'Men in tankers. It's a dog's life. They run to places like the Persian Gulf and they can unload in a couple of days. That means the boys don't get much of a run ashore when they're home. Besides, you can't live on top of a few thousand tons of petrol all your life without getting a bit queer. Of course, they get the money…But is it worth it? Friend of mine went mate in a tanker to make a bit and ended up by cutting his throat. Made a hell of a mess in the chartroom, so they told me.'
From Hornbeam's conversation I gathered that suicide at sea had a panache not seen ashore.
'I think I'll stick to dry cargo,' I said. 'That seems dangerous enough for doctors.'
'Are you coming to the Third's do tonight?' Hornbeam asked. 'That's the reason I looked in.'
'I didn't know he was having one.'
'It's his birthday-twenty-first-and he's having a few beers. You're invited.'
'I don't drink much, you know.'
'Oh, don't be scared, Doc. None of us drinks while we're at sea. I'll say you're coming.'
The party was after supper, in the Third Mate's cabin. As I was anxious not to appear at all anti-social I was the first to arrive.
I had not been in his cabin before. It was smaller than mine, with just enough room for a man to stand between the bunk and the strip of settee on the opposite bulkhead. There was a porthole over the settee and a forced-draught vent in the deckhead that stabbed a narrow stream of cold air across the bunk. Opposite the door was a small desk covered completely with bottles of gin. The rest of the cabin was covered with girls.
They were everywhere-in frames over the bunk, pasted to the bulkhead, suspended from the pipes crossing the deckhead. There were plain photographs of ordinary girls, shadowy nudes from _Men Only,_ taut scissor-legged girls in impossible brassiйres from _Esquire,_ a few bright beer advertisements from Australia of surprised but unresisting girls with their skirts caught in mangles, car doors, stiles, and dog leads, girls with no clothes playing on the beach, girls with all their clothes caught in a highly selective gale, even pictures of Chinese girls covered from neck to ankle.
'Come in, Doc!' the Third said. 'Have a peg.'
He pushed a glass into my hand and half-filled it with gin in one motion.
'Happy birthday,' I said faintly. 'You seem to have an eye for art.'
'Got to brighten the old cart up a bit. Here's to you.'
He pointed above the bunk to the photograph of a sharp-chinned young lady trying earnestly to look like Dorothy Lamour.
'That's a nice bit of crumpet. Met her in Hull last voyage. She's an intelligent bit, mind you,' he added seriously. 'Works in Boots' library.'
He indicated her rival next to her.
Now there's a girl for you. Came across her in Adelaide. Last time we were there her brother came and socked me on the nose. She still writes to me, though.'
'I hope he didn't hurt you.'
'He did a bit. He's one of the wharfies. That one's from St. John. But this Sheila here's the best of the bunch. Lives in Durban. Father's got pots of cash.'
'You seem to scatter your affections pretty widely.'
'They all love sailors. When a girl knows a fellow's going half-way round the world in a week's time she takes the brakes off a bit. Have a seat on the bunk.'
I sat down and rested my head uncomfortably on the paper bosom of a blonde.
The other guests arrived together. There was Hornbeam, the crazy Sparks, Whimble, the Second Steward, and the Chief, Second, Third, and Fourth Engineers. Archer was absent, keeping Hornbeam's watch on the bridge. The ten of us crammed ourselves into the tiny cabin. Hornbeam had his elbow in my face and his shoes on the Chief Engineer's knees. Whimble wedged himself behind the door and stuck his feet against the end of the bunk. The host struggled between everyone's legs, handing out drinks. I felt that something would shortly give way and project the lot of us into the sea.
The Third's health was drunk by all hands.
'Have another, Doc,' he said.
'No, really…'
'Come off it! It's only five bob a bottle.' He half-filled my tumbler again. 'How do you like the sea?' he asked.
'It is a very interesting form of existence.'
'Of course, you realize this is only part of it,' Hornbeam explained. 'It varies a good bit. As you know, British ships are in three classes.'
'Tankers…?'
'No. First of all there's the P. amp; O. Then there's the Merchant Navy, which is the setup we're in. After that there's the Old Grey Funnel line.'
'Also known as the Royal Navy,' McDougall explained. 'It was nationalized years ago.'
'The P. amp; O. must not be confused with ordinary hookers,' Hornbeam continued. 'It's a sort of-well, a floating Horse Guards, if you get me. They hate to be called Merchantmen. If you make a noise drinking your soup…'
'They wear swords and spurs,' Trail said.
'I don't believe it.'
'Well, they ought to. Oh, very posh, very posh. Good shower of bastards on the whole, though. Have some more gin.'
'Not for…Qh, all right, as you've poured it out. It tastes better than the stuff you get ashore.'
'Everything does. By the way, you know the Second Engineer, Doc? Mr. Macpherson.'
'Pleased to meet you.'
'Mr. McPhail the Third and Mr. Macintosh the Fourth.'
'What, are you all Scots in the engine-room?'
'We've a Taffy and a couple of Geordies,' Macpherson said. 'Had to have them in to do the dirty work.'
'You know what they say,' McDougall added proudly. 'If you open the engine-room hatch of any British ship and shout 'Jock' someone'll be bound to come up.'
McPhail started singing 'I belong to Glasgow,' but petered out for lack of support.
'Coming ashore with us in Santos, Doc?' Hornbeam asked.
'Certainly. I intend to take advantage of the voyage to broaden my education.'
'Santos will broaden it all right. Plenty of nice girls there.'
'I'm sure I should be pleased if you'd introduce me to them.'
This remark started everyone laughing.
'You don't need any introductions. It's keeping them away that's the trouble.'
'Well, I shall not be interested in meeting any of that sort.'
'Oh, you'll have to come with us to Madame Mimi's,' Hornbeam said reproachfully. 'It would be like going to London and missing the Houses of Parliament.'
'Are you suggesting,' I said coldly, 'that I should visit a brothel?'
'Where the hell else do you think there is to go in Santos?' Trail said testily. 'Anyway, Madame Mimi's is as respectable as the Liverpool Museum.'
'I wouldn't put that past suspicion,' Hornbeam said.
Trail cut the conversation short by pouring out gin all round and beginning a complicated story about two sailors losing their way in Lime Street station.
After an hour everyone was pretty cheerful.
'Don't make such a row,' Trail said. 'Father'll hear.'
'To hell with Father,' I heard myself say.
'Spoken like a sailor, Doc!' Hornbeam slapped me on the chest. 'Good old Doc! Best one I've ever sailed with.'
'I say, really…'
'You're the only one that's sane!'
This brought a round of applause.
