Beneath Gray Skies by Hugh Ashton Page B

might be happier at another bar closer to the respectable area of town. Often, to reinforce the suggestion, a few large men would rise from their tables, and stand close behind Dowling. Sometimes he fancied he heard the click of a switchblade. At that point, Dowling would leave, having gained no information. As he left, he would hear the conversations cease, and restart again.
     
    He bought cheaper clothes at German stores, and left his Savile Row suits in the hotel. His accent still betrayed him as an outsider, though, and the closed society of the waterfront seemed to remain forever a secret to him.
     
    On what seemed like his hundredth bar, he had a stroke of luck.
     
    “Back again?” asked the bartender. “Better dressed for the part this time, aren’t you?”
     
    Dowling looked around him. All the bars looked much the same, but it was true, he had been in this one before. He recognized the model ships behind the bar, especially the U-boat, which had caught his attention on the first occasion.
     
    “Afraid so,” smiled Dowling. “It’s thirsty work looking for my friend.”
     
    “You’d like a beer, then?” asked the bartender. It was an offer of some sort of acceptance, and Dowling quickly seized it.
     
    “Yes please. And one for you, and one for each of my friends,” turning round and grinning like an ape at the four or five heavies who’d materialized behind him.
     
    “You’re English?” asked one of them.
     
    “Yes,” replied Dowling. It was fairly obvious and there seemed little point in lying.
     
    “Good. As long as you’re not one of those Dutchmen, that’s all. Hard-hearted bastards, taking our work away.” There was a general murmur of dissent against the Dutch. The beer arrived. “Come and sit with us.” It was not so much an invitation as an order, and Dowling obeyed.
     
    “So, Mr. Englishman, what are you doing in Bremen?”
     
    “I write for one of the London newspapers. I’m writing about the German economy, and how England should be helping German people like you get work and live better.”
     
    “Does anyone read what you write?” There was a burst of mocking laughter.
     
    Dowling replied. “There are many Englishmen who would like to see Germany destroyed, and would show no mercy to you or any German. But—” as a babble of protest started to arise, “There are many more Englishmen who think that the war was a mistake, and that England should help Germany become a great nation again. I’m proud to say I’m one of the last group.” The whole speech was delivered with great sincerity, and brought a round of applause, and a few more customers to Dowling’s table.
     
    “So who should the English and Germans be fighting together? The Bolsheviks in Russia?”
     
    Not knowing whether he was talking to a Communist sympathizer or not, Dowling turned the question round with a joke. “It’s me who’s meant to be the reporter, interviewing you, not you interviewing me. I need your expert opinion, sir.”
     
    The others round the table laughed and pressed their companion for his answer. “Well, since you’re asking, my favorite enemy would be the Confederates. Anyone who keeps slaves like that doesn’t deserve any sympathy.”
     
    “Well, we didn’t treat our blackies very well in East Africa, did we?” came a shout from another table.
     
    “We didn’t,” admitted the first man. “But then we were wrong to do it. And anyway, they weren’t slaves. I just say it’s flat-out wrong to own other people as if they were property.” He finished his beer, and placed the empty glass significantly in front of him. Dowling called for another round of drinks.
     
    “Thank you, sir,” said the anti-Confederate dock worker. “I’m thinking that as a good liberal gentleman, those views I expressed on slavery would be similar to your own?”
     
    “They would indeed,” replied Dowling earnestly. “Your very good health, sir.”
     
    A lot of beer was