DOCTOR AT SEA Read online

  ***

  The tenth morning of the voyage I sat down resolutely in my cabin and took _War and Peace_ from the locker. Somehow I had not yet found time to pass the first page. I opened it, smoothed down the paper, and began again the first paragraph. Hornbeam rattled the jalousie door and came in.

  'Morning, Doc! Everything bearing an even strain?'

  'Good morning, Chief,' I said. 'I think so, thanks very much.'

  'Good.'

  Picking up the first volume of _War and Peace_ he neatly squashed a cockroach that was scuttling across the bulkhead.

  'These damn roaches,' he said. 'Come out in families once it turns hot. Had any in bed with you?'

  'No, not yet.'

  He pulled a tobacco tin from his pocket.

  'Would you like the makings?' he asked, offering it.

  'No, thank you. I'm afraid it's a nautical knack I haven't picked up.'

  'It's easy enough. Can't stand tailor-mades.'

  He neatly rolled a cigarette between his fingers and thumbs. Whenever I tried the same manoeuvre I squeezed the tobacco out like the cream from an йclair.

  'Wish you'd have a look at the Sparks, Doc,' Hornbeam continued affably.

  'Why, what's the trouble?'

  'I just saw him shake hands with a lifeboat.'

  'Ah, yes. I was rather afraid something like that might happen.'

  Our Wireless Operator was probably the luckiest man on the ship. He was one of those blithe people who live in a world of their own. He had been at sea for forty years, crouched over a telegraph key with the staccato song of Morse in his ears. This seemed to have induced psychological changes in him. For the rest of us, our universe was bounded by the steel and wooden limits of the Lotus-but not the Sparks. He passed his day in the company of soft-skinned maidens and amiable philosophers, with whom he could often be seen laughing, conversing, and singing while he walked round the deck or sat in the corner of his cabin. Sometimes he did a coy little dance with some of his companions, or played a simple game; and occasionally they would have a restrained tiff, which always ended happily in the way just observed by the Mate. The Sparks was by far the happiest person under Captain Hogg's command.

  'I suppose he's quite harmless?' I asked. 'I mean, he doesn't send out dangerous messages or anything?'

  'Oh, he's not in that stage yet,' Hornbeam assured me tolerantly. 'I've seen a good many worse than him. The Morse gets 'em in the end. I just thought you ought to know. I saw him kissing a ventilator yesterday,' he added darkly.

  'We are all entitled to our little aberrations, I suppose.'

  'You're right there, Doc. Life at sea wouldn't be possible without a bit of give and take. Old Sparks is all right. Just a bit dippy. Like some of these tanker types.'

  'Tanker types?'

  He nodded, lighting the cigarette and filling the cabin with smoke.

  '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 y
ou 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.

  'You're all mad at sea,' I said defiantly. 'The lot of you.'

  The company immediately indicated their disbelief with the usual word.

  'You are,' I said. 'Or you wouldn't be here.'

  'Have some more gin,' Trail said.

  'Thank you.' I swallowed another mouthful. 'As I was saying. I have made a diagnosis. From careful-not to say exacting-study of you in the past ten days I conclude that you're all suffering from the death wish.'

  'What the hell's that?' McDougall asked angrily.

  I held up a hand.

  'Silence. As a disciple of Hippocrates I demand respect and silence. The death wish. When you are born all you want to do is die.'

  This again filled the cabin with derision.

  'Shut up, you blokes. Let the poor blighter speak,' Trail said.

  I continued. 'That is what the psychologists say. Some people hang themselves. Others go into monasteries and…and things. Some climb mountains and live in caves. Others write poetry. Look at English poetry,' I demanded hotly of Hornbeam. 'Look at it! Redolent with the death wish!' I screwed up my eyes and struck an attitude of recitation.

  _'…for many a time_

  _I have been half in love with easeful Death,'_

  I declaimed stumblingly.

  _'Call'd him soft names in many a musиd rhyme,_

  _To take into the air my quiet…'_

  I slipped off the bunk, but Hornbeam caught me.

  'Death wish to the eyebrows, the lot of you! You withdraw-to sea. To sea! That's what it is!

  'You're full of prune-juice, Doc,' someone said.

  'I will not have insults,' I cried. 'If you would care to defend yourself like a gentleman, I shall take you up on it. You have the death wish, by God! You've all got it. So had Nelson. I've got it as well.'

  I fell over McDougall's feet and no one bothered to pick me up.

  Chapter Six

  The next morning I was suffering from a sharp attack of the death wish. But my performance had raised me surprisingly in the eyes of my shipmates. My earnest years as a medical student, my dignified excursion into practice, my prim approach to seafaring had built a scaffold underneath me: the Third Mate's gin had slipped the bolt.

  My companions were relieved to find that I was not only sane but human: for my part, I began to realize that the sea, which washes away terrestrial affectations and inhibitions, had a great deal to recommend it. Sailors are of the few remaining people who make their way in companies across the unsignposted face of the world with the help of the sun and the stars, and spend most of their lives lying at the unhindered fancy of the weather. Their sense of values in human and elemental behaviour is therefore unblunted; they look on their existence as a long uproarious joke relieved by not unentertaining interludes of necessary tragedy. I thought them the last of the Elizabethans.

  I believe there is no process so restful as moving at bicycle pace through the sunshine of the South Atlantic. We were steaming at ten knots, which meant we should be about three weeks reaching Santos. The metallic fragment of England in which we all existed-except the Wireless Operator-creaked easily onwards with a faint haze of smoke rolling from the funnel, scattering the nimble flying fish with her bow. Even crossing the Line caused no more disturbance than my having to stand drinks all round. The hot sun welded the days together so that they became indistinguishable. It was impossible to tell whether it was Tuesday or Thursday, and it didn't matter.

  Only twice a week were we reminded of the calendar-Friday and Sunday. At four-thirty on Friday afternoons we had boat drill. Captain Hogg stood on the bridge and pulled the cord of the whistle, which sent us scurrying up the ladders in our blue-and-orange lifejackets to the boatdeck. I was in boat number four, in charge of the Third Mate, who ticked our names off with a roll-call. I was alarmed to find that among my companions in an emergency would be the Carpenter with a tendency to D.T.s and a pleasant-faced greaser who, I heard from Easter, had just returned from a ten-year stretch, for armed robbery.

  'Swing out!' Captain Hogg shouted through the loud hailer.

  The canvas covers were stripped off the boats, and three men set to the handle of each davit to lean it out from the ship's side. When this had been done to Captain Hogg's satisfaction the boats were swung in again and everyone dispersed.

  'Board of Trade sports,' Trail said with disgust. 'Waste of time.'

  'Why do we do it then?' I asked.

  'Oh, it has to go in the log-book. There'd be hell in Liverpool if we didn't. Some skippers cook the log, but not this baby. Anything to give him a chance of bawling through a loud hailer.'

  Sunday was recognizable, as it was the only occasion when we flew the flag at sea. From eight to midday the red ensign waved from the gaff on the mainmast, to convince the Almighty that we had not forgotten him-for there was no one else but ourselves to see it. The appearance of the flag that symbolized the Sabbath was greeted warmly by all hands, not through reverence but because, under Ministry of Transport regulations, we all got an extra half-day's pay.

  Sunday was also marked by the ceremony of full inspection. This was ordered by Captain Hogg's copy of _Instructions for Masters,_ the manual through which the Fathom Steamship Company directed and advised their commanders, which contained in its yellow pages regulations designed to right such nautical disasters as mutiny, epidemics of smallpox, lost anchor, and imminent shipwreck. At eleven o'clock the four of us fell in behind the Captain, who indicated the exceptional occasion by carrying a torch and a walking-stick. On the poop the ship's company was lined up ready for us-deckhands under the charge of the Bos'n on the port side, firemen and greasers to starboard, and catering staff, in fresh white jackets, standing nervously athwartships. Captain Hogg passed down the ranks scowling into each face like a vengeful but short-sighted victim at an identification parade, th
en we marched in and out of the little, green-painted crews' cabins that each smelt of feet and hair-oil. They had been cleaned and tidied so that nothing in the slightest degree disturbing could fall into the Captain's visual fields. The decks were scrubbed, the blankets folded ostentatiously, and the owners' possessions-varying from a guitar to a caged canary-were set in unnaturally tidy piles. Captain Hogg shone his torch beneath the bunks, inspected the undersurfaces of tables and chairs, and thrust the crook of his walking-stick into every inviting orifice. Usually his rummaging produced nothing more than a cloud of dust and an empty beer-tin, but occasionally he would drag out a saloon plate, a silver coffee-pot, a mildewed loaf, a pair of underpants, or the crumpled photograph of an inconstant girl friend.

  'Mr. Hornbeam!' he would shout, waving the find under the Mate's nose. 'What's the meaning of this? Eh? We'll find the chronometers in here next!'

  The last call was my hospital. Sunday was the only occasion when it was inspected, and Easter spent the morning polishing the brass-work and tipping all the small movable objects and surgical debris into a large white bin labelled 'Sterile Dressings.' As we arrived he stood smartly to attention beside the door, hiding a large black patch on the bulkhead.

  'All correct, Doctor?' the Captain growled every Sunday.

  'Yes, sir. All correct.'

  He fixed Easter with his eye.

  'Any complaints?'

  'I am very happy, Captain,' Easter replied unctuously.

  'All right. Pipe down, Bos'n.'

  The crew were scattered to their Sunday indolence and we went up to the Captain's cabin, where we stood in a line in front of him, our caps under our arms, and he emphasized the points that had incurred his disapproval. Then we all sat down and had a gin.