Peanut

Once again, as I had done four months previously when leaving for Gravesend, I refused my Mother’s offer to come down to the train station to see me off on the Wednesday morning. I will be catching the 0925 train to Leicester and connecting to Nuneaton before catching my final train to Liverpool. I had to catch the train on the other side of the station and this meant lugging the suitcase down two flights of stairs and dragging it along the subway, which ran underneath the railway tracks. That was the easy bit! Making the ascent back up to the platform on the other side proved a bit more difficult but I received a bit of assistance from a passing passenger who unexpectedly gave my suitcase an almighty shove from behind as he came up the stairs almost knocking me forwards in the process. This time, as the train pulled slowly out of the station, I really did start to feel a bit nervous and felt a slight lump come to my throat. To my right hand side I was leaving behind the town that I had grown to love. The view of my beloved ‘Poppies’ football ground with it’s distinctive floodlight pylons bearing the letter ‘K’ in high powered light bulbs and state of the art grandstand came and went and very soon we were out in the countryside and hurtling our way through Desborough and Market Harborough towards Leicester. Bloody typically, once at Leicester station, I had to cross over the railway track for my Nuneaton connection and then bugger me if I didn’t have to do the same again at Nuneaton for my connection to Liverpool. If ever there was an Olympic event for suitcase humping I was well on the way to qualifying with distinction. I was getting the training. At least once settled into my seat on the Inter city service to Liverpool I could relax and watch the unfamiliar countryside pass me by. The journey took me out through Staffordshire and onwards and upwards towards Crewe, which I had heard of due to its railway history and the fact that for some inexplicable reason they had a football team called Alexander. I arrived at Liverpool’s Lime street station right on time at a quarter to one. I plonked my suitcase onto a trolley, much to the annoyance of a Porter that had made a beeline for me after seeing me struggle off the train with it. I needed all the money that my Mum had given me; I wasn’t going to waste it on tipping any Scouse porters. I followed the signs out of the station to the taxi rank and within five minutes was making the final leg of my journey to Canada Dock number 27. I reached the dock where the Anco Empress was berthed within ten minutes. Along the whole of the dock road ran a massive brick wall which meant that only the superstructure and the masts of the various ships could be visible from the road and this was the first sight that I gained of what was to be my home for the next five months. There was a gateman at the barrier leading into the dock but I think he must have just took one look at my suitcase and realised that I was joining the ship as he just waved me through. I turned the corner and had to step back in amazement as I looked up at this giant orange monster. Looking up at the stern of the vessel, well out of the water due to its state of half emptiness the massive bulk was so much more than I had expected to see. Although only just over four years old the hull was full of rust that was cleverly disguised by the fact that it was all painted orange. Even the proud name of ANCO EMPRESS with the name LIVERPOOL underneath had been strangely covered in fresh orange paint as I took in the sight in front of me. The whole dockside reeked of fermenting treacle. I made my way tentatively past the portholes in the ship’s side, continuing to stare up at the massive accommodation block which then dropped away onto the main deck, trying to avoid all the pipes and hoses that were strewn across the quayside intent on tripping me up as I made my way to the accommodation ladder. The ladder was fairly steep and I figured that I was not going to make it all the way up with both my suitcase and my kitbag. I decided to leave my suitcase on the jetty for the first run up the ladder. The ladder itself certainly looked sturdy enough, made of aluminium and, at a guess, weighing an absolute ton, but the angle of ascent that it was presently at plus the feeble looking iron stanchions and manropes gave me cause for concern. I made it to the top and plonked my kitbag down and was spotted by a young deck worker as I made my way back down for my suitcase. ‘Need a hand?’ He shouted. He didn’t wait for a reply but followed me back down the ladder and grabbed the suitcase from me and gingerly made his way back up the North face of Everest puffing and panting. ‘Fuck me, what you got in here? A new anchor cable?’ I laughed as I jumped down on to the main deck after him. ‘Cheers, mate. I’ve been lugging that about all day.’ ‘I’m Ray Newton.’ He smiled at me offering his filthy hand. Ray was about six feet tall, slim, well tanned and with immaculate short curly, well groomed, light brown hair ‘I’m on watch at the moment; most of the others are across the road at the pub.’ He gestured back from where I had just came through the gate. ‘John Caswell.’ I replied. ‘This is my first trip.’ ‘I gathered that by the haircut.’ Ray replied as he carried my suitcase along the deck to the accommodation block for me.