DOCTOR AT SEA Read online

  My mouth went dry.

  'What-er, what happened to him, sir?'

  Captain Hogg glanced at me, then returned to inspecting his toes.

  'Of course, a man's entitled to think what he likes,' he said forcefully. 'I'm a respecter of anyone's opinions. But there are limits, Doctor. Limits.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'You've never thought you were somebody else, for instance? Have you, Doctor?'

  'No, sir. I-I can't recall doing so.'

  'Well, there you are. It happens sometimes at sea. I've seen some of the best of fellows get taken that way. I remember when I first went Mate, the Third thought he was Cleopatra. Very awkward it was for all hands.'

  'I can see it would be, sir.'

  'But Dr. Flowerday had a weakness. I tell you in strict confidence, Doctor.'

  'Of course, sir.'

  It appeared that my predecessor, after having drunk two bottles of gin a day for several years in the service of the Lotus, got religion shortly after leaving Singapore, and extinguished himself one night in the Indian Ocean through the mistaken impression that he had the rightful ability to walk upon the water.

  Chapter Three

  The Lotus sailed, to the surprise of her crew, three days later. We spent the time tethered to the quay, loading heavy packing-cases from railway trucks. It was an interesting performance. The cases were raised to the level of the ship's deck, drawn horizontally inwards, and lowered into the holds. This was done with the derricks and steam winches, each set manned by a gang of Liverpool dockers, who went about their work with the leisurely decorum of the House of Lords considering an unimportant Bill on a hot afternoon.

  There was a docker at each winch, and the rest of them worked either down the hold or on the quay. Each gang was controlled by a man in a long overcoat and a bowler hat, who directed their activities with the economy of gesture of an experienced bidder at an auction. The twitch of a little finger, an inclination of the head, the drop of an eyelid, and four tons of crated machinery went spinning through the air and down the hatch as cleanly as a holed-out golf ball.

  The stowage of the cargo was supervised by the Mates, under the directions of Archer. He had his bunk covered with cargo manifests, bills of lading, and plans of the ship with the different merchandise coloured in with crayon.

  'The Second gets the thin end of it,' he said. 'He's always cargo officer. Too much work in it for me.'

  'But it looks fairly simple. Don't you just go on putting the stuff in until the ship's full?'

  'Haven't you ever packed a case for a holiday? The things you want first always seem to be at the bottom. If that happened in the ship there'd be trouble. You can't tip everything out.'

  'I see what you mean.'

  'Besides, there's the trim of the ship to think about. There's more in cargo than meets the eye.'

  He looked at his plan. 'Nos 1 and 4 are full, but there's plenty of room in 2 and 3. We'll be here a week yet, you can bet on that.'

  But orders, based on some deep calculation in the Fathom Line offices, came for us to sail. Twenty-four hours later, in the morning, the Lotus left.

  An air of excitement spread through the ship before sailing, as everyone began to go about their jobs more briskly. I was greatly stimulated by the promising departure, for I had become thoroughly used to living alongside the wharf in the past few days and occasionally doubted that we would ever sail at all. The dockers who had made free with our decks were turned down the gangway, leaving behind them a litter of newspapers, cigarette packets, and matches trampled into the rusty steel. The wide hatches were covered with heavy slabs of wood, and square tarpaulins lashed over them. At the head of the gangway the quartermaster fixed a blackboard announcing confidently THE S.S. LOTUS WILL SAIL AT 10 O'CLOCK FOR SANTOS NO SHORE LEAVE, and a thin black stream of smoke shot powerfully upwards from the funnel. Our bleak masts were enlivened with flags: the red ensign trailed over our stern, the Company's house-flag-a red F topped by an anchor on a white square-was hoisted at the mainmast, and from the foremast the blue-and-white P announced our intentions to the waterside.

  'That at least is a flag I recognize,' I said to Trail. 'The Blue Peter.'

  'Yes, we'll soon be on our way, Doc. It's a bloody nuisance. I was just getting a nice little piece lined up last night. It's always the same.'

  'I shall be glad to get to sea, I must say. I've seen enough of Liverpool.'

  'You'll get your bellyful of sea all right, don't you worry. Shouldn't get too excited, though. They may change their minds and send us into Cardiff when we get out in the Irish Sea. Not a bad place, Cardiff, though I prefer Middlesbrough myself. The pubs are better.'

  Shortly afterwards Trail reappeared on deck with his cap on, looking very determined and ten years older.

  'Got to do the testing,' he explained brusquely. 'Tugs'll be here any minute now.'

  I heard him ring the bridge telegraphs and sound the whistle, which blew a long silent plume of steam into the air for some seconds before it struck its note. The customs officers gave us a final suspicious look and made for the shore, their threatening bags of rummage tools over their shoulders. Men in yellow raincoats and misshapen trilbys hurried aboard with desperate last letters addressed to Captain Hogg, and rushed away again anxiously looking at their watches. A Mr. Swithinbank, a pale youth with steel spectacles from the Liverpool office, came breathlessly down the deck after me, with a paper in his hand.

  'Here's the Bill of Health, Doctor,' he said. 'Cripes! For a moment I thought I'd lost you! You can't sail without it.'

  'Thank you very much,' I said, taking the document reverently.

  'Are you all right?' he asked quickly, making for the gangway. 'Medical stores O.K.? Too late now, anyway. Have a good voyage. Cheery-bye!'

  'Good-bye,' I shouted after him helplessly. 'We seem a bit short of sulphonamides.'

  'Bring us a ham from Brazil if you remember it,' he called over his shoulder. 'Don't forget the poor starving English.'

  He hurried away between the railway waggons and lorries on the quay. It was almost ten. Two sailors, who had somehow managed to drink themselves to a standstill at that hour, staggered up the gangway and collapsed on the deck.

  'Take 'em below,' Hornbeam shouted to the Bos'n, with the air of a man handling a familiar situation. 'They'll be logged tomorrow morning. Has Smiley turned up yet?'

  'No sign, Mr. Hornbeam.'

  'I dunno,' Hornbeam said resignedly. 'If you docked a ship in Hell you'd still get deserters. Get my watch turned-to, Bos'n. I'm going to stations.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.'

  Two tugs nuzzled under our bow and stern, their skippers standing impassively at the wheel in their oilskins like waiting taxi-drivers. The pilot came aboard-an alarmingly unnautical figure in a tweed overcoat and bowler hat, carrying an umbrella and a black Gladstone bag. I watched Trail knock on the Captain's door, salute, and announce 'Tugs alongside and pilot aboard, sir.' He stepped aside as Captain Hogg appeared, resplendent in gold braid, and mounted solemnly to the bridge. The gangway came up, the two tugs plucked the ship away from the quay, and the ropes fell into the water with long splashes. The Lotus became suddenly changed into an entity, a being in her own right, instead of a rusty appendage of a dirty Liverpool wharf.

  I leant over the rail with Easter, watching the steadily widening gap of water between us and the shore. I had never been on a moving ship before, apart from a brief passage from Margate to Southend in a paddle steamer, and I felt excited and apprehensive. I found the belief that we should now all be transported by the Lotus from Liverpool to the Tropics too outlandish to take seriously.

  'Well, we're off,' was all I could think to say.

  'Yes, sir. In an hour or so we'll be well out in the River.'

  'You know, Easter, to me it seems almost impossible for this little ship to take us all the way to South America.'

  'Sometimes, sir,' he answered gloomily, 'I think it's a bloody miracle she moves at all.'
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br />   We shook with a gentle ague as the engines picked up speed, slipped down the channel of thick Mersey water, passed the tolling buoys and the Bar light, out into the Irish Sea; in the afternoon a sharp sea-wind blew down the deck and the Welsh mountains were huddling on the horizon. I pranced delightedly round the ship, which was now musical with the wind, looking at everything like a schoolboy in the Science Museum.

  I had a letter in my pocket from Wendy, which I purposely kept unopened until we were under way. It was a short prim note, wishing me a good voyage, hoping my headaches were better, and mentioning that I was not to think of ourselves as betrothed any longer. It appeared she had become enamoured of the son of the local draper. I tore the letter up and scattered it over the side: the pieces spread on the sea and were left behind. I laughed. I felt a cad, a devilish cad. But now, surely, I was allowed to be: I was a sailor. A wife in every port for me! I thought. Watch out, my girls, watch out! A rollicking sailor lad, indeed! With a snatch of sea-shanty on my lips I went below for a cup of tea, aware that I was perhaps not quite myself.

  ***

  My elation lasted less than a day. The next morning I was sick.

  The Lotus creaked and groaned her way through the water like an old lady in a bargain sale. She climbed to the top of a wave, paused for breath, shook herself, and slid helplessly into the trough of the next. I lay on my bunk and watched the sprightly horizon jumping round the porthole, trying to think about eminently terrestial objects, such as the Albert Hall.

  Easter put his head round the door. In his hands he had a cup of tea and a small roseless watering-can, of the type preserved for the conveyance of tepid water in English country hotels.

  'Good morning, Doctor,' he said briefly. Will you be in for breakfast?'

  I rolled my head on the pillow.

  'Not feeling too good, Doctor?'

  'I think I am going to die.'

  He nodded, gravely assessing the clinical findings.

  'Throwing up much?' he asked pleasantly.

  'Everything.'

  'If I may take the liberty, a good meal is what you want. Plate of fried eggs and bacon and you'll be right as rain. Works like a charm. Hold it a moment, Doctor, I'll fetch a bowl.'

  I held the bowl like a mother with a newborn infant.

  'Feeling better now you've got all that up?' he asked solicitously.

  'A bit.'

  A thought struck him.

  'Wouldn't like a bit of cold beef and a few pickles, would you? They'd do just as well.'

  'No, no, no! I don't want anything. Nothing at all. I just want to be left alone.'

  'Very good, Doctor. Just as you say. Perhaps you might feel like a bit of lunch?'

  'I doubt it very much.'

  He left me in ecstatic solitude. I lay rigidly on the bunk, concentrating on the words stencilled, by order of the Ministry of Transport, immediately above me: CERTIFIED TO ACCOMMODATE 1 SEAMAN. Seaman, indeed! All I wanted to see was a tree.

  It was essential to keep my mind fixed on something beyond the clouds of nausea spiralling round me, so I started to count the rivets in the deckhead. I had reached ninety-eight when Hornbeam came in. He was smoking a pipe.

  'Hello, Doc! I hear you're off colour. What's the trouble?'

  'I'm seasick.'

  He looked surprised.

  'Yes, I suppose she is pitching a bit,' he admitted, glancing through the porthole. 'Do you mind if I use one of your matches?'

  He blew mouthfuls of smoke into the cabin.

  'Better out than in,' he said, as I put the bowl down again.

  'I suppose so.'

  'You know what, Doc? I'm going to give you a genuine cure for seasickness. I can't often treat a doctor, but this is just the thing. Do you want to try it?'

  'What is it?'

  'A pint of sea-water. It's an old sailors' cure. When I was an apprentice it was the only thing that stopped me on my first voyage. If we were sick we got kicked down the bridge ladder and given a pint glass just out of the sea-bucket by the Mate. Shall I get you some?'

  I raised my hand.

  'I think I'd rather not have anything at all at the moment, thank you.'

  'As you like, Doc. I'm only making a suggestion. Have you tried covering one eye?'

  'It wasn't much good.'

  'No, I don't believe it is. Damn! Can I have another match? My pipe's gone out again.'

  'Would you mind lighting it outside? It's a bit-a bit strong at the moment.'

  'Oh, sorry! I didn't think of that.'

  I called weakly after him at the door.

  'How long is this likely to go on for?'

  He calculated for a few seconds.

  'Not very long. I should say we'd be in pretty calm water in five or six days.'

  'Five or six days!'

  I groaned.

  I lay and tried to analyse my condition, like the dying surgeon, John Hunter. It was, of course, a ridiculously simple malady when one looked at it with scientific detachment. The endolymph in myemi-circular canals was stimulating the endings of my cochlear nerve, which transmitted influences to the brain and initiated the reflex arc of vomiting. It should be easy for a little will-power to inhibit the reflex. After all, the brain was the master…I exercised the will-power.

  'Morning!' Trail said from the doorway. 'When you've got your head out of that bowl I'll tell you a sure-fire cure for seasickness.'

  I fell back on the pillow. I had given up. When the angel of death arrived I would shake him cordially by the hand.

  Trail came over to the bunk. He put his hands in his trouser pockets and pulled out two bottles of stout.

  'Guinness,' he said proudly. 'Drink these and you'll be fine by lunch-time. Works like magic.'

  'Oh God!' I said. 'Oh God, oh God!'

  Trail looked puzzled.

  'What's the matter? Don't you like stout? Here, take it easy! That one nearly went over my uniform.'

  He left me wondering submissively how long it would be before Easter came back and started talking about lunch. And it was bound to be Irish stew.

  ***

  After three days the sea and I achieved a compromise. The sun came out, the wind dropped and lost its malice, the water was tidied up like a room after a wild party. For myself, I learned to lean against the sway of the ship, and I felt well enough to risk lunch in the saloon.

  It was my first meal at sea. I sat with the Captain, the Chief Engineer, Hornbeam and Archer, and the Chief Steward, a thin little mouse-faced man called Whimble. As soon as the bell rang we converged on the dining saloon with the briskness of seaside boarders: Captain Hogg disliked anyone to be late.

  I was on the Captain's right hand, the Mate on his left. The Chief Engineer faced the Captain, and the other two sat themselves between.

  'Ah, Doctor!' Captain Hogg said, jovially enough. 'Decided to join us at last, have you?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  He unfolded his napkin and tucked it under his chin with deliberation.

  'Seasickness,' he said slowly, 'is entirely mental. You imagine it.'

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  'Well,' I said, in my professional tone, 'there are more complicated reasons than that. I admit there may be a psychological element. But there is obviously some fault with the balancing apparatus in the ears, and probably with the gastric nerves.'

  The Captain broke a roll.

  'No.' He said it decisively. 'It is entirely mental.'

  He started drinking soup loudly.

  No one spoke until he had finished.

  'Mr. McDougall,' he said, slipping half a roll into his mouth, 'have you got that book you were going to lend me at supper last night?'

  The Chief looked up. He was a thin, wrinkled Scot with a face dominated by a thick strip of sandy eyebrow, from which his eyes looked out like a couple of Highland gamekeepers inspecting poachers through the undergrowth.

  'Aye,' he said. 'You mean _The Squeaker?'_

  The Captain nodded.

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bsp; 'That's it. I like a bit of Peter Cheyney.'

  'But surely,' I said immediately, _'The Squeaker_ was by Edgar Wallace? It was written over twenty years ago.'

  'No,' the Captain said. 'It was Peter Cheyney.'

  'You know, sir, I'm perfectly…'

  'Peter Cheyney,' he said, with the emphasis of a full stop. He then fell upon a plate of mutton chops, which disappeared into his mouth like a rush-hour crowd going down an escalator.

  We continued eating in silence.

  Captain Hogg finished his chops and brought his knife and fork together with a flourish.

  'Mr. Whimble,' he said.

  'Sir!'

  The Chief Steward jumped, and choked over a chop bone.

  'I have, I suppose, tasted worse chops than these. In a fifth-rate cafй on the Mexican coast possibly. Why don't you throw the cook over the side? If he'd served filth like this to the Captain when I was an apprentice the fellow would have had his bottom kicked round the deck.'

  'I'm sorry, Captain,' Whimble mumbled. 'I'll see to it.'

  'I should think so. You never get cooking like you used to. All they think about these days are vitamins and calories, and such stuff. What good's that to a man? Fad, that's all it is. You don't need vitamins or calories,' he said with disgust. 'Eh, Doctor?'

  'Well, they are really two quite different factors. And vitamins are terribly important.'

  'Bosh! I'm not a doctor-I don't pretend to be. But if you get a good bellyful of meat and spuds every day you'll be all right.'

  'You must have vitamins,' I insisted, but feebly.

  'Vitamins are bosh, Doctor. Bosh!'

  I began to see that opinions were forbidden, even professional ones. Our mealtimes were going to be rollicking.

  Chapter Four

  The next morning after breakfast I went to my cabin, wedged myself on the settee, and again opened _War and Peace_ at page one. I had not felt well enough to start the book since we sailed, but now I looked forward to a leisurely stroll through its pages during the rest of the voyage. I had almost reached the end of the first paragraph when a conversation started in the alleyway outside my cabin door.