by James Hanley
All that was ended. Finished. Stink-house, unlucky craft, death-ship, stay where you are, sink if you like. So the thoughts winged their way towards the isolated ship, where Mr. Dunford sat and faced those great gentlemen and talked and answered questions, and listened to suggestions, and closed his mind to all that had gone before, knowing as he watched them that at any moment they would bring to light the bare bones of another future, mapping a new hour and a new time.
They thought of that as the tender neared the shore. Some had made pacts, some had not. Some would return to A.10, some would desert. They had seen men whole and broken, living and dead, sane and mad. What did that matter now? To hell with everything. Blast the bloody war. Blast everything. Here was the shore. There the little crowd waiting.
They started to sing, suddenly stopped, began to shout. Hands were raised, hurrahs filled the morning air. The sun came out, shining down on them, pale wintry sun.
The tender bumped, the fender took the weight. There they were.
And Rochdale was first down the little gangway, bag heavy on his back. And even as he staggered down he turned round, stopping twice on his journey to look back to the deck of the little tender, to wave a free hand, to shout good-luck and farewell, to receive like a halo their answering shouts and laughs.
'So-long, Vesuvius. So-long, Williams, O'Grady.'
'So-bloody-long, old timer. See you in Plain Jane's, eh?'
'All the best. Drink my health in good Falstaff, eh?'
Again Rochdale was waving his hand.
Then he was on the quay. There at the end, waving, laughing, stood Annie and Rosie, a hundred yards from the tender.
'Best of luck, Rochy lad, and don't forget to see to the missus, eh?'
'Aye. Sure. So long there, everybody.'
'And roll her over and over. You know how,' Williams cried after the departing look-out man.
Then he was gone, and the remainder of the crew were stepping down the gangway. More shaking of hands, more rendezvous arranged, more 'so-longs' and hurrahs. Far out in the river a siren sang.
'Well, ah doan't know. Ah doan't know,' the little woman was saying. 'And 'ow are you? 'Ow are you at all? Are you all right? Oh, thank God.'
She was clinging to Rochdale now, who had dropped his bag upon the quay.
'Fine. How's yourself? Hello. Hello. And how are you getting on, eh?'
He looked down into Rosie's laughing face, the child said nothing, being content with gripping her father's hand, laughing up in his face.
'Oh, the rumours,' the little woman said. 'We 'eard you'd been sunk at least three times, then set on fire. But 'ow are you, at all?'
Again she embraced him, unashamed, happy, filled with longing.
'And Rosie's lovely on the pianner now,' she said.
They all laughed now. None of them looked seawards.
'But tell me, are you all right? And what kind of a trip did you have?'
'Oh, this and that. None so bad, you know, Mrs.' He paused, picked up his bag, then suddenly, 'Ah say. Come on, old woman,' and he gave her a resounding slap in the rear. 'Come on, else we're going to miss our blinkin' train. Come on.'
He took Rosie's hand, his wife put an arm round him and kissed him again. 'Oh, it's just lovely,' she said. 'Lovely.'
'Yes, yes. Aye. Come on, Mrs.,' he said. 'We don't want to miss this blooming train, do we?'
And they hurried out of sight over the floating bridge.
THE END
