Tuesday 7 November 2017

NaNo '17 Part 5

Final character introduction! This is actually the character that featured in the earliest plan I wrote for this and we also get to hear the titular last forecast...

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 – Dean –

The room rocked very gently. It was not an unpleasant sensation, but that still did not make him feel better about where he was. He heard the creak of metal and wood, the slap of heavy net on the deck. Not quite as loud as usual. This wasn’t such a good spot to fish today, then. He knew very little about fishing; netter to just lie back and stare at the low roof. The radio babbled quietly in the background, but he was only half-listening to that. Communications Officer was his over-important title. It simply meant running messages.

The timer on the radio ticked over and the volume increased automatically.
‘…there now follows the shipping forecast issued by the Met Office on behalf of the Maritime and Coastguard Agency at 0520 today…’
Dean groaned. He was needed.
‘…Viking, North Utsire, South Utsire, Forties, Cromarty, Forth, Tyne, Fisher, Dogger, Humber. South veering southwest 3 or 4. Occasional showers. Good, becoming moderate later. German Bight. Southerly 4 or 5. Good. Thames, Dover, Wight…’
Where was the damn pencil? He span on the spot.
‘…Biscay, Trafalgar, FitzRoy. Southwest gale 8 to storm 10. Rain, then squally showers…’
‘Three or four. Three or four. Three or ah -! Fucking four!’ He had stubbed his toe on a locker door.
‘…Rockall, Malin, Hebrides. Southwest 4 or 5, occasionally 6 later. Moderate or good.’
He had it at last! Grasping the virtually flat pencil, Dean leant over and tapped the switch. The set fell silent half way through ‘Faeroes.’ He scribbled 3 or 4 into the log and sprawled back into the folds of the duvet. It stank of fish. Everything stank of fish. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to it, though his father repeatedly told him that he would. His father liked repeating things. Get a job, Dean. Get a girlfriend, Dean. Get off your lazy arse and learn to drive, Dean.
Get out of my sight, Dean.
Dean pummelled the pillow with the back of his head. Yeah, like that guy didn’t sit there getting fatter every single fucking day on his early retirement nest egg he never stopped fucking going on about. Besides, Dean liked walking. When he wasn’t out at sea, doing this awful job, or tucked away in his room, he was out walking.
It had always been this way, for as long as Dean could remember. People assured him that the town by the coast he called home had once been impressive, even if her absolute glory days had been in Victorian times. He had no idea how long ago that might have been, because the place was awful these days.
The promenade was weather-worn, the pier had been closed down for being unsafe ten years ago, and every week, another business went under.

‘Count yourself bloody luck you’ve got a job, sunshine.’
That was what his father had said at breakfast on Saturday. He didn’t know why he was still expected to be at the dining table for breakfast at the weekends. He would much rather sit in his room, munch peanut butter on toast, and surf YouTube. Instead, he was summoned by a bell and called if he did not trudge downstairs within a minute.
And what a job it was. He didn’t know what sort of jobs people had done in the past, but he figured nobody had ever been paid to do the utterly meaningless tasks he did. Relaying the contents of the shipping forecast was possibly the most exciting of the three or four responsibilities he had. They wouldn’t have put out to sea if it was too rough, because the local boat yards were all folding, meaning the captain couldn’t get much maintenance done anyway. He had seen news reports about the coastguard budget being slashed again, recently. On stormy nights, better not to risk the ship that supported ten people, even if it meant no catch and no pay. Better that than ten funerals.

Dean sighed and got up. He had to deliver two numbers to the captain. Two numbers. This was apparently worth his very meagre salary. All part of the hoops people had to jump through these days in the Great British Revival. As he clambered up the short ladder, he amused himself with the thought that he was just a number in the government’s much vaunted employment figures. Everything really was alright. Nobody needed to panic. This was just a realignment in the economic priorities. More people were in employment than ever before, was the official line, and his father thought this was a jolly good thing. Except, when a piece of news told him the opposite, in which case it was a very bad thing.

He swung the hatch back and stepped out into a cold, grey dawn. The first couple of times, he had been reasonably impressed by the sight of the waves all around them and the perfect sky above, but it was freezing cold and he had no wish to hang about upstairs. He made the very short trip to the bridge, doing his best to avoid all eye contact with the trawler’s crew. He knew why they hated him, of course, but decrees from on high about full employment  were not the sort of thing businesses could ignore these days. Dean had heard about employment subsidies, but all he understood that to be was a bribe.
‘Workshy,’ was the least worst insult he heard from the trawler men as he hurried to the door. He had stopped feeling sorry for himself a long time ago; it was either this or fruit picking, and nobody wanted fruit picking. He tapped on the open door frame and cleared his throat.
‘Come in, lad,’ the captain rumbled. He was the only person on board who treated Dean with any respect, but since it was his boat and his crew, he couldn’t ever be on hand to always look out for the new kid. ‘Got the numbers for us?’
‘Yes, captain,’ Dean said, gazing at a point somewhere around the captain’s boots.
‘Chin up, Dean,’ the captain remarked, looking over his shoulder from the wheel. ‘It’s a fine day. A three, I’d say?’
‘T-three or four,’ Dean corrected. He liked the captain, but knew he couldn’t waste his time. Not when there were quotas to meet. Dean didn’t know whether they were meeting them or not. Nobody spoke to him except the captain, and that was only to pass the time of day, really.
‘Well, well…’ the captain mused. ‘A possible four. My eyes must be getting old. And the direction?’
‘S-south. South veering southwest,’ Dean replied.
‘Good, good. We’re set fair.’
‘If that’ll be all, captain…?’ Dean ventured and the older man nodded and smiled. Dean excused himself and headed back for the lower deck, but he nearly ran headlong into the first mate.
‘Delivered your precious numbers, have you?’ Dean did not reply, and tried to sidestep, but the first mate waylaid him. ‘Worth a slice of all our money, was it? What was it today, one number or two? Not like we don’t fucking well know what we’re doing out here.’
‘Please, can I just go back to the cabin?’ Dean muttered, barely meeting the cold stare of the first mate, who laughed unpleasantly.
‘Yeah, go on, run back and do no sodding work. And maybe when you get down to the job centre next month you can tell them we don’t need any more idiots telling us how many people we need to employ!’
‘Mr Carson,’ the captain called from the bridge. ‘A word.’
Carson leered at Dean once more, then stalked off to answer the summons. Dean steadied himself; he had been pushed almost against the rail by the first mate. He sucked in the cold salt air and strode purposefully towards the hatch again, hoping that nobody else would intercept him.
Nobody did, and he soon found his way down into the cabin again. The radio had turned itself on again, but he didn’t turn it off this time.
 

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