The stuffy air had a sour smell like from rotting fruit. In the next compartment were dozens of barrels of pickles which added their pungent odour.
In a dark corner some mother, wearing a working coat and tight trousers, and with a three-cornered cloth folded over her head, peeled an apple and handed it to her child who lay on his stomach in the berth. She watched him eating it and herself munched at the spiral of peel. Other women talked among themselves and fumbled with little bundles near their children. Altogether there were about seven or eight such mothers. Other children who were without guardians stole an occasional glance in their direction.
One woman, her hair and clothes powdered with cement dust, divided up a packet of caramels and gave them round to the children near her.
“Mind you work well along with my Kenkichi, won’t you?” she said, putting out her huge unshapely hands, knotted like the roots of a tree.
Other mothers wiped their children’s noses or rubbed their faces with a towel, while some mumbled something among themselves.
“Your boy’s healthy.”
“Fairly.”
“Mine’s awful weak. I wonder what’s best to do with him, but in any case…”
“Yes, it’s the same all over, ain’t it?”
The two fishermen hurried back to their own “nest” further aft. There, every time the anchor was raised or lowered, they were shaken up and knocked together.
