‘I’m determined to outlive you, Gannet,’ he’d said later, ‘if only to tell that story at your funeral.’
‘The trouble with you, Skipper,’ Gannet had replied with as much dignity as he could muster, ‘is that you don’t have a sophisticated mind. Old Ina there might not be nimble on her pins any longer, but she has a quick mind still, she understands deeper things you can’t. She knows everything about astronomy, we have some fine talks about it.’
‘Away with you, man,’ Sorley Mor had doubled up again. ‘She couldn’t hear a damned word! Poor old soul, sitting by her own fire, the only one not able to get up and run away from you and your theories.’
‘They’re not theories, they are facts, Skipper,’ Gannet complained, ‘I read them in a book, and books don’t lie, unlike some skippers I could mention.’
‘And what do you mean by that?’ Sorley Mor demanded.
‘Oh, well,’ Gannet said airily, ‘let’s just say if I had a mind to, there’s a few true things I could tell Chrissie.’
Sorley Mor wondered how Gannet was getting on with Chrissie, and how Chrissie was getting on with him. He half-expected to find a note on the door when he got home, saying the two of them had been carted off to the separate madhouses. He laughed again, rubbing his chest. Chrissie had been more right than she knew: it was time he gave up this business when even Stamp’s food could give him indigestion. The night before, Stamp had served up spaghetti with spicy meatballs, Sorley Mor’s favourite, as a special offering to his skipper, and this morning it was giving him gip. Not that he would let on to Stamp. Maybe he should give that stuff young Gavin had given him a try.
Sandy Bay and Tess, eh? Now there was a thought. If it was true, of course, and he was still far from sure that Chrissie hadn’t made the whole thing up and convinced or coerced Father Mick into feeding him the same line. And the others; when Chrissie prepared a wind-up she spared no effort. The rest of the crew had all laughed out loud. Now if that wasn’t a pointer, he didn’t know what was, but a pointer to what exactly?
‘She’s an awful woman, your Chrissie,’ Stamp said admiringly.
‘But your Molly said the same thing,’ Sorley Mor reminded him, ‘and Alison and Rose. And you have to remember, Chrissie wouldn’t let me talk to Gannet. Now Gannet couldn’t lie to me, that’s a clue.’
‘But a clue to what, Father?’ Sorley Og grinned. ‘That’s the real mystery.’
‘Aye,’ Stamp laughed again, ‘an awful woman all together!’
He was the only one up on that Sunday morning, apart from Sorley Og, who had gone aft to have a look at one of the pumps before relieving him as lookout. As soon as Sorley Og took over, he’d go to his cabin and look out Gavin’s stuff and take a swig. When the boy came back up to the wheelhouse he’d ask him what he really thought about Sandy Bay and the nice young teacher. After all, Gavin was his pal, who would know better than anyone else on board what was going on? He rubbed his chest again and decided not to wait for Sorley Og to come to the wheelhouse; the boy could be a while yet. He’d go downstairs to his cabin now and get Gavin’s stuff and be back by the time Sorley Og arrived to take over.
At MacEwan’s Row Chrissie got up after lying awake for a while; it was always like this when he’d called to say he’d be coming home soon. She wandered in to the kitchen and found Gannet at the window, staring out to sea, a cup of coffee in his right hand.
‘What are you thinking?’ she asked him. She lifted the kettle, shook it, then crossed to the sink to fill it up again.
Gannet looked up and smiled. ‘That it’s quiet without him. And it feels odd.’
‘Aye, well, you’ve spent more time with him than I have,’ Chrissie said. She looked across to Sorley Og and Rose’s house and, seeing her daughter-in-law at her sink, waved and smiled. ‘Great minds think alike,’ she said quietly.
Gannet looked across at Rose and waved too. ‘Do the two of you always do this?’ he asked.
‘Always,’ Chrissie said.
The next time Father Mick’s phone rang was on Sunday morning. He hated being called on Sunday mornings and everybody knew it; the day was busy enough with wall-to-wall masses stretching before him as far as the eye could see. He debated with himself whether or not to lift the receiver, then did, tetchily demanding ‘What in hell’s name do you want? And I’ll warn you now that this had better be good, I am no mood for idle—’
‘Father Houlihan?’ a strange voice interrupted him.
‘Yes,’ Father Mick said uncertainly.
‘Father, this is the Coastguard at Great Yarmouth,’ the voice said. ‘I’m calling to tell you that a signal from an emergency beacon was picked up at just after six o’clock this morning and the Falmouth Coastguard has confirmed that it’s from the vessel Ocean Wanderer. We have you listed as the contact number.’
Father Mick laughed. ‘Ah, no,’ he said. ‘You see, what happens is that they get knocked off. It happens all the time, it’ll be a mistake, you know, a false alarm.’ In his mind he could hear Sorley Mor chiding him. ‘Not on my boat, Father Mick. Our beacon is safe and secure, we don’t spark false alarms!’ When he told the skipper this story he’d have to come up with a different line there, or he’d never be forgiven. ‘You really said that?’ the skipper would demand indignantly.
‘Father,’ said the voice again, ‘I’m sorry, but this is the real thing.’
Father Mick stood still for a few moments more, his mind trying to cope with what was being said to him by this stranger. And come to that, how did he know this man was genuine? How did he know it wasn’t some silly prank? ‘Dear God,’ he said eventually, reaching for a chair to sit on. ‘If there is a God at all, please make it that, make it some sort of sick joke!’
‘Father, Father?’ said the voice, full of concern. ‘Father, can I ring someone for you?’
‘Just tell me,’ he asked.
‘The agent’s manager in Acarsaid, a Mr Douglas Nicolson, has confirmed that there were six men aboard the vessel, Father. I’ll give him a call and ask him to contact you. Is that all right?’
‘Tell me first.’
‘Well, as I say, shortly after the beacon was activated the signal was identified as coming from the Ocean Wanderer and attempts were made to contact them, but there was no answer. Then we were notified of a “Mayday” call from a German freighter, reporting that she’d hit a fishing boat at the same position as the beacon’s signal. He didn’t know her name then, but said she had gone down bow first in little more than a minute.’
‘And the crew, are they all safe?’ Father Mick asked, closing his eyes.
‘I’m sorry, Father, there are no survivors reported. The freighter launched her own lifeboat immediately and found debris bearing the name of the Ocean Wanderer. Her liferafts and a rubber dinghy were recovered and we now have confirmation that her beacon has been recovered, too. There’s excellent visibility in the area, but it’s now three hours since the boat went down. Rescue efforts are ongoing, but I’m afraid we have to conclude that the crew is lost.’
There was no answer from Father Mick.
‘Father Houlihan?’
‘I’m here.’
‘We did try to contact you earlier, but there was no answer, sir, and no answering machine to leave a message on.’
‘I was saying mass,’ said Father Mick absently, ‘and up here there’s no need of a machine. Everyone always knows where I am and how to get hold of me.’
‘I see, sir.’
Coastguard officers were used to dealing with shocked people who didn’t want to or couldn’t take in what they were being told, and often this was made worse because they found themselves talking to the skipper’s wife. Even so, they knew how to deal with these situations, though it was never easy. Still, the immediate reality had to be put across.
‘The boat went down so quickly, you see,’ said the officer gently, ‘it looks like they were steaming for port fully laden, so probably the crew would have been in bed, apart from the man
on lookout. They would’ve had no time, no chance. I’m sorry, Father, but you are the emergency contact, and I want you to understand what has happened. I don’t want to leave you with any false hope that you then might pass on to the families. That would be worse than the truth. And there’s always the chance that the media might get hold of it and break the news before anyone can tell the families. It wouldn’t be right for them to hear that way, do you see?’
Out of the window Father Mick saw Dr Johnstone’s Range Rover pulling into the driveway. As it stopped, Dougie Nicolson got out, then the doctor. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Thank you for your kindness. Mr Nicolson has just arrived. Goodbye.’
Slow motion, that was what those involved in terrible events often described, time moving in slow motion; and in his chapel house, Father Mick realised that it really was how it seemed. Dougie and Gavin slowly came into the house without knocking, slowly looked at him. Dougie slowly opened his mouth, then shut it again, still looking at him.
‘Dougie, we’re sure about this?’ Father Mick asked plaintively. ‘Really sure?’
Dougie nodded. Gavin, he noticed, looked as shellshocked as he was himself and said nothing.
‘Dougie, what do we do now? Tell me, what do we do?’
‘Call Gannet at Sorley Mor’s house, tell him we have to see him and not to let on to Chrissie that anything’s happened.’
‘Right.’
Father Mick didn’t move, so Dougie picked up the receiver and handed it to him.
‘Couldn’t you do it?’ he asked.
‘No, Father, it has to be you, because Chrissie will probably answer. I’d have no real reason to call Gannet, now would I?’
‘You’re right, of course you’re right.’
Chrissie did answer. ‘What the hell do you want with Gannet?’ she demanded. ‘Can’t you let him have a few sober hours, Hooligan?’
Then he heard Gannet’s voice on the other end and his resolve broke down. He handed the receiver to Dougie.
‘Gannet, it’s Dougie here, I’m up at the chapel house with Father Mick. I need you to listen carefully and don’t let on to Chrissie. Are you with me?’ Dougie said seriously.
‘Aye …’ Gannet responded, puzzled.
‘Gannet, something bad has happened to the Wanderer. Make any excuse you want, but get out of the house and start walking down towards the village now. We’ll pick you up in Gavin’s Range Rover. OK?’
When he replaced the receiver he turned to Father Mick. ‘Father, we have a desperate situation here. We have to let the families know at the same time. You’re the emergency contact, but as we couldn’t get hold of you we had to make a few arrangements. There are two lads from the Seamen’s Mission ready to visit Molly Stewart and Alison Kerr, and we’ve arranged for Mission people to visit Stevie’s wife in Fife and Eric’s Marilyn in Glasgow as soon as the word is given. I’ll phone the Mission now and they can set all that in motion while we go off to pick up the Gannet and explain to him what’s happened. Then you and Gannet can go back to the house and tell Chrissie, while Gavin and I tell my sister. Is that all right, Father?’
‘Aye, it’s fine, Dougie,’ he said distractedly, but as he tried to move towards the door his legs refused to obey him. ‘I can’t do this!’ he cried.
‘Father,’ Dougie said firmly, ‘you have no choice. Sorley Mor gave this task to you because he trusted you to do things right if anything ever happened. He decided you were the best person to deal with it and to look after his wife. You can’t let him down.’
‘I know this, Dougie,’ he said desperately, ‘I know this,’ but for a long moment he considered just refusing to move. What could anyone do if the local priest refused to walk out of his own house? But maybe none of this was happening, maybe the drink had caught up with him as Chrissie kept telling him it would, maybe it was that old cliché, a nightmare, and any moment now he’d wake up and find that there had been no phone call from the Coastguard and no Dougie and Gavin standing in his living room, demanding that he be the one to break Chrissie’s heart? One thing was certain, though; sooner than do what was being asked of him, he’d rather lock himself away and never come out again, never. Then ‘No,’ he said, ‘you’re right. This is for Sorley Mor. I won’t let him down.’
They drove down the Brae. ‘Look,’ Father Mick said sadly. ‘Everything is normal. People walking about, buying papers, talking to each other, laughing. How can that be so when this has happened to us? Take a good look, my friends, because we will never see Acarsaid like this again.’
Dougie was in the front passenger seat beside Gavin with Father Mick behind Dougie as the car turned right and on through the village until they reached the bottom of MacEwan’s Row. They sat in a painful, bewildered silence until the tall, thin figure of Gannet appeared, head down, striding towards them with his left arm still in its sling.
‘I don’t know how we’re going to tell him,’ Father Mick said quietly, as all three of them concentrated on Gannet.
‘Simply,’ Dougie replied quietly. ‘Gannet will have worked it out already.’
‘He can’t have!’ the priest said. ‘How could he?’
Dougie shrugged. ‘He’s a fisherman,’ he said, ‘from generations of fishermen. These things happen at sea.’
Slowly Gannet came nearer till he had reached the Range Rover. He opened the door behind Gavin and got in, taking care with his injured shoulder.
‘How bad is it?’ he asked, looking directly at Dougie.
‘The boat’s down, the entire crew’s lost,’ Dougie said. ‘She was run down by a freighter.’
‘No one left?’ Gannet asked.
‘No one, Gannet,’ Dougie replied evenly. ‘She went down just after six this morning, bow first, in around a minute. She was heading for Esbjerg, fully loaded. They’ve found liferafts and the beacon.’
‘Six,’ Gannet said thoughtfully, his head down. ‘They’d all have been asleep except for the lookout.’ He looked up. ‘The lookout would’ve been in the wheelhouse, he’d have had the best chance. They didn’t even get him?’
‘No.’
‘We’ll have to tell Chrissie,’ he said, ‘but I need a minute. That all right?’
He got out of the Range Rover and wandered about, head down once more, for what seemed like hours but was probably no more than a few minutes; then he got back in again.
‘What’ve you arranged, Dougie?’ he asked, nodding as the details were explained to him. ‘Pete’s wife is six months pregnant,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t Gavin be with the Mission man when she’s told?’
Gavin turned round in the driving seat. ‘He’s going to collect her mother first,’ he said, ‘and if there’s any problem he has my mobile number. I’ll be going down to see her anyway after Dougie and I see Rose.’
‘You’ve done well, Dougie,’ Gannet said, reaching out awkwardly with his right arm and patting Dougie’s shoulder. ‘You don’t think you should get your mother for Rose?’ he asked.
Dougie shook his head. Everyone understood; Margo wasn’t that kind of mother.
‘OK, then, let’s go,’ he said. ‘Our only bit of luck is that it’s Sunday morning. We’ll have time to shut the village down before the papers get to us. But we’d better get our skates on, they’ll still be here sooner than we want.’
They drove in silence up to MacEwan’s Row and stopped just before Sorley Mor’s house, in a common, unspoken consensus to gather themselves together for the terrible, incredible thing they were about to do. It had come upon them so suddenly that they didn’t really believe it themselves, yet here they were, about to pass this devastating news on to people they had known and loved for years, knowing it would destroy their lives.
‘You up to this, Father?’ Gannet asked him kindly. ‘I’ll do it myself if you want?’
Father Mick shook his head. If anyone had asked him who would have handled this terrible day best he would have said himself, and he would have guessed that Gannet would be too distraught to do anythin
g, but in reality the roles were reversed. And Dougie Nicolson was a revelation; he had always been a serious boy, but now he had turned into a strong man. Father Mick remembered once seeing him in the Inn and remarking to him that he hadn’t ever seen him at mass, and Dougie had replied, ‘And if you ever do, Father Mick, better put up an umbrella. They say pig shit makes a helluva mess when it falls from a great height.’ Then he’d drained his glass and left, shouting quiet but friendly goodbyes to everyone.
Sorley Mor and Gannet had nearly choked with laughter at what Dougie had said and the fact that Father Mick didn’t understand what he had meant. ‘You daft wee man,’ Sorley Mor had chuckled. ‘He means pigs will fly before you see him at mass! You’ll not get the better of that one, you might as well forget it.’ And to tell the truth, Mick had laughed too, and tucked it away in his memory, hoping an opportunity might arise when he could use it himself.
Chrissie opened the door to their knock, her face with its usual pugnacious expression on seeing Gannet and Father Mick together. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘we’ve Peter Sellers and Spike Hooligan, all we need now is Sorley Secombe home from the sea and we’ll have all the Goons!’
Then she caught sight of Dougie and Gavin on their way to Rose’s door, and her face immediately went white and fearful.
‘Is it Sorley Mor?’ she whispered.
‘It’s all of them, Chrissie,’ Gannet said.
‘My son too?’ she gasped.
Gannet nodded miserably. ‘The whole crew, Chrissie, we’ve lost them all.’
As he was walking towards his sister’s house, out of the corner of his eye Dougie had seen Chrissie falling and Gannet pulling his arm out of the sling to catch her before she hit the floor. He turned away; that situation was being dealt with, he had his own to think about.
When Rose opened the door she looked from Dougie to Gavin and asked, ‘Has something happened to Granny Ina?’
The Last Wanderer Page 31
