Peter Murphy: Lands End for Orders

Chapter 1

In the beginning

The question I had to ask myself was, How had I got into this predicament in the first place? Easy – in a word I had run away to sea to find adventure and I was certainly finding it now.

Perhaps deciding to give up Latin at school was the defining moment, for I had been left in no doubt that once I had done that, my career choices would be severely curtailed.

In fact at least six well-sought-after careers by most young people at that time, were no longer to be open to my talents. They included science, the law, medicine, engineering and the Diplomatic Service. So that rather limited my choice, unless, perhaps I took the army option.

I was certainly never academically smart enough then to make it to Sandhurst, the officers’ training college and I could hardly join the army as a ‘squaddie´ from Wellington College – a school founded primarily for the sons of army officers killed in wartime service and named after the Great Duke himself.

In order to qualify as what was known as a Foundationer, that is a boy whose father was killed in wartime and for whom the school paid part of the fees for the widowed mother, it was necessary to pass the scholarship exam.

Peter’s father, Major Peter Casella Murphy, MC Royal Irish Fusiliers – Killed in action in North Africa, 18th January 1943

Finally, after the third attempt, I managed to pass the exam and overcome that first hurdle. But my life seemed to be dogged by an inability to understand maths and despite my mother blithely saying, Oh the Murphys have never been good at maths and luckily for me I can use my fingers and toes - though counting has never been my strong point, she did not assist.

Peter’s mother, Kathleen Margaret ‘Peggy’ Murphy (Née Sharpe)

In fact, to my chagrin I was rapidly discovering that every type of career needed a solid grounding in maths and that was something I just seemed unable to come to grips with.

What about commerce? said the increasingly frustrated careers master. He was a well-known gay, although that term was never used then and he took every opportunity to ply his trade, generously taking some of the more ‘eligible’ boys on weekend lunchtime picnics, boating on the Thames, where his hands wandered constantly.

There are so many interesting jobs in commerce and you could have an exciting career, even travelling the world. He knew full well that I was interested in travel, but in those times travel was only for the very wealthy and the tourist market was a long way from emerging.

I had done nothing to distinguish myself at school, except attempt to commit suicide and generally be very miserable. I felt a complete misfit and I just could not fathom out what I would be able to do once the school gates clanged shut behind me.

In geography I did an assignment on timber and I vaguely became interested in the Bowater Paper Company. Now I cannot remember much about it, except going to an interview in Bristol with a firm that manufactured paper bags – I have a feeling it was called Robinsons.

However, I do remember seeing the inner harbour and the small coasters tied up there – continental vessels I seem to recall. They really appealed to me and reminded me of the Fred Everard ships that plied up and down the Exeter ship canal near my home.

The interview was a complete disaster and in any event I had already made up my mind that life in the commercial world from nine o’clock in the morning to five o’clock in the afternoon, was not for Peter Murphy. I am sure that for those who had the unenviable task of guiding me to some sort of reputable future, it must have been all they could do not to tear out what little hair they had.

My brother was by this time already in the British Merchant Navy, having been accepted as an apprentice with the BP Tanker Company and from his letters, their envelopes bearing enticingly coloured stamps of exotic flora and fauna, was ‘seeing the world’ and had embarked on an exciting and worthwhile career.

Was there, I wondered with increasing frequency and perhaps a degree of panic, a chance for me to join the British Merchant Navy?

I wrote to a list of leading British shipping companies, but to no avail. It was after a chance meeting with a cadet from the Elder Dempster Shipping Line in his impressive uniform and smart cap, on the train going home, towards the end of my time at Wellington that my hopes were re- kindled.

After chatting enthusiastically with him and hearing him talk of being at sea, by the time he left the train I was freshly determined not to allow anything to stand in my way, if I could possibly help it – certainly not the half dozen or so rejection letters that I seemed to be receiving with monotonous regularity.

But obviously he was far cleverer than I – in the mathematics department for instance. Clearly going to sea was not just a matter of knots and splices, as I had misguidedly thought and each of the many companies to which I wrote demanded a standard of mathematics infinitely higher than I could summon up.

My mother, typically I have to say, merely buried her head in the sand, ostrich-like saying, Oh but that is so typical of the Murphys they’ve never been good at maths as I have told you on so many occasions…

Not of course an acceptable answer to obtain entry into the British Merchant Navy.

What about English? Geography? I’m pretty good at French and German – History … ? And so it went on, but the only skills that seemed to be relevant were maths, algebra and geometry.

Of course physics and chemistry would also have been of great assistance, but unfortunately I knew nothing of these particular mysteries.

My association with physics, I recall, was relatively brief. For not in any way trying to appear ‘clever,’ when asked what was holding up the table at the front of the class, I said quite innocently, The four legs. Everyone roared with laughter, but I was unable to understand why and the science master, obviously feeling that I was trying to make a fool of him, threw me out there and then, never to darken the science labs again.

The answer was apparently a force equal and opposite – but that was beyond me – certainly at that stage anyway.

By this time, many of my contemporaries had already sat and passed examinations set by the prestigious universities including London, Oxford and Cambridge. One or two of my year had been provisionally accepted into the Diplomatic Corps and others for articles at equally prestigious London law firms.

Looking back, it is interesting to recall that of many of those destined for a life in the Diplomatic Corps, a large percentage were, to put it in modern parlance, gay - something that I reflected on many years later, with the exposure of the Philby, Burgess and Maclean spy scandal.

I seemed to be in grave danger of being left behind and I could sense a sort of desperation – if not outright frustration, that I might leave College with nothing in the way of a job to go to.

Now in those days the world seemed a much larger and more aloof place. For a start the pace of communication was much, much slower. There was no electronic media and television was still black-and-white – if at all.

The Far East – Singapore, Hong Kong, Japan and Burma, all of these and many more, were shrouded in an aura of mystique only revealed by the pen of such luminaries as Somerset Maugham, Evelyn Waugh and Joseph Conrad – all of whom I had read several times over.

It was the preserve of the wealthy to travel – the ones with money and status were the travellers then and I realised that if I was going to travel, as was my intention, then I needed to find a job which would pay me to do so and I had very little time left in which to do it.

I had also vaguely entertained thoughts of a career on the stage and my mentor, R.F. Delderfield, with whose son I had been at prep. school, was a fervent supporter of that ambition – unlike my mother and the careers master. The latter I would have thought would have been an enthusiastic supporter of such a Thespian ambition, as he minced down the aisle each morning at chapel, complete with flamboyant handkerchief ‘discretely’ tucked into his coat sleeve.

Perhaps it was a resolve on my part – a sort of final push and the feeling of desperation, that finally focused my attention on the horrendous situation that might arise if I had to leave with nothing to go to – not so much a disgrace, though it surely would be, but more of a crie de coeur, as it were.

For once the school gates shut behind me, the resources of the school in terms of shelter and support would be gone forever. The other thing I realised, with rather a sinking feeling, was that Exeter was just a sleepy country town – though it did have a fledgling university at that time.

It seemed a cruel stroke of fate that my cousin, not so long afterwards, attended Exeter University and did a degree in pure mathematics – whilst I struggled to put 2 + 2 together, not to mention grappling with fractions and quadratic equations.

I do however still remember some of the guiding principles of mathematics taught to me at my prep. school by a patient and fatherly headmaster, Mr T. Rhys Jones: "Be my dear aunt Sally" – brackets, multiplication, division, addition, subtraction – and at various times in my life that particular mnemonic has stood me in good stead.

But I needed more than that to get into the real world and somehow I began to get the feeling that perhaps the Merchant Navy and a career at sea might be slipping away and out of my grasp.

For the life of me I do not recall how it happened – perhaps one of the many liner shipping companies to whom I had written had suggested it. Whatever and however it happened, a letter was dispatched to the Shipping Federation and the next thing I knew I was booked for an interview with a small shipping company called J & C Harrison & Co. of London.

This was my chance – possibly my last chance – and I was determined to make the best of it. I remember not only the excitement, but also the trepidation of travelling up to London from Reading on the day of the interview.

London was a complete mystery to me and I am unsure where the train came in – almost certainly it would have been Paddington, with its vast glass canopy and the deafening noise of loudspeakers and steam trains and the crowds of passengers, both boarding and alighting on the platforms and the pigeons casually picking up bits of food off the ground and then flying high up into the glass atrium.

I suppose I must have somehow caught a train to Fenchurch Street – that was the station synonymous with shipping and the streets surrounding the station were pure ‘shipping territory’.

A maze of little winding streets in the shadow of Plantation House, which years later I came to know more intimately in my career as a marine lawyer, for as well as being the home to myriads of shipping companies, it was also a warren in which were ensconced many legal firms, established no doubt to ‘feed’ on the shipping industry and its close cousin the equally ubiquitous marine insurance industry.

But I was looking for Mark Lane and in particular Number 74, which was the address of J & C Harrison & Co., the owner of four tramp ships – Harmattan, Harpagus, Harpalycus and Harpalion.

I cannot say that I particularly recall the entrance to the office – except that I had to enter a very small lift, for it was several floors up from the street – that I do remember. I nervously straightened my tie, in the none-too stable lift that rattled its way upwards inside the shabby building. I emerged into a small wood-panelled reception area, presided over by a homely looking woman at a desk.

Hello I am Peter Murphy. I have an appointment this afternoon with Mr Reid, I said as brightly as I was able, my throat dry with anxiety. I remember she smiled, a kindly smile that rather eased my fear. It had been a long and confusing journey to London and I had wondered from the time I had woken early that morning, what in fact was in store for me at Mark Lane – now I was here.

Mr Reid will see you now Mr Murphy, she said as I was still composing my replies to hypothetical questions.

I was ushered into a small room with a large polished wooden desk filling most of its width and behind which sat a small bespectacled man in a grey non-descript suit. He was dwarfed by a large wall of bookshelves behind him.

So this was the Managing Director.

He smiled at me from a sallow, but friendly face. Take a seat Son, he gestured to a chair to one side of the desk.

So you want to go to sea I understand? It wasn’t so much of a question, more a statement and I was unsure whether I was meant to reply or not.

Do you know anything about ships or shipping then?

No Sir, I replied, which was the truth, but even as I said it I realised that this was probably not the answer that was expected. I had decided on the way up in the train that I would try to answer every question to the best of my knowledge and it was true - I knew nothing of ships or shipping then.

So why do you want to go to sea lad? I was rapidly asking myself the same question. How was I to start? I saw Mr Reid watching me as he settled lower in his chair, his long fingers slowly tapping the blotter on his desk.

I gulped. I want to see the world Sir, I blurted out, and travel and I think I would be able to make a career at sea in your company …

Well that’s as good a reason as I’ve heard before Son, he said in his soft voice.

I was unable to detect any accent – it just seemed ‘ordinary’ and unaffected. He picked up a letter, which I immediately recognised as my letter of application, to which was attached a page of my qualifications, including my rather poor mathematics results – my bete noir, as it were, and the stumbling block to every other interview that I had attempted to obtain with liner companies to date.

I was under no illusions that this was probably the final opportunity for a sea going career.

I see that you have an interest in History and Geography … Oh English and French… He paused, and German, he added. And you seem to be a bit of an artist as well. That’s a good rounded education Son. But what about your mathematics?

My heart sank and I mentally braced myself to answer what I had always known would be the nemesis – the Achilles Heel of my interview today.

Just as I was about to reply, to my surprise the bookcase behind his desk swung open and the kindly lady receptionist appeared as if from nowhere.

Excuse me Mr Reid, but I’ve got Captain Champion on the line.

Without turning round or even putting down the letter in his hand, he said quietly, Tell him to sail on the tide tonight.

A frisson of excitement ran through me as I pictured…what? I had no idea what I was thinking as I looked around at the wall near the window on which were framed black and white photographs of two ships – each with a massive H on their funnel.

Now I realise that the photos were almost certainly taken on Builder’s Trials. The ships looked trim and smart and I pictured myself in a blue uniform on the bridge – all wooden decks and gleaming brass work. I knew literally nothing of ships or shipping and what little I did know, was gleaned from reading Conrad, or Somerset Maugham, or Masterman Ready and was highly stylised and totally devoid of reality.

I was jolted out of my daydream by the closing of the bookcase and I realised with concern that I had drifted away in my own reverie. But jerking myself back to the reality of the interview, I saw that Mr Reid had placed my letter of application to one side of his desk and was instead peering through his glasses at what looked like a calendar or some sort of schedule.

He seemed to be oblivious of me and certainly I was not at all keen to re-introduce the rather vexed question of my ability or rather inability in terms of mathematics.

"Yes I think we can fit you in on the Harpalion Son – yes that should do well I think." He wrote something on a sheet of paper and picking up the telephone spoke quietly to someone, who it turned out was the receptionist, as shortly afterwards the bookcase opened again and she briefly entered taking the sheet of paper and disappeared again closing the bookcase behind her.

Now when is it that term finishes? Mr Reid looked up from his desk over his glasses as I sat nervously wondering where this interview was going and what was happening.

In three weeks’ time Sir. On the 18th of April Sir, I answered in rather a quavering voice. He looked back at the open calendar on his desk.

Yes that should fit in nicely and gives you time to buy your uniform and some books. We’ll need you to have a medical and get some inoculations, but you can do that from school I presume? You live in the West Country I see – don’t know it that well myself, though I did go down to Cornwall on holiday with my wife some years ago… He stood up and extended his hand.

Well done Son, I’ll let Captain Davis know you’ll be joining him early in May – the ship’s in dry dock at present…

I hardly heard the rest of the sentence, other than instructions to collect a letter and details of my appointment on my way out.

What? What about my lack of maths? What about the next stage of the interview? Surely that was not it – or was it?

Mr Reid, Managing Director of J & C Harrison of London, sat down quietly in his chair as Peter Murphy soon-to-be cadet in the British Merchant Navy floated towards the door.

I was stunned and opening the door I saw the receptionist standing outside with a large envelope in her hand bearing the company’s crest and addressed to ‘Cadet Peter Murphy – Wellington College’.

Now the forms are in there for you to fill out Mr Murphy and a letter for your school and a uniform list and then … she held out her hand, …Well all the best, good luck and congratulations on starting your career at sea. She pressed the bell for the lift, which came clanking up to the small reception area.

Somehow I managed a reply, stepped into the lift and the receptionist closed the twin steel gates behind me, with a subdued clash. As the doors closed my face broke into a wide grin and with my feet barely touching the floor I could scarcely push open the door to the street.

It was raining outside and London was dark with a confused conglomeration of traffic noise and bright lights. I stopped momentarily to look back – J & C Harrison Steamship Co of London said the sign. In the window was a model of one of the company’s ships, which I could not remember seeing before.

Excitement – or in my case trepidation prior to my interview, must have blunted my senses. But there it was, a replica, a model of one of the ships in the photographs in Mr Reid’s office – Harpalycus it said on a small brass plate.

I wondered what the Harpalion would be like.

Chapter 2

Getting prepared and kitted out

The envelope with its distinctive crest was almost burning in my hand and I folded it in half and stuffed it into the inside pocket of my jacket, waiting for an opportunity to open it. The rain had increased and I was vaguely aware of walking through deep puddles, the cuffs of my trousers now looking much the worse for wear. But I was past caring – I longed to shout out to all those Londoners who passed me by, all bowler hats and black umbrellas like flocks of crows, I am going to be a cadet! – No! I am a cadet in the British Merchant Navy!

I recall getting hopelessly lost and finding myself walking back towards Plantation House and Mark Lane from where I had started earlier that afternoon. But I was unfazed and I must have wandered aimlessly for much longer than I thought, gazing at brass plates with names of obscure shipping companies and once passing a magnificent model of a passenger liner in the window of an equally magnificent office building, sodden flags hanging limply from their staffs above the portico.

Time meant nothing to me as I savoured this quintessential shipping area of London, passing the shops selling uniforms and all manner of what I took to be ‘seagoing’ requirements – smart caps, blazers and white buckskin shoes. I could see myself outfitted in such accoutrements and in my mind I paced immaculate wooden decks beneath snow-white canvas awnings as the ship steamed across a smooth, indigo sea.

The word Harpalion was emblazoned on my brain and I repeated it not only to myself, but out loud, causing a passer-by to glance up from under his umbrella – bowler hat glistening in the rain. He raised a quizzical eyebrow, said nothing and hurried on.

I do not recall getting the Reading train that night – yes it was night by the time I found my way back to Paddington Station. Despite having worn a raincoat, my clothes were now soaked. I do recall the relieved expression on my House Master’s face as alerted by the Porters’ Lodge to my return, I handed him the rather crumpled, damp envelope.

Why had I never opened it on the train I wondered? In truth I think a great weariness had come upon me. It seemed that this was the culmination of all of the many fruitless attempts to get a berth as a cadet or an apprentice on a ship at sea and I had succeeded at last.

Well I suppose congratulations are in order, said my House Master reading one of the letters addressed to the school.

You’ve got a berth and I know that both Mr Donnor and Mr Seaton, will be delighted. Frankly both of them had given up hope for you.

Yes Sir– is that all Sir?

I suggest you have a shower and change out of those wet things – Oh and do something about your shoes Murphy – you look as though you’ve been wading through a river.

Once dismissed I returned to my room, only to realise that I’d left the other papers with the House Master. I showered, changed into my pyjamas and tiptoed back to his quarters and knocked timidly on the door.

Yes – who is it?

Me Sir - Murphy Sir - I left some papers behind …

The door opened and the envelope was thrust into my hand.

Let’s discuss this further in the morning – good night – oh and well done. The door clicked shut, but I was too tired to do anything other than glance at the sheaf of papers inside the envelope – uniform inventory, copy letter of consent – the House Master presumably had taken the original, description of cadets’ duties and expectations as to the behaviour of ‘young gentleman at sea’, booklist and a completed rail voucher, to be exchanged for a ticket, for Newcastle-on-Tyne – wherever that was I had never been north of the Thames before – and some form of authority addressed to ‘The Master – m/v Harpalion’.

That night I fell asleep dreaming of striding the decks in an immaculate white uniform, a pair of binoculars slung around my neck and the island of Gibraltar on the far horizon, rising out of an ice blue sea, the sun glinting on the gold of my epaulets…

In the morning the senior careers master ‘Archie’ Seaton, who at one time had taught me Latin and although we had a cordial ‘master and pupil’ relationship, had not taken kindly to my decision to give up the subject and was, I perceived, still slightly miffed, was waiting together with my House Master in the latter’s study.

Well young Murphy, you’ve given us enough headaches to last a lifetime. In all my life of advising young men on their careers, seldom have I encountered the difficulties I’ve had…

He looked at the House Master and corrected himself.

Rather I should say ‘we’ have had, trying to find you an honest living.

His dark features and hooked nose made him seem hawkish and he always looked to be unshaven, but suddenly he smiled, leaned across and reached for my hand.

Murphy my boy, you are now going to be someone else’s problem and in a month or so you will be away to sea.

That is how it happened – well more or less. I still had to go up to London and purchase my uniform – blues for winter and whites for the tropics. My eyes ranged over the different braid illustrated in the brochure – one, two, three and four gold stripes for a captain with a cap to match complete with gold ‘scrambled eggs’ along its peak.

At the back of the uniform list was an addendum – the book list, detailing the books that were required – Nichols Seamanship, Nichols Concise Guide, books on cargo work and principles of celestial navigation, Norries Navigation Tables, ship construction and stability – it was overwhelming and I suddenly felt that I was losing my nerve.

What - was I expected to learn all of this? However could I master all of the intricacies in these books? Had I bitten off more than I could chew?

At times like this an old adage comes to mind – ‘all the gear, but no idea’ and I also knew that I had a great propensity to ‘buy’ things and then tire of them – normally before using them, properly or at all.

When I looked at that list of equipment, it was with a mix of excitement and dread. But if my career was going to be with the Merchant Navy – and I had basically committed myself now, there was no choice. Somehow I would have to master all of these subjects – all of these skills and I was comforted by another saying that I read in an old discarded Readers Digest, ‘Never look at the miles ahead, only the mile you’re on.’

That saying was probably my saviour as it was easy to become overwhelmed – especially as I realised that without ever having to glance at the calendar, I had only a week or two of school left and then I would be on my own.

Now for all of my outward bravado, that was a pretty terrifying prospect.

Fortunately, my House Master realising that ‘time was of the essence’ – a phrase that I would come to know intimately many years later, though I got the gist of it then, suggested that I should make arrangements to go to London and purchase my ‘kit’ as he called it, sooner rather than later.

That booklist Murphy – looks pretty complicated to me, but no doubt you’ll master it in time. He sniffed cheerily. As his speciality was languages and in particular German, my nautical booklist was probably as unfamiliar to him as it was to me.

The next trip to London was purely a ‘buying’ trip and so there was little of the anxiety that I had felt when I travelled up for the interview. I soon learned that ‘ships and shipping’ was synonymous with the area bounded by Fenchurch Street Station and the wide, grand buildings of Leadenhall Street, where most of the liner companies seemed to be based. That was of course well outside my scope, as I was relegated to the seedier, twisting streets in the vicinity of Plantation House – itself a maze of corridors on different floors with a list of tenants as long as my book list.

The Naval Outfitter of choice, so far as J & C Harrison of London was concerned, ‘Segraves’, was around the corner from Fenchurch Street Station and after losing my way in the maze of dubious alleyways, each well-endowed with a selection of downmarket pubs, I found the designated shop.

Having been forewarned by the school that I would be coming that day to purchase my uniform and ‘sundry equipment’, the rather obsequious, effeminate shop assistant seized me by the hand the minute I walked in.

Welcome young Sir. We have everything ready for you so there’s no need to worry about anything – just leave it to us, you can rely on us – we have been outfitting the British Merchant Navy since before Nelson went to sea, this said with a noticeable snigger.

Just before leaving school that morning, with my now rather scruffy and well-thumbed list of ‘must haves’ and ‘possibly required – after enquiry’ carefully marked on both uniform and sundries lists, my House Master, almost as an afterthought had said, Do you really think you need to buy a deck knife and marlin spike today Murphy?

He had generously driven me to Reading to catch the London train and was obviously worried that once let loose, I might quite easily overspend the modest budget that had been allocated to me.

I had an ‘open cheque’ signed by my mother, which I had safely placed in my pocket. As the car pulled up at the entrance to the station, my by now highly concerned House Master gave me a final warning.

Remember Murphy – only essentials – that’s what your mother has instructed us and we at the College are relying on your good sense not to overstep the mark. I do not need to tell you that this is a very great expense for your mother so don’t go overboard as it were. He laughed at his little joke and next thing I climbed aboard the train and soon Reading was away in the distance and in no time at all we were threading our way through the grimy outer suburbs of London.

Now I cannot recommend strongly enough this pocket compass, with whistle and lanyard attached, said the assistant.

They come in a smart leather case so you’ll never lose them, he continued.

I must say I was very tempted. I pictured myself in my smart uniform, complete with the golden collar tabs denoting my rank as a cadet in the British Merchant Navy, blowing the whistle to summon…

There’s also a handy little sewing kit here – matching leatherette case and collapsible scissors. Oh and of course you will be learning to sew canvas so you will need a palm and needle – I thoroughly recommend this little beauty – it comes in a handy carrying case complete with beeswax and a spare needle.

The now large pile of clothes and equipment was almost overflowing off the counter onto the sparsely carpeted floor.

White shorts – two pair, white tropical shirts and epaulettes – two pair – I thoroughly recommend buying a spare set just in case. Ever been to the tropics? No I thought as much – well I can tell you from my own experience, it is damn hot and sticky and you’ll be glad of a spare set to put on in the afternoon.

Of course all this time I was picturing myself wandering along white, scrubbed, timber decks with varnished handrails and rows of deck chairs, in my crisp tropical outfit of white shirt and shorts and white socks…

I recommend at least an extra pair of those, suggested the ever-helpful assistant, as I was trying on a pair of white buckskin shoes.

Can’t go better than these – most of the young gentlemen I look after have a spare pair, just in case…

Even as I was becoming alarmed at the conglomeration of clothing that had accumulated on the counter already, I now noticed that a smart cap, complete with white cover and the Harrison Line crest on the band, together with a spare cover, all secured by a black cloth band, had been surreptitiously placed on the top rather like a minaret on a mosque.

I had until this time been in a sort of reverie, but now it was as if I had been snapped back into the present. I suddenly realised that if I had to pay, or more accurately if my mother had to pay, for all of this I would be in a lot of trouble.

I had let my all too vivid imagination have free reign and goodness knows how I would be able to explain to my House Master that his trust in me had been hopelessly misplaced.

Galvanised into action I stammered, I … I … am really sorry, but much as I would like to have everything, I am afraid my mother’s cheque is only to be used for the equipment on the list that has been marked off … I am not allowed to buy anything that is not ticked on the list …

Before I had finished the sentence, the fawning assistant turned and showed his true self.

Well we have wasted our time, he threw over his shoulder as he flounced to the back of the shop, returning with a large cardboard box into which with little grace, he stuffed those pieces of kit and equipment that were not ticked off on my list.

In went the palm and needle in its smart carry case followed by the spare white uniforms. No I am allowed the deck knife and marlin spike, I piped up rather timidly, as I saw those being dumped into the cardboard box.

The spare cap cover, the smart whistle, lanyard and pocket compass – all those little extras that I had set my heart on. The atmosphere by now was distinctly chilly and my hitherto chatty and friendly assistant had turned mute, his eyes reflecting a barely concealed anger.

It was time for me to leave and with the pile now reduced to scarcely more than a large armful, I filled in the amount of the bill on my mother’s cheque with postage added and left as quickly as possible. That was I realise now, my first dealing with a ‘Queen’ and it was certainly not the last in my long seagoing career.

I remember clearly the feeling of fear and relief – fear that I had upset ‘her’ and relief that I was now safely out of the shop with the knowledge that my ‘Kit’ and what little equipment remained from my list, would in due course, find its way to my home in Exeter courtesy of the Royal Mail.

Consulting the next vital piece of paper, I made my way in drizzle – for it had started to rain during the time I had been ‘outfitted’ for my uniform – to the nautical bookshop.

Kelvin Hughes was, at least so it advertised itself, the renowned repository of all things nautical and all nautical wisdom. Gleaming sextants, barometers, binoculars – all set around with weighty looking books with serious leather covers – everything from meteorology to ship construction, tide tables and seamanship and the Admiralty Sailing Directions spread before my eyes and sprinkled liberally with charts and brass dividers, protractors, parallel rulers, slide rules protruding from shiny leather cases – in short, the paraphernalia of the navigator.

I consulted my list – slide rules were not amongst the agreed items, but there and then I set my mind on having one – not that I had the slightest idea of what they did, much less how to use one.

The inside of the shop was like hallowed ground and I involuntarily lowered my voice as an assistant slipped from behind the counter to greet me in a businesslike manner.

This was no ‘Queen’, but a serious middle-aged man with his spectacles dangling on his chest by a blue cord and a conglomeration of coloured pens sticking out of his waistcoat pocket.

I only want the marked items, I said quickly handing him the list. Oh, I added rather timidly, and please include a slide rule as well thank you.

I felt a sense of relief that I got that out of the way first – I would need to face the consequences later I had decided.

Royal Mail was again going to do its duty and deliver my books, now in quite a pile on the glass topped counter, to my home in Exeter. In those days everything came by post and we had two deliveries each day including parcels.

I glanced at the spines of the books as they inched upwards. Of course I was excited, but at the same time extremely anxious, as I began to wonder if I would ever be able to understand them – especially the bulky Norrie’s Tables with its pages and pages of neat columns of figures under various headings – the only one familiar to me being ‘logarithms’ though I was barely on nodding terms even with those. I tried to concentrate, but somehow I seemed to be floating in some kind of ethereal state.

My daydreaming was interrupted by the voice of the assistant. The slide rules come in a red leather or a green leather case – which colour would you prefer Sir?

Oh I’ll have the green one thank you, I said without even thinking.

Now how are we paying for these today Sir? said the assistant, who I noticed had put on his spectacles and was looking down at an alarmingly long piece of paper – the invoice.

Well you should have an order from my school, I said slightly unsure of what precisely ‘an order for payment’ consisted of.

Is that the one from Wellington College?

Yes that must be it I think. There was a pause.

I’m afraid we’ll have to take that slide rule away – it’s not on the list and it exceeds the authority. I must have turned as red as a tropical sunset and I felt a pang of somehow being cheated.

Well we always have them in stock so I’m sure when you’re next in Town …

His voice tailed off rather sympathetically I thought, but the order form, which had been filled out by my House Master, with me looking over his shoulder anxiously, had the prices of each book alongside it and so there was a definite total, which obviously could not be exceeded – and certainly I had insufficient funds to pay for much else – other than a sandwich and a cup of tea for my lunch.

My next stop was the Dock Street Examination Centre, where I was to be photographed and issued with my British Seaman’s Identity Card and my Discharge Book, undergo an eye test and medical and generally be certified as fit for sea service.

It might have been thought that such essentials would have been carried out before the business of buying costly uniform, books and other necessaries. But the school, on my mother’s behalf no doubt, had taken the precaution of having me medically examined by the ‘in house’ doctor and my eyes thoroughly tested and in my pocket I had certificates to prove it.

Dock Street was a non-descript, typical East End street, full of dreary, mean-looking and extremely dirty houses, with a liberal sprinkling of equally dirty pubs. At that stage of my life I had only been into a couple of country pubs and looking through the open doors, these London pubs bore little resemblance to those.

The rain was coming down even harder now, as I made my way using the little map issued by the Shipping Federation, through what seemed to me indistinguishable, dirty, rubbish strewn streets, each one more depressing than the last, until finally I saw in front of me the ‘Mercantile Marine Office’, a place with which I would have a love-hate relationship throughout the years of my seagoing career, as the infamous London Exam Centre for Masters and Mates.

I pushed open the large glass doors. My appointment was at two o’clock, but I was fifteen minutes early. Timekeeping was certainly one thing that I had learned through my schooling and the importance of punctuality had been thoroughly drilled into me – so much so that if I was only five minutes early I would panic that I’d left insufficient time for whatever appointment I was to attend.

The large waiting area that I entered seemed full of young men, their heads deep in books and notebooks of various sizes, cigarette smoke hanging like a curtain, as they nervously turned pages and scribbled notes. They were waiting for the afternoon 2nd Mates’ examination and much later I would experience this same anxiousness - exam nerves as they call it.

I went up to the reception desk, where a bored looking clerk was idly flicking through the racing pages of the paper marking something off with a pencil.

My name is Murphy. I have a medical appointment at two o’clock, I said rather overcome by the crowd of young men, all dressed in varying items of clothing and all smoking nervously, but no one taking any notice of me.

Wait there Sonny, said the clerk barely looking up, but pointing with a deeply nicotine-stained finger towards a bench, around which about half a dozen of the young men were clustered talking animatedly.

I could hear snatches of conversation, but it was as if they were talking in a foreign language – something about celestial meridians, angles and amplitudes, hemispheres and ABC tables. They certainly were not going to move for me, so I stood, my back to the filthy window and tried to look nonchalant.

Now Sonny, said the white coated doctor, after I was led upstairs to a long room with a board at the end on which was written rows of letters, see what you can make of that – read the smallest ones first.

The doctor then sat at a small desk near the door, filling out some official looking forms. I started to panic – I couldn’t see anything – in fact I could hardly see the top line of letters.

I … I’m sorry Sir, I started, bu … but ... I don’t seem to be able to see anything today.

He looked up from his desk over the top of horn-rimmed glasses. He seemed weary, almost as if this was a chore for him – and perhaps being the Medical Officer for Merchant Navy Seamen, it was indeed not as glamorous as working at Barts or St Thomas’ and a long way down the scale from Harley Street.

Oh dear. Of course you can’t see anything sonny, you’re not standing on the line – move up – there – there where the second line is.

Ah. Thank you Sir, I said gratefully as the letters suddenly sprang into focus and I duly read the second line from the bottom with comparative ease and a corresponding feeling of relief.

Next came the colour test – green, red, yellow – not a clear yellow I recall, but more of a smoky yellow.

We don’t have yellow lights at sea son, do we? said the doctor.

No Sir, I said rather mystified, as it certainly looked yellow to me.

We only have white lights at sea – green, red and white, don’t we?

Yes Sir, I replied. Of course at that stage I did not have a clue what lights were or were not used at sea.

Looking back, I assume that he thought that I had been to pre-sea school, but my only experience to date had been a disastrous crossing of the Irish Sea, from Fishgard to Rosslare, when I had been violently and continually seasick.

This memory, which suddenly surfaced at this most inopportune time, pulled me up short and for the very first time since coming to London, I started to question my decision, which if truth be told was more of a whim than a decision, to go to sea at all.

But I could hardly retreat now and after all, I mused, my House Master had cheerfully told me that Nelson had been seasick all his life – so if it was good enough for him…

The rest of the medical was perfunctory – whether it had something to do with the bulky envelope that I handed over from the school doctor, I do not know, but next thing I was handed a chit on an official looking piece of paper torn from a pad on his desk.

Take this to the clerk down below, said the doctor and dressing quickly I thanked him and left the room with its high ceiling, fly-specked and grimy windows.

Chapter 3

Journey north

‘A pril 25 1961’ is the date stamped on my Discharge Book and my Seaman’s Identity Card, but I do not recall too much – except having to hold a number just above my waist at the Dock Street office where the photographer, complete with huge, old-fashioned camera on a large wooden tripod, dipped under a black shroud.

Satisfied, he gave a toothy grin. Ready Son – don’t smile you’re not at a party now.

Going to Sea: Peter’s British Seaman’s ID Card

The results – when I received the documents were plain for all to see – I looked as if I was an immature teenager about to be incarcerated in Borstal for some heinous youthful crime that I had committed – perhaps battering an old lady over the head - this despite the fact that I had only just had my eighteenth birthday.

And that was the end of the beginning so to speak. I now had less than two weeks to go before joining Harpalion and as each day passed with more and more parcels of my kit arriving, I grew alternatively more excited, but doubly anxious.

Each afternoon following the second postal delivery, I would lay out my kit in my little room at home overlooking the garden.

It was spring and the flowers were in bloom beneath the apple trees. Snowdrops and crocuses, daffodils and primroses. It was almost as if each time I looked, the magnet of the familiar drew me tighter and closer.

But there was an equal and opposite pull, when I glanced back at my uniform hanging on my wardrobe door and the alarmingly large stack of books laid out on my bed. They were all brand-new and I scarcely understood what their titles meant, let alone their dense content, replete with diagrams, complicated looking formulae and old-style black-and-white photographs.

Older style lifeboat davits and falls with belaying bollards, and on the page opposite, Modern lifeboat gravity davits with bowsing in gear in place.

I had not the faintest idea what was meant by any of this and turning to my Nicholls Principles of Celestial Navigation, I gave an involuntary shudder as each page seemed redolent with complex lines of meaningless figures and letters strung together in lengthy formulae.

I think my mother sensed my anxiety, which grew in inverse proportion to the diminishing time before I was to leave home ‘forever’.

No it’s not too late to say ‘No’ – we can always sell this kit second-hand. There must be hundreds of young boys who are dying to go to sea, said my mother hopefully. Now I know you don’t really want to go to sea – and besides you know that you are always seasick when you do.

This latter fact was a well-known family joke, trotted out at numerous and inappropriate intervals to embarrass me. So far as the former, I must admit I was wavering. Sensing a chink in my armour, my mother brightly said, I’ll have a word with Monica – I’m sure Bill will be able to find you a nice job in the bank or the council perhaps.

Monica Hallett was the wife of Bill, a highflying Exeter solicitor and aspiring candidate for mayoral office. But just as I found myself starting to waver and question my decision, I was saved by the postman.

A large, official looking brown envelope was in his hand. Too big to go in the letterbox ma’am, he said as my mother opened our heavy, studded front door.

Letter for… He squinted at the address as I crowded behind my mother. Cadet Peter Murphy, and I could see that the envelope bore the crest of J & C Harrison of London – the image of the badge on my cap band.

Thank you, I said and before the postman had reached the front gate, I was tearing the envelope open.

I sensed rather than saw that my mother realised that the battle was over.

Inside the envelope was a formal letter with a fresh railway warrant and instructions to join the Harpalion at the layby berth at Jarrow and Please return the earlier unused railway warrant to Captain Davis, on joining.

There was a sealed letter addressed to "The Master – m/v Harpalion at Jarrow," a timetable of trains from London Kings Cross to Newcastle and again from Newcastle to Jarrow.

Quickly re-reading my letter of appointment on the Company’s impressive letterhead, I was pleased to read just before the signature of John Reid - Managing Director the words, Finally we wish you well as you embark on your career at sea with us.

Well that sealed it both for my mother and myself and with less than three days to go, I busied myself each day packing and re-packing my suitcase and my bags.

However will I get all of this in? I mused to myself as I shifted things in and out of the overflowing case to see if I was able to conjure up any more space.

Now don’t forget you’re going to have to carry all of this – why don’t you leave some behind for the next time? said my mother helpfully.

I quickly reminded her that from my discussions with the photographer at the Dock Street office, I would be signing on for two years, unless the ship returned to England in the meantime.

My mother gulped and I realised that I had hurt her feelings – fine for me I was off on an adventure, but she on the other hand was remaining in Exeter.

It was as if time stood still, but then realising that something was amiss, raced forward and before I knew it, I was at the front door with the taxi waiting outside the gate, my suitcase, bags and an overnight satchel heaped around me.

Take care Peter – come home to me safely.

Goodbye Mum – I’ll write. We were both in tears and as I put my arm around my mother I realised how frail and alone she was in that moment.

I squared my shoulders and curtly brushed the tears with the sleeve of my uniform.

Is this the lot then? said the taxi driver. You off to sea then?

Oh, he’s joining the Merchant Navy, you know, interjected my mother.

It was dark, but I watched as the taxi pulled away and the front light was switched off.

I would not see my home again for over a year and a half – a time of intense seesawing of feelings and emotions, a time that propelled me from my sheltered life into the crucible of the real world.

For some reason, which I now cannot recall, the taxi arrived late at St. David’s Station, Exeter – the jumping off point for London, Paddington. By the time I had dragged my heavy suitcase and assorted bags along the platform, climbed the steps to the overhead bridge and then down the other side, because of course my platform was the one furthest away from where the taxis come in, the London train was just arriving, all sparks and steam.

I must have had a reserved seat in a second-class compartment – why else did I need to drag my assorted gear the length of the platform to board the train?

Inevitably my allotted space was the furthest end from where I was standing and as I opened the door to heave my luggage aboard, I could see the guard leaning out of a compartment towards the other end of the train impatient to be off.

Just in time a friendly figure in Royal Navy uniform leant out of the train Here you are Admiral – leave it to me - up you get.

The next thing I knew was that my luggage was neatly stowed, the train was off and I found myself in a carriage with half a dozen sailors in their smart naval uniforms. I hardly registered the passing of the outer suburbs of Exeter, such as they were at that time. All I knew was that it would be a long time before I saw Exeter again.

It turned out that my companions were also bound for London to