I couldn’t understand it. Why did he want me to stay up in Oban?
The second surprise was equally unwelcome. John told me that without any discussion Cubby had lodged a complaint for ‘unfair dismissal’; there might have to be an industrial tribunal. Why? Could he really think we didn’t want him? How could he do that? Surely he understood Donald was only a stop-gap, just to give him some space and a break? I was utterly deflated and exhausted. I had been longing to tell him about the engine, how I had sat in the engine room and thought I’d worked it out. I’d made a call to Colin as we came up the Sound into Oban. I’d gone over with him what I reckoned it was, and he was ready to check it out and reroute the pipe.
There didn’t seem much point in going home to an empty house. At least here I had Kate’s company.
For the remaining two months of the summer season, skippers came and went. All of them loved Monaco, but none of them knew anything about her machinery and none of them bothered to be interested or learn. There was no word, no sign of Cubby; it all seemed pointless and dull. I drove up and down the motorway, back and forth between Lancashire and Oban, but I never seemed to coincide with John. He was always on the other side of the Pennines. He was adamant I should stay in Oban ensuring everything ran smoothly or the shareholders would kick up a fuss. I became the one to ensure the weather-tight doors were greased, that the escape hatches opened and closed easily, that the anchor chain ran free. I changed fuel filters and impellors in the electric bilge pumps, I bled and maintained the hydraulics and gennie, and of course there was my now-friendly red dragon of an engine to feed and keep happy.
Every morning at 7.15 on his way to check the needs of the Peterhead fleet and see who needed the Stickers magic, Bill would ring from the call box. ‘Fit like?’ would be the greeting, typical of Peterhead, and each day he’d have new instructions for me covering another part of Monaco’s machinery to clean, oil or check. From lube oil filters to Racon filters, hydraulics to trans motors, I became a wizard with an oily rag and a grease gun.
‘Hello!’ I’d caught him. John was in his office at last. ‘Yes, all fine. Donald’s coming back to do the weekend dive charter and Brian will do the one after that. I’ll go and collect Hugo for half-term so I don’t need to be up here for a month or so. When will you get back from London?’
I listened, amazed. ‘What! What do you mean you won’t be home for half-term? Where will you be?’
He was spending the weekend in Yorkshire. A dribble of far-fetched unconvincing reasons slid out of the mobile.
‘OK, well, if you can’t come home, we’ll come and join you, that’ll be fine. I’ll ring the pub and get a room for Hugo too.’ Because of Cubby’s absence, it was about a month since I’d been over to see how the work on John’s inherited house was getting on. We’d employed teams of people, architects, surveyors and landscape designers, to demolish the bits where rain poured through. The whole crumbling edifice was being resurrected.
‘What do you mean “there’ll be nothing for us to do”? How can there be nothing for us to do?’
How stupid I had been. At last the light began to dawn. No wonder he didn’t want me or Hugo around.
I rang James and Fanny and I knew there would not be a moment’s hesitation; we’d be welcome there. The moment the Flying Tomato scrunched to a halt the heavy oak door was flung open, and a shaft of warm golden light cut across the grey gravel, lifting the November gloom. James and Fanny appeared with welcoming arms.
‘Here you are at last!’ James gave Hugo’s hand a manly shake, and Fanny hugged me as we were swept into the warmth of the family kitchen. As shareholders, they knew all about Monaco, Cubby and the season’s work. They also knew about the unexpected inheritance, but not about John’s curious excuses.
‘Monaco’s fine,’ I insisted, as if Cubby’s absence was no problem. ‘I’ve found some temporary skippers and I’m rather amazed by how helpful everyone in Oban’s being.’
‘And where is John?’ asked James, as ever getting straight to the point.
‘Well, he’s staying in Yorkshire . . .’ I knew it sounded lame. After dinner as the three of us lingered over the port, I told them what I feared.
‘Amelia, you’ve just got to hang on in there. Don’t worry, it’ll all blow over. He’ll soon get bored, affairs rarely last. Ignore the whole thing and he’ll come to his senses.’
Fifteen
The phone shattered the quiet of breakfast, not the office line but my mobile, so not a booking enquiry.
‘Donald, hello, How’s things? You’ve a problem?’
My heart sank. I listened as he described a lack of power, intimating something was wrong with Monaco’s sophisticated propulsion.
‘OK, I’ll ring up Stickers and call you back.’ A couple of hours later the Flying Tomato and I were yet again on the A74 heading up to Oban. Ali, I knew, was already working his way across the Highlands from Peterhead; it would take him six different local buses to get there. But he said he needed to come and see.
After a couple of hours testing the machinery in the waters off Lismore Light, he pronounced slipping clutch plates. Whenever he had pushed the handle down like an accelerator in a car, the big red dragon simply revved faster; there was little ‘push’ through the water. Ali needed Monaco up the slip in Peterhead to be entirely sure, so there was no choice: we had to make our way there. It would probably take us four days instead of the usual three-day voyage and, he said, we’d most definitely have to go through the canal. It would not be safe to go around the top. Monaco would never make it against the strong tides of the Pentland Firth.
I made the phone calls, full of apologies for cancelling holidays, and hoped, just hoped my offer to our disappointed passengers of a longer trip later in the season would prevent too much ill will.
‘Donald, do you think we should get the two black balls ready, just in case?’ I knew him well enough to know thinking ahead was not his forte.
‘Well, now there’s an idea. I’ve no idea where they are. Katie, do you know?’
‘Aye, no problem. They’re under the seats in the saloon – ready in case,’ was her immediate response. Not for the first time I wondered what I would do without her. Donald had been the official skipper now for over two months and yet he still didn’t know where the emergency equipment was stored.
‘Hello! How nice to catch you, where are you?’ Rather to my surprise, John had answered. ‘Oh, still in Yorkshire.’
It was mid-afternoon on a Monday so I wondered why he was not in the office.
‘I’m afraid Ali thinks it’s something to do with the gearbox; he’ll have a proper look when we get to Peterhead. Yes, I know. I’m afraid it will be expensive but she’s not safe at the moment so there’s no choice. I’ll ring when we get to Inverness. The lunchtime shipping forecast said south-westerly up to eight later, so we need to get going. Yes, I know it would be quicker around the top, but Ali said most definitely through the canal, she’s not got the power to deal with any weather: sheltered waters only.’
We left, going north for the canal, Monaco steaming slowly up Loch Linnhe, sheltered waters all the way until the very final part beyond the canal exit eastwards towards Rattray Head. She could only do about three knots, but if it hadn’t been so worrying it would have been enjoyable. We never went through the canal except in winter but now in the late summer the reaches were scented with the smells of golden meadowsweet, and deep purple splashes of colour from willow herb lining the banks were reflected in the still waters. The canal lock-keepers kept strictly to their working hours, eight to five and a long hour for lunch, but after two days Monaco was at the Muirtown sea basin ready to lock out next morning into the Cromarty Firth.
Donald and Kate, both keen on a curry, were insistent we should take the opportunity to catch one in Inverness before the Hobson’s choice of fish and chips in Peterhead. Reluctantly I joined them, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the forecast. Ali had told me what to do if she rea
lly lost power completely. He’d shown me the nuts that would clamp the plates together, locking them so they couldn’t slip. All I had to do was go down to where the drive shaft came out at the stern of the red dragon, lie on the engine room floor plates and reach down to the nuts, he said. There were twelve, each the size of my fist, housed in the girdle which encircled the drive shaft. I just had to tighten each nut using the special spanner, thereby locking the plates tightly together. Simple.
The early morning forecast had repeated the late summer gale warning. South-westerly, force eight, soon.
Soon.
If we were lucky we might just make it and a south-westerly would at least give us some shelter. Our passage due east from the Cromarty Firth to where the coast turned south at Rattray Head would be sheltered, providing Monaco had power and could stay close in, keeping to the shelter of the coast, but not too close, as it was shallow. The little fishing harbours of Buckie and Macduff where we might have waited out the storm were all too shallow for Monaco: she could get into Buckie but only on the top of the tide, so there was no bolthole from the weather once we were out of the canal.
In the open water of the Firth, for the first time ever, I was really frightened. I didn’t trust Donald’s judgement; Kate had told me that she had been the one to make decisions on some occasions, so I knew she was unhappy too. I desperately needed to replace him but he’d have to do for the moment.
As she moved from the shelter of the Firth, making only three knots, Monaco began to roll, a big, slow, speed-sapping roll. I began to feel sick. Was it fear? Fear of what might happen if she lost power altogether? I wasn’t at all confident I could manage the nut-tightening procedure even without the roll. Must be the Inverness curry, definitely the curry. The sun shone but the wind was strengthening as I hung over the stern and for the first time in my life was horribly seasick. I timed it with the roll, clear out into the water, not down her side; that would never do. There must be no evidence, I certainly didn’t want anyone to know – not even Kate.
In between gale warnings and catching the shipping forecasts I wondered if John was thinking about us. I didn’t want yet again only to reach his answerphone; it would be nice if he rang.
Monaco rolled on and eventually, twelve nerve-wracking but uneventful hours later, we rounded Rattray Head to turn south past the Broch for Peterhead. I knew it was bad timing. Monaco would arrive off the harbour entrance at about one in the morning. The Peterhead fleet of two hundred fishing boats, steaming out after the weekend break as quickly as possible to get to the fishing grounds, would meet us head on. The weather was deteriorating and we didn’t have the power to wait: I called the Peterhead harbour master.
‘Peterhead, Peterhead, Peterhead. This is Monaco, Monaco, Monaco.’ I twirled the dial to the working channel. Trying to sound relaxed, I went on. ‘Hi. Yes, it is an unusual time for us to come round but we need to see Stickers. We’ve reduced power and manoeuvrability and would like to come in, please.’
A moment later he was back on the channel used by the whole fishing fleet. Calling on the VHF he asked them all to stop and wait, adding, ‘We’ll just let this wee boaty come in.’
I nearly burst into tears; I really had earned my stripes.
‘Amelia, you might as well get a reconditioned gearbox. The whole unit will cost about the same as if we took it all apart, machined the plates and reassembled them. Shall I get onto Denmark and see if they’ve got the right one?’
Ali’s solution sounded sensible but he usually dealt with skippers who, if lucky, could recoup losses like this in one fishing trip with a really good haul or two. It would take us years to get back the thousands of pounds I feared it would cost. The business had been doing well and now into our fifth year John and the other directors had set their sights on expansion. They felt a second boat or a little hotel in Oban to offer our passengers a base before or after their cruise would be good. I’d begged for the hotel, wondering if they had learnt anything about the practicalities of running the Monaco. A second boat, a second skipper to find, a second Kate? No, I had put my foot down. A little hotel or nothing. After this it would be nothing. However, we did have the money to pay for a gearbox.
As usual, it made sense to use the time up the slip for maintenance. Bill got going on the annual dragon checking, shipwrights caulked the undersides and deck, anodes and antifouling were renewed and of course her green-and-white paintwork was refreshed.
Weighing in at over a ton, the gearbox had to come from Denmark by ferry and road; it was far too heavy for the flights from Denmark to Aberdeen. A driver would bring it in a van all the way through Germany and France from Esbjerg where the dragon had been made. At seven o’clock each morning I went through the workshop to Ali’s office wondering if it had arrived. Metallic clangs and bangs reverberated, echoing about the cavernous work area as men machined new parts, fixed pieces from engines, be they diesel or hydraulic. Many of them knew me and remembered the stripping, whip-wielding blonde. They waved, shouting the usual Peterhead greeting, ‘Fit like?’
Eventually, after ten days, there was an oddity. A tall fair man warmed himself at the Calor gas heater, his long legs ended in a pair of pale yellow wooden clogs.
‘Ali! It must have arrived! There’s a fellow outside in clogs!’ I burst excitedly into his office. Empty. He wasn’t there; nothing to do but wait. He’d turn up, but I struggled to control my impatience. The door pushed open, letting a blast of oily air unsettle the papers on his desk. Here he was at last!
Instead, a burly fellow stepped into the tiny space and began looking me up and down. ‘That your boat? The green ‘un on the slip?’ he enquired as a greeting.
‘Yep, we’re waiting for a new gearbox,’ I replied.
He went on, ‘And how much oil does she use? What revs do you run at?’ He reeled off questions. I knew he was trying to catch me out, but the dragon was my friend and I enjoyed answering him, putting him back in his chauvinistic place. At last Ali appeared.
‘Ali! It’s arrived: the fellow in the clogs must have brought it.’
‘Hey. I’m first here,’ broke in the fisherman, pushing in front of me at the same time.
‘No, you’re not,’ I replied quickly. ‘I was here in the office before you came in; I’ve been waiting since half past seven, I’m first.’
Sneering, he carried on, ‘Aye, but I’m a fisherman! I’ve got to get back to sea! My boat is more important than yours!’ This wouldn’t do; who knew how long his job would take and I had been here first. Ali was scratching his head, hoping not to get involved in fight between a local skipper and an English girl.
‘Well! You carry dead fish! I have live people. Dead fish can wait, mine can’t and anyway I was here first!’
Ali grinned.
By afternoon the next day Monaco seemed to be hosting the works outing; she was doing her sea trials outside the harbour with a party of the Stickers workforce on board. Ali had given most of the lads time off: I wondered what the aggressive fisherman would think of that. All was perfect, as expected, and after I had written a cheque for fifty thousand pounds she started the voyage back to Oban. I left by bus.
A bus to Aberdeen, train to Edinburgh, a train to Preston and then I supposed a taxi home. I’d been unable to catch John by phone anywhere. Where was he? It seemed a long way home with a probably empty house as an unappealing ending. Digby’s bedroom remained untouched; I had yet to find the courage to sort it out. It was still just as it had been the day he died. I knew I must do something about it, but whenever I opened the door his presence was too tangible in the little room and I couldn’t go any further. It almost felt as if he might not be gone. Might one day come back whilst all his toys, games and clothes were just as they had been. The room smelt sweetly of him; there was even his tiny red ‘running away’ suitcase beside his bed.
‘Mummy,’ he’d tell me, ‘if you’re bad I shall run away. Look!’ He’d open the suitcase showing me proudly, ‘I’ve got my pocket
money and Glow Bug will keep me company and Panda will look after me.’
Sixteen
Next season, Dougie and Andy, both sound trawler men, joined us for a week or two between other jobs and other boats, but they were not tourist-friendly. Dougie mooched about flaunting his white, ageing body in brown Y-fronts. Andy, to override his tinnitus, brought his own CDs, so the decks reverberated to what a passenger referred to as ‘booba doop’ and, though they had the qualifications enabling Monaco to keep working, each had a common objective and thought I was included in their pay package. Each was sure I was panting to join them in the skipper’s double bunk. Worse, they put the word around that they’d succeeded. I had swooned in their arms, borne away by passion in the wood panelled cabin in Monaco’s curved stern.
Two were ‘safe’ – one-armed Eddie and careful, entertaining Rory, Cubby’s chum. Eddie made me jump when he pushed his one hand between mine as I washed my hands – it’s not easy washing one hand. Rory, who now skippered an oil rig safety boat in the North Sea, was a superb seaman. Calm and resourceful, he instructed me to ‘flop like a mop’ when things got tough and to give his tea ‘a wee wind’ to stir in the six spoons of sugar.
Running the dragon, the hydraulics and other machinery was a sufficient challenge for me without dodging around the deck avoiding unwanted attentions. They were strong too. Throughout the winter dive charters came and went, and so did the skippers, until finally the crunch point arrived. A particularly pushy one threatened to leave us stranded in the Outer Hebrides unless I provided his entertainment for the night.
It had gone too far. Monaco was tied up in Lochboisdale, way across the Minch, and the divers were all in the saloon finishing their tea.
‘Kate, what do you think? He’s off to the pub; shall we just go and leave him? Will the lads mind?’
‘It’ll be fine. They don’t like him anyway! Let’s just go now. Cubby said you’re allowed to take a boat to home port, so let’s get going. Their tea’s finished, you go and start the engine and I’ll take her away from the pier.’ She sounded confident and the coastguards were accustomed to hearing one of us on the VHF. Monaco slipped away from the pier. We did watches and the next morning arrived into Oban quietly with no fuss.
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