Doctor at Sea

with the delight of an esteemed craftsman.
    ‘A contented cook, Doc,’ he said,’ and you gets a contented crew.’ He whistled a few bars.’ Nice leg of pork cold for supper. Fond of crackling?’
    ‘I’m glad you’re contented,’ I told him.’ Most of the cooks I meet ashore seem to have duodenal ulcers.’
    He wiped his hands on his trousers and felt in his hip pocket.
    ‘That’s why I’m contented,’ he said. He flourished a photograph of a thin simpering young woman in an off-the-shoulder dance frock.’ Sweetest little girl in the world. That’s the wife.’
    ‘You’re a very lucky man.’
    ‘Yes, Doc, I reckon I am. One of the luckiest of the lot. How’d you like a bit of dressed crab as well?’ he added, glowing with bonhomie.’ I could always open a tin.’
    But already, three thousand miles away, disaster was being prepared for the Lotus' s cooking. The next afternoon Easter came to my cabin and said,’ Beg pardon, Doctor, but the Cook reckons he wants to do himself in.’
    ‘What! You mean commit suicide?’
    ‘That’s right, Doctor. He’s been on the booze since dinner, and the lads spotted him rigging up a bit of rope in his cabin.’
    ‘Good Heavens man! Haven’t you done something about it?’
    ‘Ho, it’s all right now,’ Easter said calmly.’ The Bos’n slugged him and he’s out cold. He’ll be tame . enough when he comes to. It’s always the same. They never string themselves up in the end.’
    ‘But what’s the trouble?’ I asked. It seemed barely credible.’ He struck me as a happy enough sort of fellow.’
    ‘Sheilas,’ Easter said with contempt.’ Drive a man to it some of them, don’t they, Doctor? His wife’s vamoosed with a bus-driver. Just got a cable from his pal to say so.’
    ‘That’s a bit of tough luck. He seemed to be pretty fond of her.’
    ‘It ain’t the first time it’s happened by a long chalk. Cor, I’ve seen these bits waving good-bye to their husbands at the docks, then going home to collect the’ allotment, a quid a week regular, and ending up with black babies and suchlike. There ain’t no depths, Doctor, what women won’t stoop to. And the worse they treat the blokes the more they seem to like ‘em. Mugs, ain’t we?’
    ‘Well, I think you’d better keep an eye on the Cook,‘ I told him.’ Perhaps I should have a chat with him -psychology, you know. I hope he won’t let it interfere with his cooking.’
    The next morning was Sunday. The Cook was back at work - but a sad, lonely, tuneless man. He pottered miserably round the galley, pausing every now and then to break into unexpected tears over the carrots or the boiling duff. Suddenly he would cry out startlingly,
    ‘Rosie! Rosie! I love you!’ , then he would fall silent and look grimly along the edge of his carving-knife, under
    the terrified glance of the galley-boy who crouched over the potato-bucket.
    The Sunday dinner, nevertheless, appeared on the saloon table. Rosie could not have chosen a worse day for her defection, for the menu was the longest of the week: there was always Scotch broth, boiled turbot, steak-and-kidney pie, beef, carrots, boiled and roast potatoes, and plum duff, all of which the Captain consumed steadily and usually without complaint. But that day the Cook’s grief had intruded into the meal. The soup was cold, and Captain Hogg flung his spoon into the plate after the first mouthful with the command:
    ‘Steward! Chuck this dishwater into the scupper!’ The turbot was underdone, and it was barely touched by anyone. Only the steak-and-kidney pie seemed up to the usual standard.’ Give us a big helping,’ the Captain growled.’ If the rest’s as filthy as the soup it won’t be worth eating. Call yourself a Chief Steward, Mr Whimble? You’re not fit to be in charge of an ice-cream barrow.’
    He began eating his pie in silence. We were all a little bad tempered, for Sunday dinner was pleasantly anticipated and we had prepared ourselves with extra morning gin. I watched the Captain sorting out the portions of kidney and felt thankful for the sake of our digestions that peace had fallen on the table.
    Captain Hogg suddenly jumped to his feet. He held his napkin to his mouth and his face was the colour of the port light.
    ‘Look!’ he hissed.’ Look at that!’
    His finger quivered in the direction of his food. Whimble nervously stretched across the table and removed from a pile of pie-crust a dental plate with three teeth