“I’ve been around,” said Loss. “D’you play Crib?”
“No.”
“I’ll teach you Crib.”
“Are there going to be some more of us on the ship?”
“More what?”
“Well—” (with shame) “—evacuees.”
“No idea. I think it’s just the pair of us. OK? Pick another card.”
“I’m going back on deck,” said Eddie.
“OK. I’ll come with you. Watch them loading. It’s corned beef. We unload at Freetown and she’ll sail full of bananas.”
“Bananas? To the Far East?”
“Don’t be stupid. We change ship at Freetown, hang about. The bananas get taken Home by the Breath o’Dunoon for the Black Market and the Commandos.”
“I’ve not seen any bananas in three years.”
“Well, you’re not in the know. You can eat plenty in Freetown. Flat on your back. Nothing moves in Freetown. There’s RAF there, and they’ve all gone mad. Talking to monkeys. Mating with monkeys.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Common knowledge. I’ve done this trip before. Often.”
“How old are you?”
The boy looked outraged. Eddie saw the long eyes go cold. Then soft and sad. “That’s a question I don’t often answer, but I’ll tell you. I’m fourteen,” and he took from his pocket a black cigarette with a gold tip, and lit it.
Thirty-six hours later there were signs that the huge herd of ships might be thinking of sailing. Eddie asked again if they were the only passengers.
“Four months. Just you and I.”
“I suppose so.” Loss spat black shag at the seagulls. “Shag to shags,” he said. “I am also rather witty. I’m a master of languages as well. I could teach you Malay.”
“I speak Malay,” said Eddie. “I was born there.”
“Mandarin, then? Hindi. All one. Nice watch.”
“It was my father’s.”
Days, it seemed, later they saw the last of Ireland sink into the sea. The prow of the ship seemed to be seeking the sunset, such as it was, rainy and pale. Great grey sea-coloured ships like lead pencils stood about the ocean and smaller brisker ships nosed about them. The Breath o’Dunoon looked like a tramp at a ball. The Atlantic lay still beneath its skin.
“We’re in a convoy.”
“Well, of course, we’re in a convoy,” said Loss. “We can’t go sailing off to Africa alone. We’re not a fishing boat. It’s a widespread War.
“Mind you,” he added, “we’d probably get there faster if we were a fishing boat. The convoy always goes the speed of the slowest ship. And we’re headed out to the West for days on end, to get clear of the U-Boats. Nearly to America, zig-zagging all the way.
“Am I right?” he condescendingly enquired of the Captain at whose none too clean table they were dining. The Captain ignored him and spooned up treacle pudding.
“Is that all we’re going to do all the time? I’ve brought no books. I thought it would be just a few days.”
“You can do the cooking if you like,” said the Engineer Officer. “You couldn’t do worse than this duff. It’s made of lead shot. Can you cook, Mr. Feathers?”
“No, not at all.”
“I can cook,” said Loss, “but only French cuisine.”
“You can both peel spuds,” said the Captain, “but remember to take that watch off, Feathers.”
“And keep it away from him,” said the Engineer Officer, pointing at Loss. “Ask me, he’s escaped from a reformatory school for delinquents.”
“It was Eton,” said Loss. “I was about to go to Eton. Do you play Crib?”
“Not now,” said the Sparks, “but I’ll thrash you when I do.”
They left the rickety Breath o’Dunoon at Freetown for a blazing beach where the air throbbed like petrol fumes. The jungle hung black. Black people were immobile under palm trees. Nobody seemed to know what should happen next. After a shabby attempt at examination by the customs, where interest was taken in the watch, the two of them stood about, waiting for instructions. There were none. The crew of the Breath o’Dunoon were taking their ease before the unloading of the cans of meat, and the Captain had disappeared. There was a suggestion that they should give up their passports which they ignored.
Heat such as Eddie had never known blasted land and sea. The smell of Africa was like chloroform. Inland from the port were dancing-hot tin sheds, one with a red cross on it, asphalt, some apologies for shops, and RAF personnel in vests and shorts. More black people stood about in the shadows beneath the trees.
Beyond the white strip of beach the mango forests began and Albert Loss sat down neatly under a palm tree and ate one, first peeling off the skin with a little knife from his pocket, then sucking. He took out a notebook and began to make calculations. Eddie ate bananas and thought about the buttermilk girl, with some satisfaction.
He watched the rollers of the Atlantic. “I think I’ll bathe,” he said. “Get rid of the banana juice.” He licked his fingers and ran down to the sea and was immediately flung back on the beach. He tried again and was again spat out. He lay with a ricked back and a badly grazed knee as the waves slopped over him with contempt.
“The sun’s dangerous,” Loss announced from the edge of the jungle.
But Eddie, exalted to be free, warm, deflowered and full of bananas, lay on in the sand. The dangerous part of the journey was over. They had seen no U-Boats, and there would be none on the next ship for they were out of range now. They were taking the Long Route down Africa to the Cape, and out to Colombo to refuel. Then Singapore and safety. And the next ship might be better. Even comfortable. A Sunderland flying boat suddenly roared from beyond the mangoes and came towards him along the sea, bouncing like a loose parcel chucked from hand to hand. It blundered to an uncertain lopsided stop some way out. Bloody planes, thought Eddie. I want to sleep. He was sated, different — happy.
“How many bananas have you eaten?” asked Loss.
“Thirty-six.”
“You are intemperate. I wouldn’t have thought it.”
“They’re miniature bananas. They’re nothing.”
“They’re very over-ripe. Where did you get them?”
“Off a heap. Under a tree. Any objection?”
Loss watched him.
“No. I am glad you have some powers of enjoyment. D’you want a game of Patience?”
“It’s about a hundred and five degrees. I want a beer.”
Eddie stumbled up the beach, to a stall under the trees where a massive lady in orange appeared to be in a trance but took his English money into her pink palm.
“You’ve left your watch lying on the sand,” called Loss.
“Look after it,” Eddie shouted. “D’you want a beer?”
“Certainly not. Not that stuff. And don’t touch the bottled water. I’ve been here before.”
Eddie lay back in the sand and went to sleep.
Waking he felt about him, sat up and began to swig from a dark bottle. His head began to swim deliciously. He lifted his legs in the air. Loss observed him.
“You are behaving quite out of character,” he said. “I have known you six weeks, but I know this to be out of character.”
“I like this character.”
“I am amazed. You have a rational mind.”
“I’ve slept with a woman,” said Eddie. “Yippee.”
Loss chose not to comment.
After a pause for thought Eddie said, “Have you been here before?”
“Somewhere like it. Down the coast.”
“Oh, I’ve been somewhere like it. Plenty of this. Worse.”
“When?”
“When I was five. When I came over to England with a missionary. Auntie May, she was called. To live in England on my own.”