‘You won’t want to be doing that, sir. This is Egypt, the land of cockroaches and diarrhoea; you wouldn’t know what you were eatin’. Besides; you can’t, actually.’
‘Who says so?’
‘The Queen, sir. Her Majesty.’ And when I looked gratifyingly blank he informed me, ‘Navy regs, sir: unless she’s been paid off a naval vessel will have a commissioned officer standing by her at all times. The rest have scarpered for the weekend, begging your pardon, sir. That leaves you.’
‘But I’m in the RAF!’
‘ . . . know sir. The gentlemen did ’ave some discussion about that before they left, but the Captin opined that leavin’ you in charge would be in order, sir, so long as you ’ad a senior hand to advise you.’
‘You?’
‘Exactly, sir.’
‘Hard bleeding luck.’
‘My thoughts precisely, sir: it’s very irregular.’
I followed him on deck. The sunlight dazzled me and the heat roasted me. And then there was the smell of Egypt, of course.
I was still half inclined to think that the Pongoes were playing a trick on me: revenge for my being sick all the way across the Med. It wasn’t a trick though: a corvette, small, nifty and, above all, exceptionally cheap, does not have all that many officers. I think I saw three the whole time I was on her. The bastards had abandoned me. As had about three quarters of the crew. It did occur to me to protest the legality of this dodge, but who was there left to protest to?
‘How many of us are left?’ I asked him.
‘You, me, eight hands and the cook, sir.’
‘And I’m in charge?’
‘Theoretically, sir . . . although if you orders me to sea, or to move ship, I think you’ll find we have an engine breakdown.’
‘You realize that this is completely nuts? I know fuck-all about ships and sailors: I’m a radio man.’ I tapped the half wing on my chest.
‘Glad to hear that, sir. The signallers went ashore as well. They left their schedules for you.’
‘Where have your people gone, Chief?’
‘Down the Treaty Road to Ismailia, sir; except for the skipper. He’ll have gone on to El Kirsh. His wife’s in the married compound there. Gives him a chance to see her for a weekend.’
‘What’s in Ismailia?’
‘Arab persons, sir. The rest of our people have gone to the Blue Kettle. That’s a club. There’s a rumour going about that a very special lady dancer is putting in a bit of an appearance.’
‘Is this lady an agriculturist, by any chance? A bit of an animal-lover?’
The CPO looked uncomfortable. ‘You might say that, sir. I’m surprised you knew about her already.’
‘You bastards! She was about the only thing in Egypt I was looking forward to.’
‘She gets about, apparently. You’ll get another chance if you stick around long enough.’
It was blisteringly hot, and it stank – all manner of Port Said’s debris and refuse was being pushed up against the wall by the tide, and Wallflower was squatting blithely in the middle of it. A wallflower in a shit heap.
‘What about my report? Won’t they miss me?’
‘They don’t know we’re in yet, sir. That’s why the skipper stuck us this far up the eastern mole. No one will notice us for days. We’ll report in on Sunday night, and organize some transport for you next day.’
‘Got it all worked out, your skipper?’
‘That’s why they made him a skipper, sir.’
Oddly, I wasn’t all that bothered. My well-ordered little life had been out of control ever since David Watson had reappeared in it . . . this was no madder than anything else that had happened to me since then.
‘So what do we do for the next two days?’
‘I thought we’d all eat together in the Petty Officers’ Mess, sir; seeing as there’s just the few of us?’
‘OK by me.’
‘Brekker’s in about twenty minutes, then. You might wish to familiarize yourself with the radio shack, sir, in the meantime.’
‘I suppose I might,’ I sighed. ‘By the way, shall we switch off the Navy and the RAF for the weekend? My name’s Charlie . . .’
‘And they call me Taff, sir.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Taff.’
‘And you, sir.’ You could never tell these bloody Regulars anything.
The port may not have known that we were there, but the bloody Gyppoes did. When I came back on deck from the radio room a quarter of an hour later, having mastered nothing other than the cooling fan on the ceiling, a large friendly Arab was beaming down at me from the mole. My first wog: Wog One. He was smothered in a long dirty robe – thick white and rust-coloured vertical stripes. It hadn’t seen the inside of a wash tub for about a year, or maybe that was just my prejudice showing. He showed his teeth as he smiled. There weren’t many of them, either. He gestured to a handcart of fruit behind him: both he and his wares had appeared as if by magic. His eyes sparkled.
‘Buy oranges?’
‘No thank you.’
‘Dates. Fresh dates: no flies.’
‘No. Thank you.’ Firmer this time, Charlie.
‘HMS Wallflower. Flower-class corvette. One thousand and thirty-one tonnes. Eighty-five crew. One brave captain. I love the British Navy.’
‘Good for you, chum.’
‘You buy oranges now?’
I was to learn that this was a reasonably characteristic conversation between a British serviceman and an Egyptian entrepreneur. A matelot saved me: he climbed through one of the bulkhead doors and onto the deck, wiping his hands on a grey dishcloth that looked filthier than Wog One’s outfit. He smelt like a cook. In size, the Egyptian outnumbered us both by about two to one.
The AB squinted up. ‘Wotcha, Ali. Wotcha got?’
‘Oranges, Captain. Fresh dates. Figs . . . and olives. Good olives. Greek.’
‘Firty oranges.’
‘Five piastres.’
‘One piastre.’
They settled for two . . . and that was a characteristic transaction. Two lessons on my first Egyptian morning, and I
