A Large Measure of Snow

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Well, he’s more than fish to worry him now.’ The provost lowered his head.

  Senga Murray, the matron of the cottage hospital, sighed. ‘Would you look at you all! Job’s comforters, and no mistake. Sandy Hoynes might not have a radio, but he’s the best sailor for miles around. There’s no’ an inch o’ that coast he’s no’ acquainted with, and you know it. If any man can bring us supplies, it’ll be him.’

  The provost, the doctor, the police constable, harbour master and fire officer looked at each other, their faces all bearing doubtful expressions.

  ‘My goodness, men are big on drama, and that’s a fact,’ declared Matron Murray. ‘It’s the same in the hospital. You get a man in wae a skelf in his finger and you’d think a tree had fallen on his head, while a woman will drag the thing oot wae a pair o’ tweezers while engaging in some healthy gossip on the phone.’

  ‘God willing, the rest of the boys will make it back. As soon as the weather clears, we’ll get them and the lifeboat out and look for poor Hoynes. It’s all we can do,’ said the harbour master.

  ‘We should sing a hymn,’ said the town clerk, who was a pious man.

  ‘For any sake,’ muttered the matron. ‘Should we no’ jeest go the whole hog and start flinging flowers into the loch?’

  ‘No’ a bad idea,’ said Semple, whose wife owned the florist.

  ‘Wait!’ shouted Mitchell. ‘I see a boat coming past the island. I think it’s the Dark Isle.’

  The little crowd squinted into the snow, as the shape of one fishing boat then another emerged from the blizzard. One by one, Kinloch’s fishing fleet straggled back into the loch to a hearty cheer from all those looking on. All except for the Girl Maggie, that is.

  At the head of the quay, sheltered beneath the eaves of the Mission, gathered the old fishermen. Though not in direct contact with the great and the good of the community further down the pier, they knew the score.

  Peeny stroked his chin, as the fishing boats tied up. ‘Och, I knew fine this was an ill-conceived idea, right fae the start.’

  ‘And right you were,’ said Malcolm Connelly. ‘You canna trust a forecast these days. Och, it’s one o’ they once-in-a-lifetime events. We’ve all seen them before.’

  ‘If we’ve seen them before they can hardly be once in a lifetime,’ quipped Peeny, who hid a tendency for pedantry under a façade of bonhomie.

  ‘Hoynes will be ploughing on regardless,’ said McKirdy. ‘I canna blame him for no’ wanting to have a radio aboard. We all know fine it’s jeest another ploy so the fishery officer can keep tabs on you. They buggers would stalk their ain granny if they thought she was wandering oot the chip shop wae an understated quantity o’ fish in her supper.’

  Peeny sighed. ‘Sandy won’t be fazed by the snow. He’s the last o’ the true fishermen, and that’s a fact. He could get you fae here to New York and no’ consult a chart at all.’

  ‘He’d need a fair stock o’ whisky for that passage, mind you,’ said Connelly.

  ‘I can jeest picture the scene aboard the Girl Maggie now,’ said McKirdy. ‘Big Sandy staring intae the blizzard using all his senses tae overcome the worst that nature can throw at him. He’ll put the likes o’ McMichael – who’s no’ half the fisherman his faither was – and wee Robertson tae shame.’

  There was a general murmur of consensus, before the collective decision was made to decamp to the County and ponder on Hoynes’ route to Girvan.

  Aboard the Girl Maggie, though, things could not have been less like the imaginings of the old seadogs back in Kinloch. It was Hamish who stood in the wheelhouse squinting into the snow. Despite the bitter cold, a bead of sweat made its way down his forehead from under his cap.

  That he knew the sea and the ways of navigation, there was no doubt. But he’d no experience sailing in heavy snow. He knew he should trust in the compass, but it was only as good as Hoynes’ last reading, and that had been right at the very beginning of their journey and was hardly ideal. He couldn’t see the sun behind the blanket of snow. Everything was just . . . white.

  In ordinary conditions, he’d have been busy keeping the lines and deck clear of snow. But with Hoynes incapacitated in the cabin, the white stuff was piling up so quickly it was hard to determine the shape of the boat at all. The Girl Maggie was beginning to look like a floating snowball.

  Hamish was also fretting over something else. Hoynes’ vessel was sturdy, well designed for its fishing duties, but it most certainly was not built for speed. Most of Kinloch’s fleet was made up of newer, faster boats. They were slow to start, but once they made their way into open water Hamish calculated that they should have caught up with the Girl Maggie long ago. He’d called them repeatedly through the loud hailer, but to no avail, and the silence only multiplied his woes.

  Hamish brushed the sweat from his forehead and reached for the speaking tube. He’d instructed Jo to keep an eye on Hoynes. To the best of his ability, he’d made sure his stricken skipper had no broken bones, and managed – with no little effort, it had to be said – to manhandle the older man’s bulky frame into the bottom bunk where Jo had been trying to shake off her seasickness. She was now slumped near the other end of the speaking tube, keeping an eye on Hoynes.

  ‘Has he moved yet?’ Hamish shouted into the mouthpiece.

  It took a few moments for her to master the basic technology, but soon her voice sounded weakly in the wheelhouse. ‘No change, he’s just lying there. His eye twitched a couple of times, but that’s all.’

  ‘Well, at least he’s no’ deid,’ said Hamish. ‘Is this what normally happens wae folk that’s taken this DSL?’

  ‘It’s LSD! And people react in different ways. I’m no expert, I’ve only taken it a couple of times myself.’

  ‘And what happened tae you?’

  ‘It was . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Kind of – sexual.’

  ‘I never heard such talk! I’m sure the skipper isn’t experiencing anything o’ the kind. Wherever this poison has taken him, it’ll be wholesome, I can assure you o’ that!’

  ‘And how do you know he’s out cold because of LSD? It could just as easily be down to the fall. He took a right thump.’

  ‘My, but you’re a cheery soul, right enough. As if I hadna enough tae worry me up here.’

  ‘Surely we’ve passed Arran by now?’

  ‘I would hope so. Now all we have to worry aboot is crashing intae Ayrshire. Do you think you’re fit tae come up on deck for a while?’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Man the wheel while I check on Sandy.’

  ‘I’d be womaning the wheel. And even if I could make it, I’ve never steered a boat in my life.’

  ‘There’s nothing to it at all – well, unless we hit something. I’ll only be away for a couple o’ minutes.’

  ‘I’ll try. But I can’t promise not to be sick all over your wheelhouse.’

  Hamish replaced the speaking tube on its hook and squinted into the blizzard. Their only chance of salvation now was the Girvan lighthouse.

  16

  An impromptu emergency meeting was taking place in the bar at the County Hotel. It consisted of the harbour master, the provost, the town clerk and fishermen young and old. The fire was blazing, and each man had a large dram before him, but the mood was one of gloomy resignation.

  The phone at the bar rang.

  ‘It’s for you, Peter,’ said the barman.

  Mitchell got to his feet and had to lean across the bar, as the flex on the phone was rather too short for purpose. He frowned as he listened intently to what was being said. By turns, he nodded, shook his head, pursed his lips, rubbed his temples and grimaced. ‘Thank you, Wattie. Just keep looking. We’d be most obliged.’

  He turned to the gathering. ‘It was the Coastguard at Girvan. They’ve sent some boats out as far as they dare, sounding their horns, making enough noise to raise the dead. But not a peep from Hoynes.’

  ‘He’d no’ be the le
ngth o’ Girvan yet. No’ in this weather. He’ll have tae take it slow.’

  ‘But even saying he is, he should be in the vicinity of the search vessels and the lifeboat soon.’

  Peeny looked at the clock above the bar. ‘I would gie them another hour. Hoynes is a cautious man, for all his bluster. He’ll be taking it sure and steady. Dae we have any word on the weather, Peter?’

  ‘According tae the Met Office, it’s in for the day, aye, and most o’ the night.’

  ‘If it gets dark, Hoynes will surely weigh anchor if he hasn’t hit land?’ said McMichael.

  ‘“Hit” being the operative word. He could easily jeest sail intae they rocks at Culzean, or anywhere. If I were him I’d be at anchor right noo, trying tae sit this out.’

  ‘Wait!’ exclaimed Davie Robertson. ‘They might no’ have a radio aboard, but they have a wireless.’

  ‘And what difference will that make?’ asked Mitchell.

  ‘We could get a message tae them – over the air, so tae speak.’

  All eyes turned to Provost McMurdo. He looked back at them through sad, rheumy eyes. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Get a haud o’ they radio folk. Get them tae tell Hoynes tae stay at anchor until this clears – if the idea hasn’t crossed his mind yet.’

  ‘That’s all very well. But what station does he listen to?’

  ‘Och, it’ll be the Home Service. Every fisherman listens tae that for the shipping forecasts,’ said Peeny.

  ‘It’s got a new-fangled name now,’ said McMichael. ‘A number. Mind they changed it all earlier this year.’

  ‘Right enough. So all they weans can listen tae that racket. No’ a decent accordion or fiddle to be heard,’ said McKirdy.

  ‘That’ll be Radio One,’ observed Peeny, to the surprise of everyone. ‘I’m quite partial tae thon Seekers. Right good harmonies, so they have.’

  A moment’s hush fell over the room, as those gathered took stock of this unexpected piece of information.

  ‘So you want me to phone the BBC and get them to broadcast a distress call?’ said McMurdo.

  ‘That should suffice. I mean, surely Hoynes has had the wireless on, monitoring the forecast anyway,’ said Mitchell. ‘A wee prompt would do no harm.’

  ‘Right. I’ll get back to my office and see what I can do.’ The provost hurried from the bar, closely followed by the town clerk.

  ‘Ach, we’ve likely saved the day,’ said McKirdy. ‘They call it a brains trust.’

  Harbour Master Peter Mitchell looked about those assembled. ‘Aye, something like that,’ he said, with little conviction.

  Hamish was now in the cabin, his hand on Sandy Hoynes’ forehead, checking to see if he was feverish. It felt fine to the fisherman, but he wasn’t sure he had sufficient experience in medical care to make an informed diagnosis. Certainly, the skipper looked peaceful enough; as Jo had mentioned, his left eye was twitching from time to time, so at least he was still alive.

  Hamish knew he couldn’t leave Jo at the wheel for long. Desperately, he racked his brain to think of something to do that might ease their plight. He nudged Hoynes a couple of times, but no response was forthcoming.

  Then something dawned on him: Hoynes loved music. If anything was likely to bring him round, surely a good tune would be the very thing. He jumped from his skipper’s side and was up and through the hatch with a fluidity of movement that would have done a pole vaulter credit.

  Crumping through the snow, he was dismayed to see Jo slumped over the wheel. ‘My goodness, lassie! Have you been like this the whole time I’ve been below?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, but it’s worse up here. We’re rolling about in nothingness. It’s like some nightmare.’

  ‘Have you set eyes on anything? The Girvan light, for example?’

  ‘No, just snow.’

  Hamish reached behind her and grabbed the dilapidated transistor radio from a shelf in the wheelhouse. ‘I’m going to play some music tae Sandy. He’s fair fond o’ a tune. It might be the very thing tae bring him round. I’ve seen it done wae folk in a coma at the pictures. You’ll have tae hang on for a couple mair minutes.’

  She nodded feebly as Hamish once more disappeared through the hatch.

  17

  Back at the town hall, Provost McMurdo was looking at a large map of Kintyre, and the route they all hoped Hoynes was taking to the Ayrshire coast. To his untrained eye it all looked really simple – almost a straight line, in fact. But as the seamen had reminded him, there were many hidden obstacles and dangers lurking in the wide expanse of blue that appeared so benign on the map. And that was without factoring in the driving snow.

  He looked outside just as old Mr Henderson took an impromptu dive outside Morrison’s the barber. Thankfully, the gentleman’s fall was broken by the great accumulation on Main Street. As Henderson brushed himself down, he must have sensed McMurdo’s eyes on him. He glared up at the provost, and McMurdo waved at him by way of consolation. In return, Henderson raised two fingers and shuffled off down the street, though in a more tentative manner.

  McMurdo shook his head. He wasn’t native to Kinloch, having arrived forty years before as a keen young veterinarian. Now retired, he sometimes wondered why he’d taken to local politics. There was little doubt that it was an often thankless task. The burdens and irritations of the office were many. But now he felt as though he had the people’s lives on his conscience, and that was not a happy place in which to dwell.

  The phone on his desk rang twice, indicating an internal call. ‘Yes, please go ahead.’

  ‘I have a producer from the BBC on the line for you,’ announced the town clerk.

  ‘Good. What’s his name?’

  ‘I’m rather surprised to say that it’s a young lady, a Miss Thomson.’

  ‘Why are you surprised?’

  ‘Och, I don’t know. You just imagine a man in a responsible job like that.’

  ‘I have to say, it’s high time you altered your attitude. One of these days we’ll have a female provost – maybe even a prime minister.’ He heard the town clerk snort with derision. ‘Put her through. And try to drag yourself into this decade, man!’

  There followed a click or two, then Miss Thomson introduced herself in clipped tones that made McMurdo instinctively sit up straight in his high-backed chair.

  ‘I understand you have an emergency you would like us to help with, Mr McMurdo?’

  ‘Yes, we do have a bit of a situation on the go. One of our fishing vessels is somewhere between here and Girvan in a blizzard. They have no radio, but they do have a wireless. We were thinking that perhaps you could pass on a message over the airwaves, so to speak.’

  ‘I believe the weather with you is somewhat inclement. Strange time to go fishing.’

  ‘Yes, it’s dire, in fact. That’s the real problem. They’re not out fishing, but on a mercy mission of sorts.’

  ‘A mercy mission? Do tell.’

  ‘I’m not sure how well acquainted you are with the geography here. But we’re rather out on a limb. With the level of snowfall, the peninsula could be cut off for weeks. Mr Hoynes and his crew, along with the rest of the fishing fleet, volunteered to sail to the Ayrshire coast to bring back much-needed supplies. Hoynes aside, they all turned back because of the weather, but the Girl Maggie is still out there.’

  There was silence on the other end of the phone for a few moments, then Thomson spoke. ‘So what you’re telling me is that these men are heroes.’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose I am.’

  ‘Now that’s a real story! Leave this with me, Mr McMurdo. I’ll be back with you within the hour.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said McMurdo, slightly taken aback. ‘I’ll await your call.’

  He put the phone down and glanced out the window. Snow was still falling thick and fast. He took a cigar from the box hidden in a drawer, lit it and puffed it into life. Outside in the community, McMurdo always smoked a pipe. But in the privacy of his office or at
home, he secretly enjoyed a cigar much more. Unfortunately, those in Kinloch whom he served would have considered such a habit unforgivably bourgeois, so, in public, it was pipe only.

  As he watched the cloud of smoke curl round the room, he considered the conversation he’d just had with the BBC radio producer. Then he pictured Sandy Hoynes and his reputation for skulduggery, not to mention his fondness for strong drink. Though he was desperate to see the Girl Maggie safely back in port, the thought of her skipper becoming the face of the town in the national media was not a welcome one.

  He reached into another drawer and produced a bottle of whisky and a glass. He poured himself a large measure and silently wished he’d listened to his wife and retired to a holiday home in France rather than become Kinloch’s political master. For in reality, nobody could master this place.

  Hoynes lay in his bunk in the cabin of the Girl Maggie, the sublime strains of Mozart sounding incongruously grand in such a small, dishevelled space.

  At the chart table, Jo had perked up a little. Her trip up on deck had made her feel distinctly worse, but back in the cabin, nursing a mug of Hamish’s strong tea, she felt herself a little restored. As she looked at Hoynes’ recumbent figure, she observed no change. He lay stock still, apart from a flickering left eyelid.

  Now, though she’d been aware of it all the time but too squeamish to care, their perilous situation dawned on her. Here they were on a tiny fishing boat, with no real clue as to their position. Not only that, the captain of the vessel was indisposed by ingestion of a hallucinogenic and an unfortunate plummet through the hatch. Though Hamish made reassuring noises, she could tell by his worried expression that he was less than confident of his ability to bring them safely to port, never mind find it.

  The radio, though, was soothing. Jo closed her eyes and let the music wash over her. It had been an early start, and her eyes were heavy from lack of sleep and the draining effect of seasickness. Her head was drooping forwards when what she heard over the radio brought her back to full wakefulness.