Old Filth - Jane Gardam [75]
“It was my father’s.”
Days, it seemed, later they saw the last of Ireland sink into the sea. The prow of the ship seemed to be seeking the sunset, such as it was, rainy and pale. Great grey sea-coloured ships like lead pencils stood about the ocean and smaller brisker ships nosed about them. The Breath o’Dunoon looked like a tramp at a ball. The Atlantic lay still beneath its skin.
“We’re in a convoy.”
“Well, of course, we’re in a convoy,” said Loss. “We can’t go sailing off to Africa alone. We’re not a fishing boat. It’s a widespread War.
“Mind you,” he added, “we’d probably get there faster if we were a fishing boat. The convoy always goes the speed of the slowest ship. And we’re headed out to the West for days on end, to get clear of the U-Boats. Nearly to America, zig-zagging all the way.
“Am I right?” he condescendingly enquired of the Captain at whose none too clean table they were dining. The Captain ignored him and spooned up treacle pudding.
“Is that all we’re going to do all the time? I’ve brought no books. I thought it would be just a few days.”
“You can do the cooking if you like,” said the Engineer Officer. “You couldn’t do worse than this duff. It’s made of lead shot. Can you cook, Mr. Feathers?”
“No, not at all.”
“I can cook,” said Loss, “but only French cuisine.”
“You can both peel spuds,” said the Captain, “but remember to take that watch off, Feathers.”
“And keep it away from him,” said the Engineer Officer, pointing at Loss. “Ask me, he’s escaped from a reformatory school for delinquents.”
“It was Eton,” said Loss. “I was about to go to Eton. Do you play Crib?”
“Not now,” said the Sparks, “but I’ll thrash you when I do.”
They left the rickety Breath o’Dunoon at Freetown for a blazing beach where the air throbbed like petrol fumes. The jungle hung black. Black people were immobile under palm trees. Nobody seemed to know what should happen next. After a shabby attempt at examination by the customs, where interest was taken in the watch, the two of them stood about, waiting for instructions. There were none. The crew of the Breath o’Dunoon were taking their ease before the unloading of the cans of meat, and the Captain had disappeared. There was a suggestion that they should give up their passports which they ignored.
Heat such as Eddie had never known blasted land and sea. The smell of Africa was like chloroform. Inland from the port were dancing-hot tin sheds, one with a red cross on it, asphalt, some apologies for shops, and RAF personnel in vests and shorts. More black people stood about in the shadows beneath the trees.
Beyond the white strip of beach the mango forests began and Albert Loss sat down neatly under a palm tree and ate one, first peeling off the skin with a little knife from his pocket, then sucking. He took out a notebook and began to make calculations. Eddie ate bananas and thought about the buttermilk girl, with some satisfaction.
He watched the rollers of the Atlantic. “I think I’ll bathe,” he said. “Get rid of the banana juice.” He licked his fingers and ran down to the sea and was immediately flung back on the beach. He tried again and was again spat out. He lay with a ricked back and a badly grazed knee as the waves slopped over him with contempt.
“The sun’s dangerous,” Loss announced from the edge of the jungle.
But Eddie, exalted to be free, warm, deflowered and full of bananas, lay on in the sand. The dangerous part of the journey was over. They had seen no U-Boats, and there would be none on the next ship for they were out of range now. They were taking the Long Route down Africa to the Cape, and out to Colombo to refuel. Then Singapore and safety. And the next ship might be better. Even comfortable. A Sunderland flying boat suddenly roared from beyond the mangoes and came towards him along the sea, bouncing like a loose parcel chucked from hand to hand. It blundered to an uncertain lopsided stop some way out. Bloody planes, thought Eddie. I want to sleep. He was sated, different—happy.
“How many bananas have you eaten?” asked Loss.