Friday morning with the Marines

"Ain't much else needs doin', that's important," Foley replied. "Finish tidyin' up his cabin, sew up his other coat, and see to our own kit."

Well, that was good then, especially if he wasn't going to come under the officer's personal supervision - well, apart from at dinner, he wasn't. "What'd he do to his other coat?" he asked, curious, wishing he'd brought something up topside apart from just his crossbelt.

"Caught the sleeve on somethin'," Foley answered. "Neat little tear in it, just on the seam. Ain't hard to set right, really."

McEwen made a face. "For our own jackets, maybe. Dunno's I wanna try sewin' an officer's!"

"Me neither," Oxley agreed. Officers' jackets were so bright, after all. They must cost a fortune - and Oxley was sure to make things worse rather than better, if he was told to repair one.

He twisted his fingers together for a moment. "Don't you... Don't you mind bein' a officer's steward, though, Mikey? Havin' to look after Mister Cartwright's stuff as well as your own? You must be awful busy alla the time when you... when there ain't someone like me bin tole to help you."

The steward shrugged. "Ain't so bad. Just takes some careful balancin' of time, is all. I still stand watches like everybody else, and all the rest. Balancin' time and knowin' how to get both our kits looked after at once."

"For sure I couldn't do it." Oxley shifted till he was sitting cross-legged, and looked down at the crossbelt in his lap. He really should have brought something else up here to do. He tapped the deck idly, grinning as he realised he was beating 'Quarters' on the deck planking. His wrist still ached, a little, though it wasn't as bad as he'd thought it was going to be. It wasn't so noticeable as his black eye, either. That was going to last for a bit.

"Just takes practise," Foley told him. He looked idly up at the sky and shrugged. "C'mon. It's near enough time we was going back below. Still got work to do, boyo. Unlike the rest of you lot."

(OOC - Oops. )

Oxley gathered his things together and scrambled up. Today was turning out to be easy, but there was a thought in the back of his mind that it shouldn't be, especially in comparison with the brat De Guarde's, because they were both being punished for that same thing. He just wasn't sure when the hammer would fall, and it was making him a little nervous.

Though he was going to be waiting table for Mister Cartwright later, and that wasn't going to be as easy as helping Foley with the officer's laundry had been.

There was that coat still in need of mending, and the cabin would want tidying again. Some day, he'd get his officer trained so he didn't turn the cramped little space into a mess every time he was in it. Foley clattered down the ladder with deliberate noise and was rewarded by an annoyed bark from Shriver, who had, apparently, just finished scrubbing the worn steps. Served the idiot right, didn't it?

"Now that, boyo," Foley commented as he ducked into the wardroom, "is as fine a sight as ever I've seen. Never knew a messdeck could shine so, eh?"

Oxley hurried down the ladder, careful not to miss his footing. He tried not to grin when he realised Shriver had just finished scrubbing it. Oops. He looked around. The messdeck didn't look any different to usual in his opinion, apart from all the sea-chests that were pushed to the sides of the ship.

"Does look good, Mikey," he said, and dodged the scrubbing brush that Shriver threw in his direction.

Foley snorted a laugh when the scrubbing brush went sailing past. "Guess he ain't appreciative that we noticed his hard work!"

Behind them, Corporal Johnson could be heard snapping irritably at Shriver for being an idiot.

"He don't like me much anyhow," Oxley said. "Shifted me mess an' hammock space 'cause of him, a few months gone." And it had been a bit of a pain to arrange that because, while the men were entitled to change their messes every month, boys weren't.

He shrugged. "I was comin' off duty and he thought I was in his way so he took a swing at me and knocked me inta the damn mast." He indicated the thick mainmast where it passed through the deck. "Hit the mast with me shoulder an' ended up hardly bein' able to wear me crossbelt without the drum clipped to it, even." He glanced at Foley with a wry grin. "He's a mean sod, Shriver is. I jus' try to stay outta his way, these days. If I can."

"Aye, I can see him doin' that. Brainless brute that he is." Foley ducked into his officer's cabin and sighed. "Be nice if he learned to tidy up after himself better, even a little."

Oxley shrugged. "He's an officer, ain't he? Don't need to tidy up after hisself 'cause he's got you to do it for him." He glanced around the tiny cabin, which was still far more space than he himself had. "His stuff ain't gettin' in anyone else's way in here, after all. Not like it would if it was you or me, out there." He indicated the messdeck at large with his thumb.

"True," the steward admitted. "But he's said more'n once how he wants to make an effort at it. I'd just wish he'd go and actually do it."

Despite his grumbling, he stooped to retrieve a dampened shirt that had somehow found its way back onto the deck. Some day, he'd get his officer properly trained!

The drummer grinned. "You nag at him often enough, he'll sort hisself out, if only to get you shurrup," he said, and looked around. "You said summat 'bout his other jacket needin' lookin' at? Don't s'pose there's anythin' I can do to help."

"Thought about that," Foley said thoughtfully. "Might try it. But aye, he's got a jacket needs sewin'. Got a tear in the sleeve."

He folded the damp shirt loosely and set it aside, then moved to fish out his canvas-wrapped sewing kit from the sea-chest. "If you're a good hand with a needle, you're more'n welcome to it."

"I can try," Oxley said doubtfully. "Though it mightn't be quite as good as you do it, of course." He shrugged apologetically. "I'll do me best, though."

Foley offered the little canvas bundle. "Can't ask a lad for more'n that. It ain't a very great tear neither."

It helped too that the tear was on the underside of the sleeve. The stitching could end up being the worst in the world and it would not matter as much.

"You... you sure?" Oxley asked, nervously accepting the little bundle of sewing implements. "I mean... it's an officer's coat an' all." And thus of a far finer quality than he was used to.

"Aye. Just think of it like it's a shirt you're patchin' up. Mind where you put the needle an' it'll be fine."

"If you's sure," Oxley repeated, settling down on the deck and folding his legs. He didn't want to get the Lieutenant's expensive jacket dirty, after all. He bit a length of thread off the reel and concnetrated on threading the needle, before bending his head over the jacket, nervous about doing something awful to it by mistake.

Foley grinned as he set to work tidying up the cabin. Again. "Worst can happen is you do a crooked stitch," he said lightly.

"Mhm," Oxley said, wishing he was better at sewing. Getting his own uniform repaired badly paled in comparison with possibly ruining the Lieutenant's jacket. Though if it went wrong, he could always pull it out and re-do it.

"Here, how's this look?" he asked after a few minutes, holding it out for Foley to inspect.

"Well done, boyo," the steward told him after looking the stitches over. "That'll hold, 'less he goes catchin' his sleeve on somethin' again."