Our own lunch was
soon after one, and a few minutes before that time Hooper's voice would
be heard: "Table please, Mr. Debenham," and all writing materials,
charts, instruments and books would have to be removed. On Sunday, this
table displayed a dark blue cloth, but for meals and at all other times
it was covered with white oilcloth.
Lunch itself was a pleasant meatless meal, consisting of limited bread
and butter with plenty of jam or cheese, tea or cocoa, the latter being
undoubtedly a most useful drink in a cold country. Many controversies
raged over the rival merits of tea and cocoa. Some of us made for
ourselves buttered toast at the galley fire; I must myself confess to a
weakness for Welsh Rarebit, and others followed my example on cheese days
in making messes of which we were not a little proud. Scott sat at the
head of the table, that is at the east end, but otherwise we all took our
places haphazard from meal to meal as our conversation, or want of it,
merited, or as our arrival found a vacant chair. Thus if you felt
talkative you might always find a listener in Debenham; if inclined to
listen yourself it was only necessary to sit near Taylor or Nelson; if,
on the other hand, you just wanted to be quiet, Atkinson or Oates would,
probably, give you a congenial atmosphere.
There was never any want of conversation, largely due to the fact that no
conversation was expected: we most of us know the horrible blankness
which comes over our minds when we realize that because we are eating we
are also supposed to talk, whether we have anything to say or not.
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