Snippets

If I Could Have That Time Again!

Elvis Presley's 'All Shook Up' was the current favourite song circulating the crew mess decks. I recall one morning, while beavering away at the brass with only the swish of the ship passing through the waves in my ears, the breeze on my brow and the ubiquitous pair of Albatros criss-crossing our wake beyond the ship's stern as my closest audience – believing myself to be quite alone. I was giving out my rendition of 'All Shook Up' to my imaginary spectators, albeit in a lowered voice, augmented with my best Elvis Presley impersonation - complete with shakes, jerks and twitches, and keeping my polishing strokes on the bright work in time with the music.

There followed one of those inexplicable moments of acute discomfort that occasionally happen. One becomes quiet and rigid, shocked by the awareness of another presence close by. Holding a polishing rag in one hand and a can of Brasso in the other I slowly turned to my right and saw to my dismay a pair of worn, brown shoes on the deck behind me. I cringed and felt the heat of embarrassment on my face. Scared to raise my eyes to meet those of my unwelcome audience – the man wearing the shoes - I prayed. 'Please don't let it be the Admiral, Please God.' Of course it was him. I saw mirth in his eyes and in the lines running from them across his face. He chuckled before addressing me.

"You'll be Thomson." It was a statement rather than a question. He spoke softly, in a clipped brogue that betrayed his servicel background in spite of the rough, yellow woollen polo neck sweater and faded fawn corduroy trousers that he wore.

"Yes sir." My embarrassment turned to perplexity. 'How on earth did he know my name? There are 660 crew on here; he can't know us all by name. Why has he picked on me?'

He stretched to his full height, with his hands folded behind him and took a deep breath, exhaling with an appreciative gasp – as if the draught of salt tinged air had been the bouquet  a fine wine. Over his shoulder I caught sight of the Captain on the bridge wing, looking in our direction, conversing with the Staff Commander and Chief Officer in what appeared to be earnest consternation. My head snapped back to give my attention to the Admiral as he spoke again.

"Merchant Navy today and London Palladium tomorrow, is that the plan, Thomson?"

I lowered my head feeling foolish that I had been caught out in my daydream. I shuffled my feet and mumbled. "No sir, I'm not good enough for that." 'But it was what I had been dreaming about. I had bought a guitar in Naples for £2-10-00 on the outward voyage and could already strum three chords. I was to be the next Tommy Steele.'

He pointed at the brasswork I had already covered in polish. "Bright work, what? Haven't done any of that since my midshipman's days."

I don't know what came over me,  mischief prevailed over my bashfulness, common sense and decorum. I held the rag and Brasso in my polish blackened paws and thrust them towards him. With the cheek of an urchin I asked. "Do you remember how to do it, sir?"

I remained respectfully polite in spite of my impudence. His hands went on his hips. He threw back his head and roared with laughter. After several loud guffaws attracting the attention of the Captain and officers on the bridge, and of George Press, my boss deskman: whom I glimpsed peering at us from around the door of his store-room cum workshop in the housing below the funnel nearby. With a growing lump in my stomach, I read the anxiety written across George's face and read his lips silently mouthing, 'What the hell do you think you are doing?' I knew I was in trouble, but the admiral saved my day.

"I do believe I do, Thomson, now then, what do you want me to do, put on or take off." My head spun. 'Is this really happening? Britain's grandest admiral polishing brass with me.'

And so it was. 'Me and the admiral' polished brass every morning until he disembarked at Colombo a few days later. Not only did I work with him, he worked for me. Every morning he would come up on deck and ask, "What am I doing this morning, Thomson?"