Doctor at Sea

of the ubiquitous City boats with a black and salmon funnel, homeward bound fully loaded from the Australian wool sales; even a couple of warships. They were a pair of corvettes steaming jauntily down Channel in line astern. The meeting led to a burst of activity at the foot of the mainmast as the deckboy afforded the King’s vessels their salute by dipping our ensign. The correct form was for us to dip, watch for the white ensign fluttering down in reply, and follow its return to the masthead. Unfortunately, the wind caught our rain-soaked flag and twisted it in the rigging, so that we passed the fleet apparently in mourning. But the intention was there, and the Navy would be the first to understand.
    A big white P. & O. passed us, outward bound for India and Australia and the sunshine that appeared to me to have vanished for ever.
    ‘Be away for the best part of four months, that lot,’ Easter remarked.’ All be taking their last look at old England.’
    ‘As long as that?’
    ‘They gets them dock strikes something horrid out Aussie way. It’s a lovely life being a wharfie in Sydney or Melbourne - you draws your money and puts your feet up most of the day. Like being a lord. Or - if I may be so bold - ship’s doctor.’
    ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ I admitted sadly.’ Except the dockers get paid more. I suppose they’re all pretty excited on board - first night at sea, and so on.’
    ‘Ho, yes. I’ve seen it often enough on the big passenger boats. All the blokes giving the girls the once-over in the dining saloon. Cor, I’ve seen them sweet little things with their eyes still wet with tears from saying good-bye to their husbands and sweethearts carrying on something shocking. Hardly out of the River we wasn’t, neither.’
    The red lamps were shining on the tops of the high radar masts when we crept close to Dover inside the Goodwins. The lights of Ramsgate and Margate passed off our port side, then we cut across to the Nore, where we were to anchor and await the tide. Someone gave me the morning paper that the pilot had brought aboard. I opened it and read the front page with the careless baffled interest of a holidaymaker inspecting the social column in the village weekly. We had been more or less newsless for three months, but the happenings that used to shake my breakfast table no longer aroused my concern. A paragraph near the foot of the page caught my eye; it was headed ’MAYOR REBUKES DANCERS’, and went on: ’The Mayor of — , Alderman — , yesterday refused an application for an extension to midnight at a cycling club dance. He said he was highly disturbed at complaints of immoral behaviour that had followed the dance last year. “The place for young men and women at midnight,” he told the secretary, “is in their own homes asleep.”’
    I knew I was back in England.

20

    THE next morning we steamed into the Thames. The country raised a faint glow of sunshine to welcome us, but the effort was too taxing and the atmosphere soon relapsed into its habitual rain.
    We passed the long finger of Southend Pier, which appears a far more dignified structure when seen in reverse, signalled our name, and passed down the channel towards Tilbury. The wet, orderly fields of England on the narrowing banks, with a demure English train jogging through them towards London, had the appearance of a winter’s garden after the turbulent unfenced vegetation of the South American coast. Off Tilbury landing-stage we anchored for the Port of London doctor to board us. He was a large, friendly man in a naval battledress and a duffle-coat.
    ‘Have a good voyage, old man?’ he asked, running his fingers down the pages of my log-book.
    ‘Pretty good, thanks.’
    ‘Going again?’
    ‘Oh, no. I don’t think so, anyway.’
    ‘Back to the N.H.S., eh?’
    ‘That’s it. If I can remember any of my medicine.’
    He laughed.’ You can still sign your name, can’t you? All right, free pratique granted.’
    We continued down the River, and I was seized with a spasm of nostalgia by catching sight of an L.P.T.B. bus.
    In Gallions Reach the tugs set about us and turned us towards the locks of the Royal Albert Dock.
    ‘Is that all the room we’ve got?’ I asked Easter, as we headed for the narrow entrance. As I always had difficulty parking a car in a busy street. I was filled with admiration for the mates and tugmasters every time the Lotus came into port.
    ‘There’s bags of room,’ Easter