On the Nose

After one of the longest periods of settled weather for many years, the rain arrived today. As a gardener, I was delighted that it provided a welcome relief to plants which were at their last gasp, but as a sailor, I was sad that it brought strong winds and cool temperatures which delayed the start of our summer cruise. Every year, a small fleet sets out from Lydney Harbour and heads west. Although a sailing plan is always made, it is dependent on fine conditions and favourable winds, and in recent years has been cut short by heavy weather. Most of our group considered the forecast and decided to set out on Monday, rather than Saturday in the hope of avoiding slow progress down the Bristol Channel, which would have been hampered by a south-westerly wind ‘on the nose’. It set me to thinking about how many words and phrases in common usage today come from our double-edged relationship with the sea. For example, having once been on the rocks, the importance of being on an even keel is not lost on me. When we say we are feeling under the weather, it is thought to have been derived from when the passengers on a boat would go below decks, where the effects of the rough seas were felt less. As each of my children’s books features Dotty the Salty Sea Cat, no room to swing a cat seems an appropriate saying. One theory about its origin is that the entire ship’s company was required to witness flogging. The crew would move in close, so that the Bosun’s Mate might not have enough room to swing his cat o’ nine tails. Grandma and Billy O. often use nautical sayings in the stories. One of my favourites is three sheets in the wind, and is used by Billy O. when he is telling the story of The Intrepid Trotter Malloy:

“Many years ago,” he began, “a man named Jeremiah Malloy owned a farm near here. His land backed on to the river, not far down stream from the Old Harbour. He was known by some to be a ‘careful’ man, while others called him a miser and a skinflint. Well, whichever it was, he believed that a penny saved was a penny earned, so he spent his whole life trying to find ways to avoid spending his money, especially if he could spend that of others. “Now, it happened that he had a particularly fine pig that was ready to go to market, but he had no cart and did not want to pay anyone to take the animal to Gloucester for him, so he put his mind to finding the means of getting his prize pig to market in such a way that it would not cost him a penny. Try as he might, he could not think of any plan to save the expense, until on the day before the market was due to be held, he had a stroke of luck. He was on the road that led to the Old Harbour, when he met a captain, staggering and weaving along the path towards him. Farmer Malloy touched his cap and wished the man, ‘Good afternoon’. They stopped for a few moments to pass the time of day and it soon became obvious that the sailor was three sheets in the wind ...” Here I interrupted, as I had learnt to question both Billy O and my grandmother when they used strange sayings. I was always glad when I did, as sometimes they were funny, sometimes clever and sometimes downright confusing. “Three sheets in the wind?” Grandma’s voice came from the galley in response to my question. “Nothing to do with bed sheets,” she chuckled. “The lines that control the sails are called ‘sheets’. Drunken sailors would often forget to tie them off properly, so the sails would flap about. If you had three sheets wiggling and waggling, your ship would be out of control.” … “Well, anyway,” he continued, wishing to get on with the story, “during his conversation with the captain, Farmer Malloy learnt that the man would be sailing to Gloucester on the following morning. He bid the sailor ‘good day’ and went on his way, rubbing his hands together and chuckling all the way home. “Early next morning, he walked his prize porker to the Old Harbour and soon found the ship belonging to the man he had met on the previous day. ‘Good morning, Captain,’ he said. ‘I’m here as we arranged.’ “Well, the captain scratched his head, and a very sore head it was too, but he had no memory of any arrangement. Of course, he didn’t want to confess to being so drunk on the previous day, that he had forgotten their conversation, so he said nothing. “Farmer Malloy saw that he had the upper hand and pressed on, ‘Have you forgotten?’ he said. ‘We met on the pathway yesterday and you told me that you were bound for Gloucester today and would take me and my pig with you. I was amazed when you refused to accept any payment. Such generosity is hard to find and I did not wish to insult you by turning down such a kind offer, so here I am.’ “The captain looked hard at Farmer Malloy. His face looked familiar: he could even vaguely remember speaking to him on the pathway, but as to the nature of their conversation, he was at a loss. Although he liked a tot or two, he was a man of his word, and if he had made a promise to this man, he would have to carry it through. ‘Bring yon porker aboard,’ he said. ‘I hope he has his sea trotters, as there’s quite a swell today.’ “Even though the boat was still in the harbour, it was heavily laden and rolled and pitched, back and forth as they stepped on board. Farmer Malloy’s pig did not take to it and snorted and grunted, twisted and turned, while his owner struggled to hold him fast. Some said that it was more to do with the fact that the pig knew that the end of the journey would mean the end of him, while others blamed the unsteady deck. No one was quite sure what the real reason was, but what happened next has been told many times down the years. As the lock gates started to open, it caused the ship to lurch suddenly and the pig let out a loud squeal, broke free of the farmer’s hands and hurled itself into the water of the Outer Basin. It managed to squeeze through the small gap between the opening lock gates and swim straight out into the River Severn. Farmer Malloy raced to the North pier and looked on helplessly, as his pig made a run, or rather a ‘swim’, for it. Folk say that the pig’s turn of speed was so great, that it could’ve won a gold medal in the Olympic Games. There was nothing to be done. The farmer tried to persuade the captain to set out in pursuit, but there was not enough water and, knowing how dangerous the passage up river could be, the sailor refused, saying that he was afraid of running aground. All that Farmer Malloy could do was to watch the pig’s head bobbing up and down as it continued on its journey towards Gloucester, its trotters moving like the pistons of an old, steam train. No one saw that porker again, but for the rest of his days, Farmer Malloy could be seen walking the pathways beside the River Severn. As he did so, he would call out, ‘Trotter Malloy, Trotter Malloy’, but he never found his pig. When he was tired of walking, he would sit in the old shipyard, as near to the water as he could get and gaze out, hoping to see that round, pink head bobbing back downstream. Folk say that he was so upset at losing the price of the porker that he never recovered. He spent so much time searching for his pig, that he neglected his farm and it fell into ruin. When he died a few months later, everyone expected to discover a chest full of gold in his house, but there was not a penny piece to be found and he was given a pauper’s funeral. Some said he buried his miser’s hoard somewhere around these parts, but if he did, no one has ever found it.” At this point, Billy O drew close and continued in a low, and sinister voice, “Farmer Malloy died more than a hundred years ago, but they say that, when there’s a heavy swell on the river and the little boats rock to and fro and the moon turns the wave crests to silver, you can still hear him calling for his lost porker.” As he paused, we heard a voice, a cross between a loud whisper and a hollow echo, calling out, “Trotter Malloy, Trotter Malloy, where are you my prize porker?” Bob and I looked around us: There was no-one in sight. The voice sounded as if it had come from somewhere deep in the earth. It was then that I caught the twinkle in Billy O’s eye and started to suspect that Bob and I were being made fun of. Although Grandma had finished making the cup of tea, she had not reappeared on deck. I peered into the cabin below and saw no sign of her in the galley. However, in the space between the main cabin and the fore cabin I could see the dim outline of my grandmother. She was standing below the vent that led up from the sea toilet and onto the deck, where it was covered by a cowl. It was then that I realised that Farmer Malloy’s voice of doom was none other than my grandmother speaking into the pipe. By the time her voice had travelled up the funnel-shaped tube, through the cowl and out onto the deck, it had become a long, low, doleful cry. “Grandma,” I said, “that’s mean!” I don’t think we ever finished that cup of tea, as all four of us laughed and laughed until our sides ached, while Dotty looked on with her unblinking, golden eyes.