“Look, there's the Athens Hilton,” called an excited trans-Atlantic female voice behind me, from another group. “Wait while I take a picture of it.”
Joanne's eyes met mine, and we exchanged smiles. This was the high spot of our tour.
We returned to the Koh-i-Noor at around one-thirty. After a light lunch, I wrote some cards – but couldn't post them, as the ship's shop had run out of stamps! Perhaps I would despatch them at Port Said.
Saturday, 9th July: The Koh-i-Noor must have stopped before I awoke, because an envelope with an English stamp had been placed on my breakfast tray. I opened it, whilst gazing abstractedly through my port-hole: it was from my family. A few words had been scrawled by my father; there were a couple of sentences from my sister Jane; but the letter was predominantly in the neat measured handwriting of my mother:
“Dear Edwin,
Thank you for your card. As always, it was lovely to hear from you. You seem to be having a good trip. Are they giving you enough to eat ...”
Mother was still an attractive woman, slim and elegant in an understated way, with wavy light brown hair and wide expressive hazel eyes. When the war had started and Dad had volunteered, my parents had sent me to Wales as an evacuee, to be safe from the bombing. The house in Clapham had been locked up, and she had returned to her job as a receptionist at the Savoy Hotel, overlooking the River Thames, where she had first met my father. The hotel was now somewhat drab and disconsolate, less gay, less sparkling, its magnificence muted. She visited me at the farm in Llangammarch Wells whenever she had a weekend off (which was infrequently); on free weekdays she took the tube to Clapham Common to chat to the neighbours over a cup of tea, air our house and check that it hadn't been damaged in the bombing raids.
When the war was over, father found a job as head chef in a fashionable restaurant in Piccadilly, which stayed open till well after midnight; he didn't get home before two o'clock most nights. He was busiest on a Saturday – and Sunday was his only day off. Thus Mum shared very little social life with him. Between her chores of cleaning, washing, shopping and cooking, she spent long hours on the phone, keeping in touch with her extended family, of which she was the hub, advising and reassuring her sister and her many female cousins. Perhaps because of her loneliness and the continuing feelings of guilt (at having sent me away during my formative years), she drew very close to me, and treated me like a mother hen.
Soon after I had started at Clapham Grammar, we discovered that the school had no biology laboratories; consequently there was no GCE teaching at either O-level or A-level in Zoology or Botany. I had wanted to become a doctor for as long as I could remember, and I needed passes at A-level in these subjects to gain entry into medical school. When she learned this, mother set about convincing the headmaster of the need for the new laboratories, deploying all her energy and charm. She became a frequent visitor to the school, embarrassing me at break-times when she was seen emerging from the Head's study, to be escorted by him on the lengthy walk down the corridor and out of the main entrance. All the school noticed the contrast between the beautiful vivacious brunette and the dignified white-haired gentleman with the recently acquired smile and the new spring in his step. I cringed at the comments of the other boys.
Yet the meetings bore fruit. The headmaster took up the cause with a dedication, surprising in someone nearing the end of his career, and rumoured to want nothing more than a quiet life. He persuaded the board of governors of the benefits to the school from new biology laboratories, and even persuaded an Old Boy, now a baron of industry, to fund the project. Together with the senior science master, he and my mother spent long hours poring over building plans and catalogues of microscopes and dissecting instruments; they solicited quotations from builders; mother was even involved in discussing the course syllabuses and the most suitable examining bodies.
Finally, in the summer of 1953, just before I was due to start my A-levels, the single-storey building was completed, the interior decorated and equipped, and the Biology Laboratories were formally opened.
It was hot and airless on deck, as we proceeded at only four knots; too uncomfortable to sunbathe. Since early morning, we had been passing through the Suez Canal – I had been informed that this would take all day. In places, the canal was so narrow that the ship was almost scraping the sides; however, we never touched, thanks to the skill of our Egyptian pilot. On the shore were laden camels, their drivers in flowing white robes; I saw oases of palm trees and mirages from the heat; sand dunes stretched into the purple distance. I felt I was on a film set!
This evening, just as I was finishing dinner in Tourist Class, I was called from my table by the head waiter from First Class:
“There's a wee lassie next door gone unconscious, Sir,” he murmured confidentially. “I wonder if you could just step across with me.”
I complied. To my surprise, I found myself led to my own First Class table: on the floor, sprawled a young, adolescent girl, whom I recognised as Adela Harkwood-Smythe; the other passengers had interrupted their meal to stare at her, but nobody seemed inclined to help; there was no sign of her parents. She lay on her back; her face was a livid red, and she was breathing stertorously; a trickle of blood and saliva escaped from the corner of her mouth; a moist patch crept from under her rucked-up skirt, to form a small steaming puddle on the floor, instantly to be absorbed by the thick carpet.
I knelt at her side, checking that the airway was clear. I wrapped my handkerchief around a soup-spoon, and manoeuvred it into the side of her mouth to protect the tongue from being bitten again. Her pulse was bounding; a quick neurological examination was satisfactory.
“She's had an epileptic fit,” I concluded.
However, now all four limbs moved normally when I applied supra-orbital pressure – she would be awake before long, and none the worse. I rolled her into the recovery position, and asked the waiter to phone for our hospital orderly; soon the patient was on a trolley, and wheeled away to complete her recovery in the ship's hospital, under the matronly eye of Sister Pitrose.
I went in search of the girl's parents, and found Mr and Mrs Harkwood-Smythe in their lavish state-room.
“I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. Adela has just had a fit. She's recovering satisfactorily, but I believe that she has epilepsy ...”
They gazed at me as though I were an idiot:
“Of course she has epilepsy, Dr Scott,” Mrs Harkwood-Smythe replied languidly. “The silly girl is always forgetting to take her tablets. Sometimes I think she does it deliberately, just to annoy us ...”
Later that evening, Christopher McFee had another “pour-out” for the junior officers. I had been advised by the senior surgeon, that one of my duties on board was to attend the officers' parties, to represent the medical department; so, naturally, I was there. Christopher was a two-striper, tall, tanned and athletic, with sandy hair and startling green eyes; he had the faintest Irish brogue, and a smile hovered constantly around his lips. He was charming, friendly, extrovert, and I had taken to him from the moment we first met.
“Let me get you a drink, Edwin ... pink gin okay?”
The cabin was warm, dark and smoky.
“That'll be the day when you say goodbye,” sang the Everly Brothers from one corner.
“That'll be the day when you make me cry ...”
About twenty men were crammed into the tiny space, all nursing pink gins – the least expensive drink on board.
“You say you're gonna leave ... You know it's a lie,
Cause that'll be the day-ay-ay when I die.”
On the bed sat an engineering officer with one and a half stripes on his shoulders. He was unnaturally pale, dark-haired, sinewy, but broad of shoulder; all his attention appeared to be focussed on his gin. I made my way over, gazed down at him, and introduced myself.
“Sure I ken who y'are,” he responded after a while, with a strong, but surprisingly attractive Glaswegian accent. “I'm Jamie Cameron, third engi
neer.”
I lowered myself onto the bunk beside him, and endeavoured to engage him in conversation. Despite the loud music from the gramophone, the deafening bursts of laughter and the high-volume background noise, I was able to decipher occasional words and phrases:
“I'm fro' Glasgie ... Nae doot ya ken me mokker Davey ... Last necht ...”
However, it was almost like a foreign language.
I nodded and smiled. Gradually, I became acclimatised to the dialect. Over the next forty minutes, with long intervening silences while he drank or relapsed into thought, I extracted from him that he was twenty-five years old, came from the tough Shettlestone area of Glasgow, and loved in equal measure football, gin and the workings of the ship's engines. On the latter subject, he became quite voluble – almost lyrical. Next I learned that he had two younger brothers, and that his father drank too much; he used to thrash the boys with his belt every Friday night when he returned from the pub. To escape from home, Jamie had worked in a garage, and studied at night school for his engineering qualifications, before joining the Orient Line.
“ ... As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, so deep in luv am I, And I will luv thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry ...” I realised with a start that this enigmatic junior officer had changed the subject yet again, and was now entertaining me with the poetry of Robbie Burns. Soon he was listing his less esoteric literary preferences:
“Alexandre Dumas: Three Musketeers ... Count of Monte Cristo ... Twenty Years After ... Man in the Iron Mask ... Sir Arthur Conan Doyle: Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes ... Study in Scarlet ... Hound of the Baskervilles ... Sign of Four ... His last Bow...” A warm glow spread over me – a fellow Sherlock Holmes aficionado; we lapsed into a contented silence ...
“Yon Davey's a brae laddie, mon ...”
“Hi, doc.” I was brought out of my trance. “Davey Goodenow (spelt 'Goodenough') ... Second Ship's Officer at your service ... Having trouble with young Cameron here? Mind you, I've been watching, and you've got more words out of him than we usually hear in a month.”
He was tall, slim, with light brown curly hair and a casual manner. He smoked a cigar, and I noticed a snowy handkerchief peeping from his left sleeve.
“What think ye of the good ship Koh-i-Noor? The Company reckons she's the bees knees; but with a name like that, I expect she'll be jinxed ...”
Davey's voice was raised, and several heads turned in our direction, a frown on their faces, between puzzlement and consternation. For all their sophistication, the officers – like all seamen – remained fundamentally superstitious. He flushed slightly, before deftly changing the subject:
“Come, Edwin, you must meet our guest of honour. This is actually a slightly late twenty-first birthday party for Danny ...”
He gave Jamie Cameron an infinitesimal bow, raised me by the elbow, and led me towards the third radio officer. Danny Stone was flushed, and grinned inanely when we arrived; in his hand was clutched an empty glass. He was standing next to a three-striper, much older than himself.
“This is Graham Parkin, doc, our First Radio Officer ...”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr Scott ...”
Parkin was plump, pale and sweaty. He had been drinking heavily, and his high-pitched voice was slurred. He leered at me, and giggled. He gave me the creeps ...
Sunday, 10th July: I awoke with a faint hangover. Immediately I was aware of a change in the ship's motion. Looking through the port-hole from my bunk, I could see only empty sky: we had cleared the Suez Canal, and were once again in open water. We were steaming, at full speed, through a calm Red Sea. I breakfasted frugally in my cabin, on freshly-squeezed orange juice, black coffee, toast and marmalade; I dressed, and sauntered up on deck.
Here I was fanned by a cool breeze; I felt altogether more comfortable than yesterday, and my spirits soared. From the aft rail, I watched the white wake, churned up by the ship's screws, disappear into the distance, whilst I marvelled at the hue and clarity of the ultramarine waters. There was no land in sight; the horizon was a hazy smudge, where the paler blue of the sky met the sea. We were alone in a limitless ocean.
The loud clanging of the fire-bell broke into my thoughts. I glanced at my wrist watch – eleven o'clock. I saw no smoke or flames, so assumed this to be a fire-drill. As ever, when I was in a public space, I was wearing my full uniform whites. I made my way purposefully to my designated lifeboat. Around me on the boat-deck was hyperactivity bordering on panic, as passengers were shepherded to their boats by members of the crew, the lifeboats were uncovered in preparation for a launch, and life-jackets were donned. However, the atmosphere became lighter, almost festive, as soon as the passengers realized that there was no danger – that it was only a drill!
We were kept at our posts for what seemed an age, but was probably only ten minutes. The bell fell silent, and there was an announcement over the intercom:
“Ladies and gentlemen, your captain speaking. Well done with your drill for abandoning ship; but, as you no doubt realize, it was only a drill. You may now all stand down. However, we will complete the exercise, by lowering Boat Four into the Red Sea. It's lucky that the sea is calm today (a low chuckle came over the intercom) ... Go ahead, lowering crew.”
I realised, with dismay, that Boat Four was my lifeboat; now this was swung over the side. Beside me stood Jamie Cameron, a quarter-master, and five ordinary seamen. We kept our life-jackets on and climbed into the boat, as the passengers began to disband.
“Recollect, ye're the senior officer here, doc,” Jamie murmured laconically. “Ye're in charge ... As ye're the medic, ye have our special bag ...” (He gestured to a secure locker at the rear of the boat.) “Contains syringes wi' morphine, as well as th' usual first-aid kit. Aye, we're quite lucky on this boat really ...”
The lifeboat was lowered slowly, agonisingly slowly, on four pulleys – the lowering crew taking great care not to tip us out; it was like descending from the top of a ten-story hotel. All the other occupants were casual and relaxed; they had probably practised this manoeuvre countless times before. I daren't look down, and clung to my cap and to the side of the boat for dear life, while we swayed gently from side to side. High above, I could see the tiny faces of the passengers, leaning over the rails, trying to get a better view of the spectacle. About fifteen minutes later, we made a perfect soft landing on the surface of the water; from above came a distant cheer and some muted applause.
The Koh-i-Noor had stopped her engines, and we floated beside her gently for a few minutes. My gaze was drawn hypnotically to the still, turquoise waters; I felt vertiginous, unable to contemplate the depth ...
I had always hated swimming, at school. There had been a lead weight in my stomach, from the moment the bus left Clapham Grammar for the swimming pool in Battersea, until I was debouched into the street outside the Latchmere Baths at the end of the afternoon, hair wet, the smell of chlorine in my nose, but relieved to be back in full school uniform. Johnny East on the other hand was a natural swimmer, a natural all-round athlete. He used to carve his way effortlessly through the bright blue water of the pool, collecting many of the school's trophies at our swimming galas. He was slim, lithe; his hair was dark, his skin was of an olive Mediterranean hue, but his accent was reassuringly South London.
I found myself seated next to him on my first day at Clapham Grammar School for Boys, and from that day we became best friends. Because of his good looks, his athleticism and his easy unselfconscious manner, he was the golden boy at school. I couldn't believe that I would retain his friendship throughout my school-days, and spent many sleepless nights worrying about it; but he remained constant. He came to my birthday parties, and invited me to his; he accompanied me on cycle rides to Claremont Lake, and Croydon Airport (though we didn't make it all the way to Brighton); we took dancing lessons together in a surprisingly luxurious ballroom behind a garage in Balham. For hours on end we ambled around the school lawn, deep in conversation, putting the world to rights.
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br /> When our Biology Laboratories were opened, he joined me in the first intake to the A-level Zoology and Botany courses. There were four of us: Brian Pitt, Brian Thomas, Johnny and myself; together we became the Four Musketeers, going everywhere together. Brian Pitt was made School Captain. Brian Thomas was a quiet, taciturn lad, pale,sinuous and broad-shouldered; it was rumoured that he could handle himself in a fight, and even Rory Harrison (the school bully) kept clear of him; apart from his Clapham accent, he reminded me a lot of my new friend Jamie Cameron.
The Four Musketeers were reunited twice, in the year after leaving school: first at the Windmill Inn on Clapham Common, near the old school, and then at the Joint Services NAAFI Club, just off Trafalgar Square (as guests of Brian Pitt). Although I often wondered what became of the others, I never met them again ...
“Man overboard!”
I was woken from my reverie by a sudden splash behind me; I was shocked to see a figure floating a few feet away; however, on closer inspection, I found it was only a life-sized inflatable doll, kitted out in a sailor's uniform. One of the seamen threw it a rubber ring with a rope attached, which it naturally failed to grasp; there was another, louder cheer when we hauled the dummy aboard with a grappling-pole.
When we had all been brought safely back on board, and my feet were again on firm ground, my main feeling was one of relief that I hadn't lost that vital item of my equipment (without which I wouldn't be allowed on deck) – my naval cap!
Tuesday 12th July: At Aden we dropped anchor two miles out, but, because of sporadic fighting between Government forces and the Yemeni rebels, no-one was allowed ashore. I stood on deck, observing the activity around me through Charlie Hardcastle's powerful binoculars; with these I had a grandstand view of the flotilla of small boats which plied the harbour, selling exotic fruit, cloths and carved artefacts. It was like a cross between Venice and a Cairo bazaar. I photographed the small sailing dhows and rowing boats, the low shacks and buildings of the port, and the convoy of motor launches shuttling between it and the Koh-i-Noor to supply us with fresh food and water. In the distance loomed the brooding mountain ranges of Yemen, enveloped in purple-black storm clouds. The far-off booming I could hear from the ship was not the gunfire of the rival forces, but the rumble of distant thunder.
Death on the Koh-i-Noor (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 3) Page 3
