by John Winton
‘Come to bed, Bodger,’ she was saying. ‘Forty-five pesetas!’
8
Barsetshire was an elderly lady who needed more time and care than most to make up her face and complete her toilette. Each cruise she retired to a secluded spot to paint ship; in the Mediterranean cruise she anchored in a remote Sardinian bay.
The bay was a desolate spot, with bare brown hills on either side, empty of life or habitation of any kind. In the afternoons the water stretched as smooth as sheet glass and the outline of the shore was distorted by dancing heat vapours. Barsetshire lay at anchor, still and motionless, like a painted ship upon a painted ocean. Here, the ship’s company settled down to paint ship, or rather, the cadets painted, and the ship’s company settled down to watch.
The junior cadets, in their innocence, could not have imagined that there was more to Paint Ship than merely taking paint from a pot and applying it to the ship’s side. But they were to learn better. There is more to the art of cosmetics than the mere taking of cream and colour from bottles and putting it on to the skin. Paint Ship in H.M.S. Barsetshire was attended with all the rites and ceremonies of a Pompadour’s levee.
Able Seaman Froggins and the other lockermen marshalled an awe-inspiring parade of scrapers, buckets and scrubbers (Paint Ship was for them the high moment of a cruise, just as Mr Piles’ was a Gun Salute). The Bosun and his party provided a forest of stages, bosun’s chairs and ropes. The Painter mustered bundles of brushes and drew off pot after pot of grey paint. The Ship’s Band filled a motor cutter and cruised round and about playing excerpts from the operas of Wagner, the Bandmaster conducting from the sternsheets, while the Commander, surrounded by a retinue of divisional officers, captains of tops, the Mate of the Upper Deck and the Chief Bosun’s Mate, drove round the ship in the Captain’s Motorboat pointing out weak patches in the ship’s side with the pomp and authority of a Doge going out to wed the Adriatic.
Before actual painting, there was scrubbing. Stages were lowered over the ship’s side, two cadets were lowered on to each stage, and two buckets and two scrubbers were lowered down to each pair of cadets. Every scrubber was attached to a cadet by a lanyard. It might have been assumed that the lanyards were provided so that the scrubbers might in some measure act as marker buoys for cadets who fell from the stages into the sea. Nothing could have been further from the truth. The cadets were intended to act as marker buoys for the scrubbers.
When the ship’s side had been scrubbed, bad patches were rubbed with brick and rust marks taken off with scrapers. The canvas was then ready for the paint.
Most of the cadets enjoyed painting. It was one of the few creative pieces of work they were called upon to do in the training cruiser. They found it pleasant to hang over the side on a stage in the sunshine and watch the area of gleaming new paintwork growing overhead.
It was while painting ship that Paul first came into contact with the cadet disciplinary authorities. He was sharing a stage with Maconochie, which was perhaps the root of the trouble. Misfortune hovered over Maconochie as a halo over a saint.
‘Don’t you feel a certain--how shall I put it?--atavistic pleasure in painting, Trog?’ asked Paul, of Maconochie.
‘Don’t call me that,’ growled Maconochie.
‘But don’t you feel something carnally satisfying about it? Dip the brush in, twirl it around, scrape it on the edge, two strokes up, two strokes down, rub it well in and finish on the upward stroke. Don’t you sense something vaguely sexually stimulating in it?’
‘No,’ said Maconochie.
Paul had confirmed early in the cramped space of Barsetshire what he had suspected at Dartmouth. Maconochie had no sense of humour. He took everything said to him at its face value. He made a perfect foil for Paul in whimsical mood.
‘Like the last lascivious kisses of a dying love, don’t you think? The brush moving up and down like the drooping of silken eyelashes against a satin cheek.’
‘It’s nothing like that.’
‘Nor like the caress of a fingertip trailed in tranquil water and sprinkled on a lily-like breast beneath the waving willows?’
‘No.’
‘Not even the waving willows, Trog?’
‘I’ve told you before, don’t call me that.’
‘You will live to a great age, Trog. I prophesy it. Others may come, dwell their little hour or so, worry a little, and then go. But not Trog. Trog the Inscrutable. The Great Trog, the great-nephew of the Great Chang. Have you ever tried to unscrew the inscrutable, Trog?’
‘No.’
‘Try it. You will find it as rewarding as that wretched band are finding their rendering of The Ride of the Valkyries with the Commander bellowing like a mad thing next door to them. Have you ever ridden with the Valkyries, Trog?’
‘Oh, go and get knotted.’
‘Tut tut.’
Just then the Captain’s red setter, Owen Glendower, looked over the ship’s side. Owen Glendower normally enjoyed Paint Ship as much as anyone. There were always interesting pots and cans to sniff at, the decks were always filled with bustle and excitement, there were always ropes and lanyards to gnaw at, and above all there were always more, and more senior, feet to trip over him. Since the day Maconochie had inadvertently trodden on him, Owen Glendower had disliked him; as far as Owen Glendower was concerned, Maconochie’s name might as well have been Dr Fell. When Owen Glendower looked over the ship’s side and saw Maconochie, his day was spoiled. He seated himself on the beading which ran round the upper deck, immediately above Maconochie’s head.
‘There’s that bloody pooch,’ said Maconochie.
Paul looked up and saw a part of Owen Glendower projecting over the sill.
‘He doesn’t seem to like us very much.’
‘It’s mutual,’ said Maconochie sourly.
Paul looked up at Owen Glendower again. A great temptation seized him. He struggled with it for a time and then gave in. After all, Paul thought, was it not Oscar Wilde who said that the only way to get rid of temptation was to yield to it?
‘What would Oscar Wilde have done?’ asked Paul rhetorically.
Owen Glendower gave a yelp of rage and vanished.
The Cadet Training Officer’s Requestmen and Defaulters were held in a special office just off the cadets’ messdeck. It was used for nothing else and the inference was that there were normally so many requestmen and defaulters that a separate room was required to hold them. When Paul arrived the only other cadet there was Peter Cleghorn but because he was a requestman and not a defaulter like Paul, Peter Cleghorn was ordered to stand on the other side of the passageway.
Inside the office, The Bodger stood behind a table with Mr Piles at his side to call out the names of the cadets as they were summoned into the presence of the Cadet Training Officer.
‘Cadet Cleghorn!’
‘Sir!’
Peter Cleghorn sprang to attention and doubled inside. At the door he caught his foot on the sill and fell in a praying attitude in front of The Bodger.
‘Get-off-of-your-knees-Cadet-Cleghorn! Cadet Cleghorn, sir, request to discontinue shaving.’
The Bodger beetled his eyebrows.
‘So you want to grow a set, Cleghorn?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Think you can manage it?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘How often do you have to shave?’
‘Once a day, sir.’
‘Quietly confident, eh?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Well I’m not! Furthermore, even if you did succeed in growing a set, which I doubt, I’m not going to have one of my cadets going about the place looking like a gingerbread Saint. Not granted. Get your hair cut.’
‘Not granted. Salute! A-bout turn, double march, get your hair cut!’
Peter Cleghorn doubled away. Mr Piles cleared his throat.
‘Cadet Vincent!’
‘Sir!’
‘Cadet Vincent, off--cap! Cadet Vincent, sir, first charge, did on the t
hird of October, commit an act prejudicial to good order and naval discipline in that he did improperly paint the rectum of one male red setter dog, the property of Captain Sir Douglas Mainwaring Gregson, Royal Navy, Kennel Club Number 426692L. Second charge, did, on the third of October, improperly use one pot of Admiralty pattern grey paint.’
The Bodger studied the charge sheet.
‘Mr Piles?’
‘I investigated this case, sir. Cadet Vincent was sharing a stage with Cadet Maconochie sir, while painting ship. They were painting ship sir, when the dog made his appearance on the upper deck above them. On seeing the dog, Cadet Vincent reached up and painted the dog’s rectum, sir, with Admiralty paint. This action was witnessed by Petty Officer Moody, the Captain of Top. When I asked Cadet Vincent if he had anything to say he was in a very excited state, sir. Kept talking about someone called Oscar Wilde, sir. There is no cadet on board with that name, sir. I’ve checked.’
‘Thank you, Mr Piles. Have you anything to say now, Vincent?’
‘Well, no sir, except that it was purely in self-defence.’
‘Self-defence?’
‘The dog attacked me, sir.’
‘Attacked you? What, arse first?’
‘It was a most threatening attitude, sir.’
‘I never heard anything like it. If you go around like this, Vincent, you’re going to be a menace to society and I hope I never have to serve with you. Lieutenant du Pont, how does Cadet Vincent do his duty?’
Pontius the Pilot had hurried from the wardroom on hearing that one of his cadets was charged with committing an unnatural offence. He was baffled by the reference to Admiralty paint which he had heard as he came through the door.
‘Vincent is generally reliable, sir,’ he said. ‘I can’t say I’ve noticed any signs of aberration before.’
‘Hardly an aberration,’ said The Bodger. ‘I would call it more of a decoration. Though it was hard luck on the dog.’
‘Dog!’
‘The Captain’s dog.’
‘The Captain’s dog!’
‘Yes, yes, the Captain’s dog,’ The Bodger said impatiently. ‘Now look here, Vincent. You’d better remember this. You can do what you like with a senior officer’s wife but keep clear of his dog, his car and his yacht. Get it?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Five days Number Eleven punishment.’
‘Five days Number Eleven punishment! On-cap! A-bout turn, double march!’
Outside, Paul was met by a deputation.
‘How did you get on?’ asked Michael.
‘Five days number elevens.’
‘You were lucky,’ said Peter Cleghorn. ‘You know how the old man feels about his dog. I’m surprised he didn’t personally call for your head on a silver salver.’
‘Oh, The Bodger seemed to think it was jolly funny. He gave me a Bodgerism and five days number elevens,’
‘Tough luck.’
‘The only person I’m annoyed with is Maconochie. I reckon it was all his fault anyway.’
‘It normally is.’
Paul’s punishment was inconvenient rather than arduous. It curtailed his spare time but did not impose any undue hardship. It consisted mainly of extra work which normally devolved to picking cigarette ends and rubbish up from the upper deck. Paul was shaken a quarter of an hour earlier in the morning and spent the time picking up cigarette ends; during the dog watches he picked up cigarette ends for half an hour and did half an hour’s drill under the supervision of the Duty Regulating Petty Officer Cadet; and he mustered for evening rounds outside the Cadet Office, having picked up cigarette ends for the previous quarter of an hour.
After two days Paul became as expert as a truffle hound. He knew all the likely places for cigarette ends and visited them periodically, as a hunt draws likely coverts for fox. On the third day there were very few cigarette ends to pick up and Paul was forced to ask the other members of his gunroom to stub out their cigarette ends on the upper deck to give him some employment; even so he frequently found himself faced with endless stretches of deck barren of cigarette ends and he made an arrangement with the gunroom sweepers that they emptied their gunroom spit-kids on to the upper deck as soon as they heard the defaulters call sounded off. On the fifth and last day of his punishment Paul had a fellow defaulter to keep him company and, when he went, to assume his mantle. It was Maconochie, who was given three days Number Eleven punishment by The Bodger for emptying his spitkid on to the upper deck instead of down a gash-shute.
Paul’s punishment lasted until Barsetshire had finished painting ship and sailed to her next port, on the Cote d’Azur.
The bay where Barsetshire anchored was cupped in hills which were studded with villas and groves of trees. The small town was built of narrow, red and yellow houses which mounted the hillside to the Corniche above. The harbour was filled with yachts and Barsetshire was surrounded by tiny floats paddled by bronzed and near-naked Frenchmen. Monte Carlo lay a few miles to the east, Nice a few miles to the west and the Alpes Maritimes rose up in the blue background.
Michael’s first special duty was Main Signals Office Messenger. The duties of M.S.O. Messenger, as described by the Chief G.I., were to deliver signals to the officers addressed, make the tea for the watch, and keep out of the Chief Yeoman’s way.
When Michael reported, he found the office deserted but a murmur of voices led him out on to the Flag Deck where several signalmen were gathered round the largest telescope in the ship. Their attention was so close and unwinking that Michael thought that a signal of unusual interest was being passed. Perhaps England had declared war on France, or the Commander been promoted.
‘Coo!’ said the nearest signalman. ‘That’s what I want for Christmas, mother dear.’
‘Let’s have it over here a minute, Johno. I think I can see a good one.’
‘You go and get stuffed. This is all mine. Keep your filthy fingers off while I look at what makes the world go round.’
Michael picked up a pair of binoculars, followed the signalman’s line of sight, and saw a young woman sunbathing in the garden of a villa. She was wearing a very short bathing costume.
‘Left a bit’ said a voice at Michael’s elbow.
Michael shifted left and saw another young woman, wearing an even briefer costume; it seemed to Michael that she was not so much wearing it as lying near it.
‘Now look right and down a bit at five o’clock,’ said the voice.
Michael again obeyed and understood the signalmen’s absorption. For there lay a third young woman. There was no costume, merely the young woman. Michael had always thought that the Communications Branch led a dull and miserable existence, but he now saw that they, like everybody else, had their compensations.
‘Not bad at all,’ said the voice,
‘Would you like a look?’
‘Yes please.’
Michael took the binoculars from his eyes and handed them over.
‘Thank you’ said the Communications Officer.
Meanwhile, Ted Maconochie was having difficulty with his special duty. He was bowman of a motor boat.
When a boat approached the gangway, the bowman was required to climb on to the forepeak with his boat-hook and there perform a series of exercises known as boat-hook drill.
‘Thump your boat-hook twice on the deck’ said the Chief G.I. ‘to give your sternsheetsman the tip. Throw your boat-hook up, catch it at the point of balance, swing it horizontal, and then shift your grip to catch the boat-rope.’
It was not a series of movements which lent itself to grace; Maconochie, even after considerable practice, still looked like a drum-major on stilts.
The coxswain of the boat was an Indian named Rorari who was not a good coxswain.
‘The best thing you can do’ said Maconochie to Rorari, ‘is fall overboard and let someone else have a go who knows what he’s doing.’
Maconochie’s advice was apt when Rorari next brought his boat alongside the gangway. Rorar
i was lying off when the Officer of the Watch, the Gunnery Officer, came out on to the platform of the gangway to motion him with his telescope to come alongside.
Rorari’s boat leapt forward, struck the gangway, and bore up on it, goring it like a savage bull. The gangway swayed under the impact like a reed in a storm and a violent shiver passed up its length. The Gunnery Officer lost his balance and plummeted down into the sea. Rorari opened his throttle wide and accelerated so swiftly that the sternsheetsman, who had been gazing compassionately at the spot of bubbling sea where he had last seen the Gunnery Officer, was caught unawares and silently vanished away over the stern. Maconochie laughed scornfully.
Rorari, who was looking for a scapegoat, heard the laugh.
‘Mac’notchee!’ he screeched. ‘I see you! I see you! You say you are not doing anything while all the time you are doing something! All the time you are laughing, joking say “Fall overboard”! You ball me up I ditch you!’
Maconochie gave another scornful laugh. Rorari wrenched the wheel hard over. The boat tilted in a tight circle and Maconochie flew off at a tangent.
The third member of the crew, the stoker, a Sikh named Singh, realised that every man who sailed with Rorari was, like the men who sailed with Hawkins, doomed to a watery grave, kept his eyes down and studied his gauges and was still on board when Rorari came alongside again, which he did by driving the boat at the gangway and allowing the gangway to stop the boat. The Gunnery Officer was waiting on the step.
‘Rorari, Rorari, you’re an incompetent, dangerous, criminal, nitwitted, blockheaded, thick-skulled, homicidal, bloody idiot!’
‘Please sir, it was not my fault! It was not my fault, sir! The bowman balled me up, sir!’
‘Who was your bowman?’
‘Mac’notchee, sir!’
‘Ah yes.’
George Dewberry went ashore to Jimmy’s Bar and drank vin blanc. It seemed to him the only sensible thing to do.
Later in the evening The Bodger went ashore to Jimmy’s Bar with the Communications Officer. They drank Dubonnet and watched the passers-by.
