by James Barlow
During his training Tomazos had served for six months on a beautiful four-masted bark, originally employed in the Australian grain trade, and later the carrier of nitrates from Chile. He had climbed up to the highest spar, the main royal yard, a nerve-racking experience, and remembered even now the roll of the ship and the beauty of the near thirty sails of that gracious vessel billowing in a moderate wind, the main cracking like a whip below his feet.
So if he now served on a fairly stable platform he had earned the position. And, in fact, handling a big ship like the Areopagus called for skill. The whole technique was, again, experience and consisted of judging time and distance. The reaction to instructions from the bridge telegraph was slow – the engine had to be stopped and then reengaged for the colossal gear teeth to mesh without destruction – so that the time the ship took to swing to a given course was often whole minutes and the distance it advanced or traversed would be as much as a mile. With a rudder which moved only to thirty-five degrees and a great length and weight, obviously the Areopagus could not turn like a destroyer: the outward heel would have been most disconcerting to the passengers; crockery, glasses of beer, knives and forks, cases, would all have fallen or slid away.
Once the ship had been committed to a turn at any speed it was not a matter of seconds, but of whole minutes before the ship’s heavy swing could be checked or her way lost, no matter what orders were telegraphed to the engine room or called to the helmsman. It was worse at night, particularly in terms of other ships. A minute before a collision two ships would be perfectly safe, a thousand yards apart, but fifteen seconds later nothing would be able to save them, the massive propulsion and machinery would be so committed.
‘Turn to one hundred and eighty degrees,’ Tomazos instructed the helmsman, and the Areopagus turned in a mile or so from due east as she had left the River Parramatta to due south down the coast of New South Wales.
There was no leeway, for the wind was dead astern, and the Areopagus made a steady eighteen knots through the night.
Behind him and below him the passengers – there were now only 590 of them and 89 of these were to disembark at Fremantle – were asleep, or at the late cabaret show, or drinking at the Forward Bar which remained open until two in the morning, or playing cards, or taking a last stroll on the Parade Deck.
Tomazos thought about those twenty-two automobiles. Were they now in Melbourne? On their way there, or now stuck by the strike in some obscure siding? Where were they really from? Vehicles were made or assembled in Melbourne and Adelaide, Tomazos knew, and if they couldn’t be loaded tomorrow at Melbourne, and if the strike really was only for twenty-four hours, was it possible that the owner’s agents would suggest that the Areopagus make the extra call at Adelaide? If the cars were at or near Adelaide this was just possible. It depended, perhaps, on how the harbour charges related on the profit of transporting twenty-two vehicles which would retail at $3,500 in America and Europe. If the Areopagus called at Adelaide, even for three hours, he might see Elaine. . . .
He never asked favours. He had no need of them, being both extremely competent in his work and satisfied in his private life. But he had not seen Elaine for about fourteen weeks and wouldn’t even have the opportunity for another twelve – and she would have to come to Melbourne even then, a twelve-hour train journey. Mollon, the second officer, often asked favours of Tomazos. Mollon was hedonistic, although tough and capable. If the ship did call at Adelaide, and he, Tomazos, was on duty, as he assuredly would be, just this once he’d ask Mollon. . . .
He stood staring ahead at a black horizon and beautiful stars, and rolling slightly on the balls of his feet. The click of the gyro repeater was the only sound. The port light gave off a diffused red incandescence and the starboard a green. Very distantly he heard laughter and a band. But he felt no jealousy. He belonged up here, was perfectly content, had no problems, and was the most competent officer on the ship.
Chapter Five
The Burston family – father, mother and three daughters of fifteen, ten and two – travelled for fourteen hours to reach Melbourne and found it windy, cold and empty on this Saturday afternoon in October.
Like Tornetta they arrived too early. The youngest, affectionately called Bumble, was weeping, and the questions of the other two girls grated on Marion Burston’s nerves so that she hissed, ‘For God’s sake, shut up! I might have known . . .’
This, for Mike Burston, had the current implications: It’s your fault. He argued at once, defensively, ‘It was the only train,’ to which Marion persisted, ‘Why can’t we board until eight o’clock?’
Burston talked to the old man in the white coat at the gangway, and he went aboard, returning with the instructions that they could board the Areopagus now, but would have to leave their cases ashore until the proper time – which was 8 P.M. – when new passengers would board via the Customs. ‘What good’s that?’ Marion complained. ‘These kids are tired out.’
She was thirty-seven, five foot four, nice-looking but thinned down a bit by some private misery. Her hair was still black and her brown eyes clear, but there was a mournful look about her as if life had defeated her here in Australia and she wanted to escape – anywhere – but had no conviction that life would be better anywhere else.
Mike was a large man of five foot ten, tough-looking, sunburned a hard brown. He had big roughened hands, but they were agitated, and he looked both startled and dazed.
Both of them had the accent of the British working class, of somewhere in the Midlands; five years before, they had left England, aware perhaps that with such accents they were irretrievably defeated. Money, yes, if Mike worked hard he could make money, but they’d never belong in the first-class compartments or the quality restaurants, or be part of first nights to the theatre or concert-going or dinners given by this or that society; they were so ingrained in their status that they hadn’t even wanted to belong. Now they were going back to what they had despised.
It was typical, Marion felt angrily, that even here they’d arrived at the wrong hour and, exhausted, had five hours to hang about, and had to stand in the Station Pier eating hot pies with their hands. ‘Mind your coat,’ she had to instruct repeatedly to Patricia, aged ten, and the kids’ voices asked with innocence that hurt, ‘Why can’t we have chips?’ – ‘When are we going to board?’ and the snot ran from Bumble’s nostrils as fast as Marion cleaned them with tissues.
Nevertheless, they were allowed aboard an almost empty ship, although not in their cabin, and strolled around and sat in sunlit corners and drank lemonade in a vast lounge.
The Areopagus had now discharged all but seventy-five of its migrants from Europe. The New Zealand and Australian passengers who had boarded at Wellington, Hobart and Sydney were out on tours.
At half-past seven the Burstons went ashore, collected their cases and hung about in the Customs Hall. They were unaware that only eighty people were boarding at Melbourne and that the hundreds of others now milling about were relations and visitors to the ship.
‘Look!’ cried Marion in disgust. ‘Just look at that old woman pushing people. She’s going to be first. Selfish. Typical Australian,’ she said unkindly, for she had found Australians not much different to the people in Staffordshire as far as selfishness was concerned.
‘She’s got a wig on,’ observed Stella.
It took another hour to board. ‘They could have started at seven thirty,’ deduced Marion in irritation. ‘Typical.’ They shuffled along with others, and the old lady with the wig held up the queue as she doubled back from one desk to another in anxiety. Twice ashore and once on deck they had to fill in forms or answer tiresome, pointless questions.
A steward tried to hurry ahead with their cases but could scarcely move. The decks were packed with visitors to the ship who were in a more excited state than the passengers.
There were some
in the Burstons’ cabin, and Mike said loudly, ‘Get out! What d’you think this is, a circus?’ The middle-aged couple flinched and the husband pointed to a steward who was standing around obsequiously. ‘He said we could have a look round. We were thinking of the February cruise.’ Mike was tired and fed up, and he could see in misery that Marion was more so, and shaken by his outburst. ‘All right, you’ve had a look. Now beat it,’ he said, and they went, too startled to argue. And suddenly after twenty hours there was silence. Mike lay on a bunk and when Marion said tentatively, ‘We ought to get something to eat before the kids go to bed,’ he argued, ‘I’m too tired,’ Marion persisted with the pious edge in her voice that made him writhe, ‘I’d take them only I’ll never find the way back.’
She could always thrust the moral obligation onto him. He agreed bitterly, ‘All right, I’ll come.’
‘I want soup and beef and ice cream afterwards,’ Stella told them.
But when they found the large dining room it was empty, and when they entered – in the usual posture of resignation – an officer approached and informed them, ‘The dining room is closed,’ and then, as if that wasn’t enough, ‘The kitchen is closed.’
They traipsed back to the cabin as a siren sounded. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Marion assured Mike, but he felt weakened with failure. Pies and a few sandwiches were all they’d had in twenty hours, and a bad sleep on a hot train.
In the cabin Marion struggled with Bumble, washing her, and her ‘Oh, come on!’ was tired and near desperation.
She called from the small bathroom, ‘The water’s brown and only lukewarm. Do you think it’s safe for them to clean their teeth in? And it says not for drinking.’
Stella noted brightly, ‘We’re moving. Thank Christ for that.’
‘Don’t blaspheme,’ Marion corrected her.
‘Why not?’ asked Stella. ‘It doesn’t mean anything anymore.’
‘Yes, it does.’
‘You don’t go to church.’ Stella pointed out.
‘I don’t blaspheme.’
‘You say ‘God’ sometimes.’
‘Will you shut up?’ shouted Marion. ‘I’m sick of the lot of you,’ she said shakily, and Mike was disturbed, knowing it meant him. He’d caused it: all the distress and sour experiences were because of what he’d done.
‘Stop being cheeky to your mum,’ he ordered heavily.
‘I’m not being cheeky. I’m disputing politely.’
‘Well, shut up.’
‘What charm!’ said Stella. ‘What wit!’ But she saw anger blaze in his eyes and was quiet.
Patricia, now undressed, asked, ‘Mum, what would happen if the ship was sinking and you had no clothes on? I mean, like I am now.’
Stella interjected, ‘I’d put on everything over my pyjamas.’
Patricia considered it and concluded thoughtfully, ‘I’d take my drawing books so I’d have something to do.’
‘Oh, isn’t it pathetic?’ was Stella’s view of this.
‘Can we have the light on?’
‘It’s late, half past nine,’ Marion said.
‘Oh, Mum, I’m frightened,’ Patricia told her.
‘One, then. No reading and no talking because Bumble’s asleep. Be quiet while we go for a walk.’
In the morning the steward brought them all cups of tea. At breakfast they found that they were to sit at an oval table with the old lady who had been so determined to be first aboard at Melbourne, and an old man who was so crippled he walked as if he’d been broken in several places, and whose conversation was incomprehensible. He wore a hearing aid but bent his head toward whoever spoke and didn’t seem to hear even then. Talk with these two was difficult, and Marion felt that they, the family, should have been given a table to themselves, preferably in a discreet corner so that Bumble’s noises and messy eating couldn’t be heard and seen by other passengers. It was, she concluded, part of being ordinary people who can be shoved around. But even as she smouldered with the resentment which was self-consciousness she was aware of her unfairness. It was obvious that the Greek stewards and officers would rush around at anyone’s request.
Later in the day Stella demanded hopelessly, ‘I want a camera. They’ve got a kind of mini camera in the shop, and it’s only five dollars.’
‘Only!’ protested Marion.
Mike conceded, ‘We’ll have a look at that. We don’t have a camera for all these places. Does it take colour slides?’
Stella told him with excitement, ‘It even has a flash.’
Patricia called out, ‘I want an ice cream.’
Mike gave them some money. ‘Go and get one each. Be in the dining room at twelve.’
Marion had been arranging things. Now she protested, ‘You’re too silly. You’re soft with them. We can’t throw money about.’
‘An ice cream each?’
‘You can’t buy it back,’ she reminded him with enormous misery, the crux of it all.
‘Buy what back?’ he demanded angrily.
‘You know. And don’t shout at me.’
‘We’re on holiday. They can have a bit of fun, can’t they?’
‘Holiday!’ she sighed.
Mike lit a cigarette.
At once Marion said in tireless criticism, ‘I wish you’d stop smoking so much. I know your nerves are funny, but it fills the cabin up. It’s bad for the kids.’
‘There’s air-conditioning.’
‘Can you feel it?’
He put his hand up to the deckhead and laughed. ‘No! Nothing happening.’
‘I told you. It’s no good down here. Marvellous in the dining room, but this is a cheap cabin.’
‘Cheap!’ he protested. ‘They knocked me nearly two thousand dollars –’
‘I wish,’ Marion said, ‘we’d gone straight home on a P and O boat instead of all this cruising about. Stella and Patricia ought to be at school.’
‘You’ve always wanted to see Singapore and Hong Kong.’
‘That was before you –’
‘So we’re back to that?’
‘It’s made a difference, hasn’t it?’
‘Don’t let it make a difference all our lives, Marion, please.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m tired.’
‘This’ll do you good.’
But it was the same in the evening when Mike suggested going to the ship’s cinema.
‘What for?’ Marion asked, still seething with it. It was as if she despised happiness, or felt that they had no right to ‘fun’. That was for other, admittedly silly, people, but people who hadn’t done what he’d done.
‘It’s quite a good film.’
‘And who’s going to look after the kids?’
‘They can’t get run over or kidnapped on a ship!’ Mike suggested to her. ‘Stella will look after them.’
‘She’s useless, no help to anyone.’
‘Thanks very much,’ said Stella. ‘Anyway, I wanted to go to that film.’
‘You go, then, with your father,’ agreed Marion. ‘I’ll look after Patricia and Bumble.’
There was a heavy implication: that’s my job, my duty, to be a drudge.
‘Oh, come on, Dad,’ pleaded Stella. ‘It starts in ten minutes and they‘re sitting there in hundreds already.’
‘Will you be all right?’ he asked Marion.
‘Of course. I may do some washing . . . and no drinking,’ she called as father and daughter departed.
‘Do you think that’s likely?’ he countered.
As they hurried along the decks Stella inquired outright: ‘What’s the matter with Mum?’
‘She’s worried.’
‘Does she have to take it out on everybody? She’s gone mean,’ Stella complained.<
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‘She’s worried,’ he repeated uselessly. ‘We’ve had a lot of problems. She’ll be okay when we get back.’
‘We’re not going back to Wolverhampton?’
‘No. I’ve got a job in London.’
‘Hooray for you! A bit of swinging life! What a dreary place that was,’ Stella said, damning South Australia with the ruthless decision of childhood.
Marion had never really belonged to Australia but, up to three months ago, hadn’t consciously disliked it. She could recall quite distinctly the shabby sitting room in Wolverhampton – a main road outside, with trucks changing gears at the lights: the appalling noise went on all night, tires hissing in the rain – and the day in November when Mike had come home, tired, fed up, and told her: ‘Fred’s had his lorry-load stolen. Newcastle. And his head split open to give him something to think about. Jesus, Marion, it’s been smog and rain for three whole days. Eh, what I’d give for some sunshine and a dry road. We ought to go to Australia.’
And they’d looked at each other and Mike had said in excitement, ‘My God, kid, that’s it.’ Within a week he was telling her enthusiastically, ‘They get a hundred and fifty dollars a week hauling copper. Imagine it! Sixty-seven pounds a week driving in sunshine!’
Within four months they’d arrived, bewildered, hot, apprehensive, a bit disappointed. For they had found the job first and hoped the place suited, fulfilled the promises and evidence of the brochures. It could hardly have been more different from Wolverhampton. It was ‘better,’ Marion kept reminding herself, better than Wolverhampton, Sheffield, Leeds, Birmingham . . . It must be, mustn’t it? There was a swimming pool, supermarket, their own bungalow, even if it did have a tin roof. The washing was dry in fifteen minutes. Everyone was consciously matey.