Our Time Is Gone (52 page)

‘Yes, tally. Not deaf, are you?' and the forewoman strolled along to the next deck.

Yes, you took it all in your stride, the black dirt of feet, the slime, the spittle, the soiled rags—you swept it clear and you scrubbed. And you went on scrubbing. Soldiers had been in those bunks. Men had talked in them, written letters there, cursed and sworn, laughed. They were empty now. You wiped clean, you scrubbed, and you went to the next deck.

Twice Mrs. Fury rested, her hands pressed on the sides of the bucket. She looked round. She was alone. Somewhere, Mrs. Gumbs scrubbed, but at the moment she was invisible. They
would
meet somewhere. But what a deck! The length of it, the breadth of it, the sheer size of it! And the dirt! She dipped her brush in the bucket and scrubbed. Her right arm moving backwards and forwards, to the right and left. The air was cold and damp. For the first time she was aware of it. She lowered her sleeves a little.

She knelt between the long rows of bunks. She was lost amongst them. This enormous chamber of steel in which, when you coughed or spoke, the sound swelled out and rolled away to the next cavern. If she looked up she saw the steel deck-head, the stout stanchions and the sickly light. A thousand smells rose from the bunks. This, then, was the
work
.

‘Hell,' she thought, ‘I
can
do it, and I
will
do it.'

But she wished she could catch sight of Mrs. Gumbs's head, if only for a moment. It was the feeling of isolation in this enormous cavern, and the curious waves of sound that scrubbing made. But against this there broke the heavy sound of footsteps. They sounded like great hammers. The woman flung the cloth hastily over a soiled patch of deck, looked the other way, swilled that patch of deck. The footsteps drew nearer, became thunderous.

She stopped dead and listened. It sounded like a marching army. She leaned up from her bucket, pressed her hands on one of the bunk supports, dragged herself to her feet, whispered: ‘I'm not strong enough
yet,
' stared through the opening at what she saw. A line of women carrying buckets, a seemingly endless line. In the half-light they took on an almost grotesque appearance. They laughed, joked, talked, one slapped another on the behind, one shouted: ‘Somebody trimmed his wick for him at the Dardanelles. And they
all
knew but her.'

She heard the harsh guttural sound of running water. They had come to refill their buckets, and half the filth of the ship had already been cast into the waters of the dock. She looked on fascinated. She had seen women, many women, but none like these. One face she recognized, a face from Edcott Court. The rest she did not know. All old, thin, fat, short, tall, but all old. The worn look and the bedraggled look. And here was its home.

The line went on, buckets clanged, scraped against wire, one fell to the deck with a resounding clatter. The water poured out. The line began its return journey. She heard oaths, swears, a dirty joke. Then she knelt down again and resumed her scrubbing.

Her arm began to ache. It wasn't like Hatfields after all. That was nothing. This was scrubbing in the desert, this was scrubbing a world. Scrubbing deep down, scrubbing at the low levels of life, the very bottom. This was cleaning at the dregs of living. She sat back on her heels, surveyed the area she had covered, glanced behind her, and the great deck seemed to lengthen and spread. It wasn't her arm that ached. It was the deck that ached under the assault of hands. It wasn't she that yawned. It was the enormous deck that yawned.

She turned round. Miles of deck, acres of deck. This was the work. The work Mrs. Gumbs did—liked. ‘What a wonderful woman she is,' thought Mrs. Fury. ‘A wonderful woman,' and in that moment she admired her, even loved her. Here was an entirely new world. It sprawled before her like a large dead hand, a soiled hand. Would she and that woman ever meet? Suddenly she laughed. She had to laugh, she must laugh, thinking now of Mount Mellery. A dream …

‘Well, I suppose I could have gone. But I didn't! Another time! Perhaps with Denny.' She rubbed soap on her brush. She might have gone on that trip. But perhaps she wouldn't have liked it. The peace—the quietness. No! Perhaps she was doing the right thing now. Staying where she was. Mrs. Gumbs was right. Work was best. Kept you from thinking.

The brush slipped from her hand, slithered across the deck. She rested on the bucket. She needn't be doing this really. And independence wasn't everything. ‘I'm getting tired,' she said. ‘Perhaps it was simply pig-headedness coming to a place like this. No!' she cried in her mind. ‘No! Mrs. Gumbs is right!'

After another little rest she went on scrubbing. People passed and repassed, sounds belched from the open mouths of the ‘tween-decks, otherwise she heard nothing, saw nothing, save the sound of her own brush upon the deck, caught up in the rhythm of the circling arm.
She
was the rhythm.

‘Oh!' she said, startled, rattling the bucket handle. She swung round.

‘How're you getting on, Mrs.?' Mrs. Gumbs was standing before her, arms folded on her breast. Yes, how was the woman getting on? She looked at the area Mrs. Fury had already scrubbed. Not a bad hand at it anyhow. Not at all.

‘Feeling tired?' she asked, and smiled down at the kneeling woman. ‘Stand up,' she said. ‘The forewoman's gone ashore. Did you hear three loud taps with a hammer before. On that iron ladder. Well, that was the signal. Get up. We can have a five minutes' sit down. Sit here, this side.'

The two women sat down. The light threw curious shadows about, a black line seemed to split on Mrs. Fury's face. Mrs. Gumbs looked at her face.

‘Feeling sorry for yourself yet, Mrs.?' she asked, and thought! No, what a thing to say! That mouth. No. She'd
never
feel sorry for herself.

She pulled a small parcel from a newspaper, and, smiling, exclaimed. ‘You know, Mrs., I've been seventeen to eighteen years at work—I mean
real
work—but wherever I was, no matter what I was doing I always had my elevenses. Here! Have this,' and from the little packet she took a sandwich of cheese and bread. ‘Here, eat that. I always like a break at eleven. They all do! You go along these decks and you'll see them all eating. That's what you want to do. Bring a little something besides your dinner.'

At the sight of the bread Mrs. Fury only felt sick. ‘No, thanks,' she said.

‘H'm. Delicate stomach, eh? Well, Mrs., a week will cure that. I understand,' and then she took a vigorous bite at her own sandwich.

Mrs. Fury smiled. ‘It's not all that hard after all,' she said. ‘It's only what I've been doing for years.'

‘Don't boast, Mrs., I warn you. Don't boast,' and another hunk of bread and cheese went into the woman's mouth. ‘D'you know, the whole of the ship has to be scrubbed clean by to-morrow's high tide? Fact. She's got to be out in the river by seven to-morrow evening. There's something quite nasty out in the river there——' and suddenly she shut her mouth, looked away. She shouldn't have said that. Not to this woman. She was too—too—oh, well! She'd said it now. Is the woman liking this? I wonder. Was she satisfied yet? Then she met the other's eyes. They looked up at her, wide-open, wondering eyes, a child's eyes. One
couldn't
lie to that woman, she reflected. One just couldn't lie.

‘Nasty what?' asked Mrs. Fury, as she reached for her coat, and threw it over her shoulders.

‘Nasty nothing!' said Mrs. Gumbs sharply. ‘Are you feeling the cold?'

‘A bit! It's the first time I've ever been in such a place. They ought to have a stove.'

‘They ought to have lots of things, Mrs.,' said Mrs. Gumbs. ‘But what can they do if nobody asks for them? And they
don't
ask. I wouldn't myself. Honest I wouldn't! What's the use? But you'll get used to this. You'll see! Couple of weeks' time and you won't know yourself. You should have struck out long ago. Nothing like being independent in this world! Ssh! Somebody coming. Back you go,' and Mrs. Gumbs suddenly turned and walked down between the tiers of empty bunks.

Mrs. Fury too returned to her bucket.

Scrubbing began again. The whole ship resounded to it, to hundreds of wet cloths being flapped in the air. Mrs. Gumbs knew how
strange
it must be to that woman, kneeling there amidst all that harsh sound. A great state-chamber of filth. To Mrs. Gumbs the sounds of scrubbing were like no other sounds on earth, especially when you knelt in the middle of the desert of deck, when you raised your head and looked ahead, looked back, looked right and left. Walled in by power, lost in the half darkness, in the thickening stench, and you washed, scrubbed, washed, scrubbed—where hundreds of feet had trod.

You knelt over your bucket, anchored a hand to the deck, dipped your cloth into the water, made sweeping circles with your brush. The area you scrubbed widened, lengthened, and there seemed no end to it. It was everlasting. The strong odour of soap and soda rose up from the deck. The silent tiers of bunks looked down at you. The ladder ahead of you led to the strangest places. The rungs of the ladder danced about even as you watched it. The sounds of cloths, water-full, dropped to the deck, gave out sounds like laughter, subterranean laughter, something you had never heard in the light of day.

Mrs. Fury heard these sounds continuously, at a distance, beside her, behind her. Her back began to ache. Once she felt herself moving forward, head lowering to the deck, as though a weight were suddenly pressing upon her neck, a hand pressing her face nearer to its cold surface. The scrubbing-brush swished from her hand and went skittering across the deck. She pressed both hands on the bucket and drew herself up. For a second or more she remained like this staring at the brush. A woman passed by carrying a large pail of water. Mrs. Fury knew by the sounds of water plopping in the bucket, by the voluminous skirt that skimmed the wet deck. And as she passed she tilted the bucket and a patch newly scrubbed took the splashes of water. Mrs. Fury looked up, but the woman went on indifferent, silent. She heard water spill all along that deck. She got to her feet. Walked after the woman.

This world might be strange to her, but that sort of thing she did not like. She hurried after the woman, caught her arm. Spoke sharply. Did she know that by spilling all that water she had ruined a half-hour's hard work. The woman fixed her eyes upon Mrs. Fury.

‘And who the bloody hell are you?' she enquired, then turned away and vanished into the next'tween-deck.

‘I'm not blind,' called Mrs. Fury. But there was no answer. She returned to her bucket. Mrs. Gumbs was there, seemed to be waiting for her.

‘It was quite deliberate,' Mrs. Fury said. She felt as if the woman had struck her in the face. Who was she? Yes, who was she?

‘What's up?' asked Mrs. Gumbs, seeing her concern.

‘Nothing! She poured water over where I had cleaned and dried.'

‘
That
all?' said the other, giving a short dry laugh.

No! It wasn't all. She had said: ‘Who the bloody hell are you?' But she kept that secret. That was something Mrs. Gumbs need hardly hear about. ‘I've seen some things in my time,' began Mrs. Fury, but here Mrs. Gumbs held up a warning hand.

‘Tut! Tut! That's nothing. Listen! Come here!' and catching Mrs. Fury's apron she drew the woman nearer. ‘I told you what to expect. That's nothing, though! Nobody wears kid gloves in this part of the world. You're different, Mrs., I
know
you are, but it doesn't mean anything here. She saw it. The others will. Take no notice. Here nobody
is
anything and nobody counts. They don't know anything except hard work. I'll tell you more, Mrs. They're the dregs. Dregs.
You
are respectable. They laugh at that. Don't mind. You'll learn to understand them when you've been here a bit. They've known nothing but hard work. You can't say “poor creatures,” because we're all poor creatures in the world, Mrs. Fury. Don't think me funny, because I'm not. And now you'll be surprised if I tell you it's time for a meal. Fact! Hide your bucket and things. The whistle blew two minutes ago. This way. Keep close to me. We've got to go through the next ‘tween-deck, and up a ladder. Hope you can climb like a man, because it's a man's ladder. We go to the fo'c'sle.'

As she said this she thought Mrs. Fury had not liked the word fo'c'sle, and quickly reassuringly she added: ‘But there's no man there! We women use the fo'c'sle. The men have their own places. You needn't go there unless you want. But you take my advice and get used to your quarters, as the soldiers say.'

‘I wish, Mrs. Gumbs,' replied Mrs. Fury, ‘that you wouldn't talk to me as though I was a child,' and she followed behind the woman, slowly picking her steps.

‘We're all children,' said Mrs. Gumbs, and that somehow sealed the matter. It was devastating. There was no reply to it. ‘Keep close and catch my coat.'

Mrs. Fury caught the coat and followed into the darkness.

‘They ought to have some sort of light here,' protested Mrs. Gumbs. ‘Just supposing that one of us fell down the hatch. A nice how-d'you-do it'd be! Wouldn't it now?'

‘One of my sons fell from the masthead of a ship,' said Mrs. Fury, taking a more secure hold on the other's coat. Suddenly she screamed.

‘Only a rat, Mrs. Don't be afraid. Soon be at the ladder. Funny world, isn't it?'

Mrs. Fury had nothing to say. The darkness seemed to have closed her mouth. Mrs. Gumbs stood still. Unexpectedly the other bumped into her, trod on her heel.

‘This is the worst ship I've ever been in for lighting,' said Mrs. Gumbs.

They stood in the middle of the ‘tween-deck, momentarily lost. It smelt of iron rust, stale clothing, seeds, dank water. The air was foul, a foot right and they might topple down to the bottom of the hold. Mrs. Fury could feel the other searching about in her clothing. What on earth was Mrs. Gumbs doing?