I woke up from my daze to find Owen on his feet, pointing out to the sea, his hand shaking. We all clambered to our feet; only John Clair remained seated, hardly registering the commotion that had suddenly erupted around him.
‘What? Where?’ we all shouted. ‘Where?’
‘There, there. Can’t you see?’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Palmer looking through the binoculars. ‘There is, as well.’
It took me a few seconds longer but yes, about forty feet away from us, someone was in the water, lifelessly bobbing gently up and down with the waves. We all started screaming at the man.
‘Is he alive?’ asked Arbatov.
‘I don’t know,’ said Hodgkin. ‘Searight, Swann, man the oars.’
Swann and I did so, manoeuvring the oars into the rowlocks. Swann took the lead, circling the boat anti-clockwise while the men continued shouting.
Together, Swann and I began rowing towards the man in the sea. ‘He’s seen us,’ said Davison, his cheeks redder than usual. ‘He’s alive!’
Harris Beckett pointed the way. ‘More to the left,’ he urged. ‘That’s it, that’s it, straight ahead now.’
Soon we were upon him. ‘Slow it up now,’ ordered Hodgkin. ‘Oars down.’
He was on our right; I could see him floating on a large slab of wood. On Hodgkin’s orders, Owen and Arbatov jumped in the water. ‘We’ve got you, son,’ said Arbatov on reaching him. ‘We’ve got you.’
Panicked, the man didn’t want to let go off his float. Between them, Owen and Arbatov had to prise his fingers off the wood. ‘It’s OK,’ said Owen, struggling in the water. ‘You can let go now.’ They dragged the man to the side of the boat as the plank of wood floated away. Helping hands pulled him up on board. ‘Careful now,’ urged Davison. His clothes had disintegrated into threads. He wore no shoes. His ankles had swollen and his legs were bleached white by the saltwater, while the top of his back and his shoulders were red raw from the sun.
They settled him at the bow, placing a blanket over him despite the heat of the day. I vaguely knew the man – he was a fireman from the Academic, a Spaniard called David Rodríguez Felipe. Most of the others knew him too, a short, tough bloke with piercing blue eyes, a veteran of the Spanish Civil War. We called him Pablo. Except for Hodgkin who insisted on calling him Señor Felipe. Clasping the blanket, he promptly vomited. Davison rubbed his back. The rest of us, except Clair, all settled in front of him in rows as if we were expecting him to perform something.
‘Agua,’ he croaked, shivering, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Water.’
‘Yes, water,’ said Hodgkin hesitantly. I knew what he was thinking, for I was thinking the same – we were going to have to make our meagre supply of water stretch even further. Hodgkin stepped behind Pablo and unlocked the locker. Sitting next to the Spaniard, he carefully poured water onto the spoon. ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘Take this.’
Pablo gulped the water then, with surprising strength, made to grab the bottle.
‘No you don’t,’ screeched Hodgkin, yanking the bottle away from him. In doing so some of the water spilled. Beckett and Arbatov jumped to their feet, restraining the Spaniard.
‘Water, more water,’ croaked Pablo.
‘You’ve had your share for today, mate,’ said Beckett, holding him down firmly by the shoulders.
Hodgkin offered Pablo a biscuit. ‘Eat it slowly,’ he said, only to see the man swallow it down in one. More was offered – a spoonful of pemmican, a couple more of bully beef.
‘More water.’
Hodgkin hesitated. ‘OK, just a bit.’
‘No,’ said Beckett.
‘Come on, Harris,’ said Davison. ‘He’s been in the water for two days. He needs it more than us.’
‘More than you perhaps.’
‘Right,’ said Hodgkin. ‘Beckett, Arbatov, hold his arms down. Don’t let him move.’ And with that, Pablo got a second spoonful of water, while the rest of us looked on enviably.
Pablo sighed as if replete after a four-course meal. He leant against Hodgkin and closed his eyes.
*
‘Feels horrible, doesn’t it?’ Owen, sitting next to me, was stroking his chin, feeling the start of his beard. ‘Caked in salt and brine and God knows what. That saltwater’s got into my skin. Bloody Pablo; I hope he appreciates it. Still, it’s the least of our worries. And you, you don’t smell so good, Robert.’
I laughed. ‘And you do?’
‘I used to love the smell of the sea. Not any more, I don’t. Joanna was fond of going to the beach. Every weekend during the summer, we’d traipse down to the seaside with a picnic. She loved it. She told me it was because she’d never been to the beach as a kid. They lived too far away. She said she was already in her twenties when she first saw the sea. Imagine that? The cold water never bothered her a bit; she’d always go for a swim, whatever the weather. And we even went occasionally during the winter. She’d hike up her skirt and wade through the waves, not caring about the cold or how wet she got. I used to think her mad. Guess it was part of the attraction. She was an impulsive girl. If a thought came into her mind, she’d act on it. “I know,” she’d say, “let’s go to the pictures tonight.” And off we’d go, all the way to Plymouth, not even knowing what we were about to see until we got there. Maybe, that’s why the kids loved her. She was a good teacher.’
‘Owen, stop talking about her in the past tense. You still wear the wedding ring I see.’
‘Yeah. It’ll soon be too big for any of my fingers. I’ll have to wear it on my thumb.’
‘You’ll see her again one day. Soon.’
‘You reckon so? I wish I shared your optimism. I wonder what she’s doing now, right this minute?’
‘Thinking of you, I’d imagine.’
‘Yeah, maybe. Maybe. And what about you? Do you ever think of Alice?’
‘Yes. Occasionally.’ No, it was more than occasional. It was constant. At least Owen could picture where Joanna was, at home in the village, going about her chores, teaching at the school, thinking of her husband so far away, worrying about him, hoping for his safe return. I had no idea where Alice was, whether she had found herself a new man, a new job, a new life. A life without me. A life that had no place for me. I was no more than a memory to her. She had no idea where I was. If I were to die out here, would she ever know? No one would know how to contact her. She’d go through her life, perhaps once in a while thinking of me, perhaps wondering what I was up to, whether I also had married and settled down somewhere. She would never know I was dead, lost at sea, aged just twenty-three. Such a waste, people would say, his whole life still before him. But not Alice, the one person I would want to know. Oh, Alice, what could have been, what could have been.
Chapter 7
The Boat: Day Three
Pablo still hadn’t woken up. Covered with a blanket, we took turns propping him up. Swann had already complained that our rations would have to be stretched even further. Someone, myself perhaps, should have told him not to be so harsh. No one did.
Harris Beckett, his eyes fixed faraway, was muttering to himself, winding himself up into a state of agitation.
‘I’ll bloody kill her next time I see her. Bloody kill her, I will. And him too, the bastard.’
‘Something the matter, Harris?’ asked Davison.
Beckett considered him for a while, perhaps wondering whether to say aloud what was on his mind.
Davison urged him. ‘Sometimes it’s good to talk about things. Get it out in the open.’
‘Yeah,’ said Palmer. ‘Whatever it is, it won’t go any further. Just us and the fish.’ As always Palmer spoke quickly.
‘Very funny, Palmer.’
‘Ignore him, Harris.’
Beckett sighed, dropped his hand over the side, splashing his hand in the water. ‘I was thinking back to a letter I got.’
‘Go on.’
‘Just before we embarked. It was from a mate of mine. You know, from
back home. In Cardiff. A bloke I’ve known from a long way back, a fella by the name of Pryce.’
‘And it was bad news, I guess.’
‘You could say that. He told me… told me my missus was going on behind my back. You know, seeing someone else.’
‘Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Not as much as I am. I know the bloke too, by sight, anyway. The butcher. Forget his name. Jones, I guess. Every other bugger on the street is called Jones. Ha, you can imagine the stick I got at school with a name like Beckett. Harris Beckett. People thought I was stuck up with a name like that. Anyhow, this butcher – old enough to be her father, he is. Fat and all. Well, perhaps not fat but portly all right. Can’t imagine what she sees in him.’
Owen asked, ‘Do you believe him, this Pryce?’
‘He’s got no reason to be fibbing, has he? Nothing in it for him. I suppose he thought he was doing right. But it’s got to me, you know, right here.’ He thumped himself on the chest. ‘The thought of it. Makes me sick. We’d only been married the year before I was called away. As soon as all this was over, I was gonna go home and start up my carpentry again and make a real go of it. We were gonna have kids, you know, a proper little family, her and me.’ He shook his head. ‘Not any more.’
‘You a carpenter then, Beckett?’ asked Hodgkin.
‘Yeah. My old man was. I took over when he retired few years back. I was going to write to her, ask her straight. Didn’t get chance, did I? And now I’m stuck out here and it’s all I can think about. It’s not right, is it? The last letter I got from her, it was all sweetness and light. I read it so many times I memorized every word.’
‘Did she mention the bombing?’
‘She did that. They’ve had it hard; I know that. I prayed she be spared. Now, I reckon it’d serve her bloody right. I dream that a bomb lands fair and square on the butcher’s and blows it to smithereens. That’d teach him to mess with other men’s wives, the fat sod.’
‘Is that your missus then?’ asked Palmer. ‘Her on your arm?’
Beckett glanced down at his tattoo as if he’d forgotten it was there.
‘Yeah, right.’
‘You weren’t firm enough with her in the first place, if you ask me,’ said Swann.
‘I wasn’t asking you, thanks all the same.’
‘I ain’t married, but if I was, I’d make sure she knew what was what.’
‘Yes, thank you, Swann,’ said Hodgkin. ‘Not sure whether that’s helping much.’
‘I’m just saying, like, that’s all.’
Beckett was on his feet. ‘No, I don’t know what you’re saying except it sounds like a load of crap as usual.’
Rising to the challenge, Swann retorted, ‘Well, perhaps this butcher’s got something you ain’t.’
‘Meaning?’
Hodgkin tried to intervene. ‘All right, all right, you two. Hold on there.’
‘Meaning there’s got be a reason.’
‘Perhaps she’s just lonely,’ said Palmer. ‘Either that or the butcher’s tempting your missus with his extra pound of sausages.’
‘Shut up, you idiot,’ snapped Beckett.
‘He may be right,’ said Swann.
In a flash, Beckett was on him, a flurry of fists raining down on Swann. We all shouted, the boat rocking violently from side to side, as Swann managed to return a punch, catching Beckett fully on the chin. Hodgkin screamed for order while Arbatov dived in, prying the two men apart but not before Beckett landed a final punch in Swann’s stomach, winding the man.
Beckett stood over Swann, snorting bull-like, his hands pinned down from behind by Arbatov.
‘Finished now?’ said Arbatov. ‘Yes? All finished?’
Beckett nodded. ‘Next time, Swann, I’ll throw you overboard, got it?’
‘That’s enough now,’ said Hodgkin, visibly shaking.
Stepping over the benches, Beckett made his way to the back of the boat where he sat down. Swann, gathering himself, sat down at the front.
‘I expected better of you both,’ said Hodgkin.
Leaning over to Owen, I whispered, ‘That’s the battle of the alpha males done then.’
He stifled a laugh. ‘At least we know where we stand now.’
Puffing his chest out, Hodgkin continued, ‘I’m half tempted to put you both on a charge of misconduct…’ He launched into a speech about the need for discipline, how we all needed to work together, peppered with words like duty, disgrace and British.
But no one was listening.
*
‘Are you married?’ I asked Palmer.
‘What made you ask that all of a sudden? But yeah, I am as it happens. Just five months ago.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thanks.’ He smiled a wistful smile. ‘We were always going to get married, Betty and me. We’ve known each other since we were kids. Ah yeah, I’m a lucky man, Searight, married me childhood sweetheart. Well, no one else would have me. No, only kidding. She’s good for me. I proposed last New Year’s Eve. If truth be known, I had to have a skinful before I plucked up courage to ask. I thought she’d say yes but that just made it worse. What if I’d got it wrong? I got a ring, cheap one mind you, but it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it? Got down on my knee, the whole bit. “Betty,” I said. “Will you do me the honour of being my wife?” I said it all proper. She called me a daft bugger.’
‘But she said yes.’
‘Yeah, she did all right.’
‘Good for you.’
‘Yeah.’ He grinned to himself. ‘What about you, Searight? Are you married?’
‘Me? No.’
‘It’s great. I’d highly recommend it. Otherwise, who else will mend your socks? Only joking.’ He punched me in the arm. ‘Can’t wait to have kids. We’re going to have so many kids, I’m telling you. I’ve got all the names, up here in my head. The first one, if it’s a boy, will be Adrian Charles Palmer. Great name, eh? Adrian was my grandfather, my dad’s dad. The second one, if it’s a girl will be called Anne Marie…’ And so he continued, telling me all the names and middle names of all the children he planned to have with his Betty, and who they’d be named after, an uncle here, a sister-in-law there, reams of them. I stopped listening after a while and allowed Palmer to indulge in his fantasy, visualising this huge family of his.
A family that would never exist.
*
Our first days on the boat affected us all differently. Some felt certain we’d be picked up in no time; others, including myself, felt the perilousness of our situation, so far from land, so far from anything. Our biggest torment was the sun. Each day just became hotter and hotter. Some of the men jumped into the sea to cool off. Hodgkin advised them not to – it would drain their strength, he said, and if they swallowed any seawater, it would only make their thirst more intense. Worse still, he told them, we were in an area populated by sharks. We hadn’t spied any yet but still, said Hodgkin, we had to be careful. ‘Pablo didn’t get eaten, and he was in the soup for two days,’ remarked Palmer. Others, taking Hodgkin’s advice, soaked their shirts in the water, placing them on their heads to help them cool down.
Pablo still slept for hours at an end, balanced on a bench, supported by one us, taking turns. He woke briefly and helped himself to numerous handfuls of seawater. We told him not, that it would make him feel worse, but either he didn’t understand us or chose not to. He closed his eyes and promptly went back to sleep.
John Clair hardly said a word, sinking deeper and deeper into a state of lethargy. Edward Davison took it upon himself to look after the boy, offering words of encouragement. When, on the third day, Hodgkin declared it was time for our morning ration, Davison had to persuade Clair to get to his feet.
Afterwards, as we settled back down, I heard Clair say to Davison, almost in a whisper, ‘I just want to go home, Ed.’
‘I know, kid. We all do. And we will soon. I know it, I can feel it.’
‘Can you? Can you, Ed?�
�
‘Yes, have faith, John. Something will turn up.’
‘I want my mum. She’d look after me. Like when I was small. A nice big dinner of mutton and spuds. Oh God, can you imagine that, Ed?’
‘Shut up, Clair,’ bellowed Beckett. ‘You’re making it worse for all of us.’
‘Ignore him,’ said Davison. ‘Go on, mutton and spuds – delicious. And what about dessert?’
‘You mean pudding? Mm, perhaps apple crumble. That’d be nice, eh?’
‘Sounds lovely, John. Just lovely. What else would your mother do?’
‘Early to bed with a cup of cocoa. She’s always been good to me, my mum. It’s not been easy for her, not after Dad died, and all that. Three boys to look after. Me and the twins. I never got cocoa after Dad died.’
‘You have twin brothers?’
‘Yeah. They’re much younger than me though. They’re funny. Always getting into mischief. After Dad went, Mum said I had to be the man of the family now. I tried, Ed, really I tried. But it was difficult, you know? Expected to fix things, put things up, patch things up, and all that. I don’t know how to fix things. I suppose that’s why I joined the navy.’
‘To escape?’
‘No. I don’t know. To be a man, I guess.’ He lowered his voice, ‘Like Beckett there. Or Swann. I like the sea; in fact, I love it.’
‘Yes, well.’
‘It’s my birthday tomorrow.’
‘Is it? That’s great, John. How old will you be?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘Nineteen, eh? A lovely age. I’ll be forty next week. Not exactly a joyful prospect.’
‘I got a cake last year. Won’t have one this year. I wish he hadn’t died like that.’
‘It must’ve been difficult for you, John.’
Owen and I looked at each other. Owen shook his head.
Palmer and Swann were on look-out. It was my turn next. God, my throat felt dry. I found myself chomping my mouth, masticating on nothing, trying to get some saliva going. The others were doing the same, constantly licking their lips, swallowing, trying to alleviate the thirst. Occasionally, we would talk – what we did before the war, what we’d do on being rescued, previous journeys, and stories that began with the words, ‘I once heard about a ship…’ But most of the time we sat in silence, cursing the sun, each man with his thoughts. God, I ached with hunger. My stomach groaned. Looking at John Clair, I knew that the hardest battle would not be the hunger, or the thirst or even the sun, terrible though they were, but the mind. I had to maintain control of my sanity. If I lost my mind, then all would be lost.
The Unforgiving Sea (The Searight Saga Book 2) Page 5