Tales of London's Docklands (19 page)

‘Don't be silly, lads,' said the Governor in a more conciliatory tone of voice. ‘I'm sure we can come to an amicable arrangement. Let me contact the shipping agents and see what they are prepared to offer in the way of a price for the job.'

‘All right! We'll wait,' replied Les.

The Governor walked off the ship, followed by the ship worker, and made his way to the Riverside jetty office.

‘How long are we going to have to wait for a decision?' old Percy asked Les.

‘Not long,' replied Les. ‘Didn't you notice how much quicker he walked off the ship, along the jetty and down the catwalk, than he had when he sauntered up here from his car?'

‘Yes, now you mention it, he did. Why do you think that was?'

‘I threatened him with the Port Health Authority. He knew if a health inspector came aboard this ship, and saw rats in the numbers they are running about here, he would send this boat down to the river estuary to be fumigated. That would cost the company thousands of pounds. No. He'll take the line of least resistance and offer us a price for the job.'

‘What are we going to ask for, Les?'

‘Well, what do you think we should ask for? Double day-work pay till seven o'clock and our piecework earning?'

‘He won't agree to that,' said old Percy.

‘Of course he won't,' said Les, ‘but he will give us a full day's pay and our piecework earning. He'll go away smirking like a Cheshire cat thinking he's done us down. But there's one thing idiots like him can never come to terms with.'

‘What's that, Les?'

‘Education is not necessarily a precursor of intelligence.'

The ship's gangs did not have to wait long for a reply to their request for a price to be paid for the discharging operation. The ship worker was soon walking back up the catwalk, along the cargo jetty and onto the ship.

‘The Governor's been on to the shipping agents. They want to know what price you lot want to get on with the job?'

‘Double day-work till seven and our piecework earnings,' replied Les.

‘I'll tell him,' said the ship worker and hurried back the way he had come. He was soon back on board the ship, panting from his exertions.

‘The Governor said he's been advised to pay all the ship's gangs single day-work till seven each day, including the last day of discharging, plus their piecework earning. That's the shipping agents' offer. If you don't accept the ship will go to another port to discharge.'

Les called all the gangs together and told them of the offer. He told them they should reluctantly accept it on account of the threat to take the ship away to another port. There were grunts and cursing from some of the men, but a vote was taken and the outcome was to accept the offer. The ship worker scuttled off to inform the Governor of the dockers' decision. The Governor telephoned to tell the shipping agents of the dockers' decision. The shipping agents telephoned the ship's owners to tell them of the dockers' decision. The ship's owners gasped a sigh of relief and told the shipping agents to ratify the decision; the shipping agents telephoned the Governor to tell him to ratify the decision. The Governor told the ship worker to go back aboard the ship and to inform the dockers that, after some hard bargaining, he had managed to get the shipping agents to agree reluctantly to their demands. A few of the dockers were seen to smirk while others among them laughed. The ship worker did not see what was so funny, but he rushed off to tell the Governor that the men had accepted his offer and had gone back to work.

The odd thing was that as soon as the dockers began working in the hold, all the rats scurried off to their own little hideaways. Some of them may have been transferred into the barges with the hessian sacks but, by and large, most must have remained aboard the ship and sailed with her.

On the first day of discharging the whaler, Les called in at his local public house on his way home from work for a quick pint of ale to wash the whale meal down.

‘Hello, Les!' said the landlord. ‘Are you working on that whaler? Don't sit down! Do you want your usual? You stink like a bloody polecat! Go out in the garden and drink that. Some of the other lads are out there. I hope you won't be staying long. I've got my other customers to think about. I'll have to fumigate this place when you lot have gone.'

‘Give your jaws a rest,' said Les.

He took a long swig of the ale, put the empty glass on the counter, said to the publican ‘Don't forget to fumigate that', and walked out.

When he arrived home he was greeted with, ‘Don't you come in here covered in whatever it is you're plastered with. Take those filthy, smelly clothes off and leave them in the garden. I'll run a quick bath for you. I'll put some disinfectant in the water. What have you been doing to get in that dirty, stinking condition? What on earth have you been doing today?'

‘Me?' he asked. ‘I've been having a whale of a time.'

I
N
C
ONCLUSION

It has to be recorded here that on the day following the work stoppage on the whaling ship several tabloids reported the following story: ‘Gangs of dock labourers refused to work on discharging whale meal off a ship moored in Tilbury Docks. The apparent reason for the stoppage of work was a demand that they should receive extra payments. Work was resumed after intervention by their employer.'

17

T
HE
T
ALE OF THE
R
ETICENT
E
LEPHANTS

T
hings have changed over the thousands of years since the Ark was built, and steel ships have replaced wooden ones. I really don't know how much trouble Noah had getting animals to board the wooden Ark, but I can tell you how much trouble we had one November day trying to get elephants off a steel ship, a vessel whose name now eludes my memory after such a long lapse of time.

I have to set the scene as it was when my ship's gang arrived on Tilbury Riverside jetty from the Dock Labour Board compound, and I can only explain it thus. It was one of those cold, damp, foggy mornings down by the River Thames. You know the sort of morning I mean, everything wet from the fog, with large droplets of water dripping from the cranes' immobile jibs, from the ships' derricks, and especially from the ships' wire stays, which ran up to the mast head, and their rat-lines rigged high above.

Up and down the Thames foghorns could be heard, tooting and hooting as ferry boats chanced more to luck than judgement in getting from one side of the river to the other. Tugboats, too, foraged about in the dense gloom, looking for possible salvage jobs or acting as maritime guide dogs for cargo ships that were slowly creeping upriver into the Port of London. Other ships were anchored in the river's fairway, waiting to escape from the port, downriver into the open sea, as soon as the tide began to ebb.

There hadn't been a great deal of work about for some time, and my ship's gang were prepared to take on any job that turned up. As it was getting near to Christmas, continental short sea traders, especially Dutch coasters, were now bringing in manufactured goods and food products for the London markets, much of it trans-shipment freight from the Far East. Although the river was busy with coastal and barge traffic, these vessels were small ships that rarely came into enclosed docks, heading instead to the riverside wharves to discharge. These wharves operated cargo-handling facilities on the river's banks, closer to the import merchants' warehouses.

This meant that any of the large, ocean-trading ships that entered the docks to discharge or load were pounced upon by registered work- and wage-starved dockers, who were ready to do any job that presented itself. That was how our ship's gang came to find ‘themselves, themselves' – as Paddy, our pro-rata Irish workmate, kept saying – standing about on the cold steel deck of a modern-day Ark.

Paddy was standing away from the rest of our ship's gang, staring up into the eyes of a huge cow elephant, one of the five Indian elephants on board. We were, all of us, at the stern end of a ship that had just that morning run the gauntlet of our foggy river to berth alongside Tilbury Riverside jetty. Mr Dunlop, the Port of London Authority jetty foreman, was discussing with our ship worker, Charlie S., what the labour contractor responsible for the ship's discharge intended to do with the animals that were to be off-loaded. There were some caged beasts that could be lifted off the open deck hatches, where they had resided during the trip from Bombay, and landed safely on the jetty by crane, without causing too much congestion. There they could wait till transporters turned up to convey them to their final destinations.

Unfortunately, however, the Riverside jetty cranes had a safe working load of only 1½ tons. So that would make it necessary for us to break out the ship's derricks to lift the elephants off the vessel. The vessel was due to sail again on the very next flood tide, but the road transport to take the animals on to their destinations had been held up on the A13 by a thick smog which covered the whole metropolis. Also, adding to the problems, the elephants could be lifted ashore by the ship's derricks only when the vessel reached the top of the flood tide. (This was because of the lack of drift, that is, the height of the derrick head above the top of the jetty.) It would have been dangerous, too, to land the elephants till transport had arrived to take them on to the zoos, circuses or safari parks that were to be their final destinations. Tilbury Riverside jetty was open-topped, with nothing but a small linked chain to stop people or animals toppling off it into the river.

Now, as I was saying, there we were, on the stern end of this ship that had recently arrived from the Far East with a menagerie of wild animals destined for public exhibition. Our pro-rata workmate, Paddy, looked up into the eyes of one of the cow elephants and said, ‘Holy Mary, have you ever seen such a sized beast before?' Then, turning to Terry, he asked, ‘Where did you say they come from, Terry?'

‘India, I think, but they're certainly Asiatic,' Terry replied.

‘How do you know that?'

‘They're far too small to be African elephants; African elephants are almost twice that size.'

‘Twice as big as these lumbering great things!' Paddy said, stroking the cow animal's trunk. ‘What do you think they weigh?'

‘Indian elephants weigh about 3 tons each and grow to about 9 feet in height.'

‘By Jesus, elephants must be the biggest animals in the whole world.'

‘If you mean land animals, you're right; but African elephants are even bigger than these Far Eastern beasts,' Terry said.

‘Bigger?' replied Paddy. ‘How much bigger?'

‘An African bush bull elephant may weigh up to 6 or 7 tons.'

‘7 tons,' said Paddy, taking a sandwich out of its newspaper wrapping and offering it to the elephant. The animal sniffed the sandwich and turned its head away. ‘It can't be very hungry. It's turned its nose up at my sandwich.'

‘You mean trunk,' corrected Terry, ‘and it's not because the elephant's not hungry – it's because there's meat in it.'

‘So what's wrong with meat in a sandwich?'

‘Christ, Paddy! Elephants don't eat meat. They're herbivores. They only eat vegetation. The African bush elephants browse across the veldt for hundreds of miles, in herds that may contain up to 100 animals. Although they are larger than Indian elephants, they're far less intelligent and far more aggressive, like most animals that live in Africa. Unlike the Indian elephant, they're not domesticated.'

‘Do they live long?'

‘Up to seventy or eighty years.'

‘What are those two things sticking out from the sides of the nose?'

‘They're called tusks, Paddy. Tusks.'

‘What are they made of?'

‘Bone really, but it's called ivory. It's very valuable.'

‘Why?' said Paddy, who was still stroking the elephant's trunk and whispering gently to the animal, a practice that brought the comment from one of the gang, ‘Look at that. Just like an Irishman. Too mean to make a phone call, Paddy's making a trunk call instead.'

Paddy laughed and replied, ‘If you understood animals, you would know how much truth there is in what you've just said.'

‘Shut up, you lot,' Terry told the gang. ‘I'm trying to explain to our Irish friend here about ivory. Now,' he continued, ‘ivory is a very hard substance from which all sorts of ornamental figures are carved – especially by Japanese craftsmen. Ivory is also used for white piano keys, cutlery handles and many other things; in fact the Port Authority has a warehouse in London devoted specifically to the importation of ivory, mainly from Africa.'

‘Why?' said Paddy.

‘Why?' exclaimed Terry. ‘Because the ivory from African elephants is whiter than that taken from Asian elephants. The tusks are far bigger and heavier, too. Some tusks from the big bull elephants weigh up to 100 kilograms or more – incidentally, that's almost equivalent in weight to the amount of forage each of them has to devour each day to survive.' Terry stopped talking for a second or two then said. ‘What sort of school did you go to in Ireland? Surely you must have learned something?'

‘It was a Catholic church school. I didn't learn notting much,' Paddy replied

‘Why was that, Paddy? Were you considered to be too stupid or too thick to be taught anything?'

‘I don't know, because the nuns didn't choose to find out.'

‘What do you mean? They didn't try to teach you? Why was that?'

‘Because I'm a Quinn.'

‘A Quinn? What has that got to do with going to school and not being taught anything?'

‘Well, I come from a tinker family, what are called “travellers” these days. I went to a Catholic church school, where my schooling consisted of keeping the latrines and classrooms clean. That's all my schooldays consisted of, except for the time I spent in the woods and wild areas around County Antrim with the animals. The woods and wild areas behind the school was said to be where leprechauns lived, so no Irishman with a fear of God ever went near there.'