Innocent on the run. Part 42.

The driver pulled up at a large oil tanker flying the British flag, and Ricky read the name off the stern. 'Norcombe,' registered in London. Ricky thanked the driver and climbed the gangway. The crew were out on deck and directed him to the Chief Officer who was on the bridge amidships. He was a large fat man with three gold stripes on the epaulettes of his uniform shirt. He had enormous white shorts on and a peaked cap. His face was beetroot red, and he mopped it with a handkerchief. 'Aha,' he said, laughing out loud. 'Our passenger. They tell me you've had a bit of a journey getting here.' `Yes, sir. It's taken a while.' The Mate chuckled, good naturedly. 'The Captain will see you now. He'll sign you on as a D.B.S. Come this way.' He waddled off and led the way down a deck to the Captain's cabin and knocked on the door. 'Come in,' a voice said. The large Mate opened the door and went in, holding it open for Ricky. 'Our wayward D.B.S, Sir.' he announced, grinning hugely. The Captain was a small, thin man in his sixties. He was sitting at his desk and he turned to look at them. 'Thank you Mr. Preston,' he said. The Mate went out and closed the door. The Captain took out the large sheets of official paper which were the Ships Articles. He asked Ricky's particulars, wrote them in the columns, and told him that he would not be paid for this trip, as he was D.B.S, but that he would be expected to work for his keep. 'Yes, Sir. That's fine.' Ricky agreed. 'Right, then the next thing you do is report to the Bosun on deck. He will settle you in to a berth, and put you to work.' 'Thanks very much Captain.' Ricky said, happy to be at last on a British ship. He found his way out on to the deck. It was a very much bigger ship than Llanerin had been, with the Officers' accommodation amidships and the crews' aft. There were catwalks connecting the forecastle and the amidships superstructure, and the amidships to the after accommodation. It was very much easier than climbing down to deck level, then walking along and climbing back up to the accommodation level. The crew were busy painting the tops of the tank hatches, and Ricky asked for the Bosun. He was a small, sour faced man in middle age, and he had a dirty pair of shorts on and a cloth cap. He put down the paint brush and wiped his hands. 'You're the supernumary are you ?' `Yes. The D.B.S.' One of the crew laughed. 'Welcome to the ship from hell,' he said.The Bosun ignored the remark and led the way aft. `You'll be in a cabin with the galley boy. Once you've changed into your working gear, come back on deck.' `I don't have any working gear with me.' `Then you're going to get those dirty, aren't you,' he replied, pointing at Ricky's clothes. The cabin was in the bowels of the ship, three decks down at the stern, and he followed the Bosun down the ladders. The room was tiny, cramped, with a pair of bunks and two lockers in it. The lower bunk was a jumble of bedclothes, and the upper had just a mattress on it. 'Get your bedding from the steward later,' the Bosun said. 'Come on, back on deck and start work.' Ricky followed the Bosun back on to the deck where he was given a paintbrush and a pot and told to get busy. He joined the other crew members and started painting. They were a quiet, morose lot, and kept themselves to themselves. Ricky tried to talk to the man working near him, but he just turned away without answering. They continued in silence until the Bosun, who was watching their every move, looked at his watch, waited a minute, studying the watch face intently, then clapped his hands and said, ‘Smoko.' The crew put their brushes down and filed into the accommodation, Ricky following. They silently set about getting themselves a cup of tea or coffee and sat at the mess room tables. There was very little of the normal banter or jokes that you would expect from a crew, and Ricky sat at a table on his own, in silence, until the galley boy came in whistling. 'Stop that whistling.' The Bosun roared. 'Are you trying to whistle up the wind.' The boy was unabashed, but he stopped whistling and sat next to Ricky. He held his hand out. 'Malcolm. ' he said. Ricky shook his hand and told him his name. ‘What's wrong with them all?' Ricky asked him, indicating the glum looking crew members. The boy spoke in a low voice. 'The Captain's a bastard, and the Bosun's a worse one. It's a very unhappy ship. They don't bother us in the galley though. I try to ignore that old bastard most of the time.' He nodded across at the Bosun. 'So you're in my room with me are you.' he said in a normal voice. ‘Yeah.’ `I'll throw some bedclothes in for you when I go down, then.' 'O.K, thanks.’ The Bosun looked at his watch again, slammed his mug down on the table and bellowed, ` Right, lets get back to it.' Malcolm whispered, `He won't give them an extra minute. Everything's done by the clock.' Ricky followed the crew back to the deck and started painting. He stripped his shirt off when he got too hot and hung it over one of the large valves that controlled the flow of oil into the tanks. The Bosun came across to look at his work, but after watching for a while he walked away without a word. Ricky got on with the job, humming to himself. His headache had gone by now, and his stomach had settled down, so he was a lot happier than he'd been that morning. He wondered how Earl and Winston had got him out of the club and up to Winston's little house ! All he could think of was that they carried him out and got him into a taxi. If he ever came back to Jamaica he would have to look them up and thank them. They knocked off at five o'clock on the dot, and cleaned up for dinner. The food was not very good, but Ricky ate with relish, glad to be back eating British food again, even though it was steak and kidney pie with boiled and roast potatoes. British cooks were all the same, he thought, the temperature in the eighties and piping hot meals on the menu. After dinner Ricky went out on deck for some air. A sign had been hung on the gangway and he crossed over to read it. Vessel sails at 0100 hours, it said. Alongside the 'Leave expires at' notice, was chalked, NO LEAVE in bold letters. No wonder the men were moody, he thought. They weren't allowed ashore. Malcolm came out to join him on deck, and Ricky pointed the notice out to him. 'Yes,' he said. The old man won't let anyone ashore, 'cos he's scared they'll jump ship. Two men jumped in Maracaibo two weeks ago. If he loses any more he won't have enough crew to work the ship. That's probably why we're going back to U.K. this time, so he can pay this lot off and get a new crew.' 'Are things that bad on here then ?' 'They're not really all that bad, but when you've been cooped up on a ship for seven months like these blokes have, the slightest thing can upset you. The Bosun gets more than his pound of flesh out of the men. He keeps them at it all the time, and because one man was late on deck one day, he reported him to the Captain, who stopped him a day's pay and cancelled everyone's beer ration. He said if they didn't have beer, they wouldn't get drunk and oversleep.' Ricky said, 'So they get no shore leave and no beer aboard the ship . No wonder they're miserable.' `Yeah. Oh, I threw some bedding on your bunk, so you can make it up when you want. There's some books in the top drawer under my bunk, if you fancy a read.' `Thanks, Mac.' `That's O.K.' He stretched and yawned. `Well, must get back to work, there's just the clearing up to do now.' Ricky followed him back in to the accommodation. The Bosun was in the mess room and he beckoned Ricky over. 'The engineers could do with a hand down below,' he said. 'Report to the Second Engineer in the engine room.' 'Now ?' Ricky asked. `Yes, now,' he shouted. 'There's no room for passengers on this ship, lad.' Ricky turned away, seething with anger. He was glad of this trip home, and he was glad to work his passage, but there was no need for the little bastard to be so nasty. He entered the engine room and climbed down the ladders to the bottom. Copyright Deric Barry 2005.