------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
– Dean –
The room
rocked very gently. It was not an unpleasant sensation, but that still did not
make him feel better about where he was. He heard the creak of metal and wood,
the slap of heavy net on the deck. Not quite as loud as usual. This wasn’t such
a good spot to fish today, then. He knew very little about fishing; netter to
just lie back and stare at the low roof. The radio babbled quietly in the
background, but he was only half-listening to that. Communications Officer was
his over-important title. It simply meant running messages.
The timer on
the radio ticked over and the volume increased automatically.
‘…there now
follows the shipping forecast issued by the Met Office on behalf of the Maritime
and Coastguard Agency at 0520 today…’
Dean
groaned. He was needed.
‘…Viking,
North Utsire, South Utsire, Forties, Cromarty, Forth, Tyne, Fisher, Dogger,
Humber. South veering southwest 3 or 4. Occasional showers. Good, becoming
moderate later. German Bight. Southerly 4 or 5. Good. Thames, Dover, Wight…’
Where was
the damn pencil? He span on the spot.
‘…Biscay,
Trafalgar, FitzRoy. Southwest gale 8 to storm 10. Rain, then squally showers…’
‘Three or
four. Three or four. Three or ah -! Fucking four!’ He had stubbed his toe on a
locker door.
‘…Rockall,
Malin, Hebrides. Southwest 4 or 5, occasionally 6 later. Moderate or good.’
He had it at
last! Grasping the virtually flat pencil, Dean leant over and tapped the
switch. The set fell silent half way through ‘Faeroes.’ He scribbled 3 or 4
into the log and sprawled back into the folds of the duvet. It stank of fish.
Everything stank of fish. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to it, though his
father repeatedly told him that he would. His father liked repeating things.
Get a job, Dean. Get a girlfriend, Dean. Get off your lazy arse and learn to
drive, Dean.
Get out of
my sight, Dean.
Dean
pummelled the pillow with the back of his head. Yeah, like that guy didn’t sit
there getting fatter every single fucking day on his early retirement nest egg
he never stopped fucking going on about. Besides, Dean liked walking. When he
wasn’t out at sea, doing this awful job, or tucked away in his room, he was out
walking.
It had
always been this way, for as long as Dean could remember. People assured him
that the town by the coast he called home had once been impressive, even if her
absolute glory days had been in Victorian times. He had no idea how long ago
that might have been, because the place was awful these days.
The promenade
was weather-worn, the pier had been closed down for being unsafe ten years ago,
and every week, another business went under.
‘Count
yourself bloody luck you’ve got a job, sunshine.’
That was
what his father had said at breakfast on Saturday. He didn’t know why he was
still expected to be at the dining table for breakfast at the weekends. He
would much rather sit in his room, munch peanut butter on toast, and surf
YouTube. Instead, he was summoned by a bell and called if he did not trudge downstairs
within a minute.
And what a
job it was. He didn’t know what sort of jobs people had done in the past, but
he figured nobody had ever been paid to do the utterly meaningless tasks he
did. Relaying the contents of the shipping forecast was possibly the most
exciting of the three or four responsibilities he had. They wouldn’t have put
out to sea if it was too rough, because the local boat yards were all folding,
meaning the captain couldn’t get much maintenance done anyway. He had seen news
reports about the coastguard budget being slashed again, recently. On stormy
nights, better not to risk the ship that supported ten people, even if it meant
no catch and no pay. Better that than ten funerals.
Dean sighed
and got up. He had to deliver two numbers to the captain. Two numbers. This was
apparently worth his very meagre salary. All part of the hoops people had to jump
through these days in the Great British Revival. As he clambered up the short
ladder, he amused himself with the thought that he was just a number in the
government’s much vaunted employment figures. Everything really was alright.
Nobody needed to panic. This was just a realignment in the economic priorities.
More people were in employment than ever before, was the official line, and his
father thought this was a jolly good thing. Except, when a piece of news told
him the opposite, in which case it was a very bad thing.
He swung the
hatch back and stepped out into a cold, grey dawn. The first couple of times,
he had been reasonably impressed by the sight of the waves all around them and
the perfect sky above, but it was freezing cold and he had no wish to hang
about upstairs. He made the very short trip to the bridge, doing his best to
avoid all eye contact with the trawler’s crew. He knew why they hated him, of
course, but decrees from on high about full employment were not the sort of thing businesses could
ignore these days. Dean had heard about employment subsidies, but all he
understood that to be was a bribe.
‘Workshy,’
was the least worst insult he heard from the trawler men as he hurried to the
door. He had stopped feeling sorry for himself a long time ago; it was either
this or fruit picking, and nobody wanted fruit picking. He tapped on the open
door frame and cleared his throat.
‘Come in,
lad,’ the captain rumbled. He was the only person on board who treated Dean
with any respect, but since it was his boat and his crew, he couldn’t ever be
on hand to always look out for the new kid. ‘Got the numbers for us?’
‘Yes,
captain,’ Dean said, gazing at a point somewhere around the captain’s boots.
‘Chin up,
Dean,’ the captain remarked, looking over his shoulder from the wheel. ‘It’s a
fine day. A three, I’d say?’
‘T-three or
four,’ Dean corrected. He liked the captain, but knew he couldn’t waste his
time. Not when there were quotas to meet. Dean didn’t know whether they were
meeting them or not. Nobody spoke to him except the captain, and that was only
to pass the time of day, really.
‘Well,
well…’ the captain mused. ‘A possible four. My eyes must be getting old. And
the direction?’
‘S-south.
South veering southwest,’ Dean replied.
‘Good, good.
We’re set fair.’
‘If that’ll
be all, captain…?’ Dean ventured and the older man nodded and smiled. Dean
excused himself and headed back for the lower deck, but he nearly ran headlong
into the first mate.
‘Delivered
your precious numbers, have you?’ Dean did not reply, and tried to sidestep,
but the first mate waylaid him. ‘Worth a slice of all our money, was it? What
was it today, one number or two? Not like we don’t fucking well know what we’re
doing out here.’
‘Please, can
I just go back to the cabin?’ Dean muttered, barely meeting the cold stare of
the first mate, who laughed unpleasantly.
‘Yeah, go
on, run back and do no sodding work. And maybe when you get down to the job
centre next month you can tell them we don’t need any more idiots telling us
how many people we need to employ!’
‘Mr Carson,’
the captain called from the bridge. ‘A word.’
Carson
leered at Dean once more, then stalked off to answer the summons. Dean steadied
himself; he had been pushed almost against the rail by the first mate. He
sucked in the cold salt air and strode purposefully towards the hatch again,
hoping that nobody else would intercept him.
Nobody did,
and he soon found his way down into the cabin again. The radio had turned
itself on again, but he didn’t turn it off this time.
No comments:
Post a Comment