Open Writing

Mine were the first footprints on the windswept beach that autumn morning – that is except for the three toed stalk of an ibis which could be seen probing in the shallows with its long curved beak.

The tide was ebbing, and a pungent frill of black seaweed defined the high water mark. Down the end near the rocks where the water was deeper, a six-inch thick spongy mat of the stuff covered the beach and the smell was strong enough to be tasted. It was there that I found the old tin cigar box and I took it home to explore later after my breakfast. The tin felt oily, which must have helped to preserve it, but still it was extensively corroded. I wrestled with it for a while, hoping to keep it intact, but the rust beat me and eventually I had to prise it open with a screw driver. Inside was a find that excited me as much as any pirate’s treasure map could have done.

The object I discovered was wrapped in a piece of oilcloth and was not much smaller than the box itself. The snugness of the fit must have been what had saved it. Nevertheless it was greatly water damaged, especially near the sodden cardboard covers. It was a book. The ink had run, and pages, which were stuck together, came apart in my fingers when I tried to separate them. I thought it best to leave well enough alone till it had dried out, however a few pages in the middle were pretty much unscathed and I was able to make out the words quite well.

Evidently an informal log or a private diary, the writing there was small and tidy, and detailed mainly observations about the weather, the seas and the mood of ‘the captain’. Life seemed to be hard and monotonous for this seaman, and he was looking forward to the leave he expected at the next port of call in Africa. A couple of times he mentioned another man, Hendricks, who seemed to delight in making his life a misery.

‘Hendricks was goading me in the mess tonight. He calls me ‘the pom’ because my hair is fair and my skin will not loose its paleness no matter how often I expose it to the wind and sun. He despises me because I shave every day and I like reading. The others don’t join in, but they do nothing to stop him either. He is a bull of a man; his round head covered by just a bristle of hair and his thick neck disappearing into heavy shoulders. He never shaves between ports and the little bit of hair he lets grow under his bottom lip merges with the reddish stubble. I don’t know why he wears that silver lion’s head in his left ear, but it seems to hint of a past that may have been colourful’

A few pages were stuck together again but then I was able to read –‘went ashore at Djibouti this afternoon. After so long cooped up together, Jamie and I didn’t feel like drinking with the others, so we went one way and the rest made for the nearest bar. There’s nothing to do in that place and the only shops are mere niches in the wall of that concrete colonnade that runs down the street opposite the wharf. The French must have built that crumbling facade in their hey-day, but now it just looks incongruous. Anyway pretty soon Jamie had his eye on some big dark haired woman and he didn’t have much thought for me, so I decided not to cramp his style and moved on.’

‘It was getting dark now, and I went into a bar a bit further away from the docks. It was no more than a room the size of our wheel house. Hendricks was in there and I couldn’t avoid him. He was pretty far-gone already and could hardly stay on the barstool. He was shaking his head and muttering to himself the way he does when he’s drunk and looking for a fight. I didn’t want anything to do with him and started to leave but he grabbed my arm. I could feel the stump of his missing finger digging into my muscle.’

‘He started up with that same old chant he’s been on lately – accusing me of having an affair with his wife. Poor woman, she’s so small and quiet and pretty. How did she ever get tied up with him? Perhaps he wasn’t always such a brute.’

‘I denied it of course but he was in no mood for the truth. I told him I’d only met her once when the captain sent me to his place in Southampton with some back pay that had just come to hand from head office. He wasn’t at home and she and I did talk for a while. She offered me tea and cake. She seemed to be starved for civil company. My family is a long way to the north and she reminded me of my sister.’

‘I managed to break away from him then, but he followed me out of the place, lurching and swearing and calling me all the foul names under the sun. Outside the street was deserted and all I could see were the blank concrete walls of the two storey slum dwellings where the people huddle in poverty. The smell of the gutters was putrid and the only movement came from a bony cat a hundred yards away under the solitary light. I heard the shrill sound of a woman’s voice raised in anger followed by a thump and a man’s guttural reply, then all was silent; but I could feel the eyes on me from the windows where iron bars substitute for glass.’

‘Hendricks caught my arm again and the next thing he had that wicked flick knife of his out and he was slashing at me – cut me from elbow to wrist. I had no choice but to get my blade out also. He was in a murderous rage and he lurched at me. Next thing I knew my knife was in his shoulder. I pulled it out and left him lying there in that dark alley. I suppose he’ll lie there till dawn and then stagger back to the ship. I’m not looking forward to seeing him again but perhaps he won’t remember what happened. At least on board I’ve got Jamie to watch my back. Why has he taken such a set against me? He resents the way the old man talks with me sometimes.’

Here the diary went into a bit of detail about the loading of the ship and the condition of the men, which was not too healthy after the stay on shore. The writer got on with his work, but he’d had to bandage up his arm in a makeshift fashion as it had started to bleed. Then on the next page the writing got interesting again.

‘Hendricks didn’t come back this morning, and the captain sent a couple of the others to look for him. No one had seen him the night before and I didn’t say anything. They couldn’t find him so we had to leave without him. I think the captain was glad to see the back of him. He’s always causing trouble with someone.’

On the next couple of pages the unknown writer talked about the trip up the Red Sea, and he detailed the calmness of the water, the vast desert on either side, and the many ships passing by. He took the precaution of throwing his knife overboard that night, which was just as well because the next day word came through from Port Said that Hendrick’s body had been found. The police were half-heartedly focussing on a local mugging and robbery. They’d had some trouble tracking him down because his wallet was missing, and his ear was all torn where the earring had been ripped from it. I read on: -

‘I still hoped that it was not my blow that had killed him, and, coward that I am, said nothing. Didn’t even tell Jamie, though there was no love lost between him and Hendricks.’

I was lucky I was able to read so much of the story because I never could decipher much of the other pages. Despite doing a bit of research at the state library, my curiosity about the writer and the fate of his ship was never satisfied. I was told the tin could have been in the water for several years. One other bit of writing did come to light later but it only opened up more questions. On a page near the end of the diary I made out these faint words:

‘looked very pale and more delicate than ever, but a lot more at peace. She thanked me and asked me to call again. I said I didn’t know when I’d be back but promised to write’

I could resolve nothing else, but my romantic heart welcomed these few gentle and poignant words, which contrasted with the harshness of the rest of the diary. These days sentimentality is frowned upon, but I think most would forgive me for hoping that the story of these two people had a happy ending.