Hollow Sea (54 page)

The worst of the whole bloody beastly business was others looking on, looking on whilst you tried and failed, whilst you shouted and stamped about, whilst you smiled or frowned. His mind was suddenly full of names and numbers.

'Must check up to-day,' he said. 'Must check up to-day.'

Yes. Hump should have all that information ready for him, ready to his hand. Damn! How long was this going on for anyhow?

Crilly came back with an extra blanket, spread it over the man. He looked up at Mr. Walters. He said nothing, thought nothing. His hands and arms and legs moved, functioned. He had helped to carry the man here, made him comfortable. It meant nothing to him. It was a job. He had done it many times.

'You must stay here with this man, Crilly,' Mr. Walters said. 'I'll see something is sent along to you. You'll be relieved in two hours.'

He went off, leaving the door wide open behind him. He knew the sun would pour in there too. When he went below to his room, Mr. Hump was already there.

'Hello,' he said. 'I didn't know you were down here. Been down long?'

'A few minutes ago,' Hump said. 'I've a bit of a headache.'

'Oh, aye! I should bloody well think you would have. I haven't forgotten your capers and your guzzling in the stores, Mr. Hump. Nor have I forgotten that you left me stranded the other night. The top-hat, of course, is quite another matter. I know where you got it from, and the tails. But I should worry. Your head wasn't exactly built for a topper, Mr. Hump. Haven't they brought tea along yet?'

Mr. Walters stared around the room.

'Haven't seen any signs of it yet,' Hump said.

'Press the bell then,' replied Mr. Walters.

There was something so stuffy and depressing about the room today. He had noticed it first thing this morning when he woke up. And he had been worrying about it all morning. Untidy, dusty, he'd have to get a man on the job. And somehow the bunk didn't seem as comfortable as it used to. He wondered whether that was due to Hump's having slept in it by mistake. He had made a fool of himself that night all right. Tight as a duke, and he knew where he had got the stuff from, too.

'You've got into a habit lately, Mr. Hump, of running your fingers through your hair, and I hate it, fact. Bloody awful habit. And you do it everywhere, over your meals, over others. You ought to pull yourself up a bit, Mr. Hump. It's not exactly nice, is it?'

'Here's the tea now,' said Mr. Hump, closing the conversation at that point.

Mr. Walters moved away as the door opened and a steward came in carrying a tray on which was a sugar-basin and milk jug, small tea-pot and two cups and saucers. He stood holding it.

'All right, man. Put it down anywhere. Here.'

He cleared the desk of papers, pens, hats and cigarettes. 'Here.'

The steward put down the tray and retired as noiselessly as he had come.

'I don't want any damned tea,' said Mr. Hump as he struggled into a greasy white jacket, the cleanest he had at the moment. He brushed back his thin hair, and then bent down to fasten his shoelace.

Mr. Walters stepped up on to the rail of his bunk and looked through the open port.

'What a bloody lovely day,' he said.

Then he stepped down again, helped himself to tea, stirred it, sat on the edge of his bunk and began to gulp it down.

'Better have a cup,' he said to Mr. Hump. 'Never know when you'll get the next. I always say take what's coming to you while you've got the chance.'

'No. I don't want any tea,' growled Hump.

'Please yourself,' snapped Mr. Walters.

'To hell with it, anyhow,' said Hump. 'I better have a cup.'

Mr. Walters said nothing, but went on gulping his own.

Mr. Hump stirred, tasted it in the spoon, sat down at the desk, and began slowly sipping his tea.

'They say we'll be in port day after tomorrow,' Mr. Hump said.

'Who said?'

'Well, everybody says it. Somebody must be right.'

'Perhaps. I'm not as optimistic as you,' said Walters.

He drained the cup, put it back on the tray. He took a cigarette case from his pocket, offered one to Mr. Hump.

'Thanks.'

He lit his own, then Mr. Hump's.

They both smoked in silence. Suddenly Mr. Walters jumped to his feet.

'Listen! What was that?'

What was what?'

'Listen!'

'I am.'

'But that row above deck. What is it?'

Both men ran out, cigarettes in their mouths, dashed up the alleyway, cleared the ladder in a few leaps, came out on deck.

People were shouting for'ard. The bell in the nest rang loud and clear.

'It's a ship.'

'Goddam submarine more like it.'

'A ship. A ship I tell you. There you are. Listen. It's a ship.'

'F
ORTY
miles SW. Fastnet. Heavy ground swells. Rain.'

Bells rang and men left fo'c'sles and cabins and rushed out on deck. Another ship. Yes. Another ship. More signals. Then they returned to cabin and fo'c'sles again. It was raining now.
A.10
had increased her speed. Well, they had heard bells, they had seen ships. No more wondering, no speculative circles. Derelict hours were over. They knew it. They knew it in ring of bells and sighted ships. And those throbbing engines sealed everything, giving finality to belief, impetus to humble hope. Yes, it was real. No dream. Forty miles SW. Fastnet.

At first the rain was hardly noticeable, descending like fine dust, covering everything with a moist film, then suddenly it began to pour. Doors were closed, ventilators turned round. The decks were deserted. The down-pouring rain struck like whip-lashes, the heavy drab of closed hatches took the burden of it, noisily, yet indifferently. Combings and battens made canvas secure. The downpour became a torrent, and the wind rose. It flung the rain amok, down ventilators and into alleyways and corridors, it splashed against glass, pattered rhythmically upon canvas boat-covers. It made sounds like drumbeats against the bridge dodger, struck sharp like hail in the look-out man's face. The sky darkened. Masses of heavy cloud moved ugly across the horizon. Water poured along the scuppers, dripped from ladders, made pools in alleyways and behind winches, festooned rails with glittering drops. It dripped from bulkhead and bulwark, dribbling down paint cracks in rivulets, plopped with a faint whistling sound into the greater flow of flooded scuppers. The rain spun and circled in air. The low-lying clouds moved more swiftly, great jagged tears in them. The black arch of the horizon seemed to swing like a pendulum. The rain swept in sheets, all the chambers of space surrendered to the driving wind.

A.10 ploughed, cleaving water, darkish-green and turbulent, waves tossed and turned like prancing steeds, fell away before the oncoming bow. Looking down from the nest the man could see the water parting in swelling silken masses as the steel bore through. The water rose and fell, waves spread out like a fan, closed in again, noisily, threshing against indifferent steel. High above the canvas dodger round the nest snapped and rattled against driving wind and rain, and the lone man drew his reefer collar tighter about his neck, pulled down the sou'wester more securely on his head. To him the grey sky seemed so low he had only to put up his hand to be able to touch it. But the world of water was a rolling dancing world, and as she began to pitch the horizon swung, seemed for a moment to blot out the sea, and again it fell rapidly and the sea rose like a huge wall.
A.10
had her nose shaped for the land. In her wake she left patches of dark and furious water, bubbling and frenzied from the thresh of screws.

The wind changed round but the rain did not cease. Everything was soaked in it. The halliards like writhing serpents made their own strange noises. Doors rattled on their hooks, and the draughts below billowed carpet edges, the wind making guttural noises as it was sucked beneath. Beyond that man in the nest and that eye upon the bridge, A.10 seemed deserted, isolated, at one with the greater wilderness without. The water continued to darken in colour, its surface thickening, oily and green, but the spindrift spun gossamer-like, threading air a moment, then vanishing.

'A grey day,' thought the man on the bridge. 'An English day.'

The rain drove up the fo'c'sle alleyway and there the shut door rattled too, and the men heard it, but that was not important. They were quite indifferent to the antics of the elements. There were more important things on hand. There was much to do and preparations to be made. The watch below did not sleep. The watch on were busy 'somewhere aft,' lost to sight, but that didn't matter much either. A.10 was on a true and steady course. They knew what was happening now and they believed in it. Thoughts winged their way, far from the sea, and from the ship holding them. The air was electric with conversation, men were dragging out boxes and bags from beneath bunks, rolling up clothes, making wagers with their neighbours as to when she would first get the land and then the Light.

Others were silent. One man hummed softly to himself as he packed, unhurried, calm, but wholly certain now that this voyage was really coming to an end. No more coldness. There was a warmth upon the tongue. Smiles instead of swears. No thought of what had happened, of things seen and done, but only of what was to come. Visions of a long gangway run out from the shed, men with packed bags on shoulders swaggering down it to the quay to where wives and mothers and sweethearts would be waiting. They heard wind and rain. But it meant nothing to them. Let it roar, let the rain soak and horizon dance. There were things to be done, thoughts to be thought, and vivid pictures to pass through the minds of them all. Looking backwards meant nothing, looking forward meant everything. There was an urgency there, the air breathed it, scattered clothes and waiting bags proclaimed it. Voyage was ending. They were leaving. Getting out. It was all over. Finished. The packing went on.

In the glory-hole men slept deeply They were drenched in sleep. One dreamed, crying out, but nobody heard it. They lay like logs, sprawled, curled up, spread-eagled, deep in sleep. They heard no engines, no crying wind, no pouring rain. They were hidden and immune. Covered in sleep nothing could touch them. Their days had been caught up in confusion, some had slept standing, or kneeling once, they knew no day nor hour. Tending men. Feeding, bedding, cleaning, bandaging, wolfing food, flirting with sleep, hearing cries and curses, thinking of nothing but sleep. And now surrender.

The air was stuffy, the ports closed, door fast shut, jammed with the sleeve of a jacket. Articles of clothing lay about, the deck was littered with debris, empty cigarette-tins and tobacco wrappers, cigarette ends, a piece of string, a tin cup, a broken saucer. More articles of clothing hung untidily from drawers jammed shut. A hand gripped a curtain hanging, a head was thrown over the rail of a top bunk, giving an air of sudden and violent abandonment. A sickly electric light shone down on this. Loud snores filled the stuffy air.

Sometimes a sleeper became restless, tossing about in his bunk. A man woke suddenly, sat upright in his bunk, stared round the glory-hole with bewilderment, then fell back again, dragging the blanket over his head. One lower bunk near the door was empty, stripped clean. The mattress, pillow and blankets were rolled up, lashed together with rope. The bundle lay jammed beneath the bunk. On the bulkhead there was a photograph of a woman with two children, a cigarette-card photo of a famous actress, a French nude. Below these the marks where other pictures had hung, apparently torn down, as pieces of these still adhered to the bulkhead, held by glue. This had been Marvel's bunk.

Below stairs, standing in the storeroom, Mr. Walters in shirtsleeves fumed and sweated, dragging boxes and cases full and empty from one part of the storeroom to the other. He continually felt the top of his head as though he were making certain that it still stood upon his broad shoulders, or perhaps his head was swelling, but the hand went to it, feeling it with unceasing regularity. On the other hand it may have been a quite simple headache. He wished Mr. Hump would hurry up. The man was like a snail. Mr. Walters was not even aware that it rained, or wind blew, and as for those engines, it meant nothing to him beyond a continual noise in his ears.

He sat down on a box, patted one knee, and wondered just how long Mr. Hump would be. There was work to do. It had only just begun. The inventory of stores, used and unused, the report for the catering department, the simple arithmetic to be worked out as between Mr. Hump and himself. And lastly there was the Bank in Mile Road, thoughts of the pub.

'I wish that devil would hurry up.'

He got up and went to the door, bawling down the corridor.

'Are
you
coming, Mr. Hump?'

His loud voice penetrated into the glory-hole where the stewards slept but they did not hear it.

Mr. Walters lit a cigarette, blew smoke angrily into the air.

'Bloody slow-coach.'

Mr. Hump heard the wind and the rain, and he was busy shaving. Whilst he shaved he indulged in the pleasant pastime of building dream-castles, somewhere in the North Atlantic ocean. Mr. Walters waited, but Mr. Hump was quite calm, quite unhurried. Let him wait. After all, what was taking inventories? A dull routine job. And there was that division of the spoils before the ship eventually tied up. Mr. Hump repeated these words to himself, but when he said, 'tie-up,' the razor slipped and he cut himself.

'Damn the thing,' he growled low in his throat. 'Don't be
too
optimistic, you fool,' he warned. 'Don't. For God's sake, don't.' How could any man be certain? Of anything?
ANYTHING
? Besides, would A.10 tie up?

He dabbed a handkerchief to his face, finished his shaving. Then he washed and combed his hair. He put on a dirty white jacket, greasy cap, and went out. He did not go at once to the storeroom. He went up on deck instead. Mr. Hump had a sudden desire to look at the water, to feel the air upon his face. But he made a hasty retreat and went direct to the storeroom.

'Well, hang it,' Mr. Walters said. 'You've been long enough, haven't you?'