The ferry was almost full when it swung away from Gun Wharf Quay towards mid channel. The young woman shook the rain from her brolly and picked her way through the clutter of bags, cases and jumble cluttering the aisle. She spotted an empty seat, shuffled into it and eased herself down beside a sailor.
“What an awful evening,” she said as she arranged her shoulder-bag, brolly and briefcase.
“Known worse,” he replied, with a hint of gloom.
“It’s going to rain like this all week, they say.”
He grunted and lowered his hand grip to the floor.
“Going on leave?” she asked, in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere.
He sniffed and withdrew a packet of Players from his raincoat pocket.
“Oh, you can’t smoke on the ferry. It must be a long time since you made the crossing.”
He grunted again and put the cigarettes away. “Going to Wickham to visit the missus, I’ll get the train in Turktown, er Gosport and get the bus.”
“Does she live in Wickham?”
“Naw, she’s in Beverly, the baby hospital, she’s just ‘ad another nipper.”
“Baby hospital in Wickham? I’ve never heard of that before. My sister’s just had a baby, she had to go to the Q.A.”
“Navy wives have to go to Wickham to deliver. It’s different for navy wives.” He said, with an edge of impatience.
“There were some Navy wives on the same ward as my sister at...”
“Wickham, Navy wives goes to the baby ward at Wickham. All of ‘em,” he persisted, though his tolerance levels were now clearly wearing thin.
She detected his annoyance and backed off but felt the need to keep a conversation flowing. “Are you assigned to a ship or are you waiting for a draft? My Dad was in the Navy and is always talking about ‘waiting for a draft’; it’s a bit of a family joke.” And she gave a little chuckle.
“No joke waiting for a draft. Sometimes it’s safer at sea than stuck in Portsmouth dockyard.”
”You can say that again, Jack,” she quipped, ”Especially on a Saturday night at chucking out time!”
He tutted and tossed his head back, clearly not appreciating her little joke.
She chuckled again and put her hand onto his in a friendly gesture but was shocked at its unnatural coldness and immediately withdrew it. It was then that she glanced through the window at the glowing harbour lights and realised that he had no reflection, that only her own image was captured in the darkened window pane. She reeled at the discovery.
She looked at him again and he appeared just as authentic as the other passengers. But she looked closer and noticed that his uniform was not made from the light, modern material but from a coarsely woven wool, his blue raincoat was an ancient, faded gabardine and his cap band bore the wording ‘H.M SHIPS’, instead of the name of an actual vessel. She watched as he reached into his tunic and pulled out a pocket watch, flipped the cover open and checked the time. She hadn’t ever seen anyone carrying such an old fashioned timepiece and it mystified her even more.
A closer inspection revealed his dirty finger nails, nicotine stained fingers and now, she recalled, his Players cigarettes were untipped. He was pallid, slight and his facial features were drawn and tense. She sniffed and caught the unmistakeable whiff of engine oil, carbolic soap and a lingering mustiness. He was a man of mystery, an enigma, a contradiction. She tried to make sense of it; to grasp just what it was that was so different about him, why he was so unusual. He was spooky, wraithlike and impersonal and his unearthly aura and appearance troubled her.
Then the engines slowed and the ferry swung towards the ramp and other passengers began to gather their belongings. Some were already standing and shuffling towards the exits. She rose too and stooped to collect her bags and brolly, anxious to leave him behind. She stepped into the aisle and shuffled forwards with the throng of passengers.
The sailor come from behind and gently pushed passed her. “Sorry missy, I’m in a bit of hurry, I’ve gotta a train to catch.” And he quickly moved forward and disappeared into the mêlée of homebound commuters.
A crewman put his hand forward to help her as the ferry pitched and swayed on the swell as it came along side the mooring.
“Who was that?” she asked the crewman.
“Who?”
“The sailor who’s just got off, who is he?”
“What sailor?” he inquired, half turning around.
An elderly, silver haired man dressed in tweed stepped forward and quietly said, “That sailor is the spirit of Able Seaman Norman ‘Nobby’ Clarke, Miss. He was killed with several others in 1942 when a homeward bound Heinkel dropped two bombs on the west bound ferry. He was going to Wickham to visit his wife who had just given birth. He travels the Gosport Ferry, back and forth every day, though few passengers ever see him. You are obviously one of the few who possess the necessary psychic powers to engage with the spirit world. He will have been grateful for your company, brief though it may have been. Do come again soon, we’d love to see you, we’re always here - all fifteen of us!” And he touched the tip of his cap, gave her a sweet smile, turned, hovered a second or two, then glided effortlessly forward and disappeared through the steel bulkhead.
She gasped, turned white and grabbed a seat for support, “Oh, my goodness, may the good Lord preserve us!”she exclaimed.
“Are you talking to me love?” asked the bewildered crewman.
“What an awful evening,” she said as she arranged her shoulder-bag, brolly and briefcase.
“Known worse,” he replied, with a hint of gloom.
“It’s going to rain like this all week, they say.”
He grunted and lowered his hand grip to the floor.
“Going on leave?” she asked, in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere.
He sniffed and withdrew a packet of Players from his raincoat pocket.
“Oh, you can’t smoke on the ferry. It must be a long time since you made the crossing.”
He grunted again and put the cigarettes away. “Going to Wickham to visit the missus, I’ll get the train in Turktown, er Gosport and get the bus.”
“Does she live in Wickham?”
“Naw, she’s in Beverly, the baby hospital, she’s just ‘ad another nipper.”
“Baby hospital in Wickham? I’ve never heard of that before. My sister’s just had a baby, she had to go to the Q.A.”
“Navy wives have to go to Wickham to deliver. It’s different for navy wives.” He said, with an edge of impatience.
“There were some Navy wives on the same ward as my sister at...”
“Wickham, Navy wives goes to the baby ward at Wickham. All of ‘em,” he persisted, though his tolerance levels were now clearly wearing thin.
She detected his annoyance and backed off but felt the need to keep a conversation flowing. “Are you assigned to a ship or are you waiting for a draft? My Dad was in the Navy and is always talking about ‘waiting for a draft’; it’s a bit of a family joke.” And she gave a little chuckle.
“No joke waiting for a draft. Sometimes it’s safer at sea than stuck in Portsmouth dockyard.”
”You can say that again, Jack,” she quipped, ”Especially on a Saturday night at chucking out time!”
He tutted and tossed his head back, clearly not appreciating her little joke.
She chuckled again and put her hand onto his in a friendly gesture but was shocked at its unnatural coldness and immediately withdrew it. It was then that she glanced through the window at the glowing harbour lights and realised that he had no reflection, that only her own image was captured in the darkened window pane. She reeled at the discovery.
She looked at him again and he appeared just as authentic as the other passengers. But she looked closer and noticed that his uniform was not made from the light, modern material but from a coarsely woven wool, his blue raincoat was an ancient, faded gabardine and his cap band bore the wording ‘H.M SHIPS’, instead of the name of an actual vessel. She watched as he reached into his tunic and pulled out a pocket watch, flipped the cover open and checked the time. She hadn’t ever seen anyone carrying such an old fashioned timepiece and it mystified her even more.
A closer inspection revealed his dirty finger nails, nicotine stained fingers and now, she recalled, his Players cigarettes were untipped. He was pallid, slight and his facial features were drawn and tense. She sniffed and caught the unmistakeable whiff of engine oil, carbolic soap and a lingering mustiness. He was a man of mystery, an enigma, a contradiction. She tried to make sense of it; to grasp just what it was that was so different about him, why he was so unusual. He was spooky, wraithlike and impersonal and his unearthly aura and appearance troubled her.
Then the engines slowed and the ferry swung towards the ramp and other passengers began to gather their belongings. Some were already standing and shuffling towards the exits. She rose too and stooped to collect her bags and brolly, anxious to leave him behind. She stepped into the aisle and shuffled forwards with the throng of passengers.
The sailor come from behind and gently pushed passed her. “Sorry missy, I’m in a bit of hurry, I’ve gotta a train to catch.” And he quickly moved forward and disappeared into the mêlée of homebound commuters.
A crewman put his hand forward to help her as the ferry pitched and swayed on the swell as it came along side the mooring.
“Who was that?” she asked the crewman.
“Who?”
“The sailor who’s just got off, who is he?”
“What sailor?” he inquired, half turning around.
An elderly, silver haired man dressed in tweed stepped forward and quietly said, “That sailor is the spirit of Able Seaman Norman ‘Nobby’ Clarke, Miss. He was killed with several others in 1942 when a homeward bound Heinkel dropped two bombs on the west bound ferry. He was going to Wickham to visit his wife who had just given birth. He travels the Gosport Ferry, back and forth every day, though few passengers ever see him. You are obviously one of the few who possess the necessary psychic powers to engage with the spirit world. He will have been grateful for your company, brief though it may have been. Do come again soon, we’d love to see you, we’re always here - all fifteen of us!” And he touched the tip of his cap, gave her a sweet smile, turned, hovered a second or two, then glided effortlessly forward and disappeared through the steel bulkhead.
She gasped, turned white and grabbed a seat for support, “Oh, my goodness, may the good Lord preserve us!”she exclaimed.
“Are you talking to me love?” asked the bewildered crewman.