‘Eleven shillings,’ she muttered, embarrassed that her money woes were being discussed so openly. ‘And thruppence. I had nearly twelve shillings, but I bought Edward a toffee apple and then we had buns and I paid for his ticket to the circus . . .’
‘An iced bun is excellent fare,’ Finchin commented, filling his pipe with tobacco. ‘Quite my favourite food when I’m in port.’
‘Think before you sign it,’ the Commander went on, ignoring Finchin. ‘These are terms of employment. I won’t have things unclear on my boat. You’ll be treated exactly like any other member of the crew, no better, no worse.’ Next to the word ‘Rank’, Marina read, ‘Boy, 2nd class’. Of course, there would be no rank of ‘Girl’ on a British naval ship. Next to the word ‘Pay’, she read, ‘Per diem, 6 d’.
‘I’ll get money?’ This seemed the most excellent thing of all. She would have a paid occupation! If only she could tell Miss Smith.
‘You’ll work for it,’ her father said, gruffly. ‘I won’t have idleness on my boat.’
Marina practically swaggered out on to the deck. What a turnaround in her fortunes. Only twenty-four hours ago she had been a stowaway. And before that she had been about to be a wretched schoolgirl. But now she had a paid occupation. If only she could tell Miss Smith that she was now a sailor. A ‘Boy, 2nd Class’! What would she say if she knew that her young friend was a crew member of the Sea Witch? No French verbs or embroidery on this boat. And who needed kohl-rimmed eyes and silk pantaloons, like those silly ‘new women’ in Ivy’s Society News, if you could dress in a fisherman’s sweater and oilskins and be ready for real work?
But what work should she do? On her terms of employment, her daily tasks had just said, ‘as instructed by the crew’.
She saw Perkins hauling a large fishing net across the deck. It looked awfully heavy. ‘Let me help!’ she cried.
12
Iron-grey, solid waves. Spray as cold and sharp as razors. Perkins could not have heard her over the wind and the noise of the engine. He did not look up from his task.
She snatched at the net; the rope was thick and rough.
‘Watch it, miss,’ Perkins cried. ‘That’s too heavy for you.’
‘I’m very strong,’ she shouted into the wind. ‘Ivy gets me to carry all the coal upstairs at home.’
But now she had the rope in her hands, she could feel the real weight of that mass of fishing net. She pulled and she pulled. It didn’t move.
‘You’re pulling the wrong way,’ he shouted at her. ‘I’m taking it over there.’ He sounded a bit cross.
‘Sorry!’ Marina shouted back. ‘I’ve got it now.’ She tugged again. She thought her back would break. Her arms were being pulled out of their sockets. ‘Ow!’ Perkins had tugged sharply on the rope when she wasn’t expecting him to and it badly burnt her hands. She dropped the rope and blew on her palms to try and stop the stinging.
‘I’m sorry, miss. You’ve got to let me get on with this,’ he said, gruffly. ‘The Commander wants these nets in the water by noon.’
She looked around. What else could she do?
‘Go and find Brown. He’ll give you a job,’ Perkins said, dragging the net towards the winch, his movements easier now that he wasn’t being impeded.
Brown was carrying two large canisters – like milk churns – across the deck.
‘Let me take one,’ Marina said, trying to take one of the handles.
‘Aye, there’s no need.’
‘No, but I’d really like to help. I’m one of the crew, now.’
‘That’s as maybe. But I don’t need your help, miss.’ She hadn’t taken her hand away. Why didn’t he just give her one to carry? The boat pitched, she stumbled and the canister came with her. It fell to the ground and rolled away down the deck.
‘Not sure as that’s much help,’ Brown grumbled as he ran after it.
She was too frightened to ask the surly Trenchard, so she leant against the winch practising her rope-tying in an effort to impress the sailors. She even did some sailory whistling. It must have worked because Brown soon found her a bucket and a brush. ‘Why not clean the little lifeboat over there?’ he said to her. ‘It could do with a good scrub.’
At last. Something she could do that would show what a hard worker she was.
The bucket had a long rope attached to it. She gingerly let it down over the side of the hull and a wave filled it for her. She pulled it up; how could water be so heavy?
And then she got down to the task of scrubbing the small boat’s hull. She looked over her shoulder a few times to check that Brown and Perkins were watching: she wasn’t a slacker!
They seemed pleased with her efforts, nodded their approval, and got back to their tasks.
Cleaning the boat was hard work. Her elbows hurt.
Her shoulders were sore. She was soaked because the bucket kept tipping over. When she filled it from the sea, it was so heavy and awkward lifting it over the guard rail (and she didn’t want to ask for help) that once or twice she lifted it all over herself. But she wasn’t a quitter. She would show Brown and Perkins how useful she could be. Trenchard walked past. She redoubled her efforts but he looked unimpressed.
She felt pleased with her hard work but, even so, she was relieved when the bell rang and the men left their work to go into the mess for lunch.
‘What did you do to the Boy?’ Commander Denham stood up from his chair and looked at the poor bedraggled creature who stood, dripping sea water, on the floor of his
