sheltered, almost monastic, existence. He read a library book a day and was exceptionally polite to the Feather-days. Best of all, he stopped calling the menu a scoffcard.
“Just as well,” said Tommy Mitchell. “A few more days of it and I would have upped with my soup plate and fitted it over his ears.”
Goldilocks’s fall had another side effect. It left the younger male passengers more time to enjoy a traditional trooper entertainment which needed no organizing. Boat-deck romances were born, flourished and faded in a single night; the lifeboats were the scene of innumerable rendezvous, estrangements and reconciliations.
Tommy Mitchell was the foremost of the lifeboat cavaliers and his especial partner was a young blonde named Dolly who was on her way to Singapore to join her husband. Although Tommy Mitchell was never given any more information but that he was big and had a red face, the question of Dolly’s husband fascinated him; he returned to it like a moth to a candle.
“But what does your husband do ?” he asked one night. “Oh, never mind about him, Tommy. Put your arms round me.”
“All right. But why did you get married?”
“I got fed up with being at home and he asked me so I said yes.”
“Gosh.” Tommy Mitchell had thought that a proposal of marriage was a special, almost a holy, moment; this casual attitude awed him.
“He was always about the place on his last leave. I really had to marry him or Daddy would have gone quite mad. It made a change.”
“Is he in the Army?”
“Tommy, don’t worry about that. Kiss me.”
“All right. But how long had you known him before you married him?”
“Oh, about six weeks.”
“Gosh.” Again, Tommy Mitchell rapidly readjusted his conceptions of a proposal; he had always thought one had to wait a decent interval. Tommy Mitchell thought vaguely about banns and things.
“What’s he doing in Singapore?”
“Oh, let’s not think about that. Undo me here.”
“All right. But he will be meeting you when you get off the ship?”
“I expect so. If he’s not there I’ll hang around until he comes. Now kiss me.”
“Gosh.” Another of Tommy Mitchell’s favourite mental pictures, that of a sweet young wife hanging on the rail for the first glimpse of her husband, vanished with the rest. “Oh, you’re so clumsy.”
“But doesn’t he write to you and all that?”
“Every day. They’re terribly boring. Now kiss me properly.”
“Gosh,” said Tommy Mitchell, “all right.”
The Bodger had overheard the entire conversation through his cabin scuttle. “For God’s sake, Mitchell,” he muttered irritably, “get in there and put the poor girl out of her misery.”
Three nights out of Aden The Bodger and Sam Crayshaw were walking the boat deck when they heard a slap and a wail. A slap was hardly worth comment but a wail made them prick up their ears. A woman’s voice came out of the night.
“No you can't be a Jack the Ripper. You’re going to be a Pierrot and like it, so stop your snivelling.”
“What’s that?” The Bodger asked.
“The Children’s Fancy Dress Party, sir,” said Sam Crayshaw.
The words struck like a knell. Of all the social functions enjoyed by the passengers between Southampton and Hong Kong, the Children’s Fancy Dress Party was the most dreaded. The Party made itself felt long before the event. The ship’s shop sold out of papier mâché, string, thread, tape and pins. Curtains disappeared from the lounge and cloths from the dining tables. The cotton wool in the sick bay was guarded day and night by a staff who had endured fancy dress parties before.
The children were divided into categories according to age and prizes were awarded for the best dresses. Entries of twins, triplets or any higher multiples were permitted as single entries but in such cases the winners received a prize each. (None of the ship’s officers would soon forget the scene on the previous voyage when the twin sons of a
“Just as well,” said Tommy Mitchell. “A few more days of it and I would have upped with my soup plate and fitted it over his ears.”
Goldilocks’s fall had another side effect. It left the younger male passengers more time to enjoy a traditional trooper entertainment which needed no organizing. Boat-deck romances were born, flourished and faded in a single night; the lifeboats were the scene of innumerable rendezvous, estrangements and reconciliations.
Tommy Mitchell was the foremost of the lifeboat cavaliers and his especial partner was a young blonde named Dolly who was on her way to Singapore to join her husband. Although Tommy Mitchell was never given any more information but that he was big and had a red face, the question of Dolly’s husband fascinated him; he returned to it like a moth to a candle.
“But what does your husband do ?” he asked one night. “Oh, never mind about him, Tommy. Put your arms round me.”
“All right. But why did you get married?”
“I got fed up with being at home and he asked me so I said yes.”
“Gosh.” Tommy Mitchell had thought that a proposal of marriage was a special, almost a holy, moment; this casual attitude awed him.
“He was always about the place on his last leave. I really had to marry him or Daddy would have gone quite mad. It made a change.”
“Is he in the Army?”
“Tommy, don’t worry about that. Kiss me.”
“All right. But how long had you known him before you married him?”
“Oh, about six weeks.”
“Gosh.” Again, Tommy Mitchell rapidly readjusted his conceptions of a proposal; he had always thought one had to wait a decent interval. Tommy Mitchell thought vaguely about banns and things.
“What’s he doing in Singapore?”
“Oh, let’s not think about that. Undo me here.”
“All right. But he will be meeting you when you get off the ship?”
“I expect so. If he’s not there I’ll hang around until he comes. Now kiss me.”
“Gosh.” Another of Tommy Mitchell’s favourite mental pictures, that of a sweet young wife hanging on the rail for the first glimpse of her husband, vanished with the rest. “Oh, you’re so clumsy.”
“But doesn’t he write to you and all that?”
“Every day. They’re terribly boring. Now kiss me properly.”
“Gosh,” said Tommy Mitchell, “all right.”
The Bodger had overheard the entire conversation through his cabin scuttle. “For God’s sake, Mitchell,” he muttered irritably, “get in there and put the poor girl out of her misery.”
Three nights out of Aden The Bodger and Sam Crayshaw were walking the boat deck when they heard a slap and a wail. A slap was hardly worth comment but a wail made them prick up their ears. A woman’s voice came out of the night.
“No you can't be a Jack the Ripper. You’re going to be a Pierrot and like it, so stop your snivelling.”
“What’s that?” The Bodger asked.
“The Children’s Fancy Dress Party, sir,” said Sam Crayshaw.
The words struck like a knell. Of all the social functions enjoyed by the passengers between Southampton and Hong Kong, the Children’s Fancy Dress Party was the most dreaded. The Party made itself felt long before the event. The ship’s shop sold out of papier mâché, string, thread, tape and pins. Curtains disappeared from the lounge and cloths from the dining tables. The cotton wool in the sick bay was guarded day and night by a staff who had endured fancy dress parties before.
The children were divided into categories according to age and prizes were awarded for the best dresses. Entries of twins, triplets or any higher multiples were permitted as single entries but in such cases the winners received a prize each. (None of the ship’s officers would soon forget the scene on the previous voyage when the twin sons of a
Similar Books
