much in his mind, and ‘the heart is a terrible prison,’ he said to himself. />
  ‘Goodbye, Johnny,’ she said. She hung tightly to him. ‘God bless you. Take care of yourself now. Don’t forget to take the Blaud’s pills. Goodbye. God bless you.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ he said, and bag was on his back and he was through the door. She closed it and went up to the window, where children were trying to look out in to the dark street and with their noses pressed flat against the windowpane.

  ‘Poor Johnny,’ she said in her heart. ‘Didn’t eat much this trip, was looking very bad, poor fellow. Ah, well!’

  ‘Draw the blind down again,’ she said to Eileen, for it was still dark and gas was lighted yet. Dark until eight o’clock. The children came away from the window. Mother’s eyes were misty and they were looking at her. Reilly walked down the street in the direction of the dock where his ship lay. Was dark, and all silent. Streets were terribly quiet. Everything seemed gloomy and sad. Raining too. Turned the corner now. Argus Street, Welland Street, Darby Street. Goodbye. Goodbye. Juniper Street, Derby Road. Goodbye. Goodbye. Was near the docks now. Some men were coming out of the gate. They knew him for he was just walking under the lamp when they came out.

  ‘Goodbye Johnny. Good luck,’ they said.

  ‘Goodbye. Goodbye,’ and his voice was a murmur low in their ears. Ship was there. Like a huge beast, sleeping. Was a light from an electric cluster hanging over number 2 hatch. Was like huge beast’s eye. Some steam was coming out of the pipe near the funnel. Was like hot breath coming out of huge beast’s nostrils. Was slowly waking. And from funnel itself was much smoke coming. It came out in clouds, then in the air became scarf-shaped. All was very silent except for low moaning. Steady whirr, whirr within ship. It came from for’ard where beef-engine was running. Was never stopped for place where food is kept for passengers must always be cool. The morning was very cold. At the gangway the watchman shivered. As Reilly ascended the gangway, the watchman took his nose between his fingers and blew hard into dock.

  ‘Mornin’,’ he said dryly as Reilly passed him. Reilly made no reply. Was on his ship now. Going for’ard. In some hours to come he would be right down inside this beast. Down inside huge belly. Sweating. Half past seven. Suddenly many noises filled the air. Ship was full of action. Ship was like great hippopotamus where all ticks were feeding on body. Decks were alive with men. Derricks were moving like long arms, and men seemed like pygmies on the great decks. Crew were now coming on board. All were hurrying towards fo’c’sles and glory holes, for first there was best served. Last trip Reilly had to take bottom bunk in firemen’s room where rats as big as bricks stood up defiant against the men when they tried to get them in the corner and kill them with big holystones. Reilly had a top bunk now. Was first man in. Another man came in. His name was Campbell.