Doctor at Sea

today, Doc?’ Archer asked. ‘Going ashore?’
    ‘I was thinking of it.’
    ‘What, going back for an encore?’ Trail said.
    ‘No, I assure you I was only thinking of a haircut.’
    ‘You’re right there, Doc,’ Hornbeam said. ‘You look like an old rope fender.’
    My hair had last been cut in the wintery twilight of a London afternoon, more than a month ago: now it overhung my newly sunburned ears, and its length reflected our distance from home. But I was reluctant to step ashore alone, for the only Portuguese I was confident of saying was ’Good morning,’ and I was not in the position to refuse a shampoo, singeing, scalp massage, hot towels, and any unusual luxuries that might be provided by Brazilian barber’s shops. I explained this to Easter during surgery, and he immediately relieved my difficulties.
    ‘I should be very glad to oblige, Doctor,’ he said with dignity. ’If requested.’
    ‘You cut hair, too, do you?’
    ‘Done quite a few hair-cutting jobs ashore. Worked six months steady at it once, helping out a pal what had a little barber’s shop in Doncaster. He ran a book really, but the shop kept the coppers away. Got pinched last year, so I heard.’
    ‘Very well, Easter. You may try your skill on me.’
    He set up his saloon on the strip of deck outside my cabin. He first spread out several sheets of the Liverpool Echo, then brought from his quarters a camp stool and a length of cloth striped like a butcher’s apron. He tied the cloth tightly round my neck and drew a pair of scissors and a comb from his hip pocket.
    ‘How do you like it?’ he demanded.
    ‘Oh, sort of short round the back.’
    ‘Wouldn’t like a crew cut, would you? Suit your sort of head, if I may be so bold, Doctor.’
    ‘No thank you.’
    He began snipping round the nape of the neck.
    ‘Bit of fun and games about noon,’ he continued.’ The Violet 's coming in astern of us where that Royal Mail boat was yesterday.’
    ‘The Violet ? What’s she?’
    ‘Another one of the Fathom hookers.Does the run from the River Plate to Pernambuco and New York. Captain Beamish in command. Cor! He ain’t ‘arf a queer’ un. Needs his head examined, I reckon.’
    ‘That’s what they’re cleaning up the wheelhouse for, is it?’
    ‘Ho yes, got to have her looking posh when we has company. Sorry, Doctor, was that your ear?’
    ‘If I get a septic wound from this,’ I said sternly,’ I shall order your kit to be burned as a sanitary measure.’
    He blew hard through the comb and bit deeply into my hair with it.
    ‘I likes hair-cutting,’ he continued, unruffled. ’Bit of an art, like knocking up a sculpture. You never know how it’s going to turn out when you start.’
    I sat in the sunshine, unresisting, while my hair fell in small bundles across the Liverpool Echo. The increasing warmth and Easter’s conversation behind the regular sharp snip of his scissors encouraged a pleasant feeling of euphoria. I was looking forrard, towards the mouth of the river; the long quay, with the tall German cranes grouped eagerly round open hatchways, was lined with ships as far as I could see. In the water on our port side a clean, grey-and-white, neat Swedish tanker was being turned slowly by a pair of tugs, like a birch log between two water-rats. Immediately ahead of us the Stars and Stripes dropped over the stern of the Omar C. Ingersoll of Baltimore, a cargo ship the same size as the Lotus, designed with the American combination of stark lines and grotesque mysterious appendages. Just below me, on the foredeck, a dozen Brazilians clutched a swaying crate labelled Austin that hovered from the sling over No. 2 hatch.
    ‘I reckon you was right not to trust the barbers ashore,’ Easter said. ’They ain’t up to much, and they’ll rook you as soon as look at you. Not as bad as the ones in Port Said, though - for a dollar they’ll give you a shampoo and introduce you to their sister.’ He wiped the comb on the leg of his trousers thoughtfully.’ Mind you,’ he went on, ’you can have some fun in Port Said if you’re up to the tricks. Very rude in places, it is, very rude.’ He swept away the cloth and stood back proudly. ’Lovely,’ he said. ‘Care for me to read your bumps while I’m at it? Used to be Phreno the Bump Man at fairs for a bit.’
    ‘That will be enough, thank you. How much do I owe you?’
    ‘Fifty Woods, Doctor, seeing it’s you.’
    I went to my cabin to fetch the cigarettes, and found