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He leant over me and I knew he was hoping I'd be asleep but my eyes were open and I said, 'Cramps died, didn't he?' Because I knew. His cheek was cold from the wet night air and his hair was damp but his clothes still had the hospital smell, the smell of Gramps. It wasn't so different from the usual smell, the smell on his skin of other people's dead skin, and you'd think if it was his daily business and had been Gramps's too that it would be a way of making it not matter so much when it was Gramps.

He said, 'Yes, Gramps died.' I knew he'd wanted to save it till morning. I might have pretended, for his sake. Now he would know he would have to leave me alone soon to face the whole of the night, in this strange room, with the rain at the window, with the knowledge that Gramps had died. But I wanted him to know I could do it, I could take it. Like when he told me what he did. He put people in boxes, because people died. But this wasn't people, it was Gramps.

I said, 'Will you tuck Gramps up yourself?'

He said, 'Course.'

He leant over me. He said, 'Night night. God bless.'

The rain made a noise like needles on the window, the wind swished. It would have been raining when Gramps died, it had rained all day. But I don't suppose he knew, or that it mattered, where he was, the weather outside. Whether it was sunny or wet, cold or warm. Or if you could see the sea, which you could if you went to the big window at the end of the ward, shiny and smooth, crinkly and grey. Though Gramps couldn't.

That's why they'd coine here, Grandma and Gramps, to be by the sea. Bexhill-on-Sea. That's where people go when.

On a night like this you could think of all the people out at sea and how you were warm and safe and cosy, and how the people out at sea must be wishing they were warm and safe too, but Gramps couldn't think like that, not any more.

I could hear them talking downstairs, not the words, only the voices. Later when I woke in the night I could hear them being awake too. There were no voices, just the wind and the rain, but I could hear them being awake. I could hear how we were all lying awake in this dark, wind-rattled house, so each of us was like Gramps lying awake in that strange ward with all those other men around him, but alone, and all those other men alone too, like we were all together in this house but alone really, each of us in our beds, tucked up like we would be one day for ever and ever.

We're Tuckers, we fix up dead people. It's what we do for a living. We tuck 'em up.

Civilian occupation: undertaker's assistant.

It would spread, quick as fire, as things do in a ship. "Ere, Buffer, we've got a gravedigger on board.' Like in the school playground: 'We know what your dad does,' except that then I'd never touched a corpse, and I wasn't at sea, or at war. Don't go on Tucker's watch, not if you can help it, don't be on Tucker's fire party. As if it were a way of altering your chances.

I wanted to say, I know about this, in a small way, I know about what you fear. I don't know much about ships and signals and bearings and soundings, any more than a Chatham rating learns in two months. But I know about the dead, I know about dead people, and I know that the sea is all around us anyway. Even on land we're all at sea, even on this hill high above Chatham where I can read the names. All in our berths going to our deaths.

Floating coffins.

So when the Lothian was hit, forward, and I was forward fire party but got sent aft for more hoses and then the second shell came in, killing Dempsey and Richards and Stone and Macleod, I knew, sharper than most, the pain of survival. It wasn't Tucker, notice. It was Dempsey and Richards, not Tucker. As if you could alter your chances.

He said he wouldn't hold me to it, I should choose my own life. Just because he and Gramps, just because the name of Tucker. But at least I shouldn't decide without knowing, and seeing, at least I shouldn't decide against out of unfounded fears. So I said yes, like it was my test. So he showed me, explaining, and I saw that there was, really, nothing to fear, nothing to be afraid of. It even made you feel a little calmer, surer. I was fourteen years old, the two of us together in the parlour. Three of us. So later I said, 'Yes, all right.' Your life cut out for you, your chances altered. And then it was too late to have any other foolish notions, like running away to sea.

They said, Here's a job for you, one you're equipped for, one no one else will volunteer for. Men at sea get foolish notions, like mermaids and monsters and that this convoy will be their last. So when we stopped engines, four days out of Iceland, to pick up survivors, they were all thinking, Here's work for Tucker, Tucker'll be busy. Though why pick them up, coughing up their last and half frozen-through, if it's only to crowd the mess deck and tip them back in a little while? Out of the sea they come and back they go, hardly making a splash in the grey swell. Tucker'll see to 'em, it's what he's good for. After a while I even earned respect, consideration. You shouldn't judge your fellow men, you shouldn't hold things against them. It even turned the other way round: You want to keep on the right side of Tucker, you want to keep in with Tucker. Yes, I'll be ship's bogeyman, someone has to do it. Tucker's here, have no fear. Tucker. Rhymes with. First name, Victor, good name in a war. Tucker'll do it, Tucker'll see to it. It's a tradition of the service to make use of the landsman's craft, like carpenter, ropemaker, surgeon. And the service has its own traditions for disposing of the dead. Out of the sea. A fold of canvas, a sinker of shot, and the last stitch, just in case and by custom, through the poor unfortunate frigging jolly Jack Tar's nose.

Ray

I reckon Vic's not going to tell us which are the names that matter, he's just going to look and keep quiet.

The obelisk is in the middle, it's for '14-'18, and there's a high white stone wall in a big half-circle with an iron gate in the centre where we've come in, and they're listed up on the wall on the inside of the curve in panel after panel, '39 onwards, like runners on a card. There's Captains and Lieutenants and Midshipmen and Petty Officers and Able and Ordinary Seamen, even some Boys. But there's also Stokers and Signalmen and Cooks and Telegraphists and Engine Room Artificers and Sick Berth Attendants, like there's a whole world on a ship.

And you can't tell nothing by looking at the lists because there aren't no odds quoted, there aren't no SPs. You can run your eyes down a card, when you're used to it, and work it out in your head that the bookies won't suffer, that the punter's going to lose. Like the insurance houses can do their sums and know they aren't going to come off worse in the long run, no matter what bad luck hits Joe Average Insured. There's always the gamble to make you think you're in with a chance and there's always the larger mathematics to make you think you should've saved your money and kept up your premiums. It depends on your underlying attitude.

But it's hard to have an attitude when there aren't no odds given and you can't see no larger mathematics. All you can tell by looking down the lists, and it don't matter that they're set in bronze on a white wall on top of a hill with an obelisk stuck in front an' all, is that a man is just a name. Which means something to him it attaches to, and to anyone who deals, same way, in the span of a human life, but it don't mean a monkey's beyond that. It don't mean a monkey's to things that live longer, like armies and navies and insurance houses and the Horserace Totalisator Board, it all goes on when you're gone and you don't make a blip. There's only one sensible attitude to take, looking at the lists, there's only one word of wisdom, like when Micky Dennis and Bill Kennedy copped it: 'It aint me, it wasn't me, it aint ever going to be me,' And there's only one lesson to be drawn, it's as cheery as it's not cheery, and that's that it aint living you're doing, they call it living, it's surviving.