Doctor at Sea

excited. I had forgotten England and home in the past three weeks as efficientiy 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 São Paulo, the dusky lounging men and slim graceful women on the wharfside, the signs in Portuguese, the odd open tram-car 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 tonight, 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