A Large Measure of Snow

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘And this is a message to the fishing boat Girl Maggie and her crew. From all of us here at the BBC, and I daresay the whole nation, we wish you well. The advice from the harbour master at Kinloch is to weigh anchor and ride out the storm. And from us to you, on this brave mercy mission to feed the good people of Kintyre, here is the organist and choir from King’s College, Cambridge, with that wonderful hymn to mariners everywhere, “For Those In Peril On the Sea”. May God bless you and bring you back safely to port.’

  At first Jo couldn’t believe her ears. Perhaps it was exhaustion – or the realisation of their desperate plight – that had led her to imagine such a message echoing from the wireless. But the hymn was still playing through the crackle of static.

  She reached for the speaking tube and hailed Hamish.

  ‘Is he awake?’ asked the first mate hopefully.

  ‘No, but I’ve just heard a message from the harbour master at Kinloch on the radio. You’ve to weigh anchor and ride out the storm.’

  ‘Have you been at the drugs, tae? Am I the only sane person aboard this vessel?’

  ‘No, honestly, I heard it!’

  Hamish was about to reply when he heard a commotion from the cabin below. It came in the form of a scream that would curdle the blood. ‘What on earth is happening down there?’

  ‘It’s Mr Hoynes. He’s sitting up in the bunk and staring at his hands.’

  18

  When Hoynes first became aware of the music, he shot up in his bunk. Everything seemed familiar. He was fully aware that he was aboard the Girl Maggie, though his memory was hazy as to why he was in the cabin. He had a thumping pain in his head, and felt the need to rub his temples with thumb and forefinger, a trick of headache relief his grandmother had shown him, and by which he swore.

  But when he removed his right hand from under the dun woollen blanket his eyes widened in horror. For this was no hand – no human hand, at least. It was a gigantic lobster claw at the end of his arm. For a split second he was paralysed by fear, then he screamed, hearing his own voice echo round the tiny cabin. As he did so, he saw the lobster claw flex in a snapping motion.

  He stopped screaming and made to move his other arm. But a figure appearing before him made him freeze.

  ‘Sandy, thank the Lord you’re okay!’ Hamish stared down at his skipper with a benign expression.

  Hoynes gazed at the apparition in front of him. Though strangely familiar, the vision of the deformed face was hideous. The sallow face with the slanting eyes was plain enough, but instead of hair, two curling horns like that of a seasoned ram emerged from the top of his head. To top off this terrifying spectacle, the man with the horns, who stood only feet away from him now, was dressed in the full garb of a man of the cloth. He wore a dark grey suit, under which was a black shirt with a white dog collar.

  ‘Jeest you stay where you are!’ screamed Hoynes, thrusting his large claw out before him for protection against this foul apparition.

  ‘It’s me, Hamish – your first mate, skipper.’

  Hoynes saw the creature’s lips move, but all he heard was a jumble of sounds that made no sense. He backed as far away as the cramped space of his bunk would allow, making sure he held out his claw before him, snapping it at the horned minister to discourage him from coming any nearer. He heard himself scream again, so loudly that the sound made his eyes vibrate and the vision before him shimmer in the gloom.

  Hamish looked at Jo. ‘What on earth is wrong wae the skipper?’ He stared back at the man he knew so well. Hoynes’ face bore an expression of abject terror, his fingers snapping together like a puppeteer with his hand in a sock.

  The commotion had done enough to banish Jo’s nausea and the journalist in her began to kick in. ‘He’s having a bad trip, Hamish.’

  ‘It’s no’ been a joyride for me either.’

  ‘No. I mean the drug. He’s probably hallucinating.’

  ‘The poor bugger has taken leave o’ his senses, that’s mair like it. What have you done to him?’

  Hoynes screamed again, this time grabbing the old blanket and pulling it over his face to banish the vision of horror before him. But his hand still snapped at the edge of the blanket, and his sea boots now protruded from beneath it at the bottom end of the bunk.

  ‘It’ll wear off. Try not to worry.’

  ‘Try not to worry! My skipper’s turned intae a raving imbecile and we’re lost at sea in a blizzard. I would say I’ve every right tae be worried, wouldn’t you?’

  Jo ignored Hamish and edged towards her bag, where her notepad, pens and camera were kept.

  ‘What are you at?’

  ‘I’m going to get a picture of this. I’m sure the paper can use it in some way or other.’

  But before she could get to the bag, Hamish lurched forwards and grabbed it from her by the strap.

  ‘You’re responsible for this predicament. You’ll no’ be taking any pictures o’ my skipper while he’s no’ in his right mind.’

  Jo shot from her sea chair and began tussling with Hamish over the tools of her trade.

  Hoynes could hear a commotion of sorts, though what was being said was still just an incomprehensible jumble. He made sure that, even though his head was beneath the blanket, his claw was flicking to and fro above his head to deter the fiendish minister.

  But despite his fear and disorientation, he couldn’t resist having a look over the edge of the blanket. He could see two figures wrestling with each other. The man appeared to be holding a baby, while an elderly woman was trying to drag it from his grasp.

  The more he stared, the more he recognised the slight figure. It was his mother! It was then the thought crossed his mind. His poor mother was fighting to save her child from the beast with the horns. And something in him understood that the babe in arms was none other than himself. He had to help her!

  Hoynes was about to force himself from the bed when his gaze landed on something else. At the bottom of the bunk where his feet should have been was a massive lobster tail. When he tried to move, the tail jolted up and down as though he was trying to scuttle away on a sandy seabed.

  He opened his mouth and screamed again.

  Hamish was hauling at the strap, but Jo had a firm grip of her bag. She was surprisingly strong for a slip of a lassie, he thought. But just as he was gaining ground, Hoynes, hitherto silent in the bunk apart from his flicking hand, let out a yell that, if anything, was louder and even more blood-curdling than the last.

  The sudden scream made Jo let go of the bag, and the surprise of this caught Hamish unawares. Suddenly pulling against fresh air, he toppled backwards and hit his head off the stove.

  Jo looked from one fisherman to the other. Hoynes was back under his blanket, fingers snapping frantically in the air, while Hamish was out cold, motionless beside the stove.

  ‘Shit!’ she said loudly, making Hoynes retreat further into the safety of his bunk.

  She knelt over Hamish, first of all checking his pulse to make sure the blow hadn’t been fatal. Thankfully, his heartbeat was strong, though he was unconscious. It was then that the full horror of her predicament dawned. She was aboard a boat, sailing through a blizzard, with both captain and first mate incapacitated.

  Jo tried speaking into Hamish’s left ear, but no response was forthcoming. Gently, she slid her hand under his head, mercifully not encountering the wet stickiness of warm blood she’d expected.

  As a keen Girl Guide, she knew some basic survival techniques. Carefully, recalling her first aid badge, she rolled Hamish over on his side, making sure that if he was sick he wouldn’t choke. Examining the back of his head once more, she was further relieved that there appeared to be no sign of blood. Though an egg-shaped lump was plain under his thinning hair.

  She spoke to the fisherman once more, gave him a gentle shake, but there was no response.

  Jo felt her stomach lurch, as though she was on a roller-coaster or in a rapidly descending lift. She thought at first it was just a ne
rvous reaction to her situation, but when a tin mug was dislodged from its hook, she realised that the boat itself had began to move most alarmingly.

  Making one last attempt to rouse Hamish, and failing, she looked across at the mound under the woollen blanket that was Sandy Hoynes. His hand still grabbed at the air, and she could see his legs were trembling.

  Realising there was no other option, she made for the hatch and, with the help of a chair, managed to haul herself through it.

  19

  Back in Kinloch, the snow was still falling.

  In the town hall, Provost McMurdo had long since stopped taking calls. Since the plight of the Girl Maggie had been aired on national radio, it appeared as though Hoynes had become a hero the length and breadth of the country. He’d had calls from newspapers, television companies, even Fisherman’s Weekly, all wanting to know more of the plight of what was now Kinloch’s most famous vessel.

  He heard the phone ring again in the town clerk’s office and sighed. He’d spent much of the afternoon speaking to the Coastguard, the RNLI and even the Minister of Agriculture and Fisheries. The general consensus was that nothing could be done now that darkness had descended upon the town. They had reached the conclusion that come the morning – in the hope that the snow would have stopped, or at least lessened – a search for the Girl Maggie would begin. Two Royal Navy helicopters had been promised, should visibility be suitable, and the town’s fishing fleet, alongside the lifeboat and their opposite numbers in Girvan, would all put to sea in an attempt to trace the missing vessel. There was even a destroyer steaming towards the area, though like the rest of the rescue party they wouldn’t be able to search in earnest until first light. It appeared that even radar wasn’t working properly in these extreme weather conditions.

  Burdened by guilt, McMurdo tried to console himself that he’d tried his best to mitigate the situation. But still the feeling that he was responsible for Hoynes’ plight gnawed away at him.

  Though he was no career politician, he realised the last thing he should do was hide away in the town hall. So McMurdo made the decision to head to the heart of the fishing community – doubtless next door in the County Hotel, he reckoned. He pulled his heavy overcoat from its hook and placed his trilby firmly on his head. Checking himself in the mirror, he made sure that his tie was straight under his starched collar, and again noticed the resemblance many had commented on over the years between himself and Neville Chamberlain. It was part of the reason he’d entered local politics in the first place.

  Right now, he wished he looked more like Frankie Howerd.

  He leaned his head into the town clerk’s office. ‘I’m going out for a short while.’

  ‘Are you going to be some time?’ replied his junior, casting a look at the big flakes falling under the glow of the streetlights.

  ‘Very funny. If I’m Captain Oates, just work out who you are in the story.’

  Without further comment, McMurdo took to the stairs. He’d never liked his assistant, who was a civil servant rather than an elected politician. Though he had the power of the local council, the town clerk had a healthy salary, and a decent pension to look forward to. McMurdo felt that this, and the fact that his post was permanent, made him feel superior to the provost. In any event, he made sure that the town clerk was kept on his toes, and there was little doubt he had to work hard for his money.

  Outside on Main Street, even the path dug through the snow by the Machrie miners would have been barely visible had it not been for the massive heaps of the white stuff on each of its sides. He felt strange walking past the ground-floor windows of the town hall. It was as though he had become taller and was looking at a smaller building altogether. The fact was, a good few feet of it were now under the tightly packed snow.

  The County Hotel was only a few yards away, but McMurdo took this short journey steadily, anxious not to fall and hurt himself. The town needed its leader at this time, of that he was in no doubt.

  He hadn’t known quite what to expect when he entered the bar, but still he was surprised by how empty it was. Normally in times of crisis locals flocked to the town’s pubs for news and to have a good gossip as to the likely outcome of this or that. Of course, the opinions agreed upon were usually of the gloomy variety, but such was the temper of a small community.

  Only two men sat at the bar, Peeny and McKirdy. Though they differed in appearance – McKirdy being tall and broad, Peeny slight, with a pinched face – they were easily marked out as part of the fishing community by virtue of their weathered faces and deliberate manner. Most fishermen seemed to weigh their words before they spoke, seemingly swirling them round their mind like a connoisseur might savour a fine brandy before swallowing. He supposed this came of so much time spent at sea alone with their thoughts.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said McMurdo, brushing the snow from his coat to the floor and engendering a glower from the barman. ‘I hope I can buy you a drink?’

  ‘Your hope is not in vain, Mr McMurdo. We’ll take as much drink as you can afford, for this is a black day for Kinloch’s fishing fleet,’ said Peeny with a sigh and a shake of the head.

  ‘Mair like a white day, I’d say,’ said McKirdy. ‘I’ve never seen snow like it. No’ here, at any rate.’

  ‘Aye, it’s the kind o’ scenario you might encounter up the Matterhorn, or the likes. But no’ here at Kinloch. It’s jeest no’ natural at all.’

  ‘But you surely believe that Mr Hoynes will have taken the appropriate steps. After all, he’s a very experienced mariner.’

  Peeny stroked his stubbly chin. ‘Aye, but he’s an impetuous man. You jeest had tae see that race he had wae McMichael this morning tae know that. A man o’ his age should be taking his time, no’ rushing off like Francis Chichester.’

  ‘Maybe if he’d been one o’ the slower boats oot o’ the loch, he might no’ be in the predicament in which he finds himself now – fair afloat on a dark ocean, wae the burden o’ snow all around. A man can make mistakes in weather like that – aye, even an experienced one.’

  ‘Plus he and Hamish will be drunk as lords by now,’ added Peeny.

  ‘Surely you don’t think they’ll have partaken in strong drink, not in the danger they’re in?’ McMurdo was beginning to wish he’d stayed in his office. These gloomy predictions were doing nothing for his feelings of guilt.

  ‘It’ll be like this, Mr McMurdo. Hoynes will easily see the hopelessness o’ his situation and have cracked open a bottle as soon as it got dark. He’ll be anchored – if he can, that is. And that’s when hope begins tae drift.’ McKirdy nodded his head mournfully.

  McMurdo knocked back the whisky he’d just been given and held out his glass for a refill. One thing was certain, he needed something to bolster his morale.

  ‘Of course, they may well have made land,’ said McKirdy.

  ‘Oh well, that would be good.’ Suddenly McMurdo felt a surge of confidence.

  ‘No’ if land is a great sheet o’ rocks or a length o’ shingle under some great cliff.’

  ‘What would happen then?’

  ‘If they survived the impact, they’re likely out cold on a beach burning the boat for warmth tae try and attract some attention.’

  ‘Hang on, McKirdy,’ said Peeny. ‘That’s a right doleful thought.’

  McMurdo breathed a sigh of relief at this.

  ‘They could jeest as easy be clinging on tae some rock face for dear life. Or perhaps they’ve constructed one o’ they igloos. I’m sure Sandy will be acquainted wae the mechanics involved. After all, he knows about every other bloody thing!’

  ‘Come, gentlemen, I’m sure things can’t be as black as you paint them.’

  ‘Och, that’s no’ half as black as they could get. Man, they could collide wae some great cargo vessel and cause an international incident, or one o’ they oil tankers. The loch would be pure oil, if that happened.’ Peeny nodded sagely.

  McMurdo threw another large measure down his throat. He had an analyti
cal mind, and it didn’t take much mental effort to realise that if such a calamity did occur, the blame would be placed firmly at his door. How he wished he’d never encouraged the fleet to take to sea. The town could easily have survived a while longer. His actions had been impetuous.

  He felt he had to try to change the subject, so looking around the room he commented on the absence of customers.

  McKirdy looked at him as though he was mad. ‘You canna expect folk tae come rushing oot in weather like this, Mr McMurdo!’

  ‘Well, you’re both here.’

  ‘Aye, that’s fair. But I live across the street and Peeny’s flat’s at the back o’ the car park. The place is on oor doorsteps.’ Both he and Peeny shook their heads at the provost’s lack of common sense.

  Being assured now that the County had little to offer in terms of succour or respite, McMurdo walked to the stand and hefted his coat back on. The snow that had gathered on it had melted in the warmth of the bar, and it was now unpleasantly damp. ‘I’ll bid you a good evening, gents,’ he said, with a tip of his trilby. ‘Another two large measures for my friends, please.’ He passed the requisite money across the bar and made for the door, and onwards to his office in the gloomy town hall.

  ‘Aye, but you’re a fine man, Mr McMurdo,’ said Peeny.

  ‘Jeest the best!’ opined McKirdy.

  They craned their necks through the serving hatch into the hotel lobby to make sure the town’s provost was leaving the premises.

  ‘Aye, a right useless bugger, he is,’ said McKirdy.

  ‘A waste o’ space, to be sure. It’s no’ a man like that you need in times o’ a crisis. They tell me young Charlie Murray the joiner has his eyes on the job.’

  ‘He’s hardly mair than a boy.’

  ‘Think o’ Pitt the Younger, McKirdy. He was a wean when he became prime minister o’ the country, so they say.’

  McKirdy considered this. ‘Aye, but that’s an easy job compared wae being the provost o’ Kinloch. We both know it.’