Kitchen-work

What sort of mad place of torment was this? Tide Evans stared around the kitchen, wide-eyed, afraid to touch anything. He had wandered in from outside, after being chased half a cable by a scruffy yapping dog.

The big box behind him started humming suddenly and Evans nearly leapt through the ceiling. As it was, his startled jump saw him landing half on the tile counter, which scattered various things everywhere.

"Sufferin'... what the blazes... oi!" Evans sprang off the counter when he realised he had knocked over a tin of something brown and smelly.

"Careful wi'that!" exclaimed a reproachful voice behind him. Paul Perry had entered the kitchen just in time to see the precious powdered coffee spilled on the floor. "Quick, scrape it up before anyone catches you. Get a spoon from one o' them draws. Or one o' those flat little shovels, that thing," he suggested, pointing his fork at an old metal spatula.

"A what?" Evans asked, looking for a spoon in stupid bewilderment. "What the soddin' hell is it?"

"It's a shovel! Ain't ya ever seen a shovel afore? Scoop it up!"

Daft thing to do with a pile of brown powdery stuff, Evans thought, reluctantly grabbing a ladle. It looked almost like coarse gunpowder. Only brown and smelly.

"What the hell is it?" He asked again, scooping up a ladle-full to dump back into the tin.

"What, that stuff? It's for drinking," Perry answered as he helped scoop it up from the floor. "Don't ask me, mate. Officers like to mix it in their water. I don't know. Ends up looking more like something you spit out." He paused with his spoonful halfway to the tin and then grinned. "You wanna try it?"

For drinking?

"Nope," he replied and dumped another ladle of powder into the tin. "Officers drink such daft stuff. Ain't proper."

He waved a hand at the kitchen around them. "Don't half know what's what in this place. Ain't even been here a full bell yet."

Perry shrugged. "Me neither. Don't know what we're doin' here for, but I reckon it ain't my problem. Seems to be food and drink enough, and a good fire over yonder," he said, nodding to the door that led into the next room. "And the company could be worse. Even seen a few women here," he added with a wink. "So what be your name, mate? What ship?"

At the mention of food, Evans perked up. He hadn't eaten since breakfast. Maybe he'd find something edible in one of those tins.

"Evans, quartermaster. Off Terpsykore," he replied. "Yours?"

Perry's responded with either a smile or a smirk, difficult to judge which. "Perry. Been pressed onto Terpsykore but my home's in 'Porto, and that's where I'll be heading, soon as I can get my bearings here."

"Pressed, eh." Evans knew what that felt like. "Well. Takes some gettin' on, I s'pose. Navy's cleaner'n the whalin' fleet, anyways."

He scraped another ladle of powder up and frowned. "They got anythin' worth eatin' 'round here?"

"Found some o' these crunchy things," Perry replied, handing over a half-eaten packet of crisps. "They're bits o' fried potato. I could eat 'em forever. Better than 'bacca, if you can believe it! But, the whalin' fleet?" He abandoned the coffee, kicking the rest of the powder under the stove and helping himself to a chair. "Where all'd you go in the whalin' fleet?"

Crunchy things? Evans picked up the tin of brown powder and made sure the cover was on securely before setting it back on the counter. He poked at the packet Perry held out to him, then took it and fished out a flat, oval-like piece. Fried potato. He'd never heard of such a thing. But it was good, he thought, after taking a sample taste.

"We went all over," he replied. "But down 'round Cape Horn, mostly. Far south. I got took by the Press not a day after draggin' ashore, after Crescent cracked up."

Another couple bits of fried potato disappeared into his mouth. "These ain't half bad. What'd you do in Porto that got you prest?"

"I live in 'Porto with my wife and her pa. We sell wine. Coupla Terpsies nabbed me 'cause I spoke English, but that don't make me English! I'm an American, which they woulda found out if they'd asked anyone." Perry was still highly resentful about the whole affair. "Whereabouts you from, then? Where'd the Crescent sail from? And what do you mean, cracked up? Was she broken on the rocks or somethin'?"

Evans finished off the last of the fried potatoes and scraped his fingers over the inside of the crinkly packet before licking them clean. "Mebbe that's half it right there," he observed. "Can't be too many bodies in Porto what speaks the King's English. I'm Welsh meself. They got any more of these fried potatoes lyin' about?"

He tossed the empty packet aside, turning his attention to the array of tins and boxes on the counter. Each one got an experimental shake until he found one that sounded promising.

"Pink wafers...?" He tried one. "That ain't half bad. Anyways. Crescent sailed outta Plymouth. She was not more'n half a day's run off from there when she broached-to and went divin'. Nasty bad storm. " He shrugged. "She was carryin' a fair load in the hold. Tidy bit of pay lost with her, but that's the way of it."

Oxley pushed open the kitchen door, on the hunt for something to eat, and paused as he saw two Tars inside.

"Oh. 'Scuse me." He noticed the packet one of them was holding. "See you found the pink wafers, Mister Evans. The'ms real tasty, them is." He looked down, suddenly abashed that he'd barged uninvited into someone else's conversation. "Um, well. Sorry I interrupted. Was jus' lookin' for summat to eat, meself. I'll be quiet, though."

"Is they?" Evans asked, surprised but not put off by the Marine's entry. "What else is there to be eaten in here?"

And he offered the packet of pink wafers.

"Cheers," he said, accepting a couple of the unnaturally bright pink biscuits. "There's some bread round here somewhere, I seen that." He frowned and crossed to the counter, opening one of the cupboards. "Ah. Here. An' there some butter - or summat very like it... in here, I think." He opened the cold box and pulled out a tub of something that looked like butter. "Jus' spread that on your bead, an' you'll be fine, he said, shrugging, retreating to perch on the kitchen table.

Bread and butter? Evans opened the tub the Marine had produced and sniffed cautiously.

"It ain't rancid," he said with some surprise.

"We's ashore, y'know," Oxley said in surprise. Belatedly, he realised that the Tar he was addressing was no common sailor: he was a quartermaster, and that meant he deserved some respect. "Sir," he added hastily, and shut up.

"So we is," Evans agreed, swiping a finger into the tub of butter. "Mhh. Better'n ship's butter, ain't it? Bread's over here, you said..."

He wandered over to the opened cupboard, not paying mind to the Marine's deference. "What manner of place is this, anyhows?"

Oxley winced as Mister Evans swiped at the butter with his fingers. "It's a... kind of a tavern. Only we don't have to pay nothin', an' we get to do what we want. There's all sorts of magic-lookin' things. Like... you can boil water for a cuppa tea without lightin' the galley stove." He pointed to the kettle. "On'y, you need to make sure the lid's closed right, or it'll boil dry."

A tavern... funniest looking tavern he'd ever seen.

"Ain't possible," Evans remarked, fetching a piece of bread and using his short knife to smear butter onto it. "Can't do nothin' without lightin' the galley stove."

"Um... it is, though," Oxley said, hoping he wasn't risking getting clouted round the head, or something. He shifted off the table and crossed to where the kettle was, lifting it off its base to fill it from the tap, setting it back on its base, pressing the lid to make sure it was closed, and then pressing the button so the red light came on.

"You want a cuppa tea?" he asked, opening a cupboard and pulling out a box of tea-bags.

"Wha'bout one o' them Pete's things - that bread with red sauce on it, and cheese and all," Perry asked, his eyes aglow. "Can you cook them without a galley stove? You gotta try it, Evans. It's like a great flat pie."