'You saw him yesterday, Oz… what's he like?'
Osgood did not answer at once. He stopped to watch a group of Bermudan children tossing white pebbles into a circle scratched in the dust. Hens clucked and scrambled, while the sound of singing drifted from inside the whitewashed cottage.
'He's different from Nicolson,' he said. ' Difficult to tell yet.'
'Nicolson was okay if he liked you,' Niv said. 'Too much of a popularity Jack for my liking. All along, I felt he wasn't really man enough for the job. He made rods for his own back by trying to be one of the boys.'
'I liked him,' Oz said. ' Sorry he's gone.'
Niv had slowed his pace.
'Our new Chief ME A saw the skipper on the platform at Plymouth,' Niv said. 'Trevellion was saying good-bye to his missus.' He paused, looked up at a cardinal bird fluttering in the oleanders. ' She was terribly scarred about the face. She was pushing a wheelchair: the Chief says he supposed the kid was their son. He was crippled and couldn't talk properly.'
'Maybe that's why this bloke's different,' Osgood said.
Niv lowered his voice.
'Ease off to the left, Oz. Dodge behind that house…'
Then Osgood spotted the hazard: Mick Foulgis was sitting at one of the red tables which stood in the shade of the pink-walled hovel boasting the name of Coronation Hotel. A girl sat on either side of him, and even from this distance Oz could hear their strident laughter.
'Hey, Fane… hi, Osgood! C'mon join me for a jar.'
Niv was ignoring the invitation, when Oz checked him. ' I'm bloody thirsty, Niv. He's got the lolly.'
'He hasn't a wife,' Niv said.
'No bird would put up with him.' Foulgis was known as Mick the Moaner in the messdeck.
'He seems to be doing all right,' Niv said as reluctantly he led the way to the hotel. Mick yelled over his shoulder and a surly Bermudan slapped the beer down on the red table top.
'Shirley…' Mick introduced.' And this is Ruth.'
'Hi, boys!' said the taller one, the dark-eyed Ruth who lay across Mick, her hand inside his shirt.
'We're getting acquainted,' Mick said, winking at Osgood. After downing their beers, Osgood began fumbling for his ten dollar bill.
'Put that away, mate. This is my day… I got only one run ashore last time.'
He knows we're skint, Oz thought, and that we're married.
They sank two more beers, chiakked with the girls and felt better. As the evening cooled, the girls led the way inside the house to a large room, dimly lit and musty. Mick ordered whisky and was soon his more usual argumentative form. Niv stuck with the beer, but Oz downed the spirit, felt the kick of alcohol. From upstairs came the sound of a band.
'There's dancing upstairs, boys,' Shirley said. 'Five dollars.'
She took Niv's and Oz's hands and led them to an upper room where couples were swaying to the rhythm of a worn disc of a West Indian steel band.
'Five dollars…' Shirley said standing before them, a hand outstretched. ' The manageress says all clients are to pay first: this, is a club, see?'
Ruth giggled as she dragged Mick on to the floor. A tall blonde Danish girl came over, red lips pouting at Oz; he grinned stupidly, seeing her nakedness beneath her silk shirt. ' I like English sailors,' she whispered. Her laugh was low, like syrup, cloying and sticky. She took his hand and gently pulled him to the floor, beckoning to the barman as she did so.
Oz saw Niv shaking his head at Shirley, watched him push back the fresh glass while he remained seated at the table. Oz turned his back on him, began to dance… before him swayed the delicious girl, tits jigging beneath the silk. His body responded as she moulded herself into him… through the beat of the rhythm he heard her murmuring softly:
'The dollars are for Mrs Hobbs.… I won't take anything from you.' She pressed close as she guided him towards the gloom of the passageway down which Shirley and Mick had already disappeared. Across her shoulder Oz saw Niv picking up the camera. He was carefully pushing back the table.
The whisky was raw and cheap and Oz knew it was taking effect. He firmly unlocked the girl's arms from him, then crossed the floor to Niv's table.
'Let's go.' Oz grabbed his camera and hurried from the sleazy room. 'Thanks, Niv.'
As they walked on, the streets became busier. Oz's monologue was suddenly interrupted by Niv. They were standing outside a pseudo-English pub. Niv pushed his face close to the pane of glass:
'There's only five of 'em,' he murmured softly. ' Weedy looking blokes.'
'What's up, Niv?'
Fane's conspiratorial whispering was out of character. He jerked his head towards a notice in bold, red lettering above the door: DOGS AND BRITISH SAILORS NOT ADMITTED.
Osgood felt the rage mounting inside him. ' You lost your old dad out here, didn't you, Niv?'
Fane nodded.
Osgood methodically peeled off his cardigan. He folded it neatly, patted it in place upon the window sill. He pushed open the door, Niv following at his heels.
'You the landlord?' Osgood asked softly, staring at the smooth-faced publican across the bar.
'What's it to you?'
'I'm a British sailor… and so's my mate.'
The ante-room was at the far end of the long and narrow compartment which was the wardroom: functional, perhaps, because this shape provided less danger to stability from free-flood water, but as a home for the officers it was an awkward place.
The more senior members were standing around the seats lining the tiny ante-room; the others were squeezed against the bar. Firebrace, the lanky fair-haired sub-lieutenant, was hunched outside, his naive open face peering around the corner stanchion at the after end of the bar which Jewkes had scrounged during the last Devonport refit.
'Sherry, sir?'
The MEO, Lieutenant Joe Sparger, a tall, angular man, made room for Trevellion to sit in the centre of the U-shaped settee. He was a Special Duties officer, an ex-Chief ERA, as steady as a rock, judging by the level gaze of his blue-grey eyes. His confidential report certainly confirmed Trevellion's judgement of this reliable-looking man. Three years older than his captain, his hair was greying and he had that preoccupied look of most chiefs. The 'trickle-drafting' system and the continuous supervision of junior rates straight from training class gave Joe Sparger a uniquely difficult job. He tried to keep his engine room department running at top efficiency, but, once again, so much depended on his senior ratings…
'Cheers, Chief.'
'Cheers…'
Conversation was soon flowing naturally as various officers broke off to sign for their drinks. The supply officer, Lieutenant Bernard Towke, was dispensing behind the crescent-shaped bar. Trevellion felt that at least the tension was easing and that he was no longer a stranger among them. They moved into the narrow wardroom, where a formica-topped table ran down the centre of the serving hatch. Before taking his place, Trevellion walked towards the servery. The PO Steward, a humorous character by the look of him, introduced his two stewards, in white short-sleeve shirts and blue serge trousers, who were standing awkwardly at attention.
The First Lieutenant, as president of the wardroom mesa, sat in the centre of the table, his back to the door. Trevellion sat down on Jewkes's right, the chairs scuffed backwards and the officers took their places. Jewkes rapped his gavel and intoned, ' For what we are about to receive, thank God.' The stewards then served the soup which the PO Steward was ladling through the hatchway. After a second glass of South African sherry, the conversation gradually became general. Trevellion flipped his napkin and began talking to the neighbour on his right.
Lieutenant-Commander Ivor Caradoc Jones, wore black-rimmed, thick-lensed spectacles behind which his intelligent eyes appeared to accept the vagaries of life with benign tolerance. He was comfortably plump and of average height, dark, with a permanent shadow about his jowls. As the soup plates were whisked away, Jones called across to the supply officer, the tall, thin lieutenant with the black face fungus, Bernard Towke: