With the help of George and Tom, the deckhand, Bob started getting dinner ready. The meat went into a big roasting tin and then into the coal-fired oven. George told him when to add water, potatoes, and finally cabbage. Everything went into the one tin.
‘D’ye know how to make a light duff?’ asked Tom. ‘Dumplings?’
Bob shook his head. The movement of the boat had changed. It was more of a rolling motion. He felt strange.
‘Are you feeling qualmy?’ asked Tom. ‘Y’know, sea-sick?’
‘I dunno. Maybe.’
‘All the best sailors are sea-sick first time out,’ said Tom cheerfully. ‘Just don’t eat any dinner or tea today and you’ll be all right for the rest of the trip. Now, I’ll show you how to make a lovely light duff. I was cook on my first trip, on the Swan. I didn’t know anything about cookin’, just like you! Sid Ward showed me, so I’ll show you.’
Bob watched Tom as he deftly made dumplings and added them to the stew. He felt hot and faint. He tried to think about that extra two shillings a day, imagining himself going home and putting the money on the table, money he’d earned. He wished he was home now, instead of sailing out into the middle of the North Sea.
While the others ate their dinner, Bob lay down on deck. Gradually he started to feel better, and sat up and looked around. Right next to him was a bulky object, covered over by a tarpaulin. He leaned over and lifted the corner of the tarpaulin.
‘Hey, you. Leave that be!’
It was Bert, one of the gunners.
‘I was only lookin’, I wasn’t goin’ to touch it,’ said Bob.
‘Mind you don’t,’ said Bert.
‘When’ll you fire it?’ asked Bob.
‘When Jerry gets too close,’ said Bert. The gun’s hidden so Jerry thinks we’re an ordinary fishing smack. He comes alongside, all ready to sink us, but we fire on him, an’ he sinks instead.’
‘Are there any submarines out there now?’ asked Bob.
‘No,’ said Bert, ‘but you have to keep your eyes skinned all the time. He’s cunning is Jerry.’
Bob stood by the gun for a long time, straining his eyes as he searched the horizon.
‘See them gulls divin’,’ said Tom, coming to stand beside him. ‘They know there’s herring thereabouts, an’ there’s a good sou’west breeze. It’s time to shoot the nets, an’ catch them herrings.’
Alf joined them.
‘Bob, there’s a job for you, down below.’
Bob still felt a bit qualmy, but he didn’t want Skipper or Alf wishing they hadn’t taken him on. He followed Alf down the ladder.
‘When we’re hauling the nets,’ said Alf, ‘your job is to coil the trawl warp, like this, real neat, round the capstan. You have to make sure this old rope don’t twist as you wind it.’
‘I can do that,’ said Bob.
‘It’s not as easy as it looks,’ said Alf. ‘You’re only a little ’un.’
‘I’m strong,’ said Bob.
‘We’ll see,’ said Alf.
Suddenly they heard Skipper’s voice, louder even than usual, booming out, ‘In the name o’ the Lord, pay away!’
‘There they go,’ said Alf. ‘Now listen hard, young Bob. After we’ve shot the trawl, and Skipper thinks we’ve towed long enough, you’ll hear him holler, “Haul King George’s trawl!” You got that?’
‘Yes,’ said Bob.
‘That’s when you start a-coiling the trawl warp,’ said Alf.
‘Have you got some red flannel bandages with your gear?’ Tom asked, coming down the hatchway.
‘Then soak some of ’em in paraffin, an’ wrap ’em round your wrists,’ advised Tom. That’ll stop ’em from chafing.’
But it didn’t, not after coiling the warp hour after hour, round and round. The rope was as thick as Bob’s fist. It hurt his hands so they were sore and burning. Water ran off the rope into the sleeves of his oilskin and down his arms. He felt qualmy again, but he had to keep going, round and round, making sure the rope was coiled neat and tidy.
It was dark now, and they couldn’t show any lights in case the enemy saw them. He was so tired. His arms and legs ached. At home he’d be asleep now, in a soft warm feather bed, Jim snoring beside him, Ted and Dave in the other bed, Mam, Lizzie and Evie in the next room.
The cold was making his eyes water.