Where’s Bob?
Created | Updated Jun 1, 2007
This short story is based on a tale told to me by Loraine, our office women that does. It was in turn handed down to her by her grandfather who was one off the men involved in the following…
From the nineteen hundreds all the way through to the mid twentieth century the area around the docks situated to the west of Hull bustled with the sound of trains, lorries, boats and most of all masses of Dockers going about their work.
The fully laden trawlers would dock brimming with cod and haddock before being unloaded, sold in the market or shipped elsewhere. The whole process could take as little as a few hours. The docks themselves along with the community which occupied the streets and terraces around the dock never slept. Such was the volume of cargo working its way through the dock that the manpower were on a rotating shift though some employees would be called in at any time of the day or night. The bobbers were such an occupation.
Bobbers where the army of men who took charge of the landing of the catch. Once the trawler had docked it was their job to take the load fro the ship, pack it in fresh ice and either store it ready for the next market or have it loaded ready for transportation. This body of men where constantly on call and in demand, a bobber was not unlike the labourer on a building site, a good one was worth his weight in gold.
On a cold dark night in November 1934 a ships horn blew across the now quiet docks. The sky was clear and a large amount of constellations could clearly be seen over head.
The Dock Masters office door opened allowing all the heat which had warmed its confines out into the night, he would have to put another log into the small boiler.
After catching the captains’ eye and giving him a salute he closed the door of the hut and shivered with the cold. Lifting the receiver off the wall mounted phone his cold white fingertip dialled a four digit number. On his hands he whore fingerless gloves, but these did little to combat the cold winter night. “Hello, Mr Lewis. Dock Master here. The Aeropia is docking now sir.” He paused waiting instructions, “Yes, right, thank you.” Standing up from his desk he slid open the window and shouted down to the skipper, “Docking forty three.”
In the offices of Whales Trawler Company Mr. Lewis sat at his desk. Lewis was the nightshift supervisor, his office was always a pleasant temperature. He was not known to venture out into the cold nights unless it was necessary, Lewis was a lover of the warm indoors. Having received the call from the Dock Master he opened a black book and looked up the page containing the bobbers’ names. Running his finger down the page he eyed the first of the names over his half round reading glasses. Lifting the receiver on the telephone he rang the number.
Weststock Avenue lay only a few minutes cycle ride from the dock. Situated as it was off Hessle Road all the houses where occupied by members of the fishing industry. Several bobbers lived down that particular though fare and one by one their telephones started to ring. As they did the electric light would illuminate the bedrooms windows all along the street.
In the bedroom of number six Weststock Avenue Lance Hewlet swung his legs out of bed. The air was cold and no light came through the window, what time was it, middle of the night or early morning? He could not tell it being this time of year.
Quickly he rushed down the winding staircase of the two up, two down terraced house. Noisily he fumbles his way through the back kitchen then on into the living room. Putting on the light his eyes took a second to adjust to the light dim as it was. Somehow he managed to make it across the room to the bakelite telephone, “Hello,” he mumbled into the mouth piece, “what is it?” he said rubbing the sleep from his eyes as Mr Lewis gave him his instructions, “What, right you are sir, five minutes.”
Back upstairs he found his trousers hanging over a chair. The material was cold on his flash as he pulled them on, time was never on his side on this job, he had to be at the dock shortly. He knew that the fish had to be off the boat and into storage in a matter of minutes.
Similarly the telephone rang at another address only two doors away. The occupant of number ten, Arthur also readied himself for a nights work. He had already done a shift that afternoon and was not overly enthusiastic at the prospect of another few hours labouring especially at this time of…
He too was uncertain of the time, was it morning of mid night?
Lance took his cycle out of the lean too shed and turned on the two lights before departing. The green back yard gate sprung shut behind him. As Lance turned into the street the frost bitten air hit his face with a bighting blast. It was a cold night, but clear the lights of the dock formed an eerie hallow over the end of the street. The air rushing into his nose was so cold that it almost burnt his nostrils.
Slowly he set off riding carefully on the cobbled road, he couldn’t be sure hoe icy the road surface was. Moments after his own journey had started Arthur swung his own bike out a ten foot and joined his fellow bobber en-route to the dock, “Now then?” lance called out to his friend.
“Alright,” replied Arthur, “its gonna be another cold one?” he replied hinting his obvious observation at the temperature.
From further down the street the two men saw another faint red bike light twinkling in the night air. As they approached they could see that it belonged to Bob. Bob was the oldest member of the bobber’s crew, he was slowing down in his old age, but his fellow workers always made sure that he was covered in any aspect of his work. Bob was approaching retirement age and his mates wanted to see him alright until he left.
As the approached Lance could see bob fiddling with the chain around the area of the back cog, “Alright Bob?” he asked as they came alongside the old man.
Bob said nothing in reply, but raised his hand in recognition and signalling that nothing was amiss. The two men carried on toward Hessle road, “We’ll have a lid of tea ready for ‘ya” Arthur called back over his shoulder then the two rear lights disappearing as they rounded the corner.
Mr Lewis stood on the dockside waiting for the bobbers to arrive. He was well protected against the cold night. His thick overcoat was fair lined while his hands sat comfortably in a pair of sheepskin gloves, Right men,” he began, “the Aeropia here requires unloading and putting into rack F. the skipper assures me that there are 124 units to unload.” He looked down the line, the five men all nodded their acknowledgment.
“Mr Lewis,” lance asked, “Bob’s on his way now, are we gonna wait a bit for him?”
Lewis looked at him in some puzzlement, “Haven’t you heard?” asked the foreman.
“Heard what, I’ve been a bed most of the day?”
Lewis looked at the icy cold ground before speaking, “Bob died last night, he had a stroke and was gone before the doctor could get to him.”
From the nineteen hundreds all the way through to the mid twentieth century the area around the docks situated to the west of Hull bustled with the sound of trains, lorries, boats and most of all masses of Dockers going about their work.
The fully laden trawlers would dock brimming with cod and haddock before being unloaded, sold in the market or shipped elsewhere. The whole process could take as little as a few hours. The docks themselves along with the community which occupied the streets and terraces around the dock never slept. Such was the volume of cargo working its way through the dock that the manpower were on a rotating shift though some employees would be called in at any time of the day or night. The bobbers were such an occupation.
Bobbers where the army of men who took charge of the landing of the catch. Once the trawler had docked it was their job to take the load fro the ship, pack it in fresh ice and either store it ready for the next market or have it loaded ready for transportation. This body of men where constantly on call and in demand, a bobber was not unlike the labourer on a building site, a good one was worth his weight in gold.
On a cold dark night in November 1934 a ships horn blew across the now quiet docks. The sky was clear and a large amount of constellations could clearly be seen over head.
The Dock Masters office door opened allowing all the heat which had warmed its confines out into the night, he would have to put another log into the small boiler.
After catching the captains’ eye and giving him a salute he closed the door of the hut and shivered with the cold. Lifting the receiver off the wall mounted phone his cold white fingertip dialled a four digit number. On his hands he whore fingerless gloves, but these did little to combat the cold winter night. “Hello, Mr Lewis. Dock Master here. The Aeropia is docking now sir.” He paused waiting instructions, “Yes, right, thank you.” Standing up from his desk he slid open the window and shouted down to the skipper, “Docking forty three.”
In the offices of Whales Trawler Company Mr. Lewis sat at his desk. Lewis was the nightshift supervisor, his office was always a pleasant temperature. He was not known to venture out into the cold nights unless it was necessary, Lewis was a lover of the warm indoors. Having received the call from the Dock Master he opened a black book and looked up the page containing the bobbers’ names. Running his finger down the page he eyed the first of the names over his half round reading glasses. Lifting the receiver on the telephone he rang the number.
Weststock Avenue lay only a few minutes cycle ride from the dock. Situated as it was off Hessle Road all the houses where occupied by members of the fishing industry. Several bobbers lived down that particular though fare and one by one their telephones started to ring. As they did the electric light would illuminate the bedrooms windows all along the street.
In the bedroom of number six Weststock Avenue Lance Hewlet swung his legs out of bed. The air was cold and no light came through the window, what time was it, middle of the night or early morning? He could not tell it being this time of year.
Quickly he rushed down the winding staircase of the two up, two down terraced house. Noisily he fumbles his way through the back kitchen then on into the living room. Putting on the light his eyes took a second to adjust to the light dim as it was. Somehow he managed to make it across the room to the bakelite telephone, “Hello,” he mumbled into the mouth piece, “what is it?” he said rubbing the sleep from his eyes as Mr Lewis gave him his instructions, “What, right you are sir, five minutes.”
Back upstairs he found his trousers hanging over a chair. The material was cold on his flash as he pulled them on, time was never on his side on this job, he had to be at the dock shortly. He knew that the fish had to be off the boat and into storage in a matter of minutes.
Similarly the telephone rang at another address only two doors away. The occupant of number ten, Arthur also readied himself for a nights work. He had already done a shift that afternoon and was not overly enthusiastic at the prospect of another few hours labouring especially at this time of…
He too was uncertain of the time, was it morning of mid night?
Lance took his cycle out of the lean too shed and turned on the two lights before departing. The green back yard gate sprung shut behind him. As Lance turned into the street the frost bitten air hit his face with a bighting blast. It was a cold night, but clear the lights of the dock formed an eerie hallow over the end of the street. The air rushing into his nose was so cold that it almost burnt his nostrils.
Slowly he set off riding carefully on the cobbled road, he couldn’t be sure hoe icy the road surface was. Moments after his own journey had started Arthur swung his own bike out a ten foot and joined his fellow bobber en-route to the dock, “Now then?” lance called out to his friend.
“Alright,” replied Arthur, “its gonna be another cold one?” he replied hinting his obvious observation at the temperature.
From further down the street the two men saw another faint red bike light twinkling in the night air. As they approached they could see that it belonged to Bob. Bob was the oldest member of the bobber’s crew, he was slowing down in his old age, but his fellow workers always made sure that he was covered in any aspect of his work. Bob was approaching retirement age and his mates wanted to see him alright until he left.
As the approached Lance could see bob fiddling with the chain around the area of the back cog, “Alright Bob?” he asked as they came alongside the old man.
Bob said nothing in reply, but raised his hand in recognition and signalling that nothing was amiss. The two men carried on toward Hessle road, “We’ll have a lid of tea ready for ‘ya” Arthur called back over his shoulder then the two rear lights disappearing as they rounded the corner.
Mr Lewis stood on the dockside waiting for the bobbers to arrive. He was well protected against the cold night. His thick overcoat was fair lined while his hands sat comfortably in a pair of sheepskin gloves, Right men,” he began, “the Aeropia here requires unloading and putting into rack F. the skipper assures me that there are 124 units to unload.” He looked down the line, the five men all nodded their acknowledgment.
“Mr Lewis,” lance asked, “Bob’s on his way now, are we gonna wait a bit for him?”
Lewis looked at him in some puzzlement, “Haven’t you heard?” asked the foreman.
“Heard what, I’ve been a bed most of the day?”
Lewis looked at the icy cold ground before speaking, “Bob died last night, he had a stroke and was gone before the doctor could get to him.”
