Trawler Read Online Free Page B

er
—thank you,”
I said, as we got out of the warm protective cot of the car. And into the shock of a cold that was almost painful.
    “Another layer,” said Luke, opening the hatchback. “And oilskins.” So we pulled on our second sweaters (naval blue), took off our shoes in the slush, clambered into our oilskin trousers (his: yellow; mine: bright orange; and Luke showed me that it was possible not to strangle yourself in the curl of rubberized braces), put on our yellow sea-boots. To our left, the sixteen-wheeler articulated trucks, the giant refrigerated transports, waited in their loading bays. To our right, on the edge of the quay, a line of Herring gulls stood, at strict gull-personal-space intervals, between the big mooring-bollards, disconsolate, not in talking mode, staring out to sea, their feathers puffed up against the cold. Along to our left one of those derelict trawlers was berthed: her upper hull had once been painted orange, her wheelhouse and decking white; but she was now so streaked and stained and patterned with rust, her steel plates so bobbled with layers of paint and rust, that she seemed alive, to be herself and no one else, to have grownold and used and wrinkled, and was now, where she lay, close to death. To my surprise, I saw that the diesel-tanker truck parked on the quay beside her actually had its fuel hose extended over her stern; that men in the back of a container lorry were lobbing empty white plastic fish-boxes on to her deck …
    “The
Norlantean!”
said Luke, quickening his pace. “Isn’t she beautiful? What a conversion! Look at that! Wow! Redmond! You’d
never
guess she was the old
Dorothy Gray!”
    A young man with short dark hair and a prematurely ragged face, dressed in a red oilskin jacket, yellow oilskin trousers and blue rubber gloves, was chucking the white plastic boxes down through a hatch.
    “Hi,” said Luke, and introduced us. “We’re from the Marine Lab. Can we stow our kit somewhere?”
    “Aye,” said the young man, with a lopsided grin. “I’m Sean, like the film-star. Dump it up on the bow.” He had a strong harsh Caithness accent. “When you’re ready I’ll show you the cabin. And boys!” he called after us. “Welcome aboard! And the forecast—it’s for a Force 12!” He gave an explosive little laugh.
    We transferred the luggage; I moved the car to a bleak little car-park over by the ship’s chandlers—and when I returned Luke and Sean were standing chatting and smoking in the bow. Sean, with both hands, turned each of the four big locking-handles on the steel door to the shelter-deck; and we carried the metal boxes and plastic baskets and kit-bags inside, stacking them next to a line of lashed oil-drums, paint-cans, piles of coiled rope. The shelter-deck was U-shaped, built around the base of the bridge, a protective steel cowling, enclosed against the weather from the bow, open at both ends aft to the working deck. Round on the starboard side was a narrow steel door, roped open, leading to the wheel-house and the lower decks.
    “No workclothes inside, boys,” said Sean, tugging his jacket over his head, dropping it on the deck and stepping neatly out of his trousers and boots. “The skipper won’t have it.”
    In domestic dress, we followed him over the high steel sill of the door; in front of us steps led up to the wheelhouse; to ourimmediate right a steep stairwell led down to the lower decks. Sean grasped the rails, raised his thighs at right angles to his body, and, in a blur of blue sweater and blue jeans, slid down into the depths and disappeared. Luke, facing forward, sprang down the stairs after him; and I followed, slowly, one foot per step, facing backwards.
    “Three crew cabins,” said Sean standing in the dimly lit passage, jerking his thumb at the doors. There was a full wraparound smell of rotten fish and, after the sharp wind on deck, no air to breathe. More or less intact imitation-wood brown panels covered the steel