North Star
Page 13
The radio room was on the lower deck of the crew’s quarters and had TELECOMMUNICATIONS on the door. Villiers was no longer there, only the radio operator seated at the double-sideband, earphones clamped on his head, his thumb on the key rattling out a message. He wore a white nylon shirt, open-necked and with sleeves rolled up. His arms and face were pale, a cigarette burning in a tobacco tin beside the telex.
There was a chair at a desk in the corner and I sat down, staring at the bank of equipment that filled the far side of the room from floor to ceiling, trying to think out what I was going to say, how I was to get the information I wanted.
It was too good an opportunity to miss. There was so much traffic going out from North Star that it was unlikely anyone would take note of what I was saying, and though Sparks would probably be standing at my elbow listening, it wasn’t the same as having my own crew overhear the conversation, rumours flying round the ship and endless speculation.
I was still thinking how I was going to frame my questions when the door opened and two men entered, one of them with a sheet clipped to a board. ‘Well, there it is, Ed. Two of them, so you’d better keep your fingers crossed that nobody jams their hand in a winch or gets hit on the head by the kelly.’ He was a soft, rather old-maidish little man with a high, piping voice. The other was a big, hard-fisted looking American.
‘Split ’em up then, will’ya. Their room mates’ll soon tell ’em enough about your ideas of first aid to keep ’em outa that li’l sick bay of yours.’ The belly laugh was without humour. ‘An’ tell ’em this, Lennie – anybody starting a strike on this rig swims for it.’ His voice was harsh and grating. ‘One Scotch, one Irish, you say. Jeez!’ He gave a shrug and walked out.
The sick bay attendant pulled out a bench and flopped on to it, taking a pencil from behind his ear and making a note on his pad. ‘Poor bastards,’ he muttered to nobody in particular. ‘Ed’ll pass the word to his drillers and they’ll drive those boys so hard …’ He turned to the operator as he finished sending and spiked his message. ‘Any news on Sunray II? Ed’s feeling sore about it. He knows the toolpusher.’
Sparks nodded, his eyes magnified by his glasses. ‘From what I’ve picked up so far it appears two of the roustabouts came to blows and were ordered off the rig. One of them refused to board the supply ship and his mates stopped work until the order was cancelled.’
‘So the strike’s over.’ The little man got to his feet. ‘I’d better tell Ed. He wants to know what happened.’
‘Tell him his pal gave in to them. That’ll put him in a fine good humour.’ And as the sick bay attendant went out, Sparks turned to me, a look of enquiry on his pale face. I asked him if he could get me a London number and I wrote it down for him.
‘You from that trawler?’
‘Yes.’ I gave him my name.
He nodded. ‘Mr Villiers mentioned it. A girl friend, he said. Haven’t you got R/T on board?’
‘It’s old equipment,’ I said. ‘I can talk to you. But Stonehaven and the GPO are outside my range.’
He nodded again and moved over to the big single-sideband set. He had to wait his turn to get through to Stonehaven. Then he asked for the number, listening with the phone to his ear while I stood beside him. ‘Ringing now,’ he said, and handed it to me.
My mouth felt dry, the ringing tone very clear. Then a voice said, ‘Can I help you?’ and I asked for Inspector Garrard. There was a long pause. Finally a different voice came on the line. ‘I’m afraid Inspector Garrard is not available at the moment. If you care to give your name and tell me what it’s about …’ But it was the voice of officialdom, abrupt and businesslike, and no chance he would understand what I was talking about. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said and handed the phone back to the radio operator.
‘Not there?’ He terminated the call and hung the phone back on its hook. ‘Just as well perhaps. I have a message for you.’ He rummaged through the papers beside the Morse key and handed me a telex sheet: INFORM MASTER DUCHESS OF NOLFOLK MRS RANDALL BOOKED ON AIR ANGLIA FLIGHT ARRIVING SUMBURGH 09.15 TOMORROW. The despatch time was given as 16.35 the previous day, but no indication of who had sent it.
‘Do you know where it came from?’ I asked.
‘Our Aberdeen office.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘You forgotten to pay the rent or something?’ He was looking at me, smiling, and I was suddenly reminded of the radio operator on Fisher Maid, his love of gossip. I glanced down at the telex again, wondering who had sent her to the Star-Trion office. And where had she come from? London? Dublin? Belfast maybe. But why? She was city-born. She hated the country, the sea, anywhere that was empty of people. She liked crowds, intrigue, excitement – and argument. I could hear the quick clatter of her tongue voicing the thoughts of her sharp brain, incisive, persuasive, unstoppable as a gorge full of water tumbling over rock. And there had been other times when the Celtic lilt in it was gentle as rain, the hard tinkle of her words softening to seduction. Then she’d had a lovely voice, warm, full-bodied … Christ! how was it possible to love and hate a woman at one and the same time?
‘Do you want me to contact the office for you? They may know where she’s planning to stay.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘No, it doesn’t matter.’
Fiona in Shetland. Why? Why now? But I knew. I knew it in my bones. They weren’t sure of me and they were stepping up the pressure. How else would she have known where I was or how to contact me? I turned, walking blindly to the door, and almost collided with the sick bay attendant. He handed me a sheaf of typescript. ‘Standing orders for the guard boat,’ he said. ‘Ken Stewart asked me to give them to you.’
I nodded and went down the passage. I wanted somewhere quiet, time to think. But the quarters were pandemonium, with men changing, moving to their work stations, calling to each other, asking questions, home news mixed wth technicalities, like the first day in college. And out in the open there were men already on the pipe deck, climbing the long stairway to the derrick floor, and Villiers in the open doorway of the corrugated iron shelter, a safety helmet on his head. Only the helicopter deck was clear and I went and stood near the edge, looking down at the whitecaps breaking and the Duchess small in the distance, rolling sluggishly in the swell.
‘What d’ya think you’re doing?’
I turned, knowing who it was by the grating voice. ‘Enjoying a bit of quiet,’ I said, ‘before going back to my ship.’
He nodded, the hard face breaking into a smile. ‘I know who you are then.’ His voice was softer, a Southern drawl, as he held out his hand. ‘Ed Wiseberg.’
‘Mike Randall,’ I said.
‘Okay, Mike. You go back to your ship now, you’ll get no quiet here. I got another whirly-bird due in shortly.’
‘I’ll need the divers’ boat.’
He shook his head. ‘Call up your own guys and have ’em come over for you. Nobody here I can spare. And one other thing.’ The mouth had hardened, the tired grey eyes watching me. ‘Vic told me something about you. I want you off this barge, and fast. There’s been a strike on one of the North Sea rigs. I won’t have any trouble like that here. Understand? You stay off this rig. An’ if you’ve got anything to talk about, you talk to me. Nobody else, see. I’ll tell the radio op. And I’ll have him call your boat for you.’ His tone, though firm, was quite amiable and he smiled as he patted my shoulder. ‘Good luck then. Glad I don’t have to pitch around out there with you.’
I went slowly across to the massive drum of No. 4 winch and started down the long staircase that led into the chill, shadowed world below the platform. As I descended the sound of the sea slopping against the columns became magnified, a hollow, eerie sound, the cross-bracing of tubular girders a visible reminder of Villiers’ words as we had examined the design drawing. I reached the bottom and stood waiting just clear of the waves rolling under my feet, the colossal deadweight structure reared above me, water jetting from cooling and sewer vents, the hum of the rig’s machinery muffled now.
The boat came, Henrik nosing it into the stairway. I stepped down into the centre of it, and as we came out from under the platform’s shadow I was thinking that perhaps I would rather be on the Duchess; it might be uncomfortable, but in a trawler there was at least freedom of manoeuvre.
2
What exactly the divers found on the seabed was not reported on the air, but something caused Ed Wiseberg to have the rig shifted 10 metres to the north-west. They did it on the winch cables, which meant, of course, some 30 feet less cable holding the rig on the side from which winds blow hard at the tail end of a depression. Ken Stewart wanted anchors 1 and 2 re-laid, but with only a single supply ship servicing North Star, Ed Wiseberg overruled him. He was spudded in by then and finding the going better than expected. He needed mud and drill casing, and he wasn’t going to have Rattler wasting time ‘frigging around with the bloody anchors.’
We listened in to it all as Ken discussed it with the Rattler’s skipper, sometimes by walkie-talkie, sometimes on the R/T, bemoaning the fact that Yankee toolpushers didn’t know the difference between a semi-submersible off Shetland and a drilling barge moored in the shallows of the Gulf of Mexico. ‘It’s not right, Jock. It’s my responsibility if we drag. But because we’re drilling he makes the decisions.’ And the other laughing and saying, ‘Every barge engineer says the same. Ye canna win, can ye.’
They had started drilling on the 23rd, and as April ran into May, and the sea stayed calm, the danger of the rig dragging receded from my mind. It was a glorious spell of weather, the wind light and the sun shining day after day, except when there was a sea mist. Often by noon we were stripped to the waist, the ship just lying-to or drifting close along the rig with both engines shut down. We were saving fuel and a lot of wear and tear during those first ten days.
In that time we saw only two other ships, both small drifters out of Lerwick. And with the sun moving steadily north, the nights were shortening, the period of maximum alertness a little less each day. It was a pleasant interlude after all the hard work we had put into the ship, except for the monotony of it and the continuous racket of the rig. The drawworks, the big diesel up on the derrick floor, never stopped, an endless roar that only changed its note when they were using the winches to disconnect and screw on another 90-foot length of pipe to the drilling string that was steadily moving down its casing as the bit thrust deeper and deeper into the seabed sediments. And added to the racket of the drawworks was the steady, continuous hum of the power plant. Even when we had drifted beyond the circle of the anchor buoys, the sound of the rig was almost as loud, the noise of it bouncing off the surface of the sea. And for me there was the sense of waiting, the certainty that this was no more than an interlude. Pacing the bridge in the dark hours, or in my bunk turning restlessly and trying to sleep, there was always at the back of my mind the fear that the work permits would be refused or something else would happen to disturb the new life I was trying to build for myself.
It was the loneliness more than anything else. It preyed on my nerves. I was so goddam lonely stuck out there beside that steel monster, drifting back and forth over the same patch of sea, with nobody to turn to, no living soul I could discuss it with. Once I started writing to Gertrude, but I soon gave it up. The things I wanted to say were not the things I could put in a letter. And she was so businesslike, always concerned about our supply of fresh meat, vegetables and fruit. Rattler was based on Aberdeen, but periodically the supply ship put into Scalloway, and then, as well as stores, there was always a note for me. Because Gertrude had sailed so often in the Duchess, she understood very well that our chief enemy would be the monotony and emptiness of life out here. She sent us ground tackle so that we could amuse ourselves fishing, and incidentally augment our food supplies for free. She sent out records and the new cribbage board I asked for after Henrik, in a fit of temper, had thrown the old one overboard, intending it for Flett’s head. Little things were already beginning to assume larger-than-life proportions, the atmosphere among some members of the crew moving towards flashpoint.
Then the weather broke and we had other things to keep us busy. The wind, which had been mainly north-easterly, backed into the south-west – Force 7, gusting 8, low cloud and rain. A series of deep Lows swept up between us and Iceland and we had three fronts pass over us in quick succession. After that it was unsettled and, with a big sea still running, we had difficulty going alongside Rattler when she finally came out to us. With the stores was the usual note from Gertrude. I didn’t read it until we had finished standing by the supply ship while she hitched herself stern-on to the rig below the crane, with both spring-loaded mooring hawsers made fast.
A woman came to see me today. She says she is your wife.
I was in my cabin then and I stood with the note in my hand staring out of the window. The wind had veered a little and increased in strength, but I barely noticed it, balancing automatically to the swoop and twist of the ship. It was hard to imagine Fiona in that house by The Taing – Fiona with her pale pointed face, the small determined chin, the high white forehead surmounted by the black fringe of her pageboy cut, and deep-socketed eyes, the small mouth, that bitter tongue. And Gertrude, big and fair and solid as a rock, utterly reliable. Pity I could not fuse the two of them. I laughed at the thought, thinking of the result and wondering, if it was true that the attraction is towards opposites, what these two had got that I hadn’t, other than a bosom and the means of satisfying me?
But Fiona had meant more to me than that, much more. She had been a force in my life – for a time at any rate. We had met in Glasgow, at a teach-in on Ché and his place in the selfawareness of emergent peoples. I was remembering how she had looked … She is nice I think, but very nervy. She stayed for tea and we talked, mostly about you, or I think perhaps it is more accurate to say that she do the talking while I listen. Some of it I do not understand. She is I think a most political woman. She talk and talk, that is the nerves I would suppose. Is that why you are separated? She told me. She also told me you are wasting your life in trawlers, that you could be a very important man. She is a Progressive, she tells me –
I could not help smiling at that. Fiona had been so many things, at various times, a Trotskyist, a Maoist. She had been a member of the WRP, the PD; now apparently she was a good old-fashioned Progressive. She want to know how she can get in touch with you. I tell her if she wish to write she must send it to Aberdeen to go out by the supply boat. But she don’t agree to that. She want to meet you. It is not easy to convince her that you are out there for a long time and not coming ashore. I think maybe you get a letter from her by the boat after this one. What do you want? She seems very worried about you, for what reason she do not say.
The last I had heard of Fiona she was in Dublin. But that was more than a year ago, and even if she had been working for the IRA, I doubted whether she would still be with them. Her allegiances never lasted long. There had to be a Cause, but always something different. She had never been consistent, except that she was anti- the present social order. And for her that had always meant the British social order, presumably because it was the one she had grown up with and was thus able to identify as the root of all that was wrong in society. To claim she was a Progressive could mean almost anything. But whatever her current Cause, it didn’t explain what she was doing in Shetland visiting Gertrude Petersen and trying to contact me.
I called up Rattler on the R/T and asked them to come alongside again before they cleared for Aberdeen. Then I handed over to Johan and shut myself in my cabin to compose a letter. But to explain Fiona to somebody like Gert
rude was impossible. If I could have talked to her … But even then it would have been difficult. I didn’t understand Fiona myself. We had lived together almost four years, in a miserable little tenement house looking up the Clyde to the old John Brown shipyard. There had been times when we were happy together, fleeting moments in each other’s arms, or when she was high. But mostly I remembered the arguments, the over-intense voice, the relentless pressure of her restless mind.
I never knew what she took, only that it had the effect of soothing her nerves. She was very emotional then, often lovable, with something of the kitten about her. Even now the ache was still there. But none of this could I explain to Gertrude. Twice I started that letter and tore it up. Then, as I tried again, Lars called to me that I was wanted on the R/T. It was the rig’s radio operator with orders for me to report to the barge engineer on board.
‘He can talk to me on the radio.’
‘He wants to see you personally.’
‘Why?’
‘He didn’t tell me why.’ The metallic voice sounded remote and uninterested. ‘If you can get yourself on to the supply ship he says they’ll lift you on board by crane. Okay?’
‘Roger,’ I said.
Johan took the ship in for me and I made the leap from the high point of our bows, Rattler’s crew watching with their fenders out. They put me in the net, clipped it to the big hook on the end of the crane hoist and I was whisked up to be dumped like a sack on the oil-slimed pipe deck beside a pile of stores and new drill bits. It was van Dam’s week on duty and I found him waiting for me in the same little office where I had talked to Villiers. ‘Ah zo, they get you up all right an’ no bones broken, eh?’ He had a telex in his hand. ‘Virst you read this,’ he said and held it out to me. ‘Then you tell me vat it eez all about.’