Endangered Species by Richard Woodman Read Free Book Online

Pritchard had run round to repeat the operation at Number Six hatch.
    â€˜In de good ole days,’ grunted Pritchard as the two men attached the wire to the cover sections of Number Six hatch, ‘the bloody ’prenticle boys would’ve given us a hand.’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Stevenson, ‘and I’d have stood and bawled at you from under my solar topee.’
    Pritchard grinned at the Second Mate as he waved at Macgregor and both men backed off. So much for the lifestyle of bourgeois privilege enjoyed by officers of the latter-day Merchant Navy, thought Stevenson, with a twinge of resentment. The numbing clatter and bashing that followed silenced his repartee.
    â€˜Come on, Rob Roy,’ Pritchard yelled at Macgregor, ‘there’s more work forrard,’ adding, as he followed Stevenson along the starboard outboard alleyway where the labourers were settling down on coconut mats amid cigarette smoke and a universal hawking, ‘I know de bloody things have the same name as him, but you’d think he invented dem. If youse hurry, Sec, you can drive the winches and let that little sod earn ’is keep.’
    Stevenson was pleased that Pritchard disliked Macgregor. Perhaps the Liverpudlian was just ingratiating himself, Stevenson thought as he heaved himself up the steel ladder on to the top of the contactor house between Number Four and Five hatches, but he considered himself a fair judge of character. Pritchard was a grafter and Macgregor a waster. The resentful glare that Macgregor threw him when he eventually caught up with the Second Mate and Pritchard confirmed his judgement.
    â€˜Where de fuck ’ave youse been?’ Pritchard greeted him as the rain began to pour with a seething hiss that drummed on the steel deck. A foot above the well-deck a heavy mist seemed to hang as the raindrops bounced back before finallyfalling and forming a shallow lake that gurgled its way into the scuppers and poured over the side.
    By the time they closed the last hatch they were all three soaked to the skin. Stevenson climbed down from the forecastle winch controls and they stood for a moment under the overhang, catching their breath before running aft to the shelter of the accommodation.
    â€˜Thanks Pritch, Macgregor . . .’
    The Glaswegian looked up slyly. ‘That should be worth a wee beer, eh, Sec?’
    Stevenson stared at the man, the effrontery of the suggestion silencing him for a moment. Pritchard snorted, contemptuous of his watch-mate, and began to walk aft, as though braving the rain was preferable to being a party to Macgregor’s ploy.
    â€˜Ah’m bluidy soaked, mon,’ Magregor whined, looking down at himself, his voice wheedlingly pathetic, as though he alone had taken the full force of the rain.
    â€˜You cheeky bastard . . .’ Stevenson knew the instant he spoke he had been trapped. Macgregor’s mood changed instantly to a posture of truculence; his eyes blazed with hatred. He was the affronted one now and Stevenson bit his indiscreet lip with annoyance.
    â€˜You canna talk tae me like that, mon. Ah’ll take the matter up wi’ the Union. Nae struck-up prick of an officer’s going tae call me a bastard.’
    Stevenson turned angrily away, strongly tempted to hit Macgregor and stop his silly blather but determined not to put himself further in the wrong. He made to follow the disappearing figure of Pritchard.
    â€˜Hey, you stuck-up English snob, ah’m talking tae you . . .’ There was no mistaking the provocative aggression in Macgregor’s voice and Stevenson swung round, holding his clenched fists by his side with an effort at self-control.
    Macgregor stood with his jaw thrust belligerently forwards. Stevenson could have sworn he wanted theSecond Mate to hit him, to fulfil some ancient, imagined or inherited grievance.
    â€˜Listen, Macgregor, you know very well I didn’t use the word