by Antony Trew
She eyed him mischievously over the edge of her glass. ‘Dishy,’ she said. ‘In spite of a cut lip.’
‘Watch it. Men like that are dangerous.’
‘That’s what makes them attractive.’
He dropped his voice. ‘See you. Here comes George.’ He went over to Kostadis and Hammarsen.
‘Enjoying his drink?’ George Foley came up and looked at his wife with studious calm.
‘Yes. I always enjoy G and T.’
‘Especially when our friend pays for it.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, George! Grow up. Can’t he buy me a drink without you being unpleasant?’
‘I was up on the bridge this afternoon.’
‘Were you? Doing what?’
‘Watching you and him chatting each other up beside the pool.’
‘So that’s a crime, is it?’
‘What were you talking about?’
‘The future. What he proposes to do when we get back. Anything else you’d like to know?’
‘Yes. Whether you’re telling the truth.’
She turned her back on him and joined Doris Benson. It was just about the most provocative thing she could do because he knew she couldn’t stand the second engineer’s wife.
Hammarsen and Kostadis, having said their goodbyes, left the bar-lounge and made their way to the Master’s suite for a formal leavetaking and farewell drink. They found the chief engineer with the Captain.
The four men discussed briefly the final stages of the repair work, McLintoch assuring them that there would be no further delays. They got on to the ship’s departure the next morning. ‘The Port Captain’s providing three harbour tugs,’ said Captain Crutchley. ‘Pilot’s boarding at 0515.’
‘Good.’ Kostadis raised his glass, his deep-set eyes fixed on the Captain. ‘Here’s to a successful voyage.’
‘I’ll second that,’ said Hammarsen, raising his. McLintoch did the same, but Crutchley left his glass on the salver. ‘Safe would be more appropriate than successful,’ he said.
Kostadis searched the weathered features for some indication of what lay behind the remark but the dark glasses baffled him and he knew Crutchley too well to ask for an explanation. He had long sensed the Captain’s reservations about him and put them down to a seaman’s disapproval of an engineer filling the post of marine-superintendent.
‘Well.’ Hammarsen looked at his watch, stood up. ‘We must be going, I’m afraid. Did Pieterse report aboard this morning?’
‘Yes‚’ said Crutchley. ‘I’ve signed him on.’
Hammarsen nodded approval. ‘No doubt you made it clear he’ll be out of a job when you reach the other side?’
‘I did.’
‘It suits him,’ explained Hammarsen. ‘He wants to get out.’
‘Yes.’ Captain Crutchley stared at the agent. ‘I know.’
The chief officer escorted the departing visitors down to the maindeck and along the pipe-lined catwalk towards the gangway. He thanked them for all they had done to help the ship and make the stay in Durban an agreeable one. Kostadis assured him it had been a pleasure. ‘I only wish,’ he said with a lugubrious expression, ‘that we were saying goodbye under happier circumstances. But we’ll be seeing you again before long. As soon as the market recovers Ocean Mammoth will be brought back into service and you’ll be hearing from us. In the meantime the best of luck to you.’
Hammarsen endorsed these sentiments, there were warm handshakes, and the two men went down the gangway to the waiting launch.
Jarrett, busy with his thoughts, watched it for some time as it made its way towards the Point. ‘I’m going to need the best of luck‚’ he muttered. ‘All very well for you lot. Nice cushy jobs ashore.’
He thought once again about the letter he’d seen Foley hand Kostadis a few minutes earlier. They’d been waiting for the lift on Deck One and he’d heard the second officer say, ‘Would you mind posting this? It’s to do with what we discussed recently.’
Kostadis had smiled understandingly. ‘Of course‚’ he’d said, and put it in his briefcase.
Chapter 9
To seaward, across the sweep of dark water, the rim of the sun showed pink above the cloudbank and along the seafront shore-lights winked in the haze of early morning. A dawn breeze ruffled the sea and the supertanker, caught in the rhythm of the swell, rolled ponderously as befitted her great size.
Out on the wing of the bridge Captain Crutchley looked astern to where the pilot cutter was making its way into Durban harbour. ‘Thank God,’ he said to himself, ‘that we’re at sea at last.’
Crutchley was a rational, well-balanced man, but years of confrontation with the elements had left him with that respect for superstition which is common among those who spend their lives at sea and it was woven deeply into the fabric of his world.
It had long worried him that the great ship he was so proud to command had been launched from the builder’s yards on a Friday the 13th – and on the outward voyage, in the South Atlantic, a dead albatross had been found on the maindeck at dawn one morning. These were ominous portents and indeed it had proved an unlucky voyage: the breakdown, Price’s accident, the loss of the charter, the decision to recall and lay-up the ship, the exacerbation of his personal problem. He wondered what the voyage homeward held in store.
In the meantime the vibrations of the hull, the creaking of the huge superstructure, the hum of machinery, the clicking of gyro-repeaters, were to him welcome reminders that Ocean Mammoth, so long inanimate, was once again alive. These things, the sounds, the smells, the feelings, the fresh sea air he breathed, were the parameters of his environment. For the first time since the breakdown he began to feel secure, at peace notwithstanding what might lie ahead.
He left the bridge and went into the wheelhouse, to the front windows, without so much as a glance at the officers and quartermasters there. He had an enormous capacity for not noticing people. For some time he stood, large and silent, his head raised as if listening, his attention focused it seemed on something far beyond the forward sweep of the maindeck.
Aware of the Captain’s habits, his men waited patiently knowing he would speak when necessary, that he disapproved of small talk on the bridge while the ship was manoeuvring.
At last he broke the silence. ‘Ship’s head now, Mr Jarrett?’
‘One-three-five, sir.’
‘Starboard easy, then. Bring her round to one-five-zero.’ His deep voice had the assurance of long experience in command.
The chief officer repeated the order, the quartermaster turned the small horseshoe wheel – more appropriate to the cockpit of an airliner than the wheelhouse of a supertanker – and the gyro-repeater on the steering stand ticked off the degrees. Later the quartermaster checked the swing of the ship’s head, waited, then reported. ‘Steady on one-five-zero, sir.’
The chief officer acknowledged the report. Captain Crutchley continued to look straight ahead. ‘Time, Mr Foley?’
The second officer glanced at his wristwatch, checked with the clock on the console. ‘Six-thirty-two, sir.’
‘Bearing and distance of Coopers?’
Foley went over to the TM radar, switched to the six-mile range, checked the speed and gyro input, looked into the display. ‘Bearing two-five-eight, distance three point four miles, sir.’
‘Check that by gyro compass, Mr Foley.’
Foley went to the starboard wing, trained the bearing plate and prism of the gyro-repeater on Coopers, then on the South Breakwater. In the chartroom he plotted the bearings, drew a neat circle at their point of intersection, noted the time against it. With dividers he measured the distance. Allowing for the movement of the ship it more or less confirmed the radar position.
Next, with the assistance of the standby quartermaster, he got on with the departure routine: gyro-repeaters had to be checked against the master-gyro, gyro and magnetic compass readings compared, engine data on the wheelhouse console checked with the engineroom, state of ship and fire warning sy
stems checked, bridge movements and deck logbooks written up and much else attended to.
The engines were still on manoeuvring speed, the steering on manual. Foley, who’d laid off the courses for the journey down the South African coast, knew those states would be maintained until Coopers was abeam, approximately five miles distant.
Not long after half past six Coopers came abeam, distant 5·4 miles, course was altered to 206 degrees and at 0640 Captain Crutchley gave the long awaited order ‘Full-away’, adding, ‘Confirm with the engineroom that we want only three-quarters speed. Bring her up to sixty revs – see how that goes.’
Foley phoned the engine control-room, started the electric log and set the figures on the course-to-steer indicator. He went to the Decca Navigator, took the lane co-ordinates from the digital display and plotted the position on the chart. He phoned the radio office, gave Tim Feeny the ship’s position and a time check. He got back to the wheelhouse just as Captain Crutchley ordered, ‘Engage auto-steering.’
The quartermaster shifted the switch on the steering stand from manual to auto. ‘Auto-steering engaged, sir. Course two-zero-six.’
The chief officer ordered the lowering of the flags flown on departure, leaving only the Cypriot ensign aloft: the flag-of-convenience, the full extent of which convenience was known only to those in Zurich who controlled the destiny of Ocean Mammoth.
Jarrett handed over the bridge watch to the third officer at eight o’clock that morning, but one way and another he didn’t reach the saloon for breakfast until after eight-thirty. Although the table to which he went was the Master’s, used by senior staff, Captain Crutchley was not there. He seldom took his meals in the saloon, preferring the solace of his dayroom. On this occasion only McLintoch and Doris Benson were at the table. The radio officer, the catering officer and his wife, and a sprinkling of junior engineers were at one or other of the remaining tables.
‘Morning, Chief. Morning, Doris.’ Jarrett pulled out a chair, sat down, rubbing his hands. ‘Burrh! Cold in here,’ he complained. ‘Fine and warm outside.’
Without looking up McLintoch muttered a subdued ‘good morning’. The air-conditioning temperature, for which he was responsible, was the subject of a running battle between him and the chief officer.
Jarrett turned to Doris Benson. ‘Where’s Ben then?’
‘In the engineroom.’
‘Not his watch,’ said Jarrett. ‘Hope that’s not a bad omen.
McLintoch’s eyes continued to focus on his bacon and eggs, and Jarrett, correctly and with some pleasure, interpreted this and the momentary frown as ‘why don’t you mind your own business’.
‘Talking of bad omens‚’ McLintoch munched away, glaring at his plate, ‘have we managed to miss the Aliwal Shoal?’
‘Yes‚’ said Jarrett. ‘I went to a lot of trouble about that.’
‘Like keeping to the course laid off by the second mate.’ There was a note of triumph in the chief engineer’s voice. He knew of the feud.
A steward arrived with a menu. ‘Good morning, sir.’ The voice was unfamiliar. Jarrett looked up. ‘Hullo. When did you join?’
‘Yesterday afternoon, sir.’
‘So you’ve taken Alvarez’s place.’ The chief officer studied the man’s face. ‘Seen you before, haven’t I?’
‘Yes, sir. At Beau Rivage.’
‘Of course. That’s it. You waited on us. What’s your name?’
‘Piet Pieterse, sir.’
Jarrett studied the menu. ‘Right, Piet. I’ll have some porridge, bacon and eggs. Two eggs. I like them turned. Toast and coffee.’
Pieterse repeated the order. Jarrett leaned back in his chair, looked at the man quizzically. ‘What makes you want to exchange a job like that for steward in a tanker on its way to be laid up?’
‘I want to get overseas. Better opportunities there.’
‘What! With a million and a half unemployed, and you …’ Jarrett hesitated.
The steward smiled. ‘And me mixed race you mean, sir?’
‘Yes. It doesn’t help, you know.’
‘I know that, sir.’ The steward went off to the pantry.
‘Must be daft,’ Jarrett observed to the table in general.
In the pantry adjoining his dayroom Captain Crutchley was steaming open the flap of a sealed envelope. When he’d finished he switched off the kettle, went into the dayroom, took a magnifying glass from the drawer of the writing table and sat himself down in an easy chair under a window. Slowly and with some difficulty he read the letter. Given to him a few days earlier by Grundewald, the ophthalmic surgeon in Durban, it was addressed to a consultant in Harley Street. Its terms were personal though professional. The consultants were evidently well known to each other.
For Crutchley its contents were profoundly disturbing: … an unhappy instance of incorrect diagnosis by a country GP … failure to refer the patient to a consultant … the condition has evidently been acute for some time … evidence of permanent visual damage and secondary glaucoma.
Crutchley put down the letter, closed his eyes, thought once again of the interview in Durban.
‘Yes, I see. The eyeballs are inflamed. The eyes water badly, do they? … Yes. Are they tender and painful? … Yes. Do you suffer from frequent blurring of vision? … Yes, worse sometimes than others. How do you sleep? Any difficulty? … Yes. The pain keeps me awake. I get severe headaches. Does the light hurt your eyes? … Yes. Very much so. Any difficulty in opening the lids? In the morning for example? … Yes. Difficult. Bathing them with hot water and boracic helps.’
Grundewald had stood back from the surgical chair, looked at him sympathetically. ‘Well I think that will do. Now come over here and let us have a chat.’ He’d gone back to his desk and Crutchley, fumbling with his spectacles, had sat down opposite him. Embarrassed, fearful, he’d felt like a prisoner awaiting sentence.
Grundewald had asked how long he’d be in Durban. Leaving for London by air in a few days, Crutchley had lied, just as he had about his name. This man must not know he was a master mariner, let alone Captain of Ocean Mammoth. The name of the Captain of the biggest ship ever to visit Durban had been mentioned in the local media too often. So he was Mr Creightley, the London businessman passing through Durban.
‘How long before you get back to London?’ asked the consultant.
‘Have to stop off in Nairobi for a few days … then again in Rome. Shouldn’t be long before I’m back.’ Crutchley disliked the recollection. Lying didn’t come easily to him.
The ophthalmic surgeon had looked uncertain, tapped with a ballpoint on a prescription pad, his eyes averted from the rugged face opposite. ‘The trouble is not conjunctivitis, I’m afraid. It’s iritis in a somewhat acute form. Treatment under supervision is necessary. It is essential that you see a consultant as soon as you reach London. The sooner the better.’
‘Will it take long to restore my eyesight to normal?’ Crutchley had stared at the man on the other side of the desk, wondering what the brain behind the blurred face knew and was possibly withholding.
‘With proper treatment your vision should improve considerably. It will not, I’m afraid, be as good as it was, but it should be adequate. After the treatment your eyes will be tested for new lenses. They will help.’
Grundewald had told him how to treat his eyes until he got back to London: ointment to be applied at two-hourly intervals, eye drops three times a day. Since heat relieved pain and reduced inflammation, he was to wrap a bandage round cotton wool on a wooden spoon, dip it in boiling water and hold it as close to the eyes as possible.
He’d given Crutchley a prescription for these things, including capsules to be taken at night on retiring.
‘They’ll relieve pain and help you sleep.’ Finally he’d given him the letter to the man in Harley Street.
Back in his ship that afternoon, Crutchley had put the letter in the drawer of the writing table. The envelope was sealed and that had worried him. In the days that followed he�
��d carried out faithfully the treatment prescribed. There had been some relief from pain, and he thought the eyes had shown improvement. The capsules induced deep sleep. The letter, however, had remained at the centre of his thoughts, and what it might contain had become an obsession. Those contents concerned him and his future, his wife and children and no one else. Why then should they be kept from him? He was a man of honour but on this, his first day at sea, the temptation to open the letter had proved overwhelming.
For some time he sat thinking, the words evidence of permanent visual damage and secondary glaucoma constantly passing before his closed eyes. Looking into what seemed a stark future the only comfort he could find lay in his personal insurances. It was fortunate, he reflected, that he had always been prudent in that regard.
Chapter 10
Throughout that day Ocean Mammoth made steady progress down the South African coast and towards midnight East London, no more than a thin shimmer of distant light, was abeam. With the aid of the Agulhas Current speed had averaged fourteen knots. The weather remained fine and warm, the sea moderate as the great ship drove steadily through the southern night, rolling slowly to a beam swell. But for this, the distant hum of the turbines, and the unceasing vibrations, those on board might not have known they were at sea. As it was, with the ship in ballast, the vibrations were so pronounced that every fitting which could rattle did so, plates and glasses on smooth surfaces hummed as they slithered and cups clattered noisily in their saucers.
Down in the dayroom of her husband’s suite, Sandy lay on a settee propped up by cushions, her hands clasped behind her head, her handsome body more revealed than concealed by the wrap she wore. George Foley, changing, getting himself ready for the bridge where he would relieve the third officer at midnight, looked at her with a mixture of affection and admiration. ‘Well, the future may seem dismal but I’m glad we’ve got the next few weeks together at sea. That’s some consolation.’