Bob soon forgot how scared he’d been when the submarine attacked them. He just remembered how proud he felt when the sailors cheered, and when crowds turned out to welcome the Admiral back to Eastcliff. He’d had extra leave, ten days: survivors’ leave they called it. He was happy to be home, but when his leave ended he was ready to return to sea.
That’s how it continued for the next few months, with neither sight nor sound of a German sub. At sea for five or six days, then home for two or three. As time went by and he returned safe and sound from every trip, his mam seemed more content. She was proud of her fisherman son. Maybe one day he’d be deckie, then third hand, then Mate, and even, one day, Skipper. His mam did his washing. Lizzie and Eve fussed round him. Jim, Ted and Dave loved to hear the story, over and over again, of how the Admiral had sunk a Jerry sub. It was a hard life, but a good one. At the end of every trip he felt so pleased when he handed over his pay to his mam.
The extra two bob a day mounted up. One day Mam said, ‘You can go down to Perry, and get some new trousers for best, and a jersey and a warm coat.’
Bob went into Eastcliff and bought trousers, a jersey and a fine overcoat.
‘And I’ll have that wrapper, please,’ he said to Mr Perry, the men’s outfitter, pointing to a handsome silk neckerchief. Mam hadn’t said he could, but he was sure she wouldn’t mind. He’d look so grand.
His long sea-boots needed mending, so he took them to Harry Foster, the bootmaker, near the harbour, who repaired all the fishermen’s boots.
‘You’ll have to leave ’em here,’ said Harry. ‘I’ll have ’em ready for your next shore leave.’
Bob looked along the shelves. He noticed a row of high-heeled boots, made of softest leather. On each toe-cap there was a pattern of an anchor or a heart. He must have a pair.
‘It’s all right then, is it?’ asked Harry, as he counted out the coins Bob handed over. ‘Worth the danger money, is it?’
‘We’ve not seen a sub for six months now,’ said Bob. ‘It’s money for jam!’
Leaving the shop, he set off along the street, looking down at his feet to admire his new boots, each gleaming toe-cap adorned with an anchor. He walked with a swagger, just like all the fishermen did when they were on shore.
‘Money for jam!’ he said to himself.