The Cruise of The Breadwinner Read Online Free Page A

sea.”
    â€œBe God so it were,” Gregson said. “So it were.”
    â€œMean there was someone else having a go?” the pilot said.
    â€œSounded like gun-testing,” Jimmy said.
    â€œDon’t take no bleedin’ notice of him,” Gregson said. “Was they any more of your blokes out?”
    â€œA whole flight was up.”
    â€œThere y’are then!” Gregson said. “What are we farting about here for? Warm her up, Jimmy. Let’s git on!”
    As
The Breadwinner
swung round, turning a point or two south-eastward, sharp into the sun, the boy went forward into the bows and discovered a second or two later that the pilot was there beside him, still warming his fingers on the tea-cup and sometimes reflectively drinking from it, balancing the two wings of the ridiculous corn-ginger moustache on its edges. It did not occur to the boy that hedid not look like a fighting man; it occurred to him instead that he might be a man with binoculars. “If we had a pair o’ glasses we might pick things up easier,” he said.
    â€œNever carry any,” the pilot said.
    If there was any disappointment in the boy’s face it was lost in the ardent gleam of steady and serious wonder which he now brought to bear on the sea. Gradually the sunlight everywhere was losing its lemon pallor, but it was still low enough to lay across the water the long leaf-broken path of difficult and dazzling light. The boy shaded his eyes against it with both hands. He desired to do something remotely professional; something to impress the man of battles standing beside him. He longed dramatically to spot something in the sea. They stood there together for about five minutes, not speaking but both watching with hands framing their faces against the dazzle of sea-light, and nothing happening or moving except
The Breadwinner
lugging slowly south-eastward out of sight of either shore, the sea emptier and more peaceful than on a peace-time day, until suddenly far behind them Gregson called the boy:
    â€œI’m gittin’ peckish, Snowy boy. Ain’t peeled them taters yit, ayah?”
    â€œNo, mister,” the boy said.
    â€œWell, you better git in and peel ’em then. Peel a double dose. Pilots eat same as we do.”
    The boy said, looking up at the pilot: “I gotta git below now. I’ll take your cup down if you’ve finished.” Hating to go, he came also within a short distance of hating Gregson. The pilot finished the tea. “Want another cup? I can bring it,” the boy said. “Easy bring it.”
    â€œNo,” the pilot said. “That was fine.”
    The boy went below, stumbling about the gangway and the cabin as if partially blinded by sun. The remoteness ofthe world above him was exaggerated by the sound of Jimmy going up the hatchway, leaving him alone with the fire in the toy galley, a sack of potatoes and a jack-knife. He glanced about the box of a cabin, hating it without really seeing its dingy and confined outlines. He thought dismally that nothing ever went on below, that nothing could ever happen there. He longed passionately to talk to the pilot, up in the sun.
    Sometimes as he sat there peeling potatoes at the cabin-table he could hear the voice of Gregson from up above, always huge and violent, never articulate except for strong half-words that the noise of the engine did not drown. He was driven by the maddening isolation of this to go and stand at the foot of the hatchway, and one by one peel the potatoes there. If Gregson’s order were to be taken literally he would peel about forty of them. He stood there looking up into the shaft of sea-light, peeling his fifteenth potato, when Jimmy came sliding down the hatch without any warning except a violent and wordless sort of bellow. The boy watched him disappear into the tiny and confined engine-cradle that was not big enough to be called a room, and then bawled after him: