Page 236 - Michael Frost-Voyages to Maturity-23531.indd

that ultimately her impeccable taste would prevail. But I could only wait and see
the game played out. Meanwhile, motherhood had its own game. Mother asked
me “But will she have you?” followed by, “She’s a bit strong-willed, isn’t she!”
(which I thought a bit ripe coming from her!).

On the basis of there being no immediate reason to change my plans, I set
about developing a future life for myself. The first thing that I did was apply for a
university place. One needed at least two ‘A’ Levels to obtain a position, but I felt
that my tickets were sufficient for me not to be turned down out-of-hand. That
did not happen, but the actual impediment was more serious. After writing to the
UCCA, I was advised, as indeed David had told me, that by applying in March
I had precluded getting any place for at least a year and a half; applications were
taken only as early as October for the following October! As I would therefore be
nearly twenty-seven when I might get a place, and therefore be a spent intellectual
force, I felt myself snookered. Other plans had to develop, though now at least
from a secure job situation.

The commute to London was not a journey that I much appreciated. The
daily train originated in Hastings, and I caught it at a very small country station
that resulted in seventy-minute journey to Cannon Street. Although I usually
managed to get a seat, the train atmosphere was distinctly humanoid, especially
on rainy days, and from having an insufficiency of news, I actually had a surfeit
of time to consume the Daily Telegraph.

But the job was not too bad at all. I was taking over from another fellow of
my seniority (John Smith, I’ll call him) as he had found a job near his home,
and I quickly came to realise that there wasn’t really a full-time position here, it
comprising scheduling for various ships, giving ‘expert’ advice to the legal boys
in the event of accidents or claims, preparing ‘sailing orders’ for ships as they
were about to sail off into the blue yonder, and ordering bunker fuel for the big
ships as requested by their Chief Engineers. I was under the direction of Captain
Sperling, a charming old salt with many years of seagoing experience who usually
fell asleep in the afternoon following a pub lunch (oh yes, and P&O provided
lunch vouchers in sufficient amount to get a pork pie and a pint every day;
excellent idea, I thought), he in turn being under the direction of Mr Mackenzie,
a director who had probably seen at least seventy-five summers, but a nice old
fellow anyway. Captain Dunkley was also above us, an éminence grise with, I
thought, an unmerited reputation for gruffness.

John and I almost immediately found ourselves with a new and significant task.
As I had earlier understood, there was increasing difficulty in finding adequate
use for the big white ships. The Boeing 707, already mentioned, and the faster
general pace of life were in any event contemporary shipping problems, but the
closure of the Suez Canal had magnified time and bunkering issues, destinations

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