Deck boy, p.24
Deck Boy, page 24
“And Aaron,” I said.
“Will you come and sit with us? I want to keep away from that Rat’bone and the others.”
“Yeah, sure, if we can. I’m just going to Michael’s now.”
“See you later then.” He could hardly walk. I watched him hobble down the alleyway, one hand against the bulkhead.
A smell of cologne or springtime body rub met me at Michael’s curtain. Shirley Bassey was singing her heart out. I tapped and went in. “Ben! Darling! Happy Christmas.” He kissed me on the cheek. The cabin was gay with streamers. Bright stars and a Christmas fairy swung from the deckhead. Two bottles of champagne, one open, stood in a red fire bucket. “Luigi! Barbara!” He yelled down the alleyway. “Ben’s here.”
Luigi arrived looking like a pirate with a big gold earring and a scarf round his hair. Barbara carried a glass and was a wreck.
“For goodness sake!” Michael said impatiently. “Look at the state of you.” He took the glass and tipped it down the sink. “Sit down there and I’ll make you a coffee.”
Barbara resisted. “No, I wan’ give Ben his present.” A parcel wrapped in Christmas paper and tied with ribbon lay on the bunk. He pushed Michael aside and gave it to me with stubby hands, his nails bitten and fingers ingrained with engine oil. Not many people called Barbara had hands like that. “Hap’ Christmas, Ben. You’re our frien’. I hope you like it.” The ship rolled and he clung to Luigi for support.
“It’s from all of us,” Michael explained.
“I didn’t realise we were going to … I’m afraid I haven’t …”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter. Don’t be so bourgeois! Anyway, you gave each of us a gorgeous card.”
“Go on,” Barbara said. “Open it.”
I read the Santa gift tag, untied the ribbon and opened the wrapping paper. It was a black shirt. I had never owned a black shirt.
“Try it on then. Let’s see if it fits.”
I pulled off my crumpled T-shirt. The shirt was silk with mother-of-pearl buttons. I fastened them and pulled it straight.
“Oh, yes,” Michael said. “Very Rudolph Valentino.”
“Who?” I said.
“It was either that or the red,” said Barbara.
“No, it’s great,” I said, secretly wishing they had chosen red.
Luigi stood back critically. “You look’a good. You remind me of my brother. He wears’a black. Only his hairs’a dark like me.”
“I didn’t know you had a brother,” I said. “What’s he called?”
“Giuseppe,” he said. “He’s eleven.”
“Eleven! I hope I look more than eleven.”
“Mm … Twelve maybe.”
“I’m sixteen!” My age was a subject I tried to avoid. “Anyway, I love it. Thanks very much.” I stroked the shiny material. “OK if I wear it for the Christmas lunch?”
“Of course! Now,” Michael pirouetted and struck a pose “Christmas comes but once a year, You’ve got to have some shampoo, my dear!” He screamed with laughter and pulled a bottle from the ice.
Unwisely I accepted.
Fishnet Tights and a Party
FOR THREE hundred and sixty-four days of the year, the crew of a ship do the officers’ bidding. Just once the roles are reversed; the officers serve Christmas dinner.
At one o’clock I was sitting between Charlie and Aaron with a third glass of champagne before me and a can of lager waiting to be poured. Michael, Barbara and Luigi sat opposite with Ossie safely among them. We pulled the crackers and put on paper hats, read out the jokes and told better jokes of our own.
The first course was prawn cocktails with avocado, served by the mate in Santa Claus whiskers and Philip in a stetson with a toy gun belt round his hips. Barney, the chef, had made a special effort for Christmas and they were delicious.
There was to be a second starter and Tim Nettles, wearing a Westport Wanderers’ strip with American football shoulders, emerged to serve the soup – according to the menu, cream of asparagus. Word had reached us that he would be assisted by Tony Fanshott-Williams. But where was the senior cadet? My friend Kevin, the galley-boy, sweating in his white jacket and hat, emerged from the galley and beat a saucepan with a large wooden spoon. Everyone turned. Kevin retired. We waited. Seconds passed. Then the galley doors burst open and Tony appeared.
“Ta-ra!” He struck a pose.
A shock ran through me. My skin crawled.
Tony had planned to be the star of the occasion but he was unpopular and had gone too far. Like a student on rag day, he had dressed in drag: a shimmery top with a padded bra, a tight skirt, blond wig, bangles, make-up, false eyelashes. With a sexy wiggle he crossed to the soup tureen.
“What a prat!” The air filled with catcalls: “You fancy yoursel’ don’t yer? … Get ’em off! … Anyone gorra sick bag? … Rather kiss my old woman than you! … Boo, boo!” Bread rolls rattled about his head.
The second mate turned his back to hide a smile.
“What a Mary!” Charlie said. “He’s blown it.”
“Great!” It was a moment to savour. I reached for my champagne.
The second mate started at the far side of the messroom. It was Tony, hot-eyed and sweating with humiliation, who served our table. His lips were shocking red, his mascara was melting. Deliberately he slopped the soup into my bowl, letting it splash the table. As he withdrew the ladle it dribbled across my new shirt.
I jumped back, mopping and rubbing, but the damage was done. “You did that on purpose!”
“Little accident,” he sneered, venting his anger on me. “I’m more used to the bridge than this sort of work.”
“Do that to me,” Charlie said, full of the Christmas spirit, “I’ll knock your teeth down your throat.”
Tony didn’t spill a drop.
But Michael, who cleaned the officers’ cabins and served them at table, was incensed. “Hey, Second,” he called loudly. “I never use bad language but this bastard here deliberately slopped soup all over the place. Will you get him to mop it up please.”
“It was an accident!” Tony protested.
“Liar,” everyone shouted.
The second mate came to mediate. Tony was told to fetch a cloth from the galley. With hate in his eyes he wiped the table and brought me a clean plate.
The main course – freshly-carved turkey, stuffing, chipolatas and all the trimmings – needed every officer to lend a hand. Like the rest of Christmas dinner, it was excellent.
Then it was time for the pudding. Kevin appeared a second time and rattled his saucepan. “Not that bloody cadet again,” somebody said. Conversation died. We waited. The galley doors opened a slit. A slim leg appeared, clad in fishnet tights. Then an arm with a silver glove to the elbow and glittering bangles. This wasn’t drag, it was the real thing. A blast of Big Spender came from the loudspeakers. The crew whistled and shouted. The door opened wider. A bare shoulder appeared. A sequined hip. A second glove. Then the doors were flung wide and Trish stood in the entrance. She had dressed as a bunny girl and looked sensational. The whistling and shouts rose to a crescendo.
“Hello, darlings!” She had to say it four times before she was heard. “Now it’s time for something – sweet!” Her voice was husky, seductive. I wondered if she had been an actress.
Some of the crew jumped to their feet, others sat back laughing.
“Silly cow.” Smoky sat at the next table. “It’s pathetic. Showing off to a bunch of sex-starved sailors. What’s she think she’s doing?”
I looked round for the mate. He had gone, just as he had disappeared when his wife was being ducked on the equator.
Charlie half sang, “There’s going to be trou – ble.”
“Now, all you lovely sailors. What would you like next?” She wriggled her shoulders. “Christmas pudding with dee-liciously smooo-th spicy sauce?” Kevin passed it to her on a dish and she held it aloft like a beauty queen. “Or succulent, crea-my trifle?”
The messroom erupted:
“Whatever you like, darlin’! … Who cares? … What’re you doin’ this afternoon? … I’d rather ’ave an ’elping o’ you!”
Trish had wanted to make an impact but not like this. She looked round anxiously.
Tim Nettles moved to her side. “OK everyone, settle down.” He waved quietening hands. “I’ll do the Christmas pud, Mrs Rose will serve the trifle.”
“I want trifle!”
“We want trifle!” Spoons and fists thudded on the tables.
“All right, all right.” The second mate stepped forward. “Mrs Rose wants you all to have a good time. Give her a chance.”
“I’ll give her a chance all right.”
“What’s a bunny girl got to do with Christmas? That’s Easter.”
“Any time suits me.”
Another cheer.
Tim Nettles murmured in her ear. They began to serve pudding. He started at the back, football shoulders moving between the tables. Trish started at the front.
It was never going to work. As she bent to serve the trifle, rough hands grabbed at her fishnet tights.
“Don’t!” She straightened.
Someone caught her pompom tail and wouldn’t let go. A strong arm circled her waist.
“What about a Christmas kiss?” A mouth was raised.
“No!” She backed away. “Please!”
“What about my puddin’? I bin waiting hours!”
“Sorry, I – ” She snagged a heel and stumbled. Someone caught her. The big bowl of trifle smashed to the deck. Her tights were covered in cream and jelly. Somehow she was sitting on Rat’bone’s knee. She tried to rise. He held her tight.
“Leave her alone.” Samuel stood above him.
With a laugh Rat’bone opened his arms.
Trish’s heel was broken, her hair tumbled from its clasp. She was crying. Samuel tried to help. She pulled from his kindly support and ran away to the galley. Kevin emerged to see what was happening. Her trifle-covered foot skidded. She crashed into the door and fell. With a final sob she pushed past and was gone.
“Poor Trish,” I said.
“Silly bitch, more like.” Charlie was unsympathetic. “What’s she expect, flaunting herself like that to a roomful of half-drunk sailors?”
The mess was cleared up. Philip appeared with a second bowl of trifle. It was followed by fresh coffee with cream, marzipan fruits and chocolate mints.
The memorable lunch was concluded.
“Three cheers for the chef! Three cheers for Barney!”
The wizened chef, who had been labouring for days and was now helplessly drunk, appeared from the galley.
“Hip-hip, hooray! Hip-hip – ”
Smoky presented him with a tumbler of whisky.
“Thanks … boys.” He clung to the side of the door. “Enjoy … your meal?”
“Fantastic! Best ever!”
“Good.” He raised the glass. “Cheers!” He drank it down. “Just what the doctor …” His eyes glazed and he slid to the deck.
“Hooray!”
*
There was plenty of company and no shortage of things to do: deck golf, sunbathing, cooling off in the pool, films on video, reading, music, sailors’ yarns and Christmas cake for smoko.
I spent the afternoon sobering up and by seven o’clock, my black shirt washed and ironed, I was lying on the day bed, killing time before the party that was planned for that evening.
Abruptly the curtains swished back and Barbara appeared, ready for the fray, glass in one hand, green nail varnish drying on the other. “What do you think?” He spun round on the rug. “Your honest opinion. I want to hear it from you because you’re my friends.”
I was startled but Charlie was more laid back. “Very nice,” he said. “Turn round again.”
Barbara turned his back.
“Yeah, fine.”
“You don’t think it’s too – well, you know what people are like.”
“Absolutely not,” Charlie said decisively.
Barbara turned to me. “You’re very quiet, Ben. And if I may say so you look absolutely dishy, those trousers with the shirt. And your hair done like that.”
I didn’t know what to say, for Barbara was wearing a little black dress with a sequined skirt, black tights, a tumbling auburn wig and green accessories. The top of the dress cut into shoulders that looked as if they humped sacks of coal. His muscular legs were those of a wrestler, bleeding where he had cut himself shaving. His eye shadow was opal green above a broken nose.
“You look great,” I said.
“You think so, really?”
“Only one thing,” Charlie suggested. “If you don’t mind my saying. Your boobs are a bit lopsided.”
“Oh, tell me about it, I’ve been trying for half an hour. They keep slipping.” Barbara dived into his cleavage and rearranged the scrunched-up paper towels that served for the real thing. He wriggled his shoulders. “There, is that any better?”
“Much.”
“Oh, thanks. You boys have no idea what us girls have to put up with.”
*
There’s an old story: Two sailors are walking down the road and see a man lying in the gutter outside a pub. “Look at that,” says one. “It’s disgusting, he’s drunk!” “No he’s not,” says the other. “I saw him move.”
I tell this story because that’s more or less what happened to me at the party. I got drunk. Really drunk. For the first time in my life and the only time that trip – in fact, the only time until I was much older. How it came about and why I kept on drinking I’ve no idea, because getting drunk was the last thing I intended, especially since I’d spent the afternoon sobering up. Maybe it had to happen sometime, I don’t know. Maybe if I’d had any idea how truly awful the hangover was going to be I might have exercised some self control. But I didn’t, it was a kind of madness, and when people tried to restrain me I brushed them aside.
I remember the first hour well enough: the karaoke, the music, the cheers as Michael and Barbara made their entrance, the first two lagers with Charlie and Aaron. After that things get increasingly blurred. At one stage, I know, I tried and failed to do some breakdancing with Charlie who was brilliant. Another time I danced cheek to cheek with the delectable Trish and got into trouble for clutching her bottom. During a lull in the music I picked up one of those chrome ashtrays on a stand, overflowing with cigarette stubs, and having missed out on the karaoke, I sang into it like a microphone while everyone laughed and Michael tried to get me to put it down. Then I think I must have dozed off in a corner because someone buried me in empty cans and when I struggled to my feet they crashed around me like a dozen suits of armour. At some stage too, I jived with Barbara, his wig lopsided, teeth red with lipstick and one boob missing. And there’s a half-memory of leaning on the stern rail, looking down at the wash and eating a slab of Christmas cake while Charlie and Michael ran through the ship in a panic, shouting my name. Michael, no doubt remembering Curly, was so upset that he burst into tears and smacked me across the face.
I must have returned to the party after that because I clearly remember Barbara getting into a fight with the bosun and kicking him in the crotch, which earned him a cheer.
By this time I was wearing shorts because my shirt and trousers had gone missing. The next morning, when I felt so terrible I wouldn’t have minded if I had been tipped over the side, the four-to-eight watch found them fluttering like flags from the mainmast. I think I hoisted them up there myself because I have a dim memory of giggling as I slotted the halyard through the belt loops. But I could be wrong.
Anyway, that was Christmas. And two days later, in the early morning of December the twenty-seventh, we arrived in New Zealand.
PART FIVE
NEW ZEALAND
Volcanic Springs
“I’M GOING to like it here.” Charlie sipped from his mug of tea.
“Look at those beaches.”
“And the water,” I said. Crystal clear and every blue from ultramarine to palest turquoise. A big fish, not a shark, swam in the depths. “Different from the mucky brown in Westport.”
It was afternoon smoko and we idled offshore to allow a container vessel to clear the narrows before heading in around the mountain. ‘Mountain’ is an exaggeration, but Mount Maunganui, the extinct volcano after which the town was named, rose seven hundred feet straight from the sea. As soon as the channel was clear, we turned into the vast Tauranga Bay, took the pilot aboard, and an hour later were tied up alongside.
To my delight there was a letter from home. Joey had only written half a page, most was from Fizz, but there was plenty of news. They were getting engaged at Christmas, she had written in mid-December. In the new year she was starting a computer course at Westport Tech. Joey had found a job stacking shelves at Sainsbury’s, but he was training with the Wanderers’ youth team and expected to get a game soon. They hoped I was having a great time and sent their love. Happy to be remembered, I found fresh tea and chocolate cake in the messroom and took them to the cabin to re-read my letter and play some tapes.
My days in Maunganui, a town in the Bay of Plenty on New Zealand’s east coast, were among the happiest of the trip. The happiest, that is, apart from an incident on the very first evening.
The mountain towered above us. There must be, I was sure, a terrific view from the summit and I tried to persuade some of the others to climb it with me. No one was interested, at least not right then, so shortly after dinner I set out by myself.
There were tracks but much of the way I found myself ploughing through heather and shrubs. It was hot work but that did not trouble me. What did trouble me were the clouds of black flies, minute and vicious, that rose from the ground and every single twig. My legs were savaged, they stuck to my sweating neck, crawled up my shorts, swarmed in my hair and sank their teeth into every morsel of flesh within their reach. I broke into a run, a panting uphill scramble, hoping to leave them behind. It didn’t work; the second I slowed down there they were again, intent, it seemed, on driving me crazy so they could feast at their leisure on my remains.
At last I reached the summit where thankfully a land breeze cleared the air. It had been worth the effort: beneath me lay the great sandy sweep of the Bay of Plenty, the darkening Pacific, and westward, towards the setting sun, a wilderness from which dinosaurs might have emerged. I wished Charlie had been there to share it.
