We Saw The Sea

by John Winton

  Some of Carousels sailors were themselves expert gymnasts. The long hours in the dog watches at sea had made some of them as good as many stage artists. But even they had to admit that Huang’s acrobats were better than any they had seen. They jumped, pirouetted, locked arms and formed human structures containing as many as nine or ten men balancing upon each other’s shoulders.

  It was inevitable that at least one sailor would wish to take part.

  “Oh, God Almighty, trust Jolly John,” groaned The Bodger when Stoker Crab staggered from his cushion and began to lurch about on the fringe of the acrobats’ activities. The acrobats took the sailor’s interruption in good part. They clustered round him, seized him under the armpits and, swiftly mounting upon each other, hoisted him to the top of a pyramid of ten men. Crab babbled in horror. The pyramid swayed, shook, and dissolved. Crab fell like a plummet into the arms of two acrobats who caught him and swung him, unharmed, on to his feet. Crab tottered to a window and was sick in the garden.

  Released from the tension, the sailors finished their bowls in one gulp and The Bodger, looking round the hall, began to realize that Huang’s banquet was going to be a run ashore to tell his grandchildren about. He glanced at the Prime Minister and was astonished to see him weeping; the Prime Minister turned on The Bodger a look of such absolute despair, as though his heart were loaded with a thousand dolours, that it chilled The Bodger’s blood.

  “Cheer up, old sport,” said The Bodger. “Have a drink.” The Prime Minister shook his head wordlessly; his eyes were dark, brimming pools of agony.

  “Oh well, I’ll have one then,” said The Bodger. This, said The Bodger to himself, is as bad as sitting at a mess dinner next to a teetotal Royal Marine with toothache.

  Again, Huang clapped his hands. The acrobats skipped out and their place was taken by a wrinkled old man who wore a simple gown and appeared to be searching for something. He looked inside the folds of his robe, peered up the sleeves and turned up the hem. Then he shrugged his shoulders and threw out his arms. A pigeon appeared in each hand. The pigeons fluttered to the roof of the hall and flew out. While the old man looked at his hands in mild surprise, two more pigeons materialized. Still apparently dumbfounded at the incredible things which were happening to him, the old man produced pigeon after pigeon, as though they grew from his hands. At last the old man snapped his fingers and the supply of pigeons came to an end but when the old man examined his hands again he was horrified to find they now contained two ivory balls. In vain the conjurer worked his hands, snapping them and rubbing them together as though to be rid of the spirit which possessed them; with every movement a fresh ivory ball appeared until each hand held six. Aware that they were watching a conjurer of genius, the sailors roared approval every time a new ball appeared. The old man seemed encouraged and was not so infuriated when his hands began to produce balls of different colours which he rolled along the floor towards his audience. The Bodger stopped one and examined it. It was solid ivory. It seemed impossible that the old man could have concealed so many about his person, to say nothing of the pigeons. When The Bodger looked up again the old man was plainly calling for a volunteer. The Master at Arms himself, rather unlikely a member of the Magic Circle, stepped forward amongst catcalls from the sailors.

  “Now make him disappear!” called an anonymous voice. “Bluidy Jaunty! “

  The old man had a showman’s instinct for his audience. He held his fingers to the Master at Arms’ nose and clapped him on the back. A stream of copper coins fell from the Master at Arm’s nose. The old man held his hand to his mouth in dismay and dodged behind the Master at Arms’ back whereupon a second stream fell from the seat of the Master at Arms’ trousers. The sailors rolled on their cushions, tears in their eyes.

  Shamefacedly, the old man shook hands with the Master at Arms and as their hands disengaged a silk scarf appeared. The old man flapped the scarf, drew it through his fingers and wrapped it round one arm. Huang leaned forward attentively.

  The old man waved the scarf from side to side. While the audience watched every movement the scarf slowly stiffened into a flat board which the old man stood on one end on the floor. Then the old man climbed up and sat on the scarf with his arms folded. He bowed, slid down, waved the scarf in sweeping arabesques to show that it was once more a scarf and disappeared, before the amazed audience could properly appreciate the trick their eyes had just seen.

  “Well,” said The Bodger, “that’s the nearest to the Indian rope trick I’m ever likely to see.”

  When sailors have been drinking for some time and have been provided with entertainment their thoughts inevitably turn in one direction. Not long after the conjurer had finished Carousel’s sailors began to shout the war-cry which The Bodger had been subconsciously expecting but which, now that it had actually been raised, made him wince. “Bring on the dancing girls! “

  The dancing girls, who had been watching the party’s progress from behind the latticed windows, were only too willing. They had seen the reception given to the tumblers and to the conjurer and they realized that here was an audience which might have been sent in answer to prayer, from Buddha himself.

  At a signal from Huang, the girls made their entrance. The dancing girls were well up to the standard set by the conjurer. They wore short silk tunics unbuttoned at the front and, as the sailors took care to observe, nothing else. Their routine had the most hardened sailor gripping his cushion; here and there sailors were being held down by their friends.

  “Lord Huang say this is dance done by maidens at New Year hoping for husband.”

  “Looks like plain strip-tease to me. Tell Lord Huang it’s a very beautiful dance.”

  When the dance was at its height, the girl who had been standing under the mosaic which Commander (L) had admired bent forward to refill Commander (L)’s drinking bowl. It was her pleasure as well as her duty to serve him and, besides, had he not directed upon her a glance which, in Dhon Phon Huang at the New Year, could mean but one thing? She leaned close to him and looked languishingly into his eyes.

  Commander (L), hazy and befuddled by bowl after bowl of rice wine and sharing with the Captain an ancient fear of a Chinese invasion of the West, looked up through a miasma of alcohol to see an oriental face glaring at him with an expression which he construed as malignant hostility. Alarm bells rang in Commander (L)’s mind. He gave a shriek of panic.

  “It’s come! They’re here! “

  Commander (L) leapt to his feet and set off on a long swerving run down the hall. Hitching her sarong and gritting her teeth, the serving girl gave chase. The Captain was too involved with Huang to notice; the conversation had taken an alarmingly mercenary turn.

  “Lord Huang say he give one thousand virgins for your ship.”

  The Interpreter had a brilliant memory of business English.

  “C.O.D.” he added, triumphantly.

  The Bodger watched Commander (L) jinking and sidestepping through the dancing girls and was sober enough to think it odd but too tired to enquire into reasons. His bowl was full, the dancing girls made pleasant erotic patterns in front of his eyes, and the sailors were obviously enjoying themselves. The Prime Minister was weeping on his shoulder and Commander (L) appeared from time to time, like a comet, trailing girls. The Bodger was content.

  The Commander met the returning banquet party on the quarter-deck.

  “How did it go?” he asked The Bodger.

  “It was very . . . very. . . .” The Bodger put his hand to his eyes and searched for the word. “It was very . . . yummaree yummaree,” he said at last.

  11

  After two years in the Far East, Carousel's commission came to an end. The last days were crossed off the makeshift calendars which had been put up all over the ship and Carousel prepared to go home. The Bodger wrote to Julia, sealed the letter, and, after some thought, printed N.O.R.W.I.C.H. on the flap.

  Michael was especially pleased with life. It was the last day in Hong Kong. Tom
orrow the ship left for Singapore and home. The bar was open and the mail had just come on board. Michael had two letters from Mary and two bills. Fie had thrown the bills through the cabin scuttle and was settling to read Mary’s letters when Paul poked his head round the cabin door.

  “Hi Mike,” he said. “Did I tell you Cedric is doing his own television programmes now? All about his collections. My mother says Cedric thinks it’s the funniest thing that ever happened. He’s been offered I don’t know how many thousands to write his life story for the Daily Disaster. Cedric’s got a good mind to do it. Says it’ll serve them right. How’s Mary?”

  “Fine. Just fine.”

  “I can see you’ll be next in line for the marriage stakes.”

  “Oh. I wouldn’t go as far as that. How’s Anne?”

  “Dunno. Haven’t heard from her for about a month. When she condescends to write to me, I’ll let you know how she is. Bloody woman, here am I wearing my fingers to the bone writing to her and does she answer? Does she hell! There’s only one thing for it! We must celebrate the Feast of the Passover at the mess dinner tonight!” The idea fired Paul’s imagination. “I’ll even make a speech. I’ll vilify woman and all her works! The Scarlet Woman! Oh Babylon, Babylon, daughters of Babylon. . . .”

  Paul went away, much cheered by the thought of his speech. Michael shook his head and returned to Mary’s letter.

  When Paul rose for his speech, it was amongst cheers from the bachelors and prolonged booing from the more senior members. The civilian guests who had been invited for the evening looked dismayed as the mess began what sounded like a tribal chant.

  “Up! Up! UP! Up! Up! UP! “

  Paul climbed on to his chair and crouched under the low deckhead.

  “Mr President sir, honoured guests, gentlemen,” he began solemnly. “I rise to speak to you tonight on a very grave issue, one which touches us all very closely and which has not yet been examined in sufficient detail in this mess. . . .”

  “Keep it clean, Paul!”

  “Such is my intention. Gentlemen, I propose to speak to you tonight on the subject of women. . . .”

  “Man, man, dat’s fighting talk! “

  “. . . and their proper place in a civilized society. First of all, there are certainly some things for which women are indispensable. . . .”

  “Now what could those be?” The Bodger pondered aloud.

  “. . . granting those, why should women be accepted as first-class citizens in a civilized society? They only have a limited sense of values. They are incapable of looking to the future. They can’t look objectively at a certain course of action. They will vote for one man because he has a nice face or, worse still, because their husbands vote for him, and they won’t vote for another because they’ve heard he makes his wife do all the washing-up. Women are not civilized because civilization depends to a large extent upon reason and women are unreasonable. If women were given complete control of government we should be back to barbarism in a decade. . . .”

  “Ah, but it’s a lovely way to die! “

  “Women have no conversation, by which I mean reasoned comment. They can gossip and they have a certain amount of general knowledge but they have no conversation in the true sense. Anyone who’s listened to a roomful of women will know what I mean. Like the crackling of thorns under a pot! “

  As always, the mess were impressed by anything which smacked of the Bible; The Bodger often remarked upon the power of the Old Testament in bolstering up a weak wardroom argument.

  “Every Saturday night at sea we drink to sweethearts and wives. Why?”

  “You want I should tell you?”

  “I should say that being married in the Navy is nothing to congratulate yourself about. Married men are the curse of the Navy! “

  “Hear hear!” shouted the bachelors fervently, in unison.

  “They get married in a fine rolling frenzy, knowing the penalties of being married in the Navy and then they spend most of their married life belly-aching because they haven’t got enough money and they don’t have enough time with their wives.”

  Paul could sense his audience growing restless and began to wind up his argument before they actually began to throw things.

  “Sweethearts, so called, are no better. They’re merely apprentice wives, learning the job and getting ready for Der Tag. They expect as much as a wife and give even less. There’s only one thing for it! I wonder more people don’t do it. Keep a mistress. You know exactly where you are then. You can choose her like a tailor and change her like a library book. . .

  Anything further Paid might have said was swallowed up in the uproar and it was only after several moments' violent work with his gavel that the Commander succeeded in making his voice audible.

  “. . . I think Mr Vincent has his supporters on both sides. Mr Vincent will therefore stand the President and Mr Vice a round of port! “

  After dinner, the Commander took off his mess jacket, lined up three whiskies and sodas on the lid of the piano., and sat down to play. A group collected round him. After some preliminary strumming, for hymn tunes were not his forte, the Commander began to play “Eternal Father Strong to Save”. The group recognized the tune.

  “It nearly broke her father's heart . . .” sang the group by the piano. “When Lady Jane became a tart. But blood is blood . . and race is race, and so to save the family’s face. . . . Her father bought her a cosy retreat ... on the shady side of Jermyn Street.”

  Michael took up a handy position near the bar with the hard core of drinkers who regarded songs and party games as mere fripperies. This was the part of a mess dinner that Michael enjoyed most. His stomach was satisfied, his glass was full, and there were interesting conversations going on all around him.

  “Next August,” Commander (L) was saying, “I shall have been in the Navy twenty years. And I’ll have spent ten of them waiting for boats.”

  The Bodger raised his glass to the Padre. “For all the saints, Padre,” he said. “Cheer up, young officers always like to sit next to the Padre at dinner. They want to show off their agnosticism.”

  “I don’t know why you should act so disappointed, Paddy,” Alastair was saying to the dental surgeon, Paddy McGeogh. “You ought to know that nymphos never have a proper orgasm.”

  “How should I know? Toothwrights only study as far as the waist.”

  “If you really want your leave messed about,” Mr Pilgrim was saying to Commander (E), “join the engineering branch and have it done by experts. I’ve still got some leave due to me from when we paid off Ramillies.”

  “I hear your bofors magazine got flooded again the other day, Slim,” said Tim Castlewood.

  “Yes,” said Slim Broad bitterly. “I said to him, some may flood that magazine quicker, and some may flood it deeper, but no one, I said, floods it so regular. . . .”

  “That piano’s a bit battered, isn’t it?” Paul said to the Navigating Officer. “Can’t we ditch it and get a new one?” “We can’t do that, boy I My God, that piano was presented to us by the Carousel Boy’s Paper and if anything happened to it there’d be hell to pay! It gave us a nasty scare the Christmas just before we commissioned. We were giving a children’s party sponsored by the Carousel Boy’s Paper and about half an hour before they were all due to arrive we had everything ready and then someone remembered the piano. Nobody could think where it was.

  Hadn’t seen it for ages. I’d only just written to the Editor, too, wishing ’em all a happy Christmas and saying how much we enjoyed playing their piano. At last, just as we were getting desperate, the Bos’un pulled his linger out and remembered where he’d put it. It was down in the electrical spare gear store. The duty part of the watch only just got the thing out in time. Of course, the Commander was sweating the big drop. Any bad publicity for the Navy in a thing like the Carousel Boy’s Paper would probably muck up recruiting for a whole generation.”

  “I can imagine that,” said Paul. “Can anyone else play it?”
“The Commander’s the only one who understands it. A lot of the notes are missing and you have to be a bit of a Rachmaninov to remember which they are. The Commander’s not bad but he’s not a patch on the last TAS Officer we had here. He was brilliant. A second Carroll Gibbons. Bloke called Morton. We used to call him Jellyroll in memory of the immortal.”

  The group by the piano were still singing. Paul could hear their refrain high over the thunder of the conversation.

  “. . . It’s even rumoured, without malice. . . . She had a client at the Palace. . .

  At the other end of the bar, Bongo Lewis and a party of engineer officers had set up in opposition.

  “Oh Sir Jasper do not touch me . . .” they were singing.

  “When I’m lying in bed with nothing on at all . . . “

  Michael was on his third whisky. The future looked even brighter. The conversation still eddied around him.

  “What’s happened to the P.M.O.? I haven’t seen him around the last couple of clays.”

  “They’ve taken him away. He thought everybody was making notes about him. He had a complex about it. Guess he was just a poor crazy mixed-up P.M.O. That’s the new P.M.O. over there, standing on his hands.

  Several officers were balancing on their hands on chairs in the middle of the room. Others were placing armchairs in lines and preparing to dive head-first over them. The Editor of a Hong Kong evening daily was trying to turn a somersault on a chair without touching the ground.

  “Oh Sir Jasper do not touch. . .

  “That chap’s going to break a leg, I can see that coming a mile off?”

  The group by the piano were singing another song, led by a prominent Hong Kong banker.

  “The portions of a woman which excite a man’s depravity,” sang the prominent Hong Kong banker, “are fashioned with considerable care. For what may seem at first a simple little cavity ... Is really an elaborate affair. . . .”

  Just like a normal guest night, thought Michael. He noticed that many of the senior officers present were surrounded by junior officers of their own branch. The senior officers were listening and the juniors were talking. A mess dinner was the recognized service time for telling a senior officer what you thought of him, for what The Bodger called “Pounding the Boss’s Ear”. It was also the recognized time for stories, bibulous, fabulous, and libellous.