8. Understanding the "Sheep"

The Ship’s Safety officer says that he must get to the gangway as the ‘sheep’ is about to sail. Before going he reminds us that we must meet at 08.00 tomorrow morning, here, when we will look at the purpose of watertight doors and to show us our emergency positions on the sheep. Right now we were off to have our photographs taken for our ship’s identity card. ‘This is your ticket on and off the sheep, do not lose it,’ we were warned. ‘If you lose it, you are putting sheep’s safety at risk. It also means that you are irresponsible.’

I had just had my photograph taken and was waiting for Vanessa when I got to take a good look around. We were at the fire station getting our pictures taken, which is on deck number four. Next to the fire station there are two doors, one marked Print Shop and the other Photo Lab. There is a large area with a massive door on the side of the ship and some ropes curled up beside it. A ping-pong table is right in the middle and off to the other side are four elevators. Not like the luxurious ones we saw when we first arrived onboard, these were plain, stainless steel elevators. Further down to the right are the men in boiler suits and to the left is the crew medical centre, and other crew cabins can be found below the various stairwells leading down to the third floor. This long corridor, we were told, is referred to as the M1.

There is more to the M1 after the medical centre but I have yet to venture down there. Just then another foreign accent booms out over a sound system.
‘The sheep will be sailing at 17.00 hours, would those of you not sailing with the sheep, please make your way to the gangway situated on deck number five, starboard side.’

Just as I am about to go off and have a nose around, I get a tap on the shoulder. I swing around right into Paul. It looks like Paul has been assigned to "looking after" us us.
Paul lifts his hand up and salutes me before bending over in peels of laughter. There is something really not nice about him.
The smile fades from my face as Paul straightens up again. Between bursts of giggles, he tells me that he is going to take us to collect our uniforms. Paul wipes a tear from the side of his eye. Okay, it is funny. I admit that I looked like a prat.

Vanessa is still waiting for her photo to be done.
‘Vanessa,’ I call over to her, ignoring Paul. ‘We’ve got to go and get our uniforms,’ I say, signalling with my head to Paul behind me.
‘Wait for me,’ she shouted back.
‘I have a lot to do you know, I’m very busy,’ said Paul, suddenly frustrated to have to wait for us.
‘Well, why don’t you just tell us where it is and we can…’ I suddenly remember the last time we tried to find the bar and realize this is a bad idea. So does Paul, he is looking at me knowingly.
‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’ he smans, ‘especially after you were late for your first induction?’
‘How did you know we were late?’ I ask, wondering if he was there with us in the dimly lit room. Instead he looks at me and pats the side of his nose with a long skinny finger.
‘Nothing, but nothing, is a secret on this ship, Ginny McLeod.’
‘I wouldn’t make a habit of it though,’ he carries on, ‘it won’t be tolerated.’
I am absolutely seething. I am the most punctual person I know. I felt pretty bad, not to mention embarrassed at being late, but it was no thanks to Paul here. Perhaps he wanted us to be late. I am struggling not to argue my point with him as I get the feeling that Paul would enjoy that. Instead I broach the subject of work and pretend that he hasn’t gotten to me at all.

‘Paul, when do we start work?’ I ask, changing the subject, ‘and when will we meet our boss?’ I was eager to get to know what the job was all about and to meet the people I would be working with.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says, ‘the Bar manager has a tendency to just appear without a moment’s warning.’ What a smart ass this Paul is. He only manages to talk in clues rather than answer any questions directly. Just then Allison comes over. She tells us that Trevor had managed to fall asleep again and couldn't be woken.
‘Another one who’ll be up for a warning,’ snides Paul, as he walks over to the security officer to bum a cigarette.
‘Who are you sharing with Allison?’ I ask realizing that I don’t even know her whereabouts on the ship yet.
‘I haven’t met her yet,’ she replies, ‘she’s working at the moment. Her name is Ann Marie I think. Bloody untidy too, you should see the state of the cabin. I had nowhere to put my things you know, and I’m on the top bunk.’
‘Did you see the toilet yet?’ she whispers. ‘I can’t believe it, can you? This is not at all what I expected, but you must admit, it's still quite exciting.’

At this point exciting isn't the word I would use to describe today’s events. I have still to meet one nice, pleasant or even normal person. With the exception of Nicky, our knickerless neighbour who seemed friendly enough, there is Paul who is just awful and unhelpful, whilst Sue, the Crew Purser, was uptight and rude. Hopefully this was not an indication of how things were going to be.
‘Greg is in with Paul,’ adds Allison.
‘What, I just presumed that he and Trevor would be together.’ A great surge of pleasure is running through me at the thought of those two sharing a cabin no bigger than a rabbit hutch.
‘Yes,’ says Paul, joining us once more. ‘I keep a very tidy cabin so Greg should be feeling privileged to be sharing with me.’
I have decided to call Paul ‘Acne’. I know it’s not nice, but if I can at least refer to him as something vile then it may stop me from verbally telling him what an asshole he is.

Acne goes on to tell us that he is a ‘second contractor’ and has already been promoted to wine steward in the dining room. It’s only then, when he almost squeals in his own excitement, that I realize that Acne is ever so slightly feminine. I’m looking over his face and that terrible acne and wonder if technology is far advanced enough to have found a cure for that when Vanessa comes over with her new ID card clasped to her shirt. It’s the first time I have seen her smile since we got on the ship.
‘Pretty good eh?’ she says, pulling her laminax in my direction.
‘Yeh, you look lovely Vanessa,’ I say. Actually she does, unlike mine that makes me look like I have a sleepy eye.
‘Coming with us Allison?’ I ask as Paul is marching off down the M1.
‘Not yet, just got to get my photo done, I’ll find you later?’ she said, looking worried that she will get lost again. Apparently Greg was the only one of us that found his way to the crew bar thanks to his new cabin mate. Allison had only just gotten to the induction before we did. I wanted to wait behind for her but Paul had gotten me so worried about all this warning stuff I felt I had to follow him.

Just as we imagined the M1 corridor went on forever. There were various technically named rooms including the door to the engine room off to the side. The steel floor was painted in a brown rusty colour. There were large bolts spaced periodically along the huge pieces of steel that made up the airstrip. Various lockers and storerooms were dotted along the corridor and a few men in boiler suits were hard at work. That was until we got closer. As we made our way down we incurred a great deal of interest from the men.

A couple of the older men turned in our general direction and looked away uninterested, but further down the hall there is another group of men. They are standing waiting, not even pretending to be busy. They are all foreign-looking. Just then I notice that Paul is actually ‘working it’ in front of us, or is it my imagination? Forgetting Acne’s arse, I concentrate on walking and breathing. Paul now starts to give it all as we near the group. One of his arms is swinging and his skinny little hips are clicking from side to side. As we get closer to the men, I try my best to drag my eyes off the movements of Acne’s arse. My breathing has shortened and I’m just about managing to keep enough oxygen in my blood that, by the way, is making loud noises as it rushes behind my ears. I have never felt this self-conscious since Giles persuaded me to surprise his granddad on his seventieth birthday in a leather suit and whip.

I manage to glance quickly over at Vanessa, who I hate to see, seems to be taking it all in her stride. She is flicking her hair over her shoulder and pouting her lips. Just as we are about to walk by, I see him, the one from the bus. He is even better looking than I thought. This doesn't help in my quest to reach wherever it is we are going, alive. This time when he looked at me he didn’t laugh, he just stood and watched. They all did.

Just as we got level with them they started to talk to us. ‘Ciao Rossa, Ciao Bella. Che figga... Ci vediamo....’ But he didn’t say a word. He just watched and in the split second that our eyes met, he turned his back and disappeared through a heavy steel door, leaving the others to it.

As I wobbled nervously down the airstrip I felt delirious with the attention. I felt flattered yet uncomfortable all at the same time.
‘Engine officers,’ says Acne, interrupting my thoughts. ‘They always come out when there is fresh meat onboard,’ he throws over his shoulder while modifying his walk.
‘Sorry, what did you say?’ I shout ahead.
‘Fresh meat,’ he repeats, ‘they can’t wait for turnaround day to see what’s coming on board,’ he says.
‘What do you mean “what's coming on board?”’ fumes Vanessa. ‘They were only looking at us,’ she says, defensively.
‘That’s right,’ I say, joining our defence. ‘They were just showing interest in us because we are new,’ I add.
How dare Paul think that he can refer to us like that? He doesn’t know us and I find the whole ‘fresh meat’ thing insulting. I am further worried that my outfit today didn’t give the impression I thought it would. This was my serious new employee outfit that fits perfectly into my new job. Feelings of excitement are quickly replaced with a dry mouth and dull ache in the pit of my stomach. How fucking dare they treat us that way? If Paul is telling the truth then we were just insulted by those men. Tarnishing us with the same brush as other women who no doubt have fallen into their traps. Well I will not be one of them. I have more respect for myself than to give any of those men the time of day.

Just then we arrive at a narrow stairwell where we follow Paul down to the next level. The room has a small desk that sits in front of a long narrow room with rail upon rail of uniforms. Each rail carries uniforms from various departments on the ship and all are covered in clear plastic sacks. There is a sign on each rail to indicate the department: Dining room, Accommodations, Galley, and so on. We are each handed two blue A-line skirts that have seen better days, two matching waistcoats, light blue cummerbunds and bow ties, white gloves, two white shirts, one black tie and a pair of golden cuff links.

Both Vanessa and I get to wear the same size. We are just signing papers to say that we have accepted these uniforms when Trevor, Greg and Allison come in behind us accompanied by a man in an officer’s uniform.
‘Forget about these people, did you?’ the man says to Paul.
‘Well, sorry Sir,’ stuttered Paul back. ‘It’s just that …’
‘I don’t want to hear it Paul, take yourself back upstairs and to work,’ instructed the officer.
‘Okay Sir,’ says Paul, who is visibly shaken up.
The man lines the others up and instructs the man behind the counter to issue them with their uniforms.
‘Which department, Sir?’ asks the man behind the desk.
‘Bar stewards,’ replied the officer again.
‘And you are?’ he enquires in my direction.
‘Ginny McLeod,’ I stammered.
‘And you?’ he asks Vanessa.
‘Vanessa Hudson,’ she replies, holding her hand out to shake his. He accepts it and I kick myself for not thinking of it first.
Trevor still had pillow marks imprinted on his face and I am just about to ask what happened to him when he shoots me a warning glance.
‘I’m the bar manager,’ says the man. ‘My name is Andrew and we will be spending a lot of time together over the next week,’ he continues.
Everyone is equipped with uniforms and Andrew tells us that the Crew Mess is situated directly above us if we are hungry.

We make our way back along the M1 without any word from the onlookers. Andrew walks with us until we reach the hole to home where we will dispose of our uniforms and then go and eat.
‘Meet back in the Crew Bar at 18.00 for your first induction to the Bar Department,’ he says. ‘And this time make it,’ he added, looking directly at Trevor.

Andrew was in his mid-to-late thirties and seemed to be a man’s man type. He was bald and had a round face with big rose-coloured cheeks. He told us he had worked on ships for sixteen years and started as a junior bar steward. He was finally promoted one year ago to Food and Beverage director, and is in charge of the bar personnel and each of the eleven bars on board. Everyone liked him but never crossed him. He has an explosive temper.

The smell of previously boiled but now tepid stock, urine and cigarette smoke hit me in that order as we made our way up the stairwell to the Crew Mess. This, we were told is where we would be eating all our meals. At the top of the stairs is a room to the left with a television blaring in some foreign language and half a dozen old men sitting around under a cloud of smoke drinking coffee.

In front of us there is a long narrow room with a self-service area to the right. Plates and trays are stacked up high and the lunch menu for today is written in bold letters on a white board that is hanging on the stainless steel wall. Pig’s Trotters, tepid chicken, sticky rice, French fries, peas, milk, tepid tea or tepid coffee. It was nearly five o'clock now and if this was the lunch menu my guess is that everything was overcooked having sat over a Bain Marie for the last five hours. The flooring has white-speckled tiling that is soiled and broken. At the end of the self-service area there were chairs and tables not unlike those you would find in a prison. We each take a tray and make our way along. My hunger has gone. I take some limp French fries and a glass (no cups) of coffee. The others follow me in silence to the only table in the room that isn’t littered with other people’s leftovers.