Warmaster

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The sea would have appeared like oily glass if it had been visible; but the night was dark and the fog was swirling thick and damp, so thick that the visibility was no more than a yard whichever way one looked. Albert Morris didn’t even see the door open, though he heard it right enough, and he didn’t see young Bates until the lanky figure was hard up alongside him, and even then he was nothing but a tall, thin outline below the big lamp.

Young Bates sniffed and said mournfully, ‘Tea up, Bert.’

‘Thanks, mate.’ The scalding tea steamed up into Albert Morris’s face and he savoured it gratefully. ‘’Bout time, too… this is what I call proper flippin’ brass-monkey weather an’ all! Eh?’ He peered through the murk at the young man’s face, feeling the deadly cold and clamminess stealing down from the North Sea to numb his bones. ‘Still dreamin’ about the missus and the nipper, then?’

Young Bates swore, briefly and jeeringly. ‘Do you mind? Sooner I get off this flippin’ tub, better I’ll like it! They can flippin’ keep this. I’m chuckin’ in. Be home every flippin’ night, that’s what I want.’ He drew the back of his hand across his nose.

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