David Oldman - Dusk at Dawn

Pulling on his clothes he saw the top bunk was empty. Pinker’s bed was made and his belongings were tidily stashed away. Make a good soldier, Paul muttered to himself as the train of the previous evening’s thought ran on through his head of its own volition. He splashed water from the jug into the basin then on his face. He filled a tumbler and drank it down. He didn’t know if it was potable but how much worse could he feel?

On deck several large steam trawlers were tied up against quay. Beyond the dock he could see railway goods yards. Below, dockers were craning goods in roped slings over the side of the ship and into the hold. He tried to remember what they were supposed to be carrying but couldn’t. His head felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton wool while he’d slept. He breathed deeply for a few minutes, the air redolent of fish and cattle. Around him a couple of deckhands were scurrying about. The officers and crew, he had found, were Finnish except for the English Turner and one or two others. An officer leaning down from the bridge saw Paul and gave him an encouraging nod. Paul wondered what there was to be encouraged about. He trudged off to the saloon in search of coffee.

Pinker was there, sitting in one of the armchairs with a sheaf of paper on his knees, working his way down a column of figures. He looked up as Paul walked in and smiled brightly.

‘You were dead to the world, Filbert. Thought I might wake you for breakfast then decided to let you sleep it off. You didn’t half put it away last night.’

Paul dropped into the chair beside him.

‘Three whiskies and two bottles of wine,’ Pinker said.

‘Three?’ The man couldn’t count. Probably couldn’t add up his columns correctly, either. ‘Two, surely,’ Paul said. ‘And I didn’t finish the wine.’

‘I’m afraid Mr Pinker’s right, sir,’ Turner said appearing at Paul’s elbow. ‘I was going to keep the second bottle for you but it was empty.’

‘Coffee,’ Paul said. ‘Black.’

‘You missed a good breakfast, Filbert,’ Pinker chirped as Turner left to fetch the coffee. ‘And he was right about the parson. The name’s Pater and a queer old stick his is. All fire and brimstone if I know anything about parsons.’

‘And do you?’ Paul asked tartly.

‘What? Oh. Well I’ve met a few in my line of work. Not a cheery sort of chap, anyway.’

‘Who else?’

Pinker leaned towards him confidentially.

‘Two ladies. Aunt and niece. The old girl’s a dry old bird, if you know what I mean, but the daughter…’ He nodded suggestively and raised his eyebrows.

Paul wasn’t sure what he was supposed to infer and couldn’t summon the interest to ask. His coffee arrived and he sipped it, burning his tongue.

‘There was another chap expected,’ Pinker went on, ‘but he didn’t turn up. Your other two did, though. Bearded like you said and Russian or I’ll eat my hat.’

‘Russian?’

‘Couldn’t understand a word they said. All ovs and skis… Guttural sort of language.’

‘You didn’t catch their names, I suppose?’

‘Didn’t catch anything, old chap. They did say they were on their way back to Russia, though.’

‘How did you—’

‘English,’ Pinker said, anticipating Paul’s question. ‘They speak English all right. Don’t know why they don’t talk it all the time. Said now that the revolution had come their place was in Russia. Got the impression they thought themselves pretty important. Looking for a couple of comfortable billets in the Russian government, I dare say.’

‘Bolsheviks?’

Pinker grimaced. ‘Couldn’t say, Filbert. Anyone’s guess.’

Paul thought about Kell and took another cautious sip of coffee. If the two beards were foreign agents they were hardly likely to go around telling everyone they were Russian. He might be new to the game but that much was obvious. So, aside from the two women, that left the priest and the other fellow Pinker said hadn’t turned up.

‘Anyway,’ Pinker was saying, ‘you’ll see them at lunch. We’re due to get underweigh again later this morning.’

‘Let’s hope the weather improves then,’ Paul said, feeling marginally better for the coffee. ‘Choppy last night, wasn’t it? You looked a bit queasy after dinner.’

‘Me?’ Pinker countered, sounding offended. ‘Not at all, Filbert. Not at all.’

Paul squinted at him over the top of his coffee cup. He’d had the distinct impression Pinker had gone a bit green around the gills the previous evening.

‘Anyway,’ Pinker announced curtly, ‘I’ve got some work to catch up on if you’ll excuse me.’ The salesman went back to his figures.

Paul sat a while longer then took a turn around the deck, watching the dockers until his head stopped throbbing. He still felt fragile and, with nothing else to do, decided he might as well go back to the cabin and lay down until lunch.

He was dozing when Pinker returned and sat himself in the chair and began fussing with his boxes once again. Pulling boots from their packing, he examined the size numbers stamped on the soles and jotted them down in a notebook.

‘Wake you up, old fellow?’ he asked, re-packing the footwear and pushing the boxes back under Paul’s bunk. ‘Just had a word with the first officer, the big blond chap. Been some sort of delay, apparently, and we’re going to miss the tide. Won’t be leaving until tomorrow morning now.’

Paul sat up, banging his head against the upper berth.

‘What sort of delay?’

‘Didn’t say. They won’t be serving lunch, though. We’ll have to go ashore. All a bit thick in my opinion, having paid all-found. I’ll have to get my office on the blower otherwise I shan’t get my money back. You game for a recce? I was told there are pubs and a hotel by the market that do a good lunch. Reasonably priced. I suppose you’ll have to get on to your office about expenses, too, or are they decent about that sort of thing?’

Getting on the blower to his office was just what Paul would have liked to do. But Cumming, needless to say, had neglected to give him a number. Expenses were the least of his worries — as long as one discounted having to lug the greatcoat around in the middle of summer. He was in two minds whether he ought to stay holed up on the boat, though, rather than chance it on shore given what had happened in London.

‘The first officer didn’t say if the delay was because one of the passengers was late, did he?’ he asked Pinker. ‘I mean, they finished loading this morning so I don’t see why we have to wait.’

‘Can’t help you there. The man’s Finnish and hasn’t got much English. All I know is there’s a delay and he said something about the tide.’

‘But it’s a steamer ,’ Paul objected. ‘What’s the tide got to do with it?’

Pinker shrugged his thin shoulders, disclaiming all knowledge. ‘Too shallow? Some nautical reason, no doubt. Coming ashore then?’

Paul begged five minutes in the bathroom down the corridor and spent ten trying to wash the excesses of the previous evening away. Then he followed Pinker onto deck where the first officer repeated what he had said to Pinker earlier and, through a mixture of French, German and English, managed to tell them that they had until first light if they wanted. The ship wouldn’t be leaving till then.

Paul wondered if Cumming would know about the delay and tried to pump the officer for more information. But the man’s grasp of English was restricted to a few basic words, most of them seafaring terms, and he employed an irritatingly smile to fill in the gaps. Paul gave up and trooped down the gangway behind Pinker, keeping his eye out for policemen.

The port was alive with ships and men. An overwhelming aroma of fish drifted on the breeze from the boats docked by the piers. Boxes of the things had been landed and stacked on the quayside and were being loaded onto trolleys and wheeled into the quayside wharves. Inside, lines of chattering women with hair tucked under headscarves and bodies shapeless behind aprons stood at long tables gutting the fish with quick deft movements. Paul followed Pinker, dodging the porters with stacked wicker boxes balanced on their heads. The lowing of penned livestock from the cattle depot drifted across the river on the wind as they made their way along the quayside and up Humber Street.