Doctor at Sea

hands with a lifeboat.’
    ‘Ah, yes. I was rather afraid something like that might happen.’
    Our Wireless Operator was probably the luckiest man on the ship. He was one of those blithe people who live in a world of their own. He had been at sea for forty years, crouched over a telegraph key with the staccato song of Morse in his ears. This seemed to have induced psychological changes in him. For the rest of us, our universe was bounded by the steel and wooden limits of the Lotus - but not the Sparks. He passed his day in the company of soft-skinned maidens and amiable philosophers, with whom he could often be seen laughing, conversing, and singing while he walked round the deck or sat in the corner of his cabin. Sometimes he did a coy little dance with some of his companions, or played a simple game; and occasionally they would have a restrained tiff, which always ended happily in the way just observed by the Mate. The Sparks was by far the happiest person under Captain Hogg’s command.
    ‘I suppose he’s quite harmless?’ I asked.’ I mean, he doesn’t send out dangerous messages or anything?’
    ‘Oh, he’s not in that stage yet,’ Hornbeam assured me tolerantly.’ I’ve seen a good many worse than him. The Morse gets ‘em in the end. I just thought you ought to know. I saw him kissing a ventilator yesterday,’ he added darkly.
    ‘We are all entitled to our little aberrations, I suppose.’
    ‘You’re right there, Doc. Life at sea wouldn’t be possible without a bit of give and take. Old Sparks is all right. Just a bit dippy. Like some of these tanker types.’
    ‘Tanker types?’
    He nodded, lighting the cigarette and filling the cabin with smoke.
    ‘Men in tankers. It’s a dog’s life. They run to places like the Persian Gulf and they can unload in a couple of days. That means the boys don’t get much of a run ashore when they’re home. Besides, you can’t five on top of a few thousand tons of petrol all your life without getting a bit queer. Of course, they get the money...But is it worth it? Friend of mine went mate in a tanker to make a bit and ended up by cutting his throat. Made a hell of a mess in the chartroom, so they told me.’ From Hornbeam’s conversation I gathered that suicide at sea had a panache not seen ashore.
    ‘I think I’ll stick to dry cargo,’ I said. ‘That seems dangerous enough for doctors.’
    ‘Are you coming to the Third’s do tonight?’ Hornbeam asked.’ That’s the reason I looked in.’
    ‘I didn’t know he was having one.’
    ‘It’s his birthday - twenty-first - and he’s having a few beers. You’re invited.’
    ‘I don’t drink much, you know.’
    ‘Oh, don’t be scared, Doc. None of us drinks while we’re at sea. I’ll say you’re coming.’
    The party was after supper, in the Third Mate’s cabin. As I was anxious not to appear at all anti-social I was the first to arrive.
    I had not been in his cabin before. It was smaller than mine, with just enough room for a man to stand between the bunk and the strip of settee on the opposite bulk-head. There was a porthole over the settee and a forced-draught vent in the deckhead that stabbed a narrow stream of cold air across the bunk. Opposite the door was a small desk covered completely with bottles of gin. The rest of the cabin was covered with girls.
    They were everywhere - in frames over the bunk, pasted to the bulkhead, suspended from the pipes crossing the deckhead. There were plain photographs of ordinary girls, shadowy nudes from Men Only, taut scissor-legged girls in impossible brassieres from Esquire, a few bright beer advertisements from Australia of surprised but unresisting girls with their skirts caught in mangles, car doors, stiles, and dog leads, girls with no clothes playing on the beach, girls with all their clothes caught in a highly selective gale, even pictures of Chinese girls covered from neck to ankle.
    ‘Come in, Doc! 5 the Third said. ‘Have a peg.’
    He pushed a glass into my hand and half-filled it with gin in one motion.
    ‘Happy birthday,’ I said faintly.’ You seem to have an eye for art. 5
    ‘Got to brighten the old cart up a bit. Here’s to you.’ He pointed above the bunk to the photograph of a sharp-chinned young lady trying earnestly to look like Dorothy Lamour.
    ‘That’s a nice bit of crumpet. Met her in Hull last voyage. She’s an intelligent bit, mind you,’ he added seriously.’ Works in Boots’ library.’
    He indicated her