A YEARNING FOR BANANAS by Taria Karillion (2nd place, Apr24)

“NOT LIKE THAT, Y’EEJIT!” The bellowing was only half audible in the whistling wind. “Michael! … MICHAEL! … For the love of God will you STOP before you do yourself a mischief!”

I jerked back the blowlamp with a curse that my Ma, God rest her, would’ve clipped my ear for. My workmate pushed up his welding mask and wiped his furrowed brow with his wrist rag, muttering a string of colourful words of his own.

“Jesus, Mary and all the Saints, you nearly torched your own leg, there!” he shouted through the salty gusts. He shook his head and ran his hand over his salt and pepper chin. “What the divvel were you playing at there, lad? You should know well enough by now; a welder can’t go letting himself get distracted – especially not strung from a shipside at this bloody height! Wake UP, now, will you, eh? And for the love of God, go and get yourself a proper leather apron from the stores – today – or you won’t be seeing Christmas, never mind 1912!”

“Thanks, Seamus.” I nodded, clutching the bristly ropes and turned off the blowlamp, its long, fading hiss like an echo of my own trembling sigh of relief. I’d have crossed myself, but the cradle was swaying fit to bring breakfast back, likely all down the side of the freshly painted prow. And heaven knows I didn’t want to be getting myself into trouble with the painters – not twice in one week.

Seamus was right, of course; distractions were a deathly danger, to be sure. But I just couldn’t stop myself from glancing back across the dock again, for what felt like the hundredth time. Against the shipyard, sky and buildings – all equally grey and grimy – the brightly painted crates being unloaded from The Pride of Jamaica were little square nuggets of beautiful. Colours that would never be used in the front parlour, even; exotic and thrilling and vivid against the Guinness-coloured arms of the men lugging them. The sight gripped me with a fascination I was embarrassed to admit to. What was it like where they came from? Anything but grey, I’d wager. They’d told me one time about the trees and birds and wildlife and music, and my mind had been in half a trance over it for days. Ever since then I kept thinking, what if –

“MICHAEL! … Daydreaming again, is it? For heaven’s sake get your head straight, lad!” Seamus’ frowned, but his expression softened as he followed my gaze.

“Ah, c’mon with you, let’s call it lunchtime.” Seamus pointed with outstretched arm. “Help me winch us over into the lee of the prow, there, will you? There’ll be a sight more shelter over there than down on the quay today and no mistake.” I put down my mask and pulled my cap firmly down over my ears, dulling the insistent sounds of the riveters and seagulls and distant carols. Crouching into the lee of the bow, we huddled ourselves onto upturned pails.

In my lap, brown paper hid a brown, buttered crust, a brown boiled egg, and a dull, brown russet apple.

“Here we go again…” I heard myself sigh.

Seamus was oblivious, as ever, reading a flapping newspaper and muttering about unionism and Home Rule and the like. I understood the grievances and the resentment and all the talk of what should or shouldn’t be done, but it was all so angry, and I was tired of hearing about it.

“I … I’ve been thinking, lately.” I looked up at Seamus, trying to gauge his mood … “I might emigrate… maybe to Jamaica?” I ventured. “Now my apprenticeship’s finished?”

Seamus put the newspaper down and looked at me with narrowing eyes. I took a deep breath and carried on before he could say anything.

“Don’t be letting on to the gaffer yet, though, eh? … I might see if I can get passage of one with the Caribbean crews – all that lugging can’t be too hard if they’re singing half the day like they do.”

“Shows what you know, lad,” he mumbled through a mouthful of pie. “Those fellas work far longer hours than we do, and for far less pay, poor blighters… And them’s hymns they’re singing – I think it keeps ‘em sane, God bless ’em. … Anyway,” Seamus gave me an odd look, like I’d just grown a second head or something, “what’s so bad about having yourself a nice, steady life here?”

   “Oh Seamus, it’s …ok, I suppose.” I felt my shoulders slump like I’d put on a rain-sodden coat. “But you should hear the stories! Kingston, New Orleans, New York, they all sound so grand… so exciting and sunny and bursting with life, and …and colour! Even their food – have you seen the exotic fruit? … I really like those peculiar, curvy yellow ones…”

“Bananas?”

“Aye, bananas! They’re like…  little slices of sunshine!”

As if to emphasise the point, it started to rain. Heavily. I looked up at the sky and wondered for a moment if the good Lord was having a wee chuckle at my expense.

A shrill whistle brought me back from my daydream. A girl’s voice was calling through the dockside hubbub and my insides did a flip like a pancake on Shrove Tuesday.

“DA! …You forgot your tobacco, Da! … Lower a pail and I’ll send it up for you!”

It was Seamus’ daughter Kathleen, looking a real picture in the Sunday best ribbons that she usually saved for Mass – their vivid green as striking as the long, burnished copper curls they held. She waved up at us, smiling that beautiful, sunny smile. Knowing how fiercely protective of his only daughter Seamus was, though, I didn’t dare wave back or answer, but I just couldn’t stop myself from grinning like a fool. It was contagious, that beam of hers, and – same as every time before – the bubbling in my insides was like a stew pot on a brazier.

To my utter surprise, Seamus tapped my boot sharply with his own.

“Well? …” He chewed on his empty pipe and squinted at me with a half-smile.

“Go on and wave back, lad! … Or did you think I didn’t know it was you as bought her those ribbons?”

My lungs felt like they were fighting each other for a moment, and maybe it was the sway of the cradle, but my stomach threw itself into the fray too.

Seamus hauled up the pail and loaded his pipe bowl, addressing it more than me.

“…Well, I did know, and any decent man who spends a whole week’s wages on Mrs Shaughnessy’s overpriced fripperies on the quiet like that is worth a dinner invite in my book, so there you go. You can thank our gossiping gasbag grocer for it.”

He took a slurping gulp of his tea, and we waved Kathleen off. She smiled up at me… and for a moment I lost track of where I was. The shock that her Da might let me court her made me grin so much it hurt.

“So, Michael, when you’ve finished your Cheshire cat impersonation, you’ll join us? … Sunday? After Mass? Nothing fancy, mind, though herself’ll be making a cake most likely… What do you say? Oh, and maybe…” He waved his pipe at me and gave me an odd look. “Maybe think twice about haring off on a boat? Eh? The missus will be laundering hankies ‘til kingdom come if you up and vanish on us. Understood?”

“I – I… I’d be honoured, Seamus!” I finally managed to blurt out, despite the burning in my cheeks and my head feeling like I was on a seesaw. “I will… thanks!” I had precious few reasons to stay, but the lovely Kathleen was top of the list. And I think he knew it.

“I think I’ll be getting myself down to the barber’s later on,” I murmured, smiling and rubbing my head.

“Pffft! You won’t be going anywhere but the Gaffer’s hut for an earful of choice words  if you don’t sort that thing out.” Seamus held out his arm and waggled his pipe at the sky. “Mind you fit this one right this time, though, eh, lad? He’ll swing for you if you put another one on the wrong way round!”

I stared up at the five-foot-high painted letter hanging from the approaching hoist – I’ve never been too good with letters and spelling and such – thank the Lord Seamus noticed. We heaved it into place and watched the riveters fix it down.

“That’s one big’C’ there,” Seamus smiled. “But it’ll look tiny from the quayside when she goes.”

I nodded. I don’t think I’ll be too sad to see her off without me now.

God bless you and all that sail in you, Titanic.