An Excursion with Everards (part 2)
by Published on 5th February 2025 11:26 AM
An Excursion with Everard, (Part 2).
One morning during smoko while heading up the Irish Sea, Frank, Alex and I had an interesting chat about writers. Alex’s favourite was Dickens but he said that he’d embarrassed himself on a train once when he’d burst out laughing on reading a section of Erskine Caldwell’s ‘Tobacco Road’ (a book I’d never read). Frank, perhaps trying to impress us, said he liked H G Wells and Steinbeck and George Orwell, so I discovered that my two messmates were lovers of literature. I couldn’t comment on Alan, as he had gone to his cabin — but I imagine that he would have said his favourite writer would have been Rabbie Burns!
By the way, we had been carrying two stowaways since Cornwall. They had rings on their legs, and Frank said that they were racing pigeons hitching a lift. They used to fly around for a bit of exercise then come back on board to eat some of the maize he’d scatter beside a hatch. He even put out a tin tray of fresh water, but Alan unwittingly threw this over the side. However, they seemed to have had enough of our hospitality and abandoned ship just before we picked up a pilot at the bar to navigate the Mersey. The Chief Engineer came out onto the poop in the dawn mist and started proudly pointing out Liverpool landmarks such as New Brighton, the Three Ugly Sisters (the three stacks of a power station) and the yard of Cammell Laird in Birkenhead where there was a nuclear submarine on the stocks.
After going upriver to Eastham Locks, to the continual ringing of engine-room bells, we entered the Manchester Ship Canal — in parts, a gaseous, filthy, black stretch of water, which is why the lads called it the Manchester **** Canal. We were destined for Brown and Polson’s factory over twenty miles ahead of us. There the maize would be converted into products such as corn oil or custard powder. After a few days, we’d discharged the grain and shut the hatches ready for hosing down. It was a paradise for pigeons. I recall seeing lots of three-toed footprints on the powdery deck — and I think I shall always remember the sight of a shore worker standing on the quay covered from head to foot in fine white dust as if he had just stepped out of a flour bag. I couldn’t make out his features or if he was wearing a mask, and I thought that he ought to be more careful or he’d end up one day with more than a nasty cough to worry about.
On leaving the mill, I had to go aft on stations. One of my jobs was to operate the winch to haul in the mooring line which had just been cast off at the quayside. But there was no juice on deck, and the rope lay dangling in the water from the fairlead. The Old Man yelled at me once again, “Heave a-f———ing way!”
I replied, “I am doing my best to do your bidding, sir, but there appears to be a lack of power available at the moment.” (But not exactly in those words.) I decided to demonstrate this by clicking the winch lever vainly back and fore. In a temper, he glared at me before rushing across the poop and diving down into the engine room to tongue-lash the Chief Engineer. After getting a mouthful of foul language and probably having had enough of the Master’s boorish ways, the Chief decided on the spot to leave as soon as practicable. As a result, there would be some rapid promotions — the Second Engineer would become the Chief, and the Third Engineer (an ex-lorry driver) would become the Second. (I couldn’t help but wonder, with some wry amusement, if promotion with a prestigious company like Cunard would be as meteoric as that with Everard.)
We had to reverse course in the relatively narrow channel, doing what I suppose might be called a three-point turn which seemed to fray the Old Man’s nerves even more, but after navigating miles of muddy canal, going through more lock systems and under swing bridges, or serenely sweeping through stretches of rural countryside with an occasional warbler or blackbird singing in leafy gardens, we reached Eastham Locks once again.
Leaving the two famous Liver birds astern, we were soon back on salt water — our destination, the Netherlands — to pick up a cargo of barley for Cork.
En route from Rotterdam, we had to detour to Greenhithe on the banks of the Thames — this tidal village being the headquarters of Frederick Everard and Co. We had passed places and landmarks such as Gravesend and Tilbury Fort, and I remember seeing an impressive P and O liner called the Himalaya with its smartly painted white hull and its buff funnel gently sending up puffs of smoke while moored to a jetty — most likely getting ready for passengers to embark on an
ocean voyge to sunny Australia.
Downriver, about fifty yards from where we were moored, was the sailing ship, HMS Worcester, an ancient but dignified-looking frigate that seemed to me to be the spitting image of Nelson’s HMS Victory. I found out that, until a short while before, it had been used as a training ship for officers of the British Merchant Navy.
We had tied up alongside the sorry (and perhaps shameful) sight of a retired Everard tanker called the Assurity. It was a real mess, its hull, stays and superstructure badly rusted away. It had been sold for scrap but still had a filthy, tattered rag, which had once been a proud Red Duster, hanging from its flagstaff.
The reason why we had called at Greenhithe was not for a holiday at a five-star hotel at Fred’s expense but, less excitingly, for some shoreside work to be done. On a sultry, thundery day, we cast off and motored some miles upriver to pass through a lock into part of the Royal Albert Dock. The company blacksmiths came aboard to do a patch-up job, repair welding an eyed plate at the top of the mainmast. (Some months before, this had buckled when hit by the derrick of Number One, now lowered into its crutch.)
We were told to re-attach the topping lift gear to this thick, steel plate. (The mast headblock and the derrick headblock, riven together, had been kept for months since the collision upon wooden boards in the fo’c’sle space.)
The lads were reluctant to do this as they knew that the hoisting equipment was faulty and not strong enough to take the weight of the two heavy blocks — plus the wire. All they had to work with were a few things that Alan had found amid the sundry mess of neglected deck stores under the fo’c’sle — a length of worn gantline and a damaged wooden single purchase block. And in those days there was not a High Vis vest or a hard hat in sight!
Alan, the longest-serving seaman aboard, was the only one who seemed to be respected and trusted by the mate — a canny, whisky-loving fellow Scot. It seemed that he had persuaded Alan to go aloft, although the ageing AB had been on the hard stuff again and was a damned sight more than ‘three sheets in the wind’. Perhaps Alan, his judgement impaired, had recklessly resolved to take on the task and show us youngsters how to do it! In the end, against our better judgement, we had a change of heart and decided to give him a hand.
Alan was spittling at the mouth and slurring his speech, but obviously determined to be in command, and had started to bellow out orders. He directed me to pass the end of the line over the sheave of the block, then tie a figure-of-eight knot in its end so that it couldn’t come out.
Observed all the time from the bridge, he started groggily but determinedly to climb the ladder, holding onto the dodgy block with his right hand. While struggling to hook this to a broken rail at the top of the mast, he banged his nose and drops of blood thinned by alcohol began to splash onto the winch below.
After bending on the gantline, we took a few turns round the drum and started to haul the two steel blocks slowly aloft, at the same time carefully trying to uncoil and take the turns out of the wire as it was being pulled up from the main deck onto the deck of the fo’c’sle. But Alan wasn’t happy — red-nosed, he continued yelling at us from above, “Heave away! Let her come! Heave a-bloody way!”
Then, near the top of the mast, the cheek of the cracked wooden block broke off, the rope slipped out of the sheave and jammed and, when it parted, what we had dreaded happened —the whole kit and caboodle came crashing down within feet of us!
Consequently, I followed the two lads as they headed aft, hearing Alan cursing us from the mast top, “Come back! Call yourself ABs? There’s not an OS amongst the lot of ye!” This was literally true, but we got his drift and preferred not to stay to discuss the matter.
But the watchers in the wheelhouse were silent, and not one of them did a thing except in a cowardly fashion to send a boy to do a man’s work — a green teenager on a few weeks’ work experience and acting (I think) as Third Mate. He was ordered forrard to coax Alan into coming down. Eventually Alan did so and made his way slowly and unsteadily back to his cabin to close the door upon the world again.
I suppose it could have been much worse — he might have fallen to his death. But sceptically, I wondered if the officers on the bridge would have accepted any responsibility, should such an awful ‘accident’ have happened. I didn’t trust them any more than I could throw them.They might have claimed that they hadn’t seen a thing because they’d been making a mug of tea or coffee or had been on the ‘khazi’ at the time. And undoubtedly any lawyer representing the ship owner would have tried, at least, to prove culpable negligence. So, in a way, Alan was a vulnerable man, but I don’t think he knew it.
To give him his due, he did apologise to us on the following day when he’d partially sobered up. I perceived from what he said that he’d regarded himself as the bosun in all but name, and that he appeared to have been ‘pressurised’ into getting the tackle aloft.
Who knows? perhaps the minions of ‘Everard’ upstairs were reluctant to promote Alan to the rank of a petty officer, and were cynically taking advantage of him as he seemed willing enough to do a bosun’s job on an AB’s rate of pay. Or could it have been that Alan was just a soft-hearted, easy-going sort of chap who didn’t mind being used as a fall guy? Somehow, I don’t think so. More than likely, he was a proud, stubborn man who couldn’t turn down a challenge — notwithstanding how unsafe it might be, especially under the influence of liquor.
Leaving the Albert Dock, we headed back downriver to moor to a buoy and, by way of light relief that night — I think it was a Saturday — Alan, Frank, Alex and I went ashore in the jollyboat and made a beeline for a pub which I seem to recall was named Brown’s Bar — or it could have been the Brown Bear. (I remember having had a pint or two in the Jubilee as well.) On that night, after a few bevvies, I got to know Alan a little better. He was over six feet tall, balding with grey hair, and always wore an old, peaked sailor’s hat — once white — that was slewed to one side. He had large hands and honest, blue eyes, and his well-worn trousers were held up with an old leather belt. And, as I’ve already mentioned, he had a habit of clicking his false teeth! I think that he must have been a good father, for although it seemed that he spent most of his life seafaring and rarely went home to Scotland, he confided in me that he wanted to save enough money to help his son, Andy, to buy a fishing boat. This might have been a pipe dream, but the world would be a sorry place without hope, would it not?
When the bell for time had been rung, we eventually made our way out of the pub, but we couldn’t return to the coaster without Alan’s know-how. He was the only one able to scull us back safely across the current, by plying the oar skilfully
in a figure-of-eight fashion in an oarlock on the stern. There was much laughter and high jinks as we clambered up the cargo net draped over the side after a good night ashore — or should I say a good night on the riverbank?
From there we resumed our journey, heading downriver to the mouth of the Thames and out to sea once more, heading for Cork with the cargo of barley from Rotterdam.
After we’d tied up in the harbour (the dockers having decided that they were not ready for us to open the hatches yet), I amused myself by feeding a few swans on the river Lee.
However, on the following day, I was to have another memorable experience, but one that would give me a bit of a chill. Perhaps, because I happened to be the junior deck rating, I was told to take a letter marked, ‘To whom it May Concern’ — and to carry a grip containing a dead man’s gear — to the office of the Harbour Master. The unfortunate man had been a rating on one of the Everard fleet and I was to hear that a few weeks before he’d been murdered.
I tried to put this behind me when I had a day off and caught a bus to Blarney Castle. On arrival, I did what most of the other tourists did — I joined a queue of the gullible to kiss the Blarney Stone. Some expected to depart with the gift of the gab, but most seemed to leave rather quietly.
Next evening, I happened to call at a club called Anchor House — described as a haven of peace and comfort for lonely sailors. Inside were about a dozen attractive teenage girls acting as hostesses who made me feel relaxed and warmly welcomed. They played their own records or tapes of pop music for me, and I enjoyed having a couple of dances and a friendly chat with Maureen (who worked for the Sunbeam Sewing Company), and with her friend, Kay (who worked for the Cork Button Factory). Although all of the girls had pledged to stick to the club rule of not drinking alcohol until the age of twenty-one, I enjoyed their company, and it was a nice change to spend some time with a group of lovely young people.
On the Saturday, we sailors indulged in a more traditional pastime — going ashore for a few drinks. Having by then become accustomed to Alan’s company,
I called in at a betting shop with him to have a flutter on the Derby. I don’t know which horse won but I do remember that we all had to leave the pub nearby in short order as the coaster was getting ready to shove off. We seemed to have annoyed the chap upstairs yet again, but this time he seemed to be a bit more upset than usual. He was continually sounding blasts on the ship’s whistle then rushing out onto the wing of the bridge to shout at us, tearing his hair out and threatening that if we didn’t get back on board f — — — ing sharpish, he’d leave us all behind on the quayside! Some of us were terrified that we might be told to bend over while he gave us six of the best.
Half way across a relatively calm Irish Sea, the skipper (apparently not in such a hurry anymore) rang down to stop the engines to do a spot of fishing in the company of our cordon bleu cook.
We were disappointed and genuinely surprised not to have had any of the catch beautifully cooked and brought down to our mess on a silver tray — but there, you can’t have everything.
The following day we’d be docking in Swansea where the Chief Engineer, Frank, Alex and I would pay off. (I’m afraid that I had no choice, as the Old Man had already made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.) That he’d need three more deckhands and a qualified engineer in a hurry, by our reckoning, was in large part his own fault.
I thought of saying goodbye to Alan but he’d battened himself down in his cabin probably with a fresh bottle of Johnny Walker from the bond. For a moment, I felt sorry for him and mentally wished him all the best, hoping that one day soon he would have saved enough money to help his son, Andy, to fulfil his dream of buying his very own fishing boat.
But that was out of my hands, and for the moment I felt free. Alex, Frank and I got into a taxi and headed off to a well-known Swansea watering hole called the Three Lamps to have a few jars and to enjoy a rib-tickling laugh or two about our escapades on one of Fred’s ‘Yellow Perils’ before time caught up with us and, after a few rounds, we all had to go our separate ways, alas, never to meet again.
Brett Hayes R863743
