Tain't What You Do

Chapter 1 “No offence, but they’re not gonna eat that.” Able Seaman George Brodie peered over my shoulder. Any sentence that started with the words ‘no offence’ was immediately offensive. I straightened my posture, nudging him out of the way. There wasn’t much room for personal space on a Royal Australian Navy patrol boat, so I guarded every centimetre I could get. Especially from men trying to prove me inferior. “People like variety. It’s good for morale.” I continued chopping the aromatic herbs. Who did he think he was? “Not that sort of variety.” George pointed to my chopping board and grimaced. Hot air blasted across my back. Instinctively, I glanced over my shoulder. George’s forearms tensed with the weight of the baking tray as he flipped the chicken breasts and then returned them to the oven to finish cooking. I turned back to my task. I was supposed to be pissed off, not perving. I rekindled my indignation. “Everyone likes fritters.” I scraped the leaves from the chopping board into the egg and corn mixture, then beat it more vigorously than required. “They love fritters but mine don’t taste like dirt.” “I washed the coriander. There’s no dirt.” Why was I explaining myself to him? We might be the same rank, but I had more years up. He should be taking direction from me. “Coriander, urgh.” He feigned vomiting. That sound turned my stomach. I didn’t get sea sick, thank God, but I often went out in sympathy. My mum called it empathetic nausea. “Just because you don’t like coriander doesn’t mean everyone hates it.” I stirred the corn fritter mix again and set it aside. Was he right? Were they all going to hate my cooking? I grabbed a few tomatoes, cucumbers and lettuce then returned to my work station. My food had been popular on my last ship. This crew on couldn’t be much different. One way to find out. The proof of the fritter’s in the eating. “At least turn the chopping board over. Don’t wreck the salad, too.” George took the lettuce and set to work rinsing it then tearing it into chunks. Taking a deep breath, I resisted throwing a tomato at him and flipped the chopping board. I had to pick my battles, and this one wasn’t worth it. We had to share this tiny galley kitchen on HMAS Bathurst for the next three weeks while we were at sea, let alone the next three years, and I didn’t want to get anyone offside on day one. With only 21 crew on board, avoiding someone would be impossible. I arranged the sliced tomato in the servery with the rest of the salad George had prepared, then switched the hotplate on to preheat for the fritters. As I turned to retrieve the batter from the bench, the floor suddenly shifted. I stepped to the side to correct my balance, colliding with George. This galley was so much smaller than the one on the frigate. That’s when I noticed he was carrying the stainless-steel bowl of fritter mix. Was being the operative word. The bowl clattered to the floor, egg mixture splattering up my legs. “s**t, sorry Flip.” George bent to pick up the bowl. “There’s enough batter left for two or three fritters. That should do for your breakfast.” The boat rolled. My sea legs took control and I stepped to the side again, right into the puddle of beaten egg. The rubber tread on my combat boots were no match for raw egg. My feet slid out from under me and I landed on my bum in the middle of the floor. George dumped the bowl in the sink then held out a hand. “C’mon.” He hauled me to my feet, his forearms rippling again. “You okay?” Yes. No. He was too close. His dark brown eyes creased at the corners. His neatly trimmed beard framed a cheeky smirk. Would it scratch or tickle? I grabbed his upper arm to steady myself, my sea legs suddenly replaced with jelly legs. Snap out of it, Annie. My hand dropped as I stepped back. “Well, you’re right.” I shrugged. “They’re not gonna eat that.” I nodded to the puddle. “Hands to boarding stations. Hands to boarding stations.” The announcement rang throughout the ship. George dampened two cloths and chucked one to me. At least I had enough wits about me to catch it. He got down on the floor to clean up the mess. I scraped the chunks of corn from the top of my boots and wiped what I could from the soles. “Go,” George said, “you don’t want to be the last one up there on your first day.” “Are you sure?” “Yep. I’ll be there in a minute.” I glanced back at George and smiled. “Thanks. See you up there.” Maybe he was okay after all. The sound of forty-two Band-Aids being torn off at the same time echoed through the room as I strode across the vinyl floor. “Boots still tacky?” George asked. “Yeah.” Remnants of egg must have dried on the soles in the heat of the kitchen. “Watch out for water on the deck.” “Okay.” I headed up the corridor then froze. I spun around and jogged back the way I’d come, crashing into George as he stepped out of the galley. His chest was as hard as the stainless-steel bench behind him. I looked up into his chocolate brown eyes and momentarily forgot what I’d come back to do. George took hold of my shoulders and spun me around. “The deck is that way.” “I know. The hotplate. I forgot—” “Already got it. I turned the oven off, too. I’m right behind you.” We weren’t the last on deck. The engineers arrived soon after, but they had to come up from the bowels of the ship. I took my position at the starboard winch. On command, I lowered the RIB into the sea. Rigid Inflatable Boat. Thanks to the military, my life was filled with acronyms, abbreviations and nicknames. The RIB zoomed towards a wooden fishing vessel. I watched on as my fellow crew members boarded the illegal fishing boat. I strained to hear, bracing myself for the sound of gunshots echoing across the water. I hadn’t tended to gunshot wounds while posted to the large warships in Sydney, but patrol boats were another world altogether. My shoulders relaxed when I saw several fishermen directed onto the RIB. Hopefully, I could focus on food rather than first aid today. I winched the smaller boat up on deck and ensured it was stowed properly. “Six more for lunch, Flipper, and can you pack some rations for the steaming party?” the Commanding Officer said. “No worries, Ma’am.” Two our crew would take the fishing boat straight back to Darwin to be impounded. The fishermen would be investigated when we returned. They’d probably be charged and sent back home. All that trouble for a few fish. Why couldn’t they just stay in their own waters? “What happened to you?” She pointed to the splatter on my legs. “A small fritter incident, Ma’am. I’ll clean up and get back to preparing lunch.” “Yum, I love fritters. Did you use lots of basil like Shorty does?” At six foot five, George would likely pick up the nickname, Shorty, wherever he posted. Aussies loved irony. I’d hoped for a clean slate on this posting but my nickname had followed. I prayed that was as far as the gossip went. “Nope. I do mine with coriander.” The CO grimaced. “That stuff tastes like soap. What else is there?” “We also have grilled chicken and salad or spaghetti carbonara.” “I might try the chicken. Any coriander or chilli in that?” “Nope. The chicken is safe.” So much for variety. “How long until it’s ready?” “We were halfway through prep, so another 20 minutes.” “I’ll let the crew know.” The CO continued along the corridor. I poked my head into the galley. “Hey Shorty, the CO said six more for lunch and asked us to pack some rations for the guys staying on the boat.” “Sure.” “I’ll be back in a minute, I’m gonna clean up.” I ducked into my room to change. I only had the one pair of boots so I’d have to give them a good scrub after lunch. “I put some extra spaghetti on. We can stretch the sauce,” George said as I entered the galley. “I’ll do another batch of fritters while these cook.” I poured the remnants of mixture into the hot pan. “Have we got any fresh basil?” ***