by John Harris
The forecastle was full of buzzes immediately. It was blacked out the first night after we got the news and the dropped deadlights created the atmosphere of an oven in the Red Sea evenings. New watches had to be fitted in and gallons of grey paint had to be slapped on to the white deck-work to reduce it to a drab, wartime camouflage. Rumours, half of them imaginary, went round the ship, of vessels sunk in the Indian Ocean by a German pocket battleship which was reported to be just ahead of us, and of collisions in convoys as ships strayed from their positions in the dark through lack of experience.
That trip of the Eastern Star wasn’t a happy one for me. Those high hopes I’d had, those sea fevers that had given me restless nights, seemed to have come to nothing. The trip was a dreadful anti-climax that was symbolised by Old Boxer’s attitude.
We both tried hard to behave normally towards each other, but I was married, and that link there’d been between us was broken by the existence of Minnie. We never got on with each other in quite the same way, from the minute the winches began to bang and rattle as we coiled mooring-ropes until the anchor chain roared through the hawse-hole in Mombasa harbour.
I wasn’t sorry when the voyage was over and we were tied up within sight of St Andrew Head again.
I walked away from the Eastern Star slowly. I could hear the sound of “Shendandoah” played on Yorky’s concertina. It was a bit uneven because Yorky had had one or two already – when he went to buy the usual railway ticket to Hull I knew he’d never use. The yearning melody seemed a fitting accompaniment to my thoughts. There was something oppressive in the air I couldn’t put my finger on, in spite of the brand-new mate’s ticket I’d been told was waiting for me when I wanted to collect it. I’d wanted the sea – badly – but Old Boxer’s strangeness had left me with a bitter taste of disappointment.
I stopped dead suddenly in the dusty street that was littered with bus tickets and fragments of newspaper and orange peel.
“Blast him!” I said aloud. “Damn and blast the silly old fool! Why should I worry whether he’s upset or not?”
I thrust my hands deep into my pockets and hurried away, my coat flapping in the wind that was getting up and stirring the rubbish in the gutter.
England was like a foreign country with its sandbags and uniforms, and all the daft little cardboard boxes everyone carried for gas-masks. But the nervous look in people’s eyes was gone. In its place was gravity, but there was a certain amount of relief, too, and I more than once heard: “Well, thank God, it’s here. We do know where we stand now.”
There was a warmth that I hadn’t expected in Minnie’s greeting when I reached home. Just one quick flicker of her eyes towards the door that seemed to shout out loud she’d been unfaithful, then she’d flung her arms round my neck and was kissing me hungrily. And, though I knew she was a wanton, the warmth of her and the lusty animal way she greeted me drew me to her just the same as before, smothering the resentment and the distrust, jostling aside the knowledge that it wouldn’t last.
The Steam Packet was the same untidy, slovenly place behind the scenes it always had been. The brasses on the front door and on the beer-engine were polished bright, but the kitchen with its roaring fire had its usual drunken, slipshod appearance, like a shifty old man caught with his collar off. The same pair of shoes seemed to be under the sink. The same rumpled frock was on the sofa. The same used gin-glass was on the sideboard. The same cat was asleep in the same place in the hearth, almost as though it had been there ever since I walked out.
But it was a happier home-coming than I’d expected, with Minnie flushed and excited by the presence of a man in the house again, nibbling at my ear and whispering to me as I held her in my arms. I noticed she seemed plumper than before, and there was a smell of gin in her breath although it was hardly past midday. Then I suddenly realised that in ten years’ time she’d probably be a fat, lazy good-for-nothing, and it jolted me a little. But I forgot it again as I felt her arms tighten round my neck once more.
In her way she was more than glad to see me. She was a passionate creature who needed a man. Her nature shouted out loud for a man’s attention, her body for a man’s lovemaking, her foolish little mind for a man’s flattery.
Then, suddenly, she noticed I’d only one small bag with me, and her face fell.
“Where’s all your kit?” she demanded harshly.
“Aboard ship,” I said. “I left it.”
“You going back?” Her arms fell to her sides, and there was a hostile look in her eyes. All the affection was gone immediately.
“Yes” I said. “There’s a war on now, you know, but I shan’t be away long. I wasn’t this time, was I?”
“You’re no good to me when you’re at sea, I tell you,” she accused bitterly.
There seemed to be no arguing with her. “What are you worrying for?” I said. “I’m home for weeks. We’re having a boiler-clean.”
“I wish the blasted old cow would sink,” Minnie fumed.
“Don’t let’s go over all that again,” I said, suddenly weary. “Not when I’ve only just come home.”
“I need a man about the house!”
I turned silently on my heel. This seemed to be a stupid ending to what had been an unhappy voyage. I mounted the stairs with my bag and Minnie followed, still complaining.
“I wish the blasted boilers would blow up,” she said tempestuously. “I wish the masts would all fall down. I wish the bottom would drop out. I wish all your pals would get drowned.”
“Shut up!” I shouted, turning in the doorway of the bedroom.
“I wish they’d all sink to the bottom of the sea – miles down – and get ett by fishes!” she screamed. There was a note of hysteria in her voice.
“Blast you, shut up!” I slapped her face and her shouts stopped abruptly. She gazed at me angrily, her eyes wide and furious, a red weal on her cheek where my fingers had struck her.
I stared at her, panting a little, then turned abruptly to the chest of drawers where I kept my shore-side clothes. Even as I opened it, however, Minnie jumped forward and snatched something from under my hand. I caught only a glimpse of what she held, but it was enough to make me grab at her wrist.
“Give me that!” I said.
“No!” Minnie screamed. “Blast you and your stinking ships! I hope they all go to the bottom!”
“Give me that!” I said again, twisting her wrist as she began to strike at me with her free hand.
Eventually I pushed her back over the bed and forced her hand open. She held a crumpled cigar, broken with the clutch of her fingers. I stared at it, then pushed her hand away savagely, and the cigar fell to the floor. Minnie kicked it under the bed with her heel.
“There you are, Clever,” she sneered. “It’s only an old cigar. If you’d keep ’em in your pocket they wouldn’t litter up your drawers. Now it’s all broke up.”
She glared at me, her eyes angry. Her hair was awry and she was dowdy and untidy and vulgar, yet with the flush on her cheeks she was still desirable.
I was staring at the bits of the cigar on the floor. “You know I never smoked a cigar in my life,” I said.
Minnie looked at me silently. Her expression showed she was thinking fast. She suddenly stretched out a hand to mine and the fire went out of her eyes. She smiled and tried to pull me to her.
“Oh, it must be an old one of Pa’s, then,” she said, and her voice was velvety. “Must have been there years. Jess, come closer to me. Forget that old thing.”
“If it was only your father’s, why did you snatch it away?”
“Thought you wouldn’t want it in your drawer,” she said with a sly little smile. “That’s all. Honest. Gospel. But you will go and get me wrong and lose your temper.”
“Pat Fee smokes cigars like that,” I said quietly.
Minnie looked at me under a lock of hair. There was a suggestion of defiance in her attitude.
“Well, what about it?” she said.
“What’s P
at Fee’s cigar doing in this bedroom?” I snapped.
“Oh, my Gawd!” Minnie said. “Some people haven’t half got suspicious natures. You’ll be the death of me.”
“What’s it doing here?” I almost shouted, furious that this old monster about Pat Fee should keep frightening me. I knew the meaning now of Minnie’s scared glance when I’d arrived. Suddenly the room in the dim light that came through the half-pulled curtains seemed sordid and full of an unpleasant staleness that suffocated me.
“Oh, shut up, Jess,” Minnie said. “If you must know, it is Pat Fee’s. He left it on the bar one night. I put it away for safety till he asked for it. He’s not been in since. That’s all.”
I said nothing. Minnie suddenly seemed no better than a dockside drab.
“I don’t know why you’re goin’ on about Pat Fee,” she said, as though she were reading my thoughts. “He never comes in here these days. He’s too busy.”
“Busy? Where is he?”
“In the docks. Got a job there the week before the war broke out, the cowardly swine. Only out to dodge being called up. I think he likes night work, too, with them women they’ve taken on.”
I sensed the bitterness in her voice. It was nothing more nor less than the fury of a woman scorned. And though I had no proof, had never had any proof, of anything between Minnie and Pat Fee, I was certain that Pat had slept in this same bed with her, and had finally thrown her on one side as someone else absorbed his attention.
“The docks, eh?” I said slowly, hoping she’d say more. “So he scuttled for safety, after all.”
“The blasted scrim-shankin’ no-good scrounger!” Minnie spoke slowly. There was a chilly fury in her tones, and at that moment there was hatred in her heart for Pat Fee.
But I knew perfectly well it wouldn’t last long, and that odd trick of their sexes that bound her to Pat would inevitably tug her towards him again, unable to be indifferent to him for long.
“What you thinkin’ about?” Minnie asked suddenly. “Starin’ like that.”
She was lounging on the bed where I’d thrown her, voluptuous, her eyes half veiled, a lock of hair over her shoulder.
“So Pat’s slipped his cable again, eh?” I said. “No wonder you were glad to have me home.”
“What do you mean?” she said harshly. “Pat Fee’s nothing to me. He never has been. I hate the sight of him.” There was so much desire to convince in her voice that it seemed to condemn her.
I laughed. “You’re a bad little bitch, Minnie,” I said, and I didn’t feel angry, curiously enough. “And I ought to give you a hiding. But I’m not going to. You’re lucky.”
She stared at me unwinkingly for a second, then she sat up suddenly, her hand to her throat.
“Oh, my word!” she said with a sudden deep intake of breath. “It’s gone hot in here all of a sudden, Jess.”
Her fingers unbuttoned her frock at her throat. I grinned at her. The same old trick. Minnie was trying to capture me again, now she felt the crisis was past.
I tilted her head until she gazed upwards at me. That odd attraction she had for me made me flush like a schoolboy. Her arms tightened round my neck.
“Come closer, Jess,” she breathed urgently. “Come and have a bit of a lie-down with me.”
She fluttered her lashes and tried to kiss me, but I thrust her aside, breaking her grip. She stared at me, the hot light in her eyes changing to a startled stare as I put her hands away from me.
“No, Minnie,” I said. “You’re not half good enough at acting. You’d have to do much better than that this time.”
She sat up, suddenly cold and unsmiling. She savagely did up the buttons of her dress as I began to unpack, and swing her feet to the floor.
“OK, Mr Clever,” she said, more to herself than to me, her voice harsh with temper. “OK.” She stood up and stared furiously at herself in the mirror as she combed her hair.
“OK,” she said again. “Well, you asked for it proper and you’re going to get it. Just wait till you go back.”
Ten
That leave was about the longest I ever spent. Neither Minnie nor I made any effort to patch up the quarrel. Neither of us particularly wanted to. We moved about the Steam Packet outwardly indifferent to each other, but both coldly hostile, seething with words we’d have liked to have said and didn’t. Our life together had always been difficult and erratic, but there’d been a curious hotchpotch of brittle laughter and bad temper. But now even that was gone, leaving only cold, unspeaking fury. Minnie was always busy in the bar, but I was sick of the damned place and its smell of stale beer. I went out early and only returned to sleep.
Minnie watched me angrily. She was jealous of the life I lived at sea, away from her and out of sight. She was indifferent to the women I met in foreign ports, I think, but was envious of the sea itself for its hold on me. Hers was a demanding nature, wanting all of a man for herself, wanting him body and soul, but greedy enough to want someone else while he was away.
Dig sought me out occasionally but I found myself avoiding him. After my life at sea, Dig’s way of living seemed unbelievably narrow. Even the town seemed only a hamlet that could be crossed with a couple of giant’s strides from the seven-league boots a sailor wears after his wandering. Besides, though I knew I’d eventually die within the echoes of its church bells, the place was an ugly reminder of Pat Fee and that soiled, tawdry question mark of his relationship with Minnie.
Long before I was due back aboard the Eastern Star I was itching to be away, itching to smell the clean air of the sea and feel its damp saltiness in my hands.
My last evening home arrived eventually and long before dark I’d dumped my kit aboard, in the tiny white cabin to which the mate’s ticket now in my pocket entitled me. It was a curious feeling being in a cabin to myself – as though I was a stranger in the familiar old ship. Every creak and every groan of her had become like a living breath to me, but I was feeling as new to it all as a snotty-nosed deck-boy on his first trip.
Ashore again, I debated what to do. I could indulge in a procession round the pubs and bump into Yorky and Old Boxer somewhere en route, or I could go and sit with Dig, stifled in the tiny house in Atlantic Street. Neither appealed to me and in the end, seeing the lights still on at Wiggins’, I went there, trying to persuade myself it was to say goodbye to Dig, but knowing perfectly well that it was in the hope of seeing Katie Fee.
She was just leaving as I arrived and she halted on the corner by the gate to talk to me. She looked tired in the last of the daylight, but she smiled.
“Hello, Jess,” she said. “Will you walk home with me?”
“I was hoping you’d say that, Kate,” I admitted.
We moved away in silence towards the High Street.
“I’m off back to sea tomorrow,” I said after a while.
“Are you, Jess?” Kate stopped and faced me. “Oh, I do hope – I…” She hesitated, then she ended simply: “Good luck, Jess. The best of luck.”
She watched me for a second, then she asked, “Has it been a miserable leave, Jess?”
I laughed shortly. “I know where I stand now, anyway,” I said.
“It’s a funny feeling,” I went on, “knowing your wife’s indifferent to you and you’re indifferent to her, that you just don’t give a damn any more what happens.”
Kate stood close to me, close enough to kiss her if I’d wanted. “Oh, Jess!” Her words were limping and awkward. “It seems so tragic.”
We were silent for a while, then Kate went on, “It’s Pat, of course, isn’t it?”
I stared at her. “Yes,” I said. “How did you know?”
“I always knew, I think. There was always something between them. Do you hate him dreadfully?”
“Pat?” I laughed. “No, Kate. Sailor’s lot, I suppose. In any case, it’s six of one and half a dozen of the other. Minnie’s as bad as he is.”
She looked up at me and I saw her eyes were suddenly frightened. “Jess,” she
said, “will you do something for me?”
“What is it, Kate?”
She unclasped something from round her neck. “Wear this, Jess. It’s a St Christopher medallion. I suppose everyone’s giving them to soldiers and sailors and airmen these days. I know they don’t mean anything, really, but – well – I’ll feel you’re just a little safer.”
I took it from her gravely. “We’ve made a rare mess of our lives, Kate, haven’t we?” I said.
She nodded mutely. “Perhaps it’ll all come straight in the end, Jess,” she said hopelessly.
“Will you write to me sometimes, Kate?” I asked.
“If you want me to, Jess,” she said, but there was no enthusiasm in her voice. She knew as well as I did how unwise we’d be. Letters to each other could only make our unhappiness darker.
From the moment she left her berth I had a feeling the Eastern Star would never reach home again. Almost as she moved down the river, with Old Boxer still unconscious in his bunk and stale with liquor, I could tell things weren’t going to go right. Salt water got into her tanks and made her drinking-water foul, and we sank a fishing-boat off the Newfoundland coast. In New York harbour a docker was killed by a swinging boom that also put one of the crew in hospital.
It was while we were in New York that the news of Norway came through. The Germans were showing their hand at last and the war of stagnation was over. There was a suddenness about the news that shocked us. But there were more shocks coming. Before we’d properly absorbed that lot, Norway had fallen, then Holland; and the Allied armies were being split by a German drive across France to the coast.
We were aghast as we heard the news. The crew came crowding silently on to the foredeck near the officers’ saloon to hear the six o’clock news over the wireless. The whole of the tortured Continent seemed a sheet of flame. We were bewildered by the savagery of it, and thankful for that narrow stretch of water which was all that could prevent the Germans sweeping on to London. Desperately we clung to the hope that the French would rally and fling them back. But we knew all the time there was no rally left in them. There wasn’t even the spirit for defence.
