We Saw The Sea

by John Winton

  Miranda had been cleverer than any of them. There was indeed a ship over the horizon, on Miranda’s exact firing bearing. She was a small coaster, heading east but apparently stopped and rolling in the long Pacific swell. She had black sides and a red funnel with a black band. Her two masts were covered with flags and lines of washing hung on her quarter-deck. With her high bow and tapered stern, her flying flags and her perky funnel, her whole appearance suggested ruffled dignity, like a hen who has been suddenly sprayed with water. The sea around her was stained yellow.

  The Chief Yeoman of Signals put his telescope to his eye.

  “She’s wearing the Liberian flag, sir,” he said.

  “What signal is she flying?”

  “Can’t read it, sir. Most probably Liberian swear-words,” the Chief Yeoman added, under his breath.

  “We’ll send away a boat to pick up the nose-cap and give them a couple of bottles of whisky. That should make our peace with them. Pass the word to the First Lieutenant to lower the seaboat.”

  Carousel stopped three cables from the coaster and lowered the whaler. As the boat crept over the intervening water, Carousel’s ship’s company studied the coaster.

  A crowd had gathered on the coaster’s upper deck to stare at the cruiser. One figure stood out amongst them.

  “What an Amazon!“ said the Navigating Officer.

  She stood well over six feet in her leather sea-boots. Her flaxen hair hung down to her waist in two plaits like hawsers. She wore a vast pair of blue overalls gathered by a length of rope. The whaler’s crew had noticed her too.

  “Talk about the Widow Twanky,” said Stephen, who had slipped past The Bodger and into the boat at the last moment. His eyes were gleaming at the prospect of a world scoop.

  The Widow Twanky put her hands to her lips. Even at that distance they could hear her voice as plainly as though she were in the whaler.

  “What language is that, I wonder?” said Stephen.

  “Swedish,” said Bat Masterson, unexpectedly.

  The Widow Twanky spoke for some time.

  “What’s she saying?” asked Andrew Bowles, who was the midshipman of the boat.

  “She says go away.”

  “I’ll hold up the whisky bottles,” said Stephen. “That should soften her.”

  The Widow Twanky spoke again.

  “What’s she saying now?”

  “She’s telling you what to do with the whisky bottles.”

  “Ask her if she’s seen the nose-cap.”

  Bat Masterson shouted the question over the water. The Widow Twanky gave a short answer.

  “What does she say?”

  “She’s telling you what to do with the nose-cap.”

  The whisky bottles, however, had attracted the attention and approval of at least one other member of the coaster’s ship’s company. A tiny man in a moustache and an apron was hovering about behind the Widow Twanky. He was gesturing towards the whaler.

  “He wants us to go round the other side.”

  “Let’s do that then,” said Stephen. “I want to go on board.”

  Bat Masterson eyed the Widow Twanky. “Do you think that’s wise?” he said.

  “Of course. I’ll show them my press-card.”

  There was a jumping ladder hanging down the coaster’s side and Stephen began to climb up it. When he reached the top there was an outraged bellow and a scuffle. Stephen described a parabola. They heard him yell as he hit the water.

  “He would go, you see,” said Bat Masterson.

  The Bodger was watching through a telescope. “I’ve just remembered who that bloke is,” he said. “He was an ordinary seaman doing his National Service when I was Jimmy of Voluminous. “There he goes. How splendid! “

  Meanwhile, the Widow Twanky was glaring down at the whaler’s crew from the top of the ladder. Close to, she looked even bigger; they could see that she had a faint blonde moustache and forearms the size and colour of cured hams.

  “What’s she saying now?”

  “She says that one was lucky. The next one won’t be.”

  A small scuttle opened below the jumping ladder. A bucket appeared on the end of a rope. They could see the tiny man’s face, his moustaches working in extremity. Andrew Bowles put the whisky bottles in the bucket and the whaler pulled away. The Widow Twanky kept up a flow of conversation as they pulled back to the ship.

  “What was all the shouting about?” the Captain asked.

  “She didn’t mind being fired at,” said Bat Masterson, “but she did object to the nose-cap carrying away most of her washing.”

  “ --- good old Miranda,” said the sailors, when they heard about it.

  8

  One of the finest natural harbours in Japan is the little fishing haven of Suki Yaki which, until the arrival of the United States Navy, was known only for the beauty and generosity of its women and for its local stew, cooked on a shovel.

  Suki Yaki’s boarded sidewalks, numerous bars and rows of single storey buildings had a nostalgic Yukon flavour which appealed to the American sailors who quickly transformed Suki Yaki from a poverty-stricken town struggling to recover after Japan’s defeat into a town enjoying a gold rush. The gold was indeed there, in the pockets of passing Americans, and the Japanese, male and female, exerted themselves to dig for it. The citizens of Suki Yaki abandoned fishing with alacrity and instead sold liquor, cameras, souvenirs, and each other’s bodies.

  The decor of the bars, which were open twenty-four hours a day, depended upon the whims of their owners. They had exotic names, the more exotic the name, the more squalid the bar. They advertised by neon signs and posters (in which they were given the lead by the U.S.N. Fleet Club which carried above its door the legend: “Through These Portals Pass The Finest Goddamn Fighting Troops In The World”).

  Carousel was welcomed to her berth by an all-Negro military band, a flower-decked float carrying the current Miss Suki Yaki, and most of the population of Suki Yaki. Once ashore, Carousel's officers and ship’s company became tourists. They bought armfuls of silks and brocades. They went on excursions to porcelain factories, damascene showrooms and the Japanese opera. Commander (L), who was something of a collector, filled his cabin with wood-cuts. Ginger Piggant, Mr Pilgrim, and the D.B. Chief Stoker had a steam bath and were scrubbed and pounded by giggling, nude Japanese girls. The Captain and his Heads of Departments attended a Suki Yaki party, with geishas, given by the Mayor and Corporation.

  Paul and Michael visited a cultured pearl farm a few miles outside Suki Yaki. Their guide was a gold-toothed Japanese in a dirty white jacket, black cotton trousers and sandals. He showed them the process of grafting a piece of mussel shell, round which the pearl would form, into an oyster. They saw the wicker cages in which the treated oysters were lowered into the water. The guide discussed the art of grading and sorting pearls.

  “Pearl can be any colour,” he said. “Golden, cream, white, grey, blue-black. One among many thousands is found the beautiful dark pink with perfect shape, then it is valued exceeding high.”

  “What about the black pearl?” Paul asked.

  “Black pearl is freak of nature, sir. Black sheep of pearl family. It is mishap occur when spawn or other thing interfere between core bead and pearl covering. Best way to enjoy pearl is to wear. Human skin gives oil to pearl and more brilliant beauty. To tell real pearl from false, watch!“ The guide picked up a pearl and placed it between his teeth. He bit and the pearl shot across the table.

  “Glass,” said the guide. “Glass smooth, pearl rough.”

  He picked up another pearl and bit it. This time the pearl stayed between his teeth.

  “Pearl.”

  The guide displayed strings of pearls, graded for size and colour. The pearls rippled through his hands like a shimmering rope of many beautiful colours. Michael and Paul, dazed by the lights of so many pearls, bought two necklaces. They had them wrapped in tissue paper and braced themselves for the taxi ride back to Suki Yaki.

&
nbsp; The road was pot-holed and curved and at some of the worst bends the U.S. Navy had posted signs: “Horn Curve.” On one of these bends their driver neglected to sound his horn. A stout young man in a straw hat flung himself off the road as they bore down on him. Although he looked nothing like an officer of the Royal Navy, Paul recognized him.

  “George! Tell him to stop, Mike. It’s George Dewberry! “ The fat young man picked himself up and made for the car.

  “Just what did you. . . . Hello Paul! And Michael! How are you, men?”

  They shook hands. “You fellows in Carousel?” George Dewberry asked.

  “How did you guess?” Paul said.

  “Where’ve you been hiding yourself, George?” Michael asked. “We’ve been here nearly a week and we haven’t seen anything of you.”

  “Oh, I’ve been around,” George Dewberry said, distantly. He seemed embarrassed by the others’ curious glances.

  It was the first anybody had seen of George Dewberry. Michael had made enquiries about him but he heard only rumours of “That mad pusser. Gone native. Shacking up with a Japanese tottie somewhere.” Michael had scarcely believed it. The George Dewberry whom he had known as a cadet and later as a sub-lieutenant would have been as likely to have had a mistress as Little Lord Fauntleroy. Now, George Dewberry had a Pickwickian paunch, rimless spectacles, tobacco-stained fingers and, it seemed, a Japanese mistress.

  “I heard you’d gone native, George,” Michael said.

  “Not quite, but bloody nearly. Where are you all going now?”

  “Back to town. We’re going on a run. Do you want to come? You ought to be an expert on this place.”

  “I am,” said George Dewberry simply. “If you’ll give me a lift in your vehicle. I think I’m safer inside it. Come and have dinner up at our grot and then I’ll show you something of Suki Yaki.”

  “We’re in your hands, George.”

  The taxi turned off before reaching Suki Yaki and began to climb into the hills. Paul observed how the land was cultivated to the last inch. The fields of maize grew not merely to the road but to the very walls of the houses. Not even the steepest hillsides were wasted; the crop grew in terraces which followed the contours of the hills and every hill was crowned by a clump of green. The taxi stopped outside a low Japanese house.

  “Golly,” said Paul. “This is beautiful.”

  The house stood in a garden made in the classic Japanese manner. To the untrained Western eye the garden seemed carelessly laid out, even disorderly, but its skill lay in its disorder. Maples and pines stood in groups which soothed the eye and led it from one pattern to another. Gravel paths and banks of moss drew the garden together into a whole. A small stream flowed under stone bridges into a wide shallow pool where large goldfish moved in the shadows. Between two trees the sharp silhouette of a mountain jutted into the sunset. The garden was hushed and quiet except for the sound of the running water.

  “Let’s go and see what atrocity Jasonsan has got for us,” said George Dewberry.

  It was a strange meal. When Paul thought over it afterwards he was reminded of the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party. The meal was served by Jasonsan, an old Japanese in a white coat. The table was bamboo and was covered by a bright green cotton cloth. Down the centre was spread the largest collection of sauces, spices, chillies, pickles and mustards Paul had ever seen. The centre-piece of the collection, a jeroboam of tomato ketchup, a gigantic bottle, was decorated with three gold lace stripes, wound round its gargantuan belly.

  “Harry, the Base Officer here, was passed over last June,” George Dewberry explained. “We had a Feast of the Pass-over. Everybody was flat drunk for two days, even Jasonsan. Harry said that even if he couldn’t have three stripes his bloody sauce bottle could. Incidentally, if you feel like tomato sauce, fellows, don’t use that bottle.” George Dewberry caught Michael’s look. “You’ll meet him.”

  George Dewberry squinted at the menu. “What are we on tonight? Eggs to order.” He clapped his hands and Jasonsan came in with a full bottle of whisky and three glasses. “Two boiled eggs, Jasonsan, and fill up the glasses.”

  “Two boiled egg, sir.”

  “Can I have mine poached?” Michael asked.

  “Egg boiled, sir,” Jasonsan.

  “But can’t I have mine poached?” As a guest, Michael was anxious not to be difficult, but the menu did say “to order.”

  “Egg boiled, sir,” said Jasonsan firmly.

  “Oh, all right, two boiled eggs.”

  “The same for me,” said Paul quickly, having learned from Michael’s example. “And can you make them four-minute ones, please?”

  “One egg four minute. Two egg eight minute, sir.”

  “I see. You do them in series, not parallel.”

  “Two egg pallallel, sir.”

  George Dewberry leaned forward. “Look old boy,” he said anxiously, “don’t make any jokes about the food while you’re here. They’re just not appreciated.”

  The door through which Jasonsan had retired was thrown violently open again.

  “Hah! I see strangers! Good morrow, George!”

  “Good evening, sir. Would you excuse mine and my guests’ rig please, sir?”

  “But yes! “

  A tall Lieutenant Commander in mess dress stood in the doorway. Paul noted the broad red beard, the vast paunch, the bloodshot blue eyes, the hand resting on one hip, and tried to remember where he had seen that figure before.

  Henry VIII was followed by another, much smaller, Lieutenant Commander who could only be a Welshman. His jowl was blue-back as though coal dust had been ingrained in it at birth and his face was twisted in a scowl, as though from many hours of dodging punches in the arc lights and tobacco smoke of a big fight. George Dewberry introduced him, inevitably, as Dai.

  Henry VIII and Dai sat at the top of the table and Jasonsan served them with boiled eggs. As Jasonsan withdrew, Dai pursued him and caught him up at the door.

  “Silence man! “ said Dai. “Will you not whistle at meat! “

  Dai returned to his seat and battered in the top of his first egg.

  “Fishy it is,” he said, after the first mouthful.

  Meanwhile, Henry VIII decapitated his egg with one stroke of a knife and consumed it in three mighty spoonfuls.

  “A friend of mine,” he said to Dai, “used to go about the place looking for a piece of paper.”

  “Indeed,” said Dai.

  “After he read a piece he used to say ‘This isn’t it’ and throw it away.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Fie was quite difficult to live with. You couldn’t put a piece of paper down without him snatching it up, reading it and saying ‘This isn’t it’.”

  Jasonsan removed the debris of the eggs and brought pork chops, brown peas and, astonishingly, rhubarb. Henry VIII covered his plate with tomato ketchup while Dai looked disgusted.

  “One of these fine days,” he said, “we will be having honest God’s meat.”

  “Toffee papers, lavatory paper, it was all the same to him. He read them all and said ‘This isn’t it’.”

  George Dewberry, Michael and Paul ate in silence. Jasonsan brought welsh rarebit and clear tea.

  “Fishy it is, man,” said Dai.

  “. . He took a party of sailors to the Daily Disaster offices and made an exhibition of himself. Had indigestion for weeks. Then they took him away to Netley and certified him. . . .”

  Paul and Michael drank their tea as quickly as possible. George Dewberry led the way outside.

  “. . . At last they gave him his discharge from the Navy. When he saw it, he read it and said ‘This is it! ’ “

  “Indeed.”

  “You may think they’re all a bit cuckoo,” George Dewberry said.

  “Oh, not at all,” said Paul.

  “You should have seen them when I first got here. We used to have a guest night once a week, not that we ever had any guests, and Harry always thought it was time the goldfish were given a wo
rk out. He used to leap in and chase them while Dai stood on the bridge singing ‘Men of Harlech’ in Welsh.”

  Their taxi-driver, who seemed to know George Dewberry, was still waiting for them and drove them into Suki Yaki.

  George Dewberry led the way from bar to bar without hesitating and without appearing to pause for thought. There were no aimless wanderings, no pavement conferences; George Dewberry proceeded as though on hidden tramlines.

  They drank beer and the floor-shows were always striptease. Every bar had a matchbox with its name printed on it and a map of the town.

  “They’re very useful if you can’t remember where you’ve been the night before,” George Dewberry said.

  After the sixteenth bar, glass of Japanese beer and exhibition of Japanese womanhood, Michael began to falter.

  “I’m sorry George, but I don’t seem to have the stamina for this. You’ve worn me out.”

  “Never mind. Perhaps I’ll see you again sometime. How about you, Paul?”

  Paul hesitated. Michael had spoken for him as well but he refused to admit that he had been drunk to a standstill and walked off his feet by George Dewberry.

  “I’m game,” he said. “The night’s just starting. It’s only just after ten.”

  “I know,” said Michael, “but we started at half-past six.”

  “Well what about it? Are you two coming?”

  Something in George Dewberry’s cool manner maddened Paul.

  “Come on, Mike.”

  “Oh God, all right.”

  George Dewberry walked rapidly down a side street to a dark doorway over which shone a neon sign: “The Hot Squat.”

  “The Hot Squat” was a long room with a stone floor and walls decorated with pictures of fauns, satyrs and centaurs painted on the bare brick in shades of dirty pink and puce. The bar and the room were both empty. Had Paul and Michael looked in by themselves they would have certainly gone somewhere else, but George Dewberry seemed pleased.

  “Good, we’ve got it to ourselves. There’s an American top-sergeant who comes in here sometimes. Let’s wake ’em up. Hoy! Mamasan! Where are you, you mother of all whores! Girslan!”