by James Hanley
‘Feeling sorry for yourself yet, Mrs.?’ she asked, and thought! No, what a thing to say! That mouth. No. She’d never feel sorry for herself.
She pulled a small parcel from a newspaper, and, smiling, exclaimed. ‘You know, Mrs., I’ve been seventeen to eighteen years at work—I mean real work—but wherever I was, no matter what I was doing I always had my elevenses. Here! Have this,’ and from the little packet she took a sandwich of cheese and bread. ‘Here, eat that. I always like a break at eleven. They all do! You go along these decks and you’ll see them all eating. That’s what you want to do. Bring a little something besides your dinner.’
At the sight of the bread Mrs. Fury only felt sick. ‘No, thanks,’ she said.
‘H’m. Delicate stomach, eh? Well, Mrs., a week will cure that. I understand,’ and then she took a vigorous bite at her own sandwich.
Mrs. Fury smiled. ‘It’s not all that hard after all,’ she said. ‘It’s only what I’ve been doing for years.’
‘Don’t boast, Mrs., I warn you. Don’t boast,’ and another hunk of bread and cheese went into the woman’s mouth. ‘D’you know, the whole of the ship has to be scrubbed clean by to-morrow’s high tide? Fact. She’s got to be out in the river by seven to-morrow evening. There’s something quite nasty out in the river there——’ and suddenly she shut her mouth, looked away. She shouldn’t have said that. Not to this woman. She was too—too—oh, well! She’d said it now. Is the woman liking this? I wonder. Was she satisfied yet? Then she met the other’s eyes. They looked up at her, wide-open, wondering eyes, a child’s eyes. One couldn’t lie to that woman, she reflected. One just couldn’t lie.
‘Nasty what?’ asked Mrs. Fury, as she reached for her coat, and threw it over her shoulders.
‘Nasty nothing!’ said Mrs. Gumbs sharply. ‘Are you feeling the cold?’
‘A bit! It’s the first time I’ve ever been in such a place. They ought to have a stove.’
‘They ought to have lots of things, Mrs.,’ said Mrs. Gumbs. ‘But what can they do if nobody asks for them? And they don’t ask. I wouldn’t myself. Honest I wouldn’t! What’s the use? But you’ll get used to this. You’ll see! Couple of weeks’ time and you won’t know yourself. You should have struck out long ago. Nothing like being independent in this world! Ssh! Somebody coming. Back you go,’ and Mrs. Gumbs suddenly turned and walked down between the tiers of empty bunks.
Mrs. Fury too returned to her bucket.
Scrubbing began again. The whole ship resounded to it, to hundreds of wet cloths being flapped in the air. Mrs. Gumbs knew how strange it must be to that woman, kneeling there amidst all that harsh sound. A great state-chamber of filth. To Mrs. Gumbs the sounds of scrubbing were like no other sounds on earth, especially when you knelt in the middle of the desert of deck, when you raised your head and looked ahead, looked back, looked right and left. Walled in by power, lost in the half darkness, in the thickening stench, and you washed, scrubbed, washed, scrubbed—where hundreds of feet had trod.
You knelt over your bucket, anchored a hand to the deck, dipped your cloth into the water, made sweeping circles with your brush. The area you scrubbed widened, lengthened, and there seemed no end to it. It was everlasting. The strong odour of soap and soda rose up from the deck. The silent tiers of bunks looked down at you. The ladder ahead of you led to the strangest places. The rungs of the ladder danced about even as you watched it. The sounds of cloths, water-full, dropped to the deck, gave out sounds like laughter, subterranean laughter, something you had never heard in the light of day.
Mrs. Fury heard these sounds continuously, at a distance, beside her, behind her. Her back began to ache. Once she felt herself moving forward, head lowering to the deck, as though a weight were suddenly pressing upon her neck, a hand pressing her face nearer to its cold surface. The scrubbing-brush swished from her hand and went skittering across the deck. She pressed both hands on the bucket and drew herself up. For a second or more she remained like this staring at the brush. A woman passed by carrying a large pail of water. Mrs. Fury knew by the sounds of water plopping in the bucket, by the voluminous skirt that skimmed the wet deck. And as she passed she tilted the bucket and a patch newly scrubbed took the splashes of water. Mrs. Fury looked up, but the woman went on indifferent, silent. She heard water spill all along that deck. She got to her feet. Walked after the woman.
This world might be strange to her, but that sort of thing she did not like. She hurried after the woman, caught her arm. Spoke sharply. Did she know that by spilling all that water she had ruined a half-hour’s hard work. The woman fixed her eyes upon Mrs. Fury.
‘And who the bloody hell are you?’ she enquired, then turned away and vanished into the next’tween-deck.
‘I’m not blind,’ called Mrs. Fury. But there was no answer. She returned to her bucket. Mrs. Gumbs was there, seemed to be waiting for her.
‘It was quite deliberate,’ Mrs. Fury said. She felt as if the woman had struck her in the face. Who was she? Yes, who was she?
‘What’s up?’ asked Mrs. Gumbs, seeing her concern.
‘Nothing! She poured water over where I had cleaned and dried.’
‘That all?’ said the other, giving a short dry laugh.
No! It wasn’t all. She had said: ‘Who the bloody hell are you?’ But she kept that secret. That was something Mrs. Gumbs need hardly hear about. ‘I’ve seen some things in my time,’ began Mrs. Fury, but here Mrs. Gumbs held up a warning hand.
‘Tut! Tut! That’s nothing. Listen! Come here!’ and catching Mrs. Fury’s apron she drew the woman nearer. ‘I told you what to expect. That’s nothing, though! Nobody wears kid gloves in this part of the world. You’re different, Mrs., I know you are, but it doesn’t mean anything here. She saw it. The others will. Take no notice. Here nobody is anything and nobody counts. They don’t know anything except hard work. I’ll tell you more, Mrs. They’re the dregs. Dregs. You are respectable. They laugh at that. Don’t mind. You’ll learn to understand them when you’ve been here a bit. They’ve known nothing but hard work. You can’t say “poor creatures,” because we’re all poor creatures in the world, Mrs. Fury. Don’t think me funny, because I’m not. And now you’ll be surprised if I tell you it’s time for a meal. Fact! Hide your bucket and things. The whistle blew two minutes ago. This way. Keep close to me. We’ve got to go through the next ‘tween-deck, and up a ladder. Hope you can climb like a man, because it’s a man’s ladder. We go to the fo’c’sle.’
As she said this she thought Mrs. Fury had not liked the word fo’c’sle, and quickly reassuringly she added: ‘But there’s no man there! We women use the fo’c’sle. The men have their own places. You needn’t go there unless you want. But you take my advice and get used to your quarters, as the soldiers say.’
‘I wish, Mrs. Gumbs,’ replied Mrs. Fury, ‘that you wouldn’t talk to me as though I was a child,’ and she followed behind the woman, slowly picking her steps.
‘We’re all children,’ said Mrs. Gumbs, and that somehow sealed the matter. It was devastating. There was no reply to it. ‘Keep close and catch my coat.’
Mrs. Fury caught the coat and followed into the darkness.
‘They ought to have some sort of light here,’ protested Mrs. Gumbs. ‘Just supposing that one of us fell down the hatch. A nice how-d’you-do it’d be! Wouldn’t it now?’
‘One of my sons fell from the masthead of a ship,’ said Mrs. Fury, taking a more secure hold on the other’s coat. Suddenly she screamed.
‘Only a rat, Mrs. Don’t be afraid. Soon be at the ladder. Funny world, isn’t it?’
Mrs. Fury had nothing to say. The darkness seemed to have closed her mouth. Mrs. Gumbs stood still. Unexpectedly the other bumped into her, trod on her heel.
‘This is the worst ship I’ve ever been in for lighting,’ said Mrs. Gumbs.
They stood in the middle of the ‘tween-deck, momentarily lost. It smelt of iron rust, stale clothing, seeds, dank water. The air was foul, a foot right and th
ey might topple down to the bottom of the hold. Mrs. Fury could feel the other searching about in her clothing. What on earth was Mrs. Gumbs doing?
‘I generally do have a match on me. You want them on this job. Here we are. I only want to find the way to the next deck. There’s bound to be a light there. Got to have them by law. Did I tell you this was a troopship, Mrs.? Well, it is. And it’s just got back. Where from, nobody knows, and nobody cares really. It’s this war and their business. Nearly every ship you step on these days has carried soldiers—alive and dead! There!’
She struck the match and held it aloft, and it remained alight in the damp air, just long enough for her to see the way.
‘Right,’ she exclaimed in a very business-like manner. ‘Hang on to me.’
Mrs. Fury walked behind as though in a dream. This world was strange to her. What on earth was she doing down here? In this place. It was foolish! What would they think? Denny, Anthony! Working down here. Well, it just didn’t matter what anybody thought. She was alone. She was left alone. She was away from everybody. She was hiding, she was glad to hide. Stink! What did that matter? No worse than the bone-yard at the back of Hatfields. The women! What about them? She had seen them before! The work! Well, she was used to that, too. The language, the jokes? Well, one just turned a deaf ear to all that. The same ear that closed itself to Denny’s ‘bloodys’ and ‘Christs.’ It wasn’t the smell, work, or women. Just the darkness. She wasn’t quite used to that! Nor rats. And she gave a violent shudder.
‘Careful now! Careful,’ said Mrs. Gumbs, for that shudder had found its way to her. She took Mrs. Fury’s hand. ‘Here we are now. You know, Mrs., a couple of weeks on this job and you’ll have eyes like a cat’s, to say nothing of a bent back. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘I can see the ladder,’ said Mrs. Fury. ‘Do we go up that one then?’
‘We do. And I think you’d better go first. Best for me to be behind you, I can tell you’re a bit scared. Now very carefully. That’s it,’ and she took Mrs. Fury’s weight, piloted one foot on to the ladder, said quietly: ‘Hold tight, and don’t be afraid. It’ll make you——’ But she didn’t finish saying it. Just the very thing to make the woman dizzy. ‘Climb three and hang on. I’m coming,’ she concluded, and dragging herself round to the ladder she reached the rungs.
‘Up you go,’ she said.
Mrs. Gumbs trembled, not for herself, but for the woman above her, and as they slowly ascended they could not help but hear, against the extraordinary silence, the minute drip of water far below them, which rose and swelled its sound, the scuffles in the dark corners they could not see. Once Mrs. Gumbs dropped back her head and looked up at the sky; columns of air blew down the ventilators and from the bilges there rose, in periodic belches, the smell of dead water and rottenness.
‘Up! Up!’ she was saying to herself. ‘Up, up, and God be kind to her.’
‘Stop!’ she said suddenly. ‘Stop! You’ve reached the top. Can you climb over?’
There was no answer. Mrs. Fury seemed to have vanished. Mrs. Gumbs climbed the remaining length of ladder at alarming speed, and then discovered that Mrs. Fury was actually on deck, though in a curious position, lost amidst the hangings, falls, chains and hatch-covers. She was just picking herself up as Mrs. Gumbs’s head appeared over the hatch-top.
‘Ah! There you are,’ she exclaimed with a burst. ‘Thought something had happened to you! Now would you like to sit a minute to get your breath? Listen! Give me your food. I’ll go and make tea! Then when it’s ready I’ll come for you. Here, sit on the bitts there and rest yourself. You’re not quite used to it yet, but don’t worry. You soon will be.’ Saying this, she left, and went for’ard to arrange about the tea.
Mrs. Fury went and sat on the bitts. For a few minutes she was quite deafened by the din that was going on about her. She felt she had been down in that ‘tween-deck for a year, and the light hurt her eyes for some time. She looked at her surroundings. The ship was alive with men. But none gave her more than a passing glance. She was just ‘one of those women.’ To the men they didn’t count, didn’t mean anything. But the woman felt their presence, was very conscious of it, and fidgeted about on the bitts. She kept looking at the hatch from which she had just emerged, and then at a group of men carrying hammers, passing along the main deck.
Sometimes she looked out over the river at the passing craft, the ferry. Dock and barges, the tugs, the ships with cable down. It was the first time she had ever been in the world. That other one was so private, so sacred and aloof from all this noise and action, this rushing and stamping, this steaming violent world. The house at Hatfields a monastery compared with this.
Mrs. Gumbs returned. ‘Come on,’ she said, and Mrs. Fury followed her.
There were only two women in the fo’c’sle when they got there. They were smoking cigarettes which the men aboard had given them. They looked like—they were men. Femininity was out of the question. That had passed away like smoke. They were Mrs. Gumbs’s ‘poor creatures.’ Bedraggled women, neither young nor old, who knew how to work and how to swear and how to smoke cigarettes. The fo’c’sle reeked with them.
The new arrivals sat down and started to eat their sandwiches. Mrs. Gumbs poured tea into two enamel cups. This was drunk very hot, without sugar or milk.
The smokers got up, glanced at Mrs. Fury. They went out.
‘Most of them prefer to stay below. Don’t like the idea of the ladder. But we’re not all mush, are we, Mrs.?’ said Mrs. Gumbs. She gulped her tea. ‘Drink up,’ she urged. ‘Before you know where you are the whistle blows. Think you’ll stand up to the life? I wonder? You look tired already.’
‘I haven’t been well lately,’ Mrs. Fury said.
Mrs. Gumbs thought she talked too little. Mrs. Fury thought her companion talked too much, she who had talked about the wise mouth being the shut one. Though Mrs. Fury liked her, she still found her difficult to understand. Perhaps she herself had not opened out enough, not seen enough of life. Somehow it was the difference between two languages. The public one and the private one. Mrs. Gumbs was the great world. Mrs. Fury had not spoken public language. Her world was smaller.
‘I’ll like it like everything else. I intend to! I’ve been tied down by a family too long.’
‘’Course you have! You’ll be very happy on these ships soon as you get used to them. Get to know the women. You’ll like them after a while. They’re good people at heart. Never go by appearances. Ah! The whistle,’ she said as she stuffed her mouth with bread and got up from the bench. ‘Here we are again,’ she said. ‘Back to the work! Work! work! work! Best cure in the world. Better than doctors. As good as chloroform to some folk. This time you go first down the ladder, Mrs., just to get used to it,’ and together they left the fo’c’sle.
The meal had lasted just fifteen minutes. Men looked at them as they passed. Two watched them descend the hatch. ‘As good as us,’ one said. ‘Real men.’
‘But it’s filthy work,’ said another. ‘If I caught my missus on work like that I’d cut her head off. It’s the last hope. Cleaning stinking ships!’
‘Just listen to that,’ said another, and the sounds of singing came up from the hold. ‘Didn’t know they’d find anything to sing about down there.’
‘Ah! I’ve seen these women many a time. Time of the Boer War. Seen them many a time. They’ll do anything. Somehow they’re neither men nor women, but I’m buggered if I could find the word to describe them.’
This man made a sudden dash to the hatch-combing and placing a hand on Mrs. Fury’s arm—he felt it tremble—exclaimed: ‘Why don’t you bloody old fools go by the proper ladder? Get yourselves killed, you will! Take the proper ladder through the house there.’
Mrs. Gumbs, who was on the ladder below Mrs. Fury, looked up and replied: ‘Sometimes there isn’t another ladder. So we get used to this one, see?’ And slowly, carefully, she found her way down, finally vanished from sight.
Mrs. Fury w
as afraid to look at the man. She was afraid to look at any human face except that of Mrs. Gumbs. This world was jungle to her. She didn’t understand it. She was afraid of it; she wished Denny was by her side. This was hiding, but Denny should be by her. She reached the lower deck, where Mrs. Gumbs stretched out both arms and piloted her safely from the ladder.
‘This time,’ she said, ‘we go to F deck. A very bad deck.’
Mrs. Fury said nothing. A very bad deck? What exactly did that mean? It created a kind of taste in the mouth just like ‘nasty, quite nasty,’ did.
Mrs. Gumbs became expansive, generous with advice.
‘Through C, D and E decks, and look out where you’re going. Anything happens to you, you’re done, and nobody’ll worry. Ship cleaners don’t come under Compensation Acts. They’re like the rats in the bilges, Mrs., splendid and free!’
Laughing, she set off for F deck. Sounds of raucous singing floated along to them, which seemed to pile up about them. ‘Well, somebody doesn’t give a damn!’ said Mrs. Gumbs.
They were in darkness again. Mrs. Gumbs stopped dead, half turned, a sudden desire to explain herself fully to the bewildered woman. She had done all the talking herself, whereas this companion, who was no companion really, had not spoken half a dozen words. Still thinking about her precious children, I suppose, she reflected. At this moment Mrs. Fury fell to the deck.
‘Good heavens! Up you come, Mrs. Hurt yourself? I told you to be careful.’
‘I was—I bumped—I thought I felt something—I’m not hurt—I——’ her tone was almost apologetic.
Mrs. Gumbs hated that and said so. ‘For God’s sake, woman, don’t apologize to me. I’m not God Almighty.’
And then she realized what she had said, that she should never have said it. She felt suddenly ashamed. The poor woman was all of a tremble! Had been the whole morning. And it had got on her nerves. She couldn’t help it. She put an arm through Mrs. Fury’s.
