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lunch in the saloon.
    It was my first meal at sea. I sat with the Captain, the Chief Engineer, Hornbeam and Archer, and the Chief Steward, a thin little mouse-faced man called Whimble. As soon as the bell rang we converged on the dining saloon with the briskness of seaside boarders: Captain Hogg disliked anyone to be late.
    I was on the Captain’s right hand, the Mate on his left. The Chief Engineer faced the Captain, and the other two sat themselves between.
    ‘Ah, Doctor!’ Captain Hogg said, jovially enough.
    ‘Decided to join us at last, have you?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    He unfolded his napkin and tucked it under his chin with deliberation.
    ‘Seasickness,’ he said slowly,’ is entirely mental. You imagine it.’
    I shrugged my shoulders.
    ‘Well,’ I said, in my professional tone,’ there are more complicated reasons than that. I admit there may be a psychological element. But there is obviously some fault with the balancing apparatus in the ears, and probably with the gastric nerves.’
    The Captain broke a roll.
    ‘No.’ He said it decisively.’ It is entirely mental.’
    He started drinking soup loudly.
    No one spoke until he had finished.
    ‘Mr McDougall,’ he said, slipping half a roll into his mouth,’ have you got that book you were going to lend me at supper last night?’
    The Chief looked up. He was a thin, wrinkled Scot with a face dominated by a thick strip of sandy eyebrow, from which his eyes looked out like a couple of Highland gamekeepers inspecting poachers through the undergrowth.
    ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘You mean The Squeaker ?’
    The Captain nodded.
    ‘That’s it. I like a bit of Peter Cheyney.’
    ‘But surely,’ I said immediately.’ The Squeaker was by Edgar Wallace? It was written over twenty years ago.’
    ‘No,’ the Captain said. ‘It was Peter Cheyney.’
    ‘You know, sir, I’m perfectly...’
    ‘Peter Cheyney,’ he said, with the emphasis of a full stop. He then fell upon a plate of mutton chops, which disappeared into his mouth like a rush-hour crowd going down an escalator.
    We continued eating in silence.
    Captain Hogg finished his chops and brought his knife and fork together with a flourish.
    ‘Mr Whimble,’ he said.
    ‘Sir!’
    The Chief Steward jumped, and choked over a chop bone.
    ‘I have, I suppose, tasted worse chops than these. In a fifth-rate café on the Mexican coast possibly. Why don’t you throw the cook over the side? If he’d served filth like this to the Captain when I was an apprentice the fellow would have had his bottom kicked round the deck.’
    ‘I’m sorry, Captain,’ Whimble mumbled.’ I’ll see to it.’
    ‘I should think so. You never get cooking like you used to. All they think about these days are vitamins and calories, and such stuff. What good’s that to a man? Fad, that’s all it is. You don’t need vitamins or calories,’ he said with disgust.’ Eh, Doctor?’
    ‘Well, they are really two quite different factors. And vitamins are terribly important.’
    ‘Bosh! I’m not a doctor - I don’t pretend to be. But if you get a good bellyful of meat and spuds every day you’ll be all right.’
    ‘You must have vitamins,’ I insisted, but feebly.
    ‘Vitamins are bosh, Doctor. Bosh!’
    I began to see that opinions were forbidden, even professional ones. Our mealtimes were going to be rollicking.

4

    THE next morning after breakfast I went to my cabin, wedged myself on the settee, and again opened War and Peace at page one. I had not felt well enough to start the book since we sailed, but now I looked forward to a leisurely stroll through its pages during the rest of the voyage. I had almost reached the end of the first paragraph when a conversation started in the alleyway outside my cabin door.
    The door was on a hook for ventilation, so I was able to overhear it clearly. There were two speakers, who used the adenoidal grunts with which the citizens of Liverpool communicate with each other.
    ‘Ullo,’ said one.’