Wanted: Pearl Diver
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Some mild ones.
Description: Pearl diving isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Swearwords: Some mild ones.
Description: Pearl diving isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Sinky was fed up, more fed up than usual because his old man had moved his new woman in and already they had crossed swords.
At twenty years of age Sinky felt he was on the scrap heap. His dole money didn't go far after he'd paid his old man some rent and jobs were a bit thin on the ground. When he'd complained about the amount his old man demanded, he was told, rather bluntly, to piss off out of it and see how well he could manage without a roof over his head. He didn't complain again but he was fed up.
There was an offer on the table, and it was becoming ever more tempting as he mulled it over. Easy money, a robbery, in and out with the dough and the simplest of getaways. Danny Maltings had it all worked out although he was keeping the details to himself. Sinky had until Thursday to think about it and today was Tuesday, signing on day at the Job Centre.
The only employment Sinky had known since leaving school at sixteen was a six month stint at the Post Office on a YTS ticket; that's Youth Training Scheme to you and me, and Sinky didn't have fond memories of his time there, or at least of how it ended. For a start, his wage at the end of the week was only slightly better than what the dole paid. The work had been fine, not hard if you didn't mind walking, and Sinky had buckled down to it; always punctual, always polite and always willing to ask the right type of questions concerning the job. Six of them started, five of them saw out the six months so-called trial period and three of them ended up with permanent jobs, but not Sinky. Not that his face didn't fit, not that he hadn't impressed his shift leader and not that he wasn't the best candidate but for the simple fact that the chosen three all had relatives within the industry and strings had been pulled.
Almost two years on and the situations vacant board hadn't changed much, with at least twenty of the local unemployed applying for each new position and perhaps only a quarter of these reaching the interview stage.
“Ronald Sinclair?”
Sinky snapped to attention when his Sunday name was called out, and headed for cubicle number two as a matter of some habit.
“Have you had any form of paid employment since you last signed?” asked the sour faced woman before he had even sat down.
Sinky resisted the urge to crack wise on her, she had most likely heard it all before and besides, it was no longer funny. “No,” was all he said.
“What have you done to seek employment in that time?”
“Job Centre visits, local papers, national papers, visits to local industries and general ear to the ground stuff.” All quoted from memory.
“I see. Have you checked today's situations vacant board?”
“Is it any different from yesterday's?” He couldn't help himself with that one and he could see she hadn't been expecting it. A deep intake of breath gave her time to compose herself.
“You were in here yesterday?” Was all she could come up with.
“Every day,” lied Sinky, sensing she was a little bit rattled and warming to his task, “sometimes twice a day. I would come in on the weekends but you don't open Saturday/Sunday, do you?”
“Well, no, we don't work weekends. We do get time off, you know.”
“Try having every minute of every day off; and if that's not enough, try coming in here once a fortnight to go through this humiliation,” hissed Sinky, picking up his signed and stamped dole card and vacating the cubicle.
One step outside the Job Centre and Sinky ducked back in. Danny Maltings was heading up the street and he would be looking for an answer to his offer. Sinky wasn't in the mood for him at all.
He turned towards the daily situations vacant board just as Sara, his second cousin who was doing her YTS at the Job Centre, slipped a new card onto the board.
“Hi, Sinky,” said Sara, “can't stop, my boss is watching me.”
Sinky merely nodded to acknowledge Sara's presence, his eyes now fixed on the card she had slotted to the board directly at eye level. He couldn't believe what he was seeing but, after a quick glance around the room, he snatched the card from its moorings and tucked it into a pocket.
The card was hand written, which meant it was as fresh as could be and the time hadn't yet been taken to type it up like the others. This meant that Sinky was the first jobseeker to see it, which was also the reason he had pocketed it, making it entirely possible that he would be the first and perhaps only applicant for the position.
‘Wanted: Pearl Diver’, it read, ‘split shifts’, setting in motion a somewhat exotic train of thought to Sinky's mind. He was a better than average swimmer, a confident diver and available at a moment's notice. The split shifts would most likely be on account of the tides.
The card carried a local phone number and mentioned the Portobello Hotel out on the coast road; a huge establishment which had recently been refurbished and was swiftly regaining something of its once famous reputation, the glory days of old. Presumably, to Sinky's thinking, this was where the interviews would take place.
With nowhere else to be, Sinky pointed himself in that direction, foreseeing from memory a good forty/forty five minute walk ahead of him. No matter, it was a lovely Spring day.
An hour and some twenty five minutes later Sinky negotiated the revolving door and stepped into the plush foyer of the Portobello Hotel, his jacket tucked under one arm having been removed some time earlier. His intention had been to first find a toilet, a rest room in order that he could splash his face, comb his hair and glug some water from the tap but he had already been spotted.
“Can I help you?” asked a male voice, its owner partially hidden behind the small reception desk.
“Pearl diving,” said Sinky, approaching the desk, “who would I see about the pearl diving, please?”
“Ah! That was quick. If you could just give me a second I'll ............”
At that a girl, a young lady, kicked her way through an adjoining swinging door carrying two steaming mugs. “Sorry about that, Brian,” she said, “little problem with housekeeping. Thanks for looking after the desk. I brought you a coffee.”
“Not a problem, Carla,” said Brian, giving up the seat and stepping beyond the desk to join Sinky. He was wearing chef's check trousers. “I caught up with some paperwork at last.”
Turning to Sinky, he asked would he like a coffee and had Carla send it through to the staffroom.
“Follow me,” he said, leading the way. “I didn't expect anyone so soon.”
Sinky tried not to let his confusion show and did as he was asked.
“So,” said Brian, pointing to a chair opposite himself at the table, “you saw the position advertised in the Job Centre?”
“Yes, that's correct,” answered Sinky, lowering himself into the chair. “I thought I'd jump the gun a bit and maybe get here at the head of the queue.”
“I like that. Shows initiative. So, do you have any catering experience at all ….....?”
Sinky's coffee arrived at that moment, further allowing him to cover his confusion.
“Thanks, Jean,” said Brian. “Could you let me know when that delivery arrives, please?”
“Sure, Brian,” said the girl, placing the mug in front of Sinky.
“Sorry about that. Busy busy,” said Brian, “so, what do we call you?”
“Ronald, Ronald Sinclair.”
“And you're local?”
“Church street.”
“Where's that?”
“Sorry, about five/six miles.”
“Do you drive?”
“No, I've …......”
Jean poked her head round the door. “Delivery, Brian. Sorry to interrupt.”
“C'mon, Ronald,” said Brian, getting to his feet, “we'll have to do this on the hoof. Bring your coffee, mate. You can leave your jacket there. It'll be fine.”
Sinky followed Brian through a zig-zag maze of corridors and into the spacious kitchen. A large van had backed up to the double door and it was packed to the rafters.
“Keep count,” whispered Brian as the driver, after shaking his hand, turned away to get the invoice.
Sinky shrugged, and sipped at his coffee as Brian and the driver carried a box each back through the maze. The boxes were obviously heavy and they were gone long enough for Sinky to finish his drink. He calculated that going at that rate it would take two men forever and a day to empty the van and decided to join in; better that than waiting, and counting. He followed the driver on the next run, keeping him close in front as he weaved his way through the corridors. The boxes were indeed heavy and he guessed at crockery for the contents. Brian stood aside to let him into the store-room, threw him a wide grin and pointed to where the boxes were being stacked.
It took the best part of an hour to empty the van and if no one else had a sweat on, Sinky did; but it was a good sweat. The driver asked Brian could he wash up somewhere and was pointed in the right direction.
“How many?” Asked Brian conspiratorially.
“Fifty,” answered Sinky.
“What?” said Brian, the look of surprise on his face giving away the fact that he thought he had won a watch.
“Just kidding,” laughed Sinky. “I make it forty. How about you?”
Brian appreciated the humour, although it took him a moment to see it for what it was. He sorted out a cup of tea for the driver and showed Sinky where he could clean up.
“Thanks for your help there,” he said, offering his hand, “that was a really good lift.”
“I'd rather work than watch,” explained Sinky.
“You'll do for me, Ronald. When can you start? Could you eat a sandwich?”
“Huh?”
“You came for the job, didn't you? It's yours. When can you start?”
“You haven't told me a thing about it yet. Not that I'm not grateful.”
Brian pointed to a huge sink half full of dirty plates and pots and smiled. “That's where you'll be mostly, there and by the dishwasher although you'll be required to dash off to reception when the radio cuts out. That means there's suitcases to be humped.”
“I don't understand.”
“There's not much to understand.”
“No …. I mean …. the card ….. the card said ‘pearl diver’. What's all this got to do with pearl diving at all?”
“Ha-ha. Catering speak, son. A pearl diver washes plates, pots and anything else placed in front of him. Shit. I must have said pearl diver instead of kitchen porter when I spoke to the girl on the phone. Sorry, Ronald. My fault entirely. I actually thought you were aware of the slang when you asked about pearl diving.”
“I'll take it. I can start now if you like?” said Sinky, dismissing the apology with a wave of his hand.
“Fine man. I had a good feeling about you when you walked in the door. That's how I started, you know, pearl diving.”
“You did? And now you're the chef?”
“And now I'm the owner. Lock, stock and mortgage. Let's get you that sandwich and we can talk some more. I'll call the Job Centre and tell them I'm fixed up.”
“Thanks, Brian.”
“What do they call you? Do you insist on Ronald or is it Ronnie? Ron?”
“Sinky.”
“Huh?”
“Sinky. I've been Sinky since I was in primary sch …........”
“............ Hahahahahahahahhahahaha.”
“What?”
“Well,....... Sinky. Considering where you'll be spending most of your working day, I suppose it's rather appropriate. Huh?”
Four days later, not long after the breakfast rush, Sinky was at his work station and whistling along to the radio when the news came on. The news signalled break time if everything was running to schedule and one of the girls, or indeed Brian himself, would have the kettle on. Sinky froze at the mention of Danny Maltings’ name then took a keen interest in the bulletin, breaking news. Maltings was in police custody along with one Jazza Freud, son of a local councillor cum gangster. They had tried to rob a young wages clerk in broad daylight and she had resisted them before being severely beaten, so badly beaten she was in intensive care. The reporter mentioned attempted murder and Sinky all but ran to the rest room. He locked himself in the cubicle and shook like a shitting dog for a full ten minutes, knowing full well that could have been him if not for finding the job. Not that he would ever have hit a girl or stood by while it happened but at the same time he knew Maltings had a temper on him, and that Jazza Freud was an out and out nutter at the best of times. A narrow escape.
Some five weeks later, Sinky brought Libs, his new girlfriend, through the revolving door of the Portobello Hotel and, after a brief word with the night porter, led her into the restaurant.
He’d met Libs two weeks earlier at the disco on his day off, actually his half day off since they'd been so busy. Above the sound of the music he told her he was a pearl diver then proceeded to make it all about her for the rest of the evening, so avoiding any questions about his work. Brian had been mentoring him, seemed in fact to be mentoring everyone on the staff, what with his easy going manner and ability to listen. Saying he was a pearl diver and avoiding any further mention of it for a while was how he met his wife, and she was so into him when he finally let on what pearl diving actually meant that she was easily able to overlook his subterfuge. Now, the same thing had happened with Libs regarding Sinky.
As they drank coffee after their meal, Brian approached their table in his role as hotel manager and told Sinky his money was no good, that the meal was on the hotel, impressing Libs even further. She didn't have to know that the price of the meal would be deducted from Sinky's wages at the rate of two quid a week.
After yet another run in with his old man's new woman, Sinky accepted the offer of a flat share from the night porter. It made a lot of sense. The flat was just around the corner from the hotel and, what with their different work patterns, they wouldn't be living on top of each other.
Six months down the line and Sinky is still a pearl diver, although he combines that with learning all aspects of hotel work, including learning how to cook. He meets his old man for a couple of pints now and then, but reduces it to just the one if his new woman turns up.
Libs' parents can't get enough of him, especially when he spends his days off helping out at her dad's garage. Sinky is also picking up a few pointers regarding the ins and outs of the combustion engine.
The girl Maltings and Freud beat up was left with brain damage. Sinky still shivers every time he either reads or hears mention of them. They're about four months into a ten stretch and they have work in the prison. Oddly enough they're both pearl divers in the prison kitchen, but they're certainly not having anywhere near as much fun with that as Sinky is.
At twenty years of age Sinky felt he was on the scrap heap. His dole money didn't go far after he'd paid his old man some rent and jobs were a bit thin on the ground. When he'd complained about the amount his old man demanded, he was told, rather bluntly, to piss off out of it and see how well he could manage without a roof over his head. He didn't complain again but he was fed up.
There was an offer on the table, and it was becoming ever more tempting as he mulled it over. Easy money, a robbery, in and out with the dough and the simplest of getaways. Danny Maltings had it all worked out although he was keeping the details to himself. Sinky had until Thursday to think about it and today was Tuesday, signing on day at the Job Centre.
The only employment Sinky had known since leaving school at sixteen was a six month stint at the Post Office on a YTS ticket; that's Youth Training Scheme to you and me, and Sinky didn't have fond memories of his time there, or at least of how it ended. For a start, his wage at the end of the week was only slightly better than what the dole paid. The work had been fine, not hard if you didn't mind walking, and Sinky had buckled down to it; always punctual, always polite and always willing to ask the right type of questions concerning the job. Six of them started, five of them saw out the six months so-called trial period and three of them ended up with permanent jobs, but not Sinky. Not that his face didn't fit, not that he hadn't impressed his shift leader and not that he wasn't the best candidate but for the simple fact that the chosen three all had relatives within the industry and strings had been pulled.
Almost two years on and the situations vacant board hadn't changed much, with at least twenty of the local unemployed applying for each new position and perhaps only a quarter of these reaching the interview stage.
“Ronald Sinclair?”
Sinky snapped to attention when his Sunday name was called out, and headed for cubicle number two as a matter of some habit.
“Have you had any form of paid employment since you last signed?” asked the sour faced woman before he had even sat down.
Sinky resisted the urge to crack wise on her, she had most likely heard it all before and besides, it was no longer funny. “No,” was all he said.
“What have you done to seek employment in that time?”
“Job Centre visits, local papers, national papers, visits to local industries and general ear to the ground stuff.” All quoted from memory.
“I see. Have you checked today's situations vacant board?”
“Is it any different from yesterday's?” He couldn't help himself with that one and he could see she hadn't been expecting it. A deep intake of breath gave her time to compose herself.
“You were in here yesterday?” Was all she could come up with.
“Every day,” lied Sinky, sensing she was a little bit rattled and warming to his task, “sometimes twice a day. I would come in on the weekends but you don't open Saturday/Sunday, do you?”
“Well, no, we don't work weekends. We do get time off, you know.”
“Try having every minute of every day off; and if that's not enough, try coming in here once a fortnight to go through this humiliation,” hissed Sinky, picking up his signed and stamped dole card and vacating the cubicle.
One step outside the Job Centre and Sinky ducked back in. Danny Maltings was heading up the street and he would be looking for an answer to his offer. Sinky wasn't in the mood for him at all.
He turned towards the daily situations vacant board just as Sara, his second cousin who was doing her YTS at the Job Centre, slipped a new card onto the board.
“Hi, Sinky,” said Sara, “can't stop, my boss is watching me.”
Sinky merely nodded to acknowledge Sara's presence, his eyes now fixed on the card she had slotted to the board directly at eye level. He couldn't believe what he was seeing but, after a quick glance around the room, he snatched the card from its moorings and tucked it into a pocket.
The card was hand written, which meant it was as fresh as could be and the time hadn't yet been taken to type it up like the others. This meant that Sinky was the first jobseeker to see it, which was also the reason he had pocketed it, making it entirely possible that he would be the first and perhaps only applicant for the position.
‘Wanted: Pearl Diver’, it read, ‘split shifts’, setting in motion a somewhat exotic train of thought to Sinky's mind. He was a better than average swimmer, a confident diver and available at a moment's notice. The split shifts would most likely be on account of the tides.
The card carried a local phone number and mentioned the Portobello Hotel out on the coast road; a huge establishment which had recently been refurbished and was swiftly regaining something of its once famous reputation, the glory days of old. Presumably, to Sinky's thinking, this was where the interviews would take place.
With nowhere else to be, Sinky pointed himself in that direction, foreseeing from memory a good forty/forty five minute walk ahead of him. No matter, it was a lovely Spring day.
An hour and some twenty five minutes later Sinky negotiated the revolving door and stepped into the plush foyer of the Portobello Hotel, his jacket tucked under one arm having been removed some time earlier. His intention had been to first find a toilet, a rest room in order that he could splash his face, comb his hair and glug some water from the tap but he had already been spotted.
“Can I help you?” asked a male voice, its owner partially hidden behind the small reception desk.
“Pearl diving,” said Sinky, approaching the desk, “who would I see about the pearl diving, please?”
“Ah! That was quick. If you could just give me a second I'll ............”
At that a girl, a young lady, kicked her way through an adjoining swinging door carrying two steaming mugs. “Sorry about that, Brian,” she said, “little problem with housekeeping. Thanks for looking after the desk. I brought you a coffee.”
“Not a problem, Carla,” said Brian, giving up the seat and stepping beyond the desk to join Sinky. He was wearing chef's check trousers. “I caught up with some paperwork at last.”
Turning to Sinky, he asked would he like a coffee and had Carla send it through to the staffroom.
“Follow me,” he said, leading the way. “I didn't expect anyone so soon.”
Sinky tried not to let his confusion show and did as he was asked.
“So,” said Brian, pointing to a chair opposite himself at the table, “you saw the position advertised in the Job Centre?”
“Yes, that's correct,” answered Sinky, lowering himself into the chair. “I thought I'd jump the gun a bit and maybe get here at the head of the queue.”
“I like that. Shows initiative. So, do you have any catering experience at all ….....?”
Sinky's coffee arrived at that moment, further allowing him to cover his confusion.
“Thanks, Jean,” said Brian. “Could you let me know when that delivery arrives, please?”
“Sure, Brian,” said the girl, placing the mug in front of Sinky.
“Sorry about that. Busy busy,” said Brian, “so, what do we call you?”
“Ronald, Ronald Sinclair.”
“And you're local?”
“Church street.”
“Where's that?”
“Sorry, about five/six miles.”
“Do you drive?”
“No, I've …......”
Jean poked her head round the door. “Delivery, Brian. Sorry to interrupt.”
“C'mon, Ronald,” said Brian, getting to his feet, “we'll have to do this on the hoof. Bring your coffee, mate. You can leave your jacket there. It'll be fine.”
Sinky followed Brian through a zig-zag maze of corridors and into the spacious kitchen. A large van had backed up to the double door and it was packed to the rafters.
“Keep count,” whispered Brian as the driver, after shaking his hand, turned away to get the invoice.
Sinky shrugged, and sipped at his coffee as Brian and the driver carried a box each back through the maze. The boxes were obviously heavy and they were gone long enough for Sinky to finish his drink. He calculated that going at that rate it would take two men forever and a day to empty the van and decided to join in; better that than waiting, and counting. He followed the driver on the next run, keeping him close in front as he weaved his way through the corridors. The boxes were indeed heavy and he guessed at crockery for the contents. Brian stood aside to let him into the store-room, threw him a wide grin and pointed to where the boxes were being stacked.
It took the best part of an hour to empty the van and if no one else had a sweat on, Sinky did; but it was a good sweat. The driver asked Brian could he wash up somewhere and was pointed in the right direction.
“How many?” Asked Brian conspiratorially.
“Fifty,” answered Sinky.
“What?” said Brian, the look of surprise on his face giving away the fact that he thought he had won a watch.
“Just kidding,” laughed Sinky. “I make it forty. How about you?”
Brian appreciated the humour, although it took him a moment to see it for what it was. He sorted out a cup of tea for the driver and showed Sinky where he could clean up.
“Thanks for your help there,” he said, offering his hand, “that was a really good lift.”
“I'd rather work than watch,” explained Sinky.
“You'll do for me, Ronald. When can you start? Could you eat a sandwich?”
“Huh?”
“You came for the job, didn't you? It's yours. When can you start?”
“You haven't told me a thing about it yet. Not that I'm not grateful.”
Brian pointed to a huge sink half full of dirty plates and pots and smiled. “That's where you'll be mostly, there and by the dishwasher although you'll be required to dash off to reception when the radio cuts out. That means there's suitcases to be humped.”
“I don't understand.”
“There's not much to understand.”
“No …. I mean …. the card ….. the card said ‘pearl diver’. What's all this got to do with pearl diving at all?”
“Ha-ha. Catering speak, son. A pearl diver washes plates, pots and anything else placed in front of him. Shit. I must have said pearl diver instead of kitchen porter when I spoke to the girl on the phone. Sorry, Ronald. My fault entirely. I actually thought you were aware of the slang when you asked about pearl diving.”
“I'll take it. I can start now if you like?” said Sinky, dismissing the apology with a wave of his hand.
“Fine man. I had a good feeling about you when you walked in the door. That's how I started, you know, pearl diving.”
“You did? And now you're the chef?”
“And now I'm the owner. Lock, stock and mortgage. Let's get you that sandwich and we can talk some more. I'll call the Job Centre and tell them I'm fixed up.”
“Thanks, Brian.”
“What do they call you? Do you insist on Ronald or is it Ronnie? Ron?”
“Sinky.”
“Huh?”
“Sinky. I've been Sinky since I was in primary sch …........”
“............ Hahahahahahahahhahahaha.”
“What?”
“Well,....... Sinky. Considering where you'll be spending most of your working day, I suppose it's rather appropriate. Huh?”
Four days later, not long after the breakfast rush, Sinky was at his work station and whistling along to the radio when the news came on. The news signalled break time if everything was running to schedule and one of the girls, or indeed Brian himself, would have the kettle on. Sinky froze at the mention of Danny Maltings’ name then took a keen interest in the bulletin, breaking news. Maltings was in police custody along with one Jazza Freud, son of a local councillor cum gangster. They had tried to rob a young wages clerk in broad daylight and she had resisted them before being severely beaten, so badly beaten she was in intensive care. The reporter mentioned attempted murder and Sinky all but ran to the rest room. He locked himself in the cubicle and shook like a shitting dog for a full ten minutes, knowing full well that could have been him if not for finding the job. Not that he would ever have hit a girl or stood by while it happened but at the same time he knew Maltings had a temper on him, and that Jazza Freud was an out and out nutter at the best of times. A narrow escape.
Some five weeks later, Sinky brought Libs, his new girlfriend, through the revolving door of the Portobello Hotel and, after a brief word with the night porter, led her into the restaurant.
He’d met Libs two weeks earlier at the disco on his day off, actually his half day off since they'd been so busy. Above the sound of the music he told her he was a pearl diver then proceeded to make it all about her for the rest of the evening, so avoiding any questions about his work. Brian had been mentoring him, seemed in fact to be mentoring everyone on the staff, what with his easy going manner and ability to listen. Saying he was a pearl diver and avoiding any further mention of it for a while was how he met his wife, and she was so into him when he finally let on what pearl diving actually meant that she was easily able to overlook his subterfuge. Now, the same thing had happened with Libs regarding Sinky.
As they drank coffee after their meal, Brian approached their table in his role as hotel manager and told Sinky his money was no good, that the meal was on the hotel, impressing Libs even further. She didn't have to know that the price of the meal would be deducted from Sinky's wages at the rate of two quid a week.
After yet another run in with his old man's new woman, Sinky accepted the offer of a flat share from the night porter. It made a lot of sense. The flat was just around the corner from the hotel and, what with their different work patterns, they wouldn't be living on top of each other.
Six months down the line and Sinky is still a pearl diver, although he combines that with learning all aspects of hotel work, including learning how to cook. He meets his old man for a couple of pints now and then, but reduces it to just the one if his new woman turns up.
Libs' parents can't get enough of him, especially when he spends his days off helping out at her dad's garage. Sinky is also picking up a few pointers regarding the ins and outs of the combustion engine.
The girl Maltings and Freud beat up was left with brain damage. Sinky still shivers every time he either reads or hears mention of them. They're about four months into a ten stretch and they have work in the prison. Oddly enough they're both pearl divers in the prison kitchen, but they're certainly not having anywhere near as much fun with that as Sinky is.
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and nine collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and nine collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.