Free Chasing Freedom Home (Malinding) by Tom Ireland Page A

I’ll welcome you aboard the “Bluebell Line” instead. Come on, let’s get you sorted out. The lads will find you some seaworthy gear and somewhere for you to kip for a while. Hungry?’
    ‘No sir, but I’d be glad of a wash and a bed that keeps still. Please.’
    He was led down a flight of nearly vertical iron steps and along a narrow cream-painted corridor lined with metal piping. They stopped outside a wooden door.
    ‘Here we are. There’s four bunks, a sink and a sea-toilet. Your bunk is the top one at the far end. Sorry it’s next to the loo. You’ll find a bundle of clothes, some soap, a tin mug and a few other odds and ends. Get some rest, you’re on watch tonight.’
    He rinsed as much of the salt spray off as was possible in a small sink. He had to hold onto any solid surface; the cabin seemed to have gravitational laws of its own. He pulled on a clean pair of shorts and set about negotiating his way onto the top bunk. He lay down and gripped the wooden edge for dear life. He closed his eyes and the motion seemed less violent. He was alive. He hadn’t drowned. Again, a story from his childhood came to mind. ‘Duffers drown. If not duffers, won’t drown’ or something similar. He longed for the apparent strength of his father. And what would Ed senior have made of his eldest son?  Thinking about it there appeared to be a disparity between their actions. His dad had run away to Africa and he was trying to run back to it. Did that make some sort of sense, he wondered. Too many questions. Dad might have known the answer, if there was one. He closed his eyes and relaxed his grip on the world.
    ‘Wakey, wakey, lad.  Feeding time, then you’ve got work to do. No such thing as a free ticket on this ship!’ A friendly face peered at him. ‘You look a bit better than when we pulled you on board. Come on. Face the world time. Get some shoes and socks on, and a warm sweater. It’ll be a bit cool on the bridge. Good. Food first; follow me.’ Out of the door, along the corridor, up the iron stairs. Ed blinked. This was too much like the prison. Through the next door and Mr Jones would be there with a gun. He stopped in his tracks.
    ‘If you’re going to kill me …’
    ‘Bloody hell, lad. If we were going to kill you you’d be dead hours ago. You’re safe. The watchers are bloody miles away. You’re going to get some stew down you, a couple of mugs of hot sweet tea and then you’ll be out on the wing of the bridge with a pair of field glasses watching out for the Watchers. Tables turned, sunshine. Come on.’ He pushed open a door and shoved Ed into a rough dining area. A large, long table, with a low rail round the side. Benches, bolted to the floor. Half a dozen faces turned to greet him. Smiles, and a large iron pot of steaming stew added aroma to the greeting. A bowl, a spoon and a large mug were pushed towards him.
    ‘Help yourself. If you don’t eat your share these gannets will eat it for you!’ He ate; he drank and smiled at his new companions. Too full of emotion to speak, his smile expressed his thanks. He ate, surprised by the depth of his appetite.
    ‘Ready for work, lad?’ He nodded. ‘Right, follow me.’
    ‘What have I got to do?’
    ‘Captain will tell you, lad.’ The captain was the man who had briefly welcomed Ed aboard after his rescue from the life raft.
    ‘Stand there, on that side of the bridge. Use these glasses; they’ve got good lenses. Any other boat or ship you see, anything at all, you report to me. It’s not as easy as it sounds and I’d rather you reported ten false sightings than miss one real one. Right?’
    ‘Right, sir. I’ll do my best.’
    ‘Better than best, son. Your life might depend on it.’ He handed the binoculars to Ed and walked away to the other side of the bridge. The seaman at the wheel nodded to Ed and returned to his own duty of keeping course.
    The time passed slowly; there were ample false alarms but the Watchers were absent from