Surgeon at Sea

'Chief Steward's got the list.'

'Good. You've taken over from Flowerday, have you? He was a rum bird. Coming to have a peg?'

'Not just now.'

'Fair enough. By the way, there's some mail for you somewhere.'

I had forgotten that the agents look after the ship's mail. I went out on deck and found most of it had been distributed. All over the ship men were leaning on uncomfortable steel corners reading their letters. I passed the Carpenter, who had several closely-written sheets in his hand and kept saying 'No! It can't be! It can't be!' to himself. I hoped it was nothing serious.

'Coo!' one man shouted. 'I've 'ad a baby!'

'I've 'ad six,' his companion said morosely, not looking up. This nonplussed the new father.

Wot, all at once?' he asked.

I ran into Whimble.

'Letter for you, Doc,' he said. 'I gave it to Easter.'

I suddenly felt excited. I had forgotten England and home in the past three weeks as efficiently as a patient with amnesia. My past seemed a disconnected existence. All at once I felt a letter would be like a familiar face in a big crowd.

I saw Easter leaning on the rail and hurried towards him. I wondered who it was from. Wendy, perhaps? Telling me she was crying over my picture and reading Conrad? From my principal, genially wishing me a good voyage? Or my parents, asking where I'd put the keys of the garage? From old classmates envious of my double release? I didn't care. It was a letter, a letter. Whoever sent it proved the most important thing in the world-I was not forgotten.

I took the envelope from Easter. I couldn't recognize the handwriting. I tried to open it with dignity, but excitedly tore the flap. It said: _'The-Laundry. Dear Sir, If you do not collect your washing within seven days of this date it will be sold to defray charges.'_ I tossed it into the dock. I leant on the rail and looked at the unfamiliar colours, the dirty yellow sheds, the strange un-English mountains in the background with the white road wriggling up them to Sгo Paulo, the dusky lounging men and slim graceful women on the wharfside, the signs in Portuguese, the odd open tramcar behind, the surprising uniforms of the police, the glare of the unaccustomed sun…I realized tardily I was on another side of the world.

***

After conditioning myself to the exclusive company of my shipmates for three weeks I found the rush of locals on board unsettling. The silence of the sea passage was broken by the noise of the winches, and the bare decks became littered with hatch covers, wires, tarpaulins, pieces of dropped cargo, and resting Brazilians. The Brazilians have a great capacity for rest. When they have nothing to do for a few minutes they see no point in continuing to support the burden of keeping awake and fling themselves into the nearest piece of shade. Whether they are lying on a stone wharf, the top of a couple of packing-cases, or some pieces of scrap metal does not appear to detract from the enjoyment.

The cargo came out by the exact reverse of the technique that put it in at Liverpool. As I had nothing else to do I joined Easter, who was watching crates of machinery being drawn out of number five hatch with the pleasantly indolent air of a Londoner observing road excavations.

'Hope you've locked your cabin, Doctor,' he said. 'And screwed up the port. These boys would pinch the soles off your shoes if you wasn't careful.'

I pointed towards the policemen on the gangway.

'But don't they keep an eye on it?'

'What, them vigilantes? Them's the worst of the lot.'

As the winches paused I heard feminine giggles and zestful screams coming from the crew's quarters in the poop. A plump dark girl with a basket of washing under her arm appeared on the deck, struggling formally with a large sailor.

'That's Maria,' Easter explained. 'She does your laundry for you. Three blokes got something off her last trip.'

'What!'

'Wouldn't mind having a go at her myself,' he continued solemnly. 'They don't seem to think much of things like that out here. All the girls is tenderhearted. I reckon it's the climate.'

'It all seems very unhygienic to me, to say the least.'

'Mind you, some of 'em's real smashers. Ho, I've had some fun here, I have. You going ashore to-night, Doctor?'

'I might stretch my legs. Though I fear I shall do nothing more exciting than go to the pictures.'

'Ah, you can get some queer pictures out here too,' Easter went on. 'Pal of mine went ashore one night to have his pleasure, as you might say, and the next day he went off with a crowd of the lads to one of them odd picture houses. Blimey, he was the big feature. Didn't 'arf get his leg pulled about it.'

'I think I will go and see Mr. Hornbeam,' I said. Santos sounded a place that would have provided Easter with extensive reminiscences.

Hornbeam's cabin was as full as a compartment in a suburban train in the rush-hour. There were the agents, the chief stevedores, the customs, the immigration officers, and a few unidentifiable officials. Hornbeam was sitting with his white shirt undone to the waist, looking pleased with himself. His table was filled with bottles of gin, whisky, and beer, and half a dozen open tins of Players. Everyone was helping themselves.

'Come in, Doc!' he called. 'Have a peg. This is our Doctor, gentlemen.'

'How do you do,' I said, taking a glass.

'It's always open house in the Mate's cabin in port,' Hornbeam explained, pouring himself another gin. 'Everyone wants the poor bloody Mate. Now what about this trouble in number three?' he said to the head stevedore. 'Can you get another gang on there to-night?'

'To-morrow morning, Mister Mate. Tonight, no good.'

'We'll have to put up with it, I suppose.'

He took a sheaf of papers from a ragged Brazilian who appeared in the doorway.

'Cargo plans? All right. Have a peg, chum. Coming ashore to-night, Doc?' he added to me.

'I thought of it. Are you?'

'Certainly I am. Never been ashore in Santos yet. To-night I am. We'll collect here about midnight…

'Midnight?'

'There's no point in going anywhere before eleven in this part of the world. Nothing livens up before twelve.'

'If that's the case I think I'd better turn in for a bit.'

'That's the idea, Doc. You're in the land of the siesta now, don't forget. God, it's hot, isn't it?'

***

I screwed the closely-meshed wire-netting in the porthole to keep the flies out and went to sleep. The Second woke me up about nine.

'Coming ashore?' he asked. 'We're going up to the Mate's cabin. They sting you for drinks in Brazil so we reckoned we'd get a glow on us before we went off.'

I sat up and rubbed the sweat off me with a sheet.

'I'll be up when I've had a shower. The Mate's coming with us, isn't he?'

Archer laughed.

'I wouldn't know about that. I've never seen him get ashore anywhere yet.'

When I reached the Mate's cabin I saw at once that he had not been taking a siesta himself. His visitors had gone and the bottles were empty. He sat behind a jumble of dirty glasses and cigarette-ends, humming absently to himself.

''Lo, Doc,' he said languidly. 'Fetch a bottle out of the locker there. I'm coming ashore with you young lads to-night. Keep you out of trouble, eh? Muy bien. Cheerio.'

Archer and Trail were in the cabin, dressed in their shore-going rig. The scattered places in which they bought their clothes and their over-compensation for wearing uniform most of their lives gave them a startling appearance. Trail was particularly arresting. He wore a pair of green cotton trousers he had bought in Rio, a yellow shirt from Calcutta, the sort of sports coat that is, fortunately, popular only on the Australian beaches, suede shoes from Ceylon, and a tie with a luminous girl on it from New York.

We all sat down and drank determinedly. 'Have to drink beer ashore,' Trail said. 'A gin costs about twelve bob. I got some cruzeiros for you, Doc.' He handed me a bundle of dirty notes. 'That's the sub you put in for. How about you, Mr. Hornbeam?'