A Ship's Tale (19 page)

My timing was near perfect. There were just a few things left to load. Boris showed me the fresh vegetables and eggs, generously donated by a farmer friend of Harris's. These were the most perishable goods, to be stowed in the galley for ready access, along with sacks upon sacks of potatoes and onions. The boys would be stout fellows by the end of this voyage.

I set to work and hauled in potatoes, onions, and assorted vegetables. Most of them went into the forward hold, which I was pleased to see was well stocked, scrubbed clean, and properly shipshape. When I had a proper look at the galley, I immediately felt uncomfortable. It needed work to have it fully ready for operation. It seemed that in general one could account for everything needed: pots, pans, cutlery, mugs, dishes, and such, some still in boxes. I hoped that Katherine wouldn't find it too daunting a task. It seemed rather grubby.

I went up on deck and found Boris ready to close up the hold for the day. He shouted something to me from his position on the opposite side of the hatch, but I couldn't make out a word of it because of the wind and rain. Finally, I realized it was about a load of ice that was to come in at the last. Evidently a quantity of fresh meat was in the offing. This was welcome news, for the green boys from Starke's must be forged into working seamen. We'd all be needing our strength. I thought how lucky I'd been with the rationing going on. I almost felt guilty because of the rationing coupons I'd saved. You'd never guess all the rationing everywhere with what was in stock here and at the Inn.

Boris looked in and thanked me for coming back to make sure there was enough help. I thought I'd put in a fair day's work and was preparing to leave, when I encountered Robert coming out of the chart room with mop and bucket in hand.

“Robert, I keep bumping into you with no time to talk,” I said apologetically.

“Damn talking, Flynn. We'll have plenty of time for talk later. Right now I have all this rubbish to deal with. Just look at this!” He set down his bucket and produced a list which he waved before me. “I can't do all these bloody things in a few hours. And I rather think that my skills should put me above some of the jobs on this list. What am I, no more than a slavey, for God's sake? I'm a damned valuable crew member!”

I had a look at the list, which did in fact mention some rather disagreeable custodial tasks. I was heartened to see that putting a good finish to the galley was included. “Well, mate, we're not in the Royal Navy any more,” I pointed out. “After all, someone must take on these jobs. We're all doing what we must.”

Robert continued to grumble over the offensive list.

“Complaining won't get the jobs done,” I put in cheerfully. “Time to put your shoulder to the wheel, old boy!”

Robert sniffed. “Oh indeed? And what wheel are you looking to put your shoulder to just now?”

I replied, “There are a few things I'm seeing to elsewhere that should make this voyage a little more pleasant.”

“Pleasant?” Robert cried, slapping the paper. “Well I'll just get back to my
pleasant
chores. I feel like a bloody scullery maid! A bloody scullery maid I'll tell you! Can you fancy that?”

Behind Robert, Edward was sitting at ease looking over a map, with his feet propped up on the chart table. Robert looked at the old man peevishly. “Here, what are you doing?” he demanded.

Edward glanced up at him impassively. “Thinking, young man, thinking. Someone has to,” he said and returned to his map. Robert gave me a look.

I shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I'm sorry. I'll talk to you later. Must be off.”

“Aye, you must be,” Robert muttered sarcastically.

“Now see here, I've been doing my part here, plus at the Inn,” I protested. “Why, I've even got us a cook!”

He seemed unimpressed. “Oh, that was hard work I'll wager.”

“As a matter of fact…” I began stiffly. Robert was studying my expression suspiciously, unable to fathom what I was trying to conceal. Obviously a hint of guilt was showing.

“Yes?” he prompted.

“But now that you mention it,” I gulped, “I suppose I could help you put in some time in the galley.”

Boris was waiting to close up the hold for the day, and was growing impatient with us. He finally gave over trying to shout above the roar and closed up the hold. Giving us a wave, he moved off after making certain everything was secure.

I went down into the galley. Behind a basket of well-watered celery, I made a discovery that might not sit well with our new cook. Edward had seen to it that tradition was served by the presence of some ominous-looking casks of pickled fish and salt pork. There was also a box of one of his personal favourites: that malodorous dried fish known as Bombay duck. Anyone who's lived through the stench of this particular delicacy during its preparation, has my heartfelt sympathy. There are certain foods I regard as a dare, this being among them. I made a note to warn Katherine.

Three hours later, feeling a lot less guilty but a lot more tired, I was striding through the rain back to the Inn, having done penance by playing galley slave. I'd made a visible difference. Perhaps now Katherine wouldn't be utterly taken aback by the contrast between the well-ordered, spacious Beasley kitchen and the cramped little chamber the ship's cook would command. Between the gardening and helping out down at the ship, I was now fitter than I had been for some time. It had been a long while since the soup and bread of lunchtime.

When I arrived back at the Inn, a few hardy souls had braved the wind and rain to come to the warm pub. With the heavenly scent of Baking Day in the air, tea was uppermost in their thoughts. I took off my mac and cautiously peeked through the kitchen door. Happily, the Beastly One was not in evidence. Katherine, looking beautiful but wilted, glanced over and asked where I'd been.

“Oh, down at the ship for the second time today,” I sighed feeling wrung out. “Can we meet later? I've arrangements to make, and I'm thinking of a good way to introduce you to the ship and crew. You've met most of them, but I haven't told them who I had in mind.”

She smiled. “Mr. Flynn, I place myself in your hands,” she said softly. That stirred up such an interesting train of thoughts, that only a cry of Katherine! from the scullery saved me from attempting some indiscretion on the spot. I gave her a yearning wave and retired back into the pub in search of sustenance. Suddenly, I discovered the delicious baking odours were making me quite ravenous.

Behind the bar Martin was in rare form, regaling a village couple with tales that sounded entirely pointless to me, but had them roaring with laughter. Martin's sense of humour wasn't for the masses, but he could talk two people to death with ease, but I may have been underestimating him. When he saw me, he sidled off from his listeners, who looked grateful for this, and jovially waved me over. I went up to the bar, and he drew me a pint.

“What do you say to a meat pie then?” Martin asked.

“What do I say? Lie still and think of England. I'm so hungry I could make short work of a dozen.”

“You're in luck. We've quite a few just out of the oven,” he chuckled and set a platter of warm pies before me. “They're Katherine's pies too, not Mrs. Beasley's. I know that makes a difference to you,” he winked.

They were things of beauty, those pies, and smelt divinely of well-cooked meat and potato. One almost hated to destroy them by vulgar ingestion. Mind you, I said
almost
. I picked one up and admired it as Martin looked on.

“Katherine's outdone herself this time,” I said with a measure of pride. She was
my
Katherine after all, which somehow made these pies flesh of my flesh. With that thought in mind, I hastened the family reunion with a succulent mouthful. Maybe I was just peckish and love-struck, but I swear that little pie was the most exquisite thing I'd ever tasted. The meat was tender and delicately spiced, with just enough potatoes and vegetables, all wrapped in the most butter-flaky crust. Martin laughed at my ecstatic expression.

“Martin,” I said solemnly, “this is food of the Gods. Have you tasted these pies?”

He blinked at me in the most curious fashion. “No, their aroma was quite enough treat for me,” he chortled.

I couldn't concern myself with his vagaries; there were pies to be eaten! Soon my mind began ticking. No mortal could resist these pies. Therefore, no ship's company could resist the cook who'd baked these pies once they'd tried them. Armed with this platter, I could wave aside any and all resistance to Katherine's appointment as cook. I fixed Martin with a look.

“Martin, I'll give you ten bob for the lot,” I said. For some reason that sent him into gales of laughter.

“Done!” he said, wiping his eyes, “and I'll throw in a pot of tea to help wash them down.”

“What on earth is so funny?” I asked as I handed over the payment.

“I'll tell you later,” he replied, still tucked over quivering with merriment.

“Oh, never mind,” I snorted. Not being in the mood for any more humour, I took my pies and my pint off to a table near the fire.

Without delay I set about the absorption of this delicious meal. After three pies, I'd had my fill, but it was very tempting to go on. I reminded myself that I must leave enough for my shipmates and carefully counted the remainder. There were thirteen yet, a full baker's dozen. That should be enough to win over the most recalcitrant among them. Sipping at the last of my pint, I breathed a long sigh of contentment and lit my pipe. I sat gazing out the window. After a time I realised the rain had slackened to a light drizzle. With little daylight remaining, this would be an opportunity to have another look about the garden I'd soon be abandoning.

Groaning, I damped my pipe and rose. Sounds issued from the kitchen indicated that it would be unwise to enter there, so I carried the plate of pies up to my room and carefully placed it on the highest shelf, laying a sheet of newspaper over it. Thursday was baking day, and legendary amongst the local populace. The lighter rainfall had encouraged others to come out, so more tables were occupied now. For years the locals had been coming to the village to buy buns, pies, and pastries. Some would stay to have tea or a full meal, but a good half of the oven's fruit was for home consumption. This had gone on long before Katherine's arrival. The enterprising Mrs. Beastly found her new helper so capable she soon entrusted her with upholding the kitchen's reputation by her own efforts. Well, the old slave driver would soon be back to doing her own cooking! Katherine deserved better. And she certainly deserved better than the bedraggled figure I cut at this moment. I made my way upstairs and found fresh clothes, casting a solicitous eye over the pies in their nest. They had work to do, after all. I went off for my bath.

A little later, clean and tidy, I was ready to join the living once more. A small but contented-looking dinner crowd were enjoying their meals, among them Harris and Bowman. Katherine passed me on her way back to the kitchen, beaming. I almost followed, but I knew that my two shipmates wished a word with me. I approached and was hailed. I joined them at their table, noting that they were dining upon mere steak-and-kidney pudding. I had a surprise treat for them! A newspaper-wrapped bundle sat by, waiting to be taken back to the others still on the ship. Harris seized the opportunity to speak up first. He launched into the latest report.

“Well, Flynn, we're still in the running. We've almost everything but the remaining sails on board now. I've been getting reports from Brian, but it's still hard to say where we stand. I'd hazard that we've an even chance of having our full suit of sails before we go. If it's not all ready, we'll have to take what is. The rain hasn't finished yet, but once it has, there's at least one tug standing by to commence operations when the weather turns. We'll want you early tomorrow morning, right?”

“Right!” I agreed.

Bowman reached across and seized my arm in a surprisingly strong grasp. “What's all this about you hiring on a cook?” he snapped. “Ned and I can see to the mess.”

I looked at him earnestly. “Surely, Mr. Bowman, it's beneath a captain's dignity to be messing about amongst the pots and pans. You'll want your strength for command. Edward is the most valuable to us as navigator and I'd sooner see him pilot us clear of dangerous waters. I've heard some dark tales of his cooking.”

Harris rolled his eyes. They'd obviously been through this many times before. Bowman snorted and returned to his meal. I excused myself and dashed upstairs, laying hold of the newspaper-wrapped bundle of pies still on the platter. I carried it back to the table in triumph.

“What's all this?” Bowman growled, eyeing the pies suspiciously.

“These were baked by my cook. I swear to you that Mrs. Beasley had no hand in them. Have a taste!” I set one on Bowman's plate. He scowled at it.

Harris, however, was never coy where food was concerned. He quickly had his teeth into a sample of his own. His eyes closed in bliss as he chewed, and only his face told the story as the pie vanished in a flash to be swiftly followed by another. To Harris, good food was almost a religious experience. He was reaching for a third when Bowman grudgingly took a nibble at his.

His eyes lit up at once at the taste, and he then took a whole mouthful. He chewed it well and long to extract the most enjoyment out of it. He swallowed it, then licked his chops and gazed at the remainder of the pie almost fondly. I felt a thrill of paternal affection myself. Our little pies…

“Mr. Flynn,” said Bowman at last, “that's the finest thing ever I've tasted since my Meg passed on. Who wouldn't want such fine food for his crew? But we can't afford to pay a cook.”

I smiled at that. “Captain Bowman, this cook will work for passage alone.” Bowman and Harris exchanged glances. Noting the dwindling pie population, I hastily pulled the platter out of their reach. Still chewing, they followed its course with longing eyes. I needed the rest as ammunition for Boris, Edward, and Robert.