LADY FOR SHANGHAI

Wairarapa Times-Age, 24 July 1939, Page 10

LADY FOR SHANGHAI

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

KAYE FOX

By

CHAPTER I. But she hadn't really succeeded in reassuring Christine, though they went on talking cheerfully about Mr Robins and other people they both knew. Christine knew well enough that she had been lucky in her first ship, for the Brent Tor was a very happy ship from the point of view of the stall. Sometimes when she listened to the tales told by those two experienced women, Mrs Trimble and Miss Scott, Christine had been overwhelmed by sheer panic, knowing that sooner or later she was bound to be transferred. Even on the Brent Tor, with a full ship and stormy weather they were so overworked that they ‘were too tired to sleep, but at least Mr Robins was kindly. Miss Scott had told Christine about a Chief Stewaro who had stormed at her because a fork on the tray she was carrying was crooked, though the ship was in the Bay of Biscay, and she had eight trays to carry up to passengers who were in bed.

The Chief Steward was an autocrat against whom there was no appeal, from whom there was no escape during the three and a half months of the double voyage. He was in sole control of the staff which served the passengers —stewards and stewardesses, chefs, bakers and pantrymen waiters and bell-boys—and so long as there were no complaints of bad service, no one enquired into his methods. Early that afternoon Christine changed into the plain navy blue suit which was her shore-going outfit, and which she believed made her look at least twenty-eight—though no one else had ever told her. so. She put on her beret almost straight, and tucked in the soft little curl of dark hair which always bobbed forward, even when she was in uniform.

“Shall I give your love to Mr Perrin mother?" she asked, putting her head round the sitting room door on her way out.

“You won’t be seeing Mr Perrin,” Mrs Lind declared. “You’ll find when you get there that you’re wrong about Mr Perrin being Chief Steward of the Hay Tor. Don’t you start getting in a panic, Christine.” Christine, waiting for the tram which would take her to the ferry across the Mersey, guessed that her mother knew exactly how she was feeling. Twenty years ago, perhaps only the thought of her little girl at home had driven, the young widow to plunge into a life which was strange to her —and joining a now ship was almost like starling all over again. Signing-on day was worse, far worse, than sailing day, because there was no bustle and excitement to make things easy. She knew her way, of course, to the wharf alongside which the Tor liners were berthed, before they crossed the river to the Liverpool landing stage on sailing day. Almost as soon as she left the ferry, she found herself in that strange no-man's-land of warehouses and wharves, of narrow streets cranes swinging above them, with which she had grown so familiar during her two years at sea, for docks' all the world over have more points of resemblance than of difference. Christine, going ashore from the Brent Tor at Singapore, Shanghai or Dairen, had to make her way past just, such warehouses as these, their open doors giving glimpses of huge piles of unknown goods. When she had walked a mile, she turned down a narrow lane between two warehouses, and saw tnc grey funnels circled with scarlet of the Hay Tor. and a maze of masts and spars outlined against the blue sky. On the wharf, half a dozen men and boys were talking together, and they stopped talking and stared curiously at Christine as she passed them and went up the long gangway.

"Signing-on in the smoke room?" she asked the quartermaster, who lounged at the head of the gangway, his elbows on the rail.

"This companionway is shut," he said, uncivilly enough. "You’ll have to go along the deck to the iron companion to the smoke-room terrace. Know your way?” "I think so. I’m from the Brent Tor. and this is the sister ship.” "Then you don’t want me to show you." he said, turning his back on her.

It wasn’t a very friendly welcome to her new shift, but Christine was determined not to be discouraged. After all. the quartermaster’s surliness didn’t matter to her. since she might never speak to him again during the whole voyage.

She walked along the deck, past the closed and shuttered windows of the passengers’ state-rooms, and climbed the spiral iron companion leading to the smoke-room terrace, which was divided off from the smoke-room itself by glass doors. For one panic-stricken moment she paused before pushing open the door nearest to her. and then plucked up her courage and went in to face the mon and women with whom she was to spend the next three and a half months.

The chairs and settees were still covered with dust sheets, and the little tables were piled in a heap against one wall, except for two which were covered with papers - three bored looking officials sat behind them. Al one end of (lie room was a mixed crowd of stewards, chefs, pantrymen and boys, some of them in ordinary street clothes and some, who had been working on the ship, in dirty white coats. Christine, looking round desperately for the stewardesses, ,for every eye was upon her. saw them sitting on one of the sheeted settees, two elderly women in dowdy hats, one stout and one very thin, but both with the detached expression which experienced stewardesses do assume at signing-on, as if they had ju.?t dropped in by accident

She sat down by the stout one, who turned her head and stared at her lor a full minute before she spoke.

“Are you taking poor Mrs Taits place?’’ she asked at last. “Yes —I'm Christine Jordan."

"I’ve heard of you. You’ve been on the Brent, haven’t you, and you’re Mrs Jordan's daughter? There was a lot of talk, I remember, about the Company taking on anyone so young, considering the length of the waiting list. How old are you?" “Twenty-four,” Christine said, knowing that it was hopeless to add a few years on to her age. since it was written clearly on the signing-on sheet. "And you've been at sea two years already! Well, I suppose the Company knew what they wore doing, or thought they did, but in my experience—thirty years at sea —a young stewardess always means a lot of bother for everyone else. Don’t you agree with me, Miss Crane?” "I do. Mrs Parr, but perhaps Miss Jordan is the exception that proves the rule,” Miss Crane said gloomily, as if she were perfectly sure Christine was no exception. They both lapsed into silence, and Christine sat with her hands tightly clenched in her lap, as if she were holding on to her courage. How on earth was she going to endure the company, night and day, of these two old women who obviously disliked her already, only because she was young? The two kindly women in the Brent Tor had been all the more gentle with her on account of her youth, teasing her as “the baby of the Line,” but rather proud of their very efficient baby. "There’s Mr Perrin,” Mrs Parr muttered, without turning her head. A very big man, in the dark blue, gold braided Chief .Steward’s uniform, pushed his way through the crowd at the door, and crossed the smoke-room to speak to one of the officials: he walked with a rolling gait, like a sailor on the stage. As he turned to go out again he caught sight of Christine, stared at her for a moment, and then picked up a list which lay on the table. She guessed that he was looking for her name, but he went away without speaking to her.

So she had been right about Mr Perrin being Chief Steward—and from the look of him he hadn’t mellowed very much since her mother sailed with him. He had stared at her with the lowering expression of the true bully, as if he wanted to impress her, to make her a little afraid of him even before they had anything to do with one another. But she wasn't afraid of him. That look had aroused the fighting spirit in her, so that she was less upset by him than she had been by the hostility of the two women. He { couldn't scare Christine Jordan by scowling at her. “You'll find Mr Perrin a bit of a change after Mr Robins of the Brent.” Mrs Parr said ayidly. “Miss Crane and I have sailed with him for three trips now, and we’ve settled down together, as you migh say, but he’s not one to stand any nonsense. He believes in being master in his oxyn ship, I can tell you.” The smoke room was now nearly full of men and boys, for it was almost the hour appointed for signing on. though it was rumoured that some of the necessary papers had not yet arrived from the office. Christine, glancing at the newcomers as they came in. wondered which of them she would know quite well before a week was over. They all looked so much alike on signing-on day, just a herd of strangers, but some would soon be her friends, and some, perhaps, her enemies.

A cheeky little bell-boy elbowed his way into the room, and called at the top of his voice: "The Chief Steward wants to see Miss Jordan at, once, in his office.”

Christine, startled by this very unexpected summons, hesitated for a moment, but Mrs Parr gave her a sharp nudge, and she stood up and went out of the room, the men pressing back to let her pass. The bell-boy joined a group of other boys and left her to go alone. The ship had just been re-painted, and there was a smell of new paint and soap, and stale air. in the alleyway which led from the smoke-room to the main companion. On sailing day, the gleaming white paint, and the green rubber flooring of the alley-way would look bright and cheerful, but the closed shutters, through which only a little light filtered, gave the place a strange, ghostly look, as if it had been deserted long ago. Perrin was standing outside the Chief Steward’s office at the foot of the main companion. Tie watched Christine coming down, his slow, scornful glance travelling from the wandering curl which had bobbed out from under her beret to her small, neat shoes, but he did not speak to her until she stood in front of him. "Were you the only stewardess available?" he asked her. "The office sent a mile to say that they were sending one of the Erent Tor women, but I expected someone of the usual age." "The others don't live in Liverpool. Mr Perrin." she said quietly. "You're Miss Jordan? Are you related to Mrs Jordan, who was with the Company for some time?" "I'm her daughter." Christine told him. "I remember her well enough, and I’ll bet that she remembers me even better. Has she told you anything about me?" "She said that she once sailed with you, on the Jamaica run —on the Torquay." iTo be co ri tinned J