THURSDAY'S ORCHID

by Mitchell, Robert

  I wasn’t certain what she had been after: jewellery possibly, but I didn’t have any of that, except my watch. Maybe she was just curious; but she must have been busy when I had slipped out to the toilet in the early hours of the morning. I explained it all to Pete. He hadn’t had any problems with his girl.

  “Well,” I said. “Let’s forget it and take it easy for the rest of the day. Mark it down to experience. We’ve both had a good screw. It should last us for a couple of days. Coming?”

  Port Douglas: a hundred kilometres north of Cairns. It used to be a gold-rush town around the turn of the century. Now it’s just tourists and up-market resorts. At one time there were twenty-six pubs, but now only two: the Central and the Court House.

  We drove through Mossman up to the ferry at the Daintree River crossing. Pete wouldn’t believe the sign warning of crocodiles until I suggested that he take a swim, and even then he wasn’t certain. So we called in at the Crocodile Park on the way back to Cairns. He believed it then. And, as the mighty jaws slammed shut on a chicken carcass, he came out with his most uncharitable remark of the day.

  “That reminds me,” he said. “I must phone my mother when we get back to Cairns.”

  The captain had told us to be back on board no later than five in the afternoon, at which time he expected to be ready to sail; intimating that if we weren’t back by then, the ship wouldn’t be there when we did arrive.

  We dropped off the rental car and strolled back through the streets, both knowing it would be weeks before our feet would walk on solid ground again; arriving back on board at a little after four. I wouldn’t have minded missing the ship, but I knew that if I did I could kiss goodbye to Mee Ling – and to a few other treasured things as well if anything should happen to the grass.

  The loading was finished and the crew were putting the hatch covers back over the forward hold, now full of sacks of rich-smelling raw sugar.

  Half an hour later the lines were cast off and the gangway hauled aboard. Ropes were thrown down to the harbour tug and once again we moved away from land, bound for the open sea.

  Pete and I stood down at the stern, watching as Cairns slowly disappeared, sinking below the horizon. An hour later the sun went down behind the darkening mountains and set as only a tropical sun can set: with a blaze of crimson and gold bursting out from fading clouds. And then there was nothing to be seen but a glow from the lights of the city, hiding below the skyline, until at last that too disappeared.

  The next sighting of land would be Singapore.

  “There it goes,” I said quietly. “Take one last glimpse at civilization.” The look on his face turned to sadness as he realised for the first time that he was leaving his home behind and travelling to a foreign land. “Don’t worry, my boy,” I laughed, trying to lighten the mood. “You’ll soon get used to the fleshpots of the East. You had your penicillin shots before you left home, I presume?”

  He turned, grinned, and thumped me on the shoulder.

  “Shots!” he yelled. “Shots? A clean-living young fellow like me! What would I need shots for?”

  We both burst out laughing.

  “Makes you feel a bit sad when you think about it, though,” he said. “Still, I suppose it’ll still be here when I return. I can’t wait to see my father’s face when I hit Adelaide again, with a big cheque in my pocket. It’ll make him sit up and take notice. You know something?” I shook my head. “I’ll have made more money in a couple of months than he makes in a whole year – and have enjoyed making it as well.” He threw his hands up in the air and yelled: “Come on Singapore!”

  Enjoy it while it lasts, I thought. In a year or two the gloss will wear off. It will become another mundane business, but probably not as boring as that practiced by his father.

  I didn’t know then that he would never see Adelaide again.

  Nine

  The crew were less morose that first night out from Cairns. They had been sullen during most of the voyage around from Adelaide. I suppose it was the thought that they were now on the homeward leg, with the next port Singapore, which made the difference. Even the bosun, a surly Malay, seemed brighter.

  The majority of the crew were Malays, with a couple of Indians and one solitary Chinese. All of the officers, with the exception of the captain, were Chinese. There was a distinct class barrier between the two groups, with the only words spoken being either orders for work to be done or reports of tasks completed.

  The crew kept to their own quarters: down below the main deck towards the stern. The officers stuck to the upper part of the vessel, to the accommodation section, where the air was free of the otherwise ever-present stench of diesel fumes.

  Pete and I were treated the same as the officers by the crew. They were reticent, even insolent, in our presence. Trying to get conversation out of them was like extracting teeth. I did manage to crack the odd grin now and then, but not Pete.

  He was forever checking his containers; making certain that the power was still connected to the freezer compressors, that the doors hadn’t been tampered with, that the ringbolts were still securely shackled to the deck – tasks the crew had already carried out. They didn’t like the unintentional slur.

  Syrius had four holds: three forward and one aft of the accommodation section. Our wool, along with the other two consignments, had been stowed in the huge main hold located immediately forward of the accommodation section. The general cargo was in the aft hold and the number two. The forward hold, which was right up near the bow, had been loaded with the bagged sugar taken on board in Cairns.

  I had been tempted on more than one occasion to slip down into the main hold and see if the wool was still safely stowed. There was a way in through a separate tunnel, like a mine shaft, down a series of steel ladders cutting through the various deck levels to the bottom of that great dark cavern.

  But there was no way the wool could have disappeared between Adelaide and Cairns. I had no connection with the cargo as far as the ship’s complement was concerned, and poking around in the hold might make somebody suspicious of my presence on the Syrius. I was supposed to be merely a crazy passenger taking the slow route to Singapore.

  A chance would come, but I would have to wait for someone else to suggest it. I had to ride it out, knowing that there was a cargo worth many millions of dollars – and some of them mine – sitting below deck, millions of dollars which I couldn’t even gloat over. The frustration was something I would have to live with.

  Pete and I soon fell back into our routine of walks around the deck, drinks in the lounge and a few hours of television – although the signal soon faded as we moved away from Cairns. But we found plenty to talk about, including the two young females we had picked up at the Playpen. I still hadn’t figured out what the nurse had been looking for. Maybe it had only been my imagination, although I was dead certain she had been searching for something. Dead turned out to be the operative word.

  If only I had run it through my mind a few more times instead of leaving it behind in Cairns.

  It was the evening of the second day out from Cairns. The Torres Strait pilot had climbed down to the pilot boat early that morning and we were sailing along under the sole care and command of Captain Flint.

  It comes as a strange feeling to realise that your fate now rests in the hands of just one man. I suppose I have been in that situation hundreds of times before in aircraft, but it had never occurred to me until now. Perhaps it’s because a flight is over in a few short hours, whereas we were going to be on board for weeks.

  But even with all his nasty glances and snide remarks, not to mention his whisky breath, I had confidence in the captain. His Chinese officers were another matter again. I didn’t think they could have found their way out of a paper bag, let alone navigate that great ocean. They were too quiet and unassuming. Maybe I was doing them a disservice. Perhaps it was just a quiet confidence.

  We were two days out of Cairns. Pete and I had adjourned to the officers
lounge after dinner for a couple of beers, followed by a whisky or two. A couple of the officers were watching Chinese tapes on the video.

  The weather had come up, so we both thought we would make an early night of it. The rain was pelting on to the deck. It would be pleasant to curl up and listen to the heavy drops beating against the side of the hull. We had a large whisky each and then one for the road, and bid goodnight to those who were sitting watching the video. I was certain they had seen the movie fifty times over, but they were still totally engrossed: heads bent forward, ears straining to pick up each sing-song word.

  I went down to my cabin and sat on the end of the bunk. It was only nine o’clock and too early to turn in, even on a night like this and, after all, it was only a tropical downpour. There was still time for a few hands of poker, so I decided to go up and see if Pete would like to lose a few dollars.

  “Sure,” he said, closing the book he had been flicking through. “If you want to take on a guy who paid all his booze bills with the proceeds of university poker games, that’s your problem.”

  He bent down and began to lace up his shoes.

  “Pete,” I replied confidently. “That was playing against kids.” He looked up and grinned. “Come on down to my cabin,” I continued. “We’d be more comfortable in the lounge, but I don’t think I can take any more of that Chinese music blasting my ears. Bring that glass and I’ll go get another bottle.”

  He went off towards my cabin, which was larger than his own, and I headed to the lounge to pick up the whisky. Taking booze away from the officers lounge was against the rules. It was meant to be consumed on the premises, as if it were some private hotel; but what could they do to me?

  In order to keep the peace I told the few officers who looked up from the television set that I needed it for medicinal purposes, that I wasn’t feeling too well. It brought the first complete set of smiles I had seen in that room. They were actually enjoying the thought of me heaving and retching. The weather had come up and we were rolling about, but not all that much. And, unbeknown to that bunch of sadists, I have never been seasick.

  There was no table in the cabin, just a desk fixed to the wall next to the head of the bunk, an easy chair, and one other chair for use at the desk. Pete took the easy chair and started to shuffle the cards.

  He downed his first glass in one gulp, leaned back in his chair and grinned up at the ceiling. “Hey?” he asked. “Did you get a look at the slim one with the long hair during dinner? I reckon she fancies me.” The bragging was starting already. “She gave me a smile as we were leaving. The rest of them were all looking down at their plates. I could be in there!”

  “Come on, Pete,” I laughed. “Deal the bloody cards.” He sat back with a grin on his face as though he really thought he had a chance. “There’s no way you’ll even get near enough to touch her. She and the third officer have only been married three months. She must be getting so much of it at the moment that I doubt she’ll need any from you!”

  After the session in Cairns he thought of himself as irresistible. I wondered what he was going to be like after a week or two in Singapore.

  He swore once or twice and started to deal the cards. We went on chewing the fat and lying about girls we had known, and the hearts we had broken. Pete went quiet for a while and his conversation dropped off. I took the next two or three hands far too easily.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked. “I thought you were a big-time gambling man. That’s the third pot I’ve taken off you. What’s up?” I raked the money in.

  “I’m worried about Anne.”

  “Who the hell is Anne?” I queried.

  “The doctor’s receptionist. You remember. The bird in Cairns.”

  I never did catch her name; and for that matter couldn’t remember the name of the nurse who tried to rip me off either.

  “Well?” I asked. “What about her then? You don’t think you potted her, do you?”

  “No,” he replied. “It’s just that….., well. Oh shit…, you know!”

  I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. He kept squirming around on the easy chair, looking at his feet and then across at the wall and then back to his feet again; embarrassed as hell.

  “For Christ’s sake, Pete!” I exclaimed. “I don’t know! What the hell are you going on about?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Either come out with it, or shut up and get on with the cards. We haven’t got all night to discuss your love problems.”

  I liked to win at cards, but at least I had to have some competition.

  “I think I’ve given her a dose,” he blurted, and then ducked his head again.

  I started to laugh, which probably wasn’t the right thing to do at the time. He yelled at me. “It’s not bloody funny, you know! She was a nice girl!”

  He was offended; but it was him that had given her the clap, not me.

  “Okay,” I said. “I shouldn’t have laughed. I’m sorry. But why do you think you’ve given it to her?”

  “Because I think I’ve got all the symptoms, that’s why. I only discovered it this morning.”

  He told me what he had found. He had the clap all right. There was no way he could have got it from the receptionist, but he would have given it to her, that much was certain.

  “I can’t think where I could’ve got it from,” he continued. “The last girl I slept with was my steady girlfriend in Adelaide; the night before we left. I couldn’t have got it from her; and there hasn’t been anyone else for months. But where the hell?” His voice was rising again.

  I looked at him, saying nothing. There was nothing I could say. He had to reach the simple conclusion for himself.

  “Oh shit!” he suddenly cried. “The two-timing bitch! The whore! How could she do this to me? We’ve been going together for over six months!”

  I didn’t think it was an opportune time to remind him that she had been doing exactly what he had been doing in Cairns, only sooner. I sat without speaking and watched as he filled his glass to the brim.

  I stood up and put a hand on his shoulder. “Pete, it’s too late to cry about it. The important thing now is to notify that receptionist and let her know what’s happened. It’s lucky you took her back to her flat. Do you still have the address?”

  He nodded, looking more miserable than ever, and asked: “How are we going to do that from this bloody ship?”

  I wasn’t certain how the we came into it.

  “You’ve got two options,” I replied. “You can place a call over the ship’s radio and talk to her on the phone, or you can send her a cable the same way, carefully worded of course. The only other alternative is to call her when we get to Singapore, but that might be too late for some other poor bastard.” I squeezed his shoulder and moved back against the wall.

  “Oh, shit!” he said. “If I send a cable, or call on the radio, every bastard is going to know. I’ll be the laughing stock of the entire ship.”

  The poor bugger was worried sick. It must have been the first time it had happened to him. Give him a few more years in the import-export business and he would know all about it. I felt like kidding him along, but didn’t think he could take much more, and besides, I was the only one he could turn to.

  “No,” I offered. “Not necessarily. A telegram could be worded carefully so that only you and she would know what it meant. You could tell her that perhaps her boss could tell her something she ought to know. Nobody on board would know that he’s a doctor. She would get the hint quick enough. She’ll think you’re a real bastard, but it’s better to know now than to find out the hard way later on.”

  He thought about it for a while, taking a couple more belts at the whisky.

  “Yeah, you’re probably right.” The rest of the glassful went down his throat. “Yeah, okay. I’ll get on to it in the morning. Right now I’m not feeling too well.”

  His face had gone pale, his eyes were glazed. It was either the motion of the ship, or the rapid intake of whisky; but more
likely a combination of the two. “I think I might go to bed,” he muttered. “We’ll send the cable off in the morning.”

  Bed was not the place for him, at least not yet. He needed to get rid of some of the whisky; either over the side or walk it off. If he collapsed on his bunk with that load still on board, chances were he would wake up in the morning with the blanket covered in it.

  “What you need,” I said. “Is some fresh air.”

  He didn’t disagree. He was getting paler by the minute and I was half worried that he might throw up on the cabin floor, so I took him by the arm and led him along the corridor and outside on to the deck. It was still raining, but not as hard as it had been an hour or so previously.

  “Wait here,” I said. “I’ll get you a jacket.”

  I raced back to the cabin, grabbed my parka, and was back out to him in seconds.

  “Here,” I said. “Put this on and head up towards the bow. I’ll catch you up in a couple of minutes. Just let me get my other jacket.”

  I usually carried two raincoats with me: the short one that I had given to Pete and a much longer one that went down past my knees. Pete had finished up with the short jacket simply because it was handy, lying at the bottom of the cupboard where I had thrown it after returning from our first walk around Cairns.

  The other jacket was still packed away in one of my suitcases. I found it in the second case that I searched and it was five minutes or more before I came back out on deck. The deck lights didn’t give off much of a glow and I couldn’t see Pete, so I went back for my torch, wasting a few more minutes.

  He was still nowhere to be seen when I returned. He must have taken my advice and headed off along the rain-soaked deck towards the bow.