Marshall put his hand over his eyes. ‘I’m simply full of witticisms today, Mr Campbell. I’m developing a comic temperament.’ He went on briskly, ‘Right, then, I’ll see that . . . What? Three . . . Yes, just a moment, operator. Hold on.’
He searched, without much hope, through his pockets for some change, then, leaving the telephone, put a pound note on the bar. He said to the publican, ‘Give me three shillings, will you?’
The publican raked through his till. ‘Here ye are, sir.’
As Marshall walked back to the telephone he was half aware of the conversation between MacTaggart and the landlord and as he struggled to make the third, truly Scottish, shilling stay in the box he heard the gist of their conversation, accompanied every few seconds by the tintinnabulations of the reluctant shilling.
The landlord was saying, ‘Have you heard about the celebration for Davie Macdougall, over at Bellabegwinnie?’
‘Aye, it’s wonderful to think of old Davie reaching his hundredth birthday.’
‘There’s a few people about was hoping to get over to Bellabegwinnie for the party. Will ye no’ be going yeself, Peter?’
Marshall saw the Skipper look across speculatively, ‘Hmm. I canna be sure.’
At last the box accepted the shilling and the line was open again to the CSS office at Glasgow. Marshall called, ‘Hello, Mr Campbell.’
‘Hallo. Can ye arrange all that, Mr Marshall?’
‘I’ll arrange it all right. The cargo will be sitting there on the wharf by three o’clock . . . Fine . . . Thank you very much.’
He replaced the receiver, and walked tiredly back to the bar to collect his change.
The Skipper looked at him hopefully. ‘Would ye care for a wee drap a . . . ?’
He shook his head. ‘No, thank you. Let’s go. We may as well get back before dark.’
The Skipper suggested, ‘Would ye no prefer to put up here for the night? Ye’d be more comfortable, and we could bring the Puffer along first thing in the . . .’
Marshall moved wearily towards the door. ‘Oh, come on!’
They trudged back along the torturing road. Marshall could hardly believe that feet could hurt so much or that shoes could prove so inadequate. He stumbled repeatedly, and once, for a few steps, he was glad to hold MacTaggart’s arm.
When they reached the bay the tide was at half flood, and the Maggie, though still aground, was surrounded by water. Completely exhausted, Marshall sat on a rock while the Skipper signalled to his boat. In a few minutes the boy was rowing towards them in the dinghy.
When the Skipper shook his arm Marshall woke from the daze of exhaustion. ‘The boat’s here, sir. Ye’ll have to wade.’ Marshall looked up dumbly and saw the boy waiting in the dinghy, some fifty or sixty yards away. ‘As close as he can get,’ the Skipper shouted and started off through the shallow water in his Wellingtons.
Slowly, with immense care, Marshall unlaced and removed his shoes. Then he stumbled out behind the Skipper.
When he reached the dinghy he had no strength to climb over the side. He felt the Skipper’s hand grasping his shoulder and the Skipper’s cheerful voice, ‘Weel, it’s a grand evening. Do ye know, ye were right. The exercise has done me good.’
Chapter Eighteen
In his desperate tiredness Marshall slept longer and more soundly than he had for years. From the depths of slumber he had vague impressions, intangible as dreams, which, even on waking, could not be distinguished as fears or reality: the Skipper drinking, arguing lugubriously with the engineman; the boy’s shrill defence of his hero; the mate’s concertina; a rocking of the boat, rise and fall, the engine starting, the anchor chain . . .
Marshall woke slowly, and his eyes were open for a few seconds before he remembered where he was. Quite clearly above the noise of the engine he heard the sounds of movement. McGregor in his engine-room, the Skipper’s voice, the cry of seagulls. He scrambled up, fully clothed except for his shoes and jacket, and tried to stand. His outraged feet were extremities of pain; his joints seemed to creak as loudly as the rotten timbers of the Maggie. He held himself upright against the bunk. A lesser man would have given up the fight, would have subsided despairingly into the blankets, but Marshall was a man of determination. He had to know what MacTaggart was doing. He had to know . . .
As he leant over the side of the bunk his head swam with fatigue. His shoes: one . . . two . . . Gritting his teeth he pressed first one foot into a shoe, then the other. Never again, he knew, would he buy shoes that were smart or tight-fitting. Brogues were the things, or Wellingtons. Hearing the Skipper’s shout, ‘Where’s the wee boy?’ he struggled to get on deck. One shoelace was fastened; the other broke under his impatient tugging. He stared at it furiously and then stuffed the broken end into his pocket.
Scrambling out of the hatch he saw that they were indeed under way. The sea was more choppy than yesterday, but the occasional whitecaps in the deep blueness of the sea added a touch of exhilaration to the scene. They also made the Maggie look faster than she was.
‘Good morning, sir. It’s a fine day.’ Leaning from his wheelhouse the Skipper greeted him warmly, as though there had never been any misunderstanding about cargo, no chase, no hard words.
Marshall came fully out on to the sunlit deck and the fresh wind blowing his hair only added to the wildness of his appearance. ‘Where are we? Where are we?’
The Skipper indicated with his pipe stem their position on the map. ‘We’ll be in Loch Mora under the hour, Mr Marshall. We’re just about there. Ye can see Beinn Chareagach over yonder, and that’s Beinn Na Croise on our port quarter.’
Despite the Skipper’s fair words and open countenance Marshall would accept nothing on trust. He looked intently at the map, squinted suspiciously across the water to the line of mountains. He even took a compass bearing. Unless the Skipper had produced a fake map they were, in fact, heading for Loch Mora. He could just see the dilapidated pier.
The boy came to his side. ‘Will ye not be having some breakfast, sir?’
Marshall shook his head ungraciously. ‘No, thanks. I’ll wait till I get to . . .’ He paused and his expression changed as he caught the odour from the galley. Yesterday’s long walk and now the keen air, the sunlight, the scudding water. He hesitated, ‘Well . . .’
In the forward cabin he attacked the plate of ham and eggs and the mug of tea set before him by the boy. As he ate he was aware that the boy, standing by the stove, was watching every mouthful.
‘There’s plenty more eggs, sir.’
‘No, thanks.’ Marshall cleaned the plate with a piece of bread and leaned back in his chair. ‘Mmm . . . Mmm . . . That’s the biggest meal I’ve eaten in years.’
The boy suggested eagerly, ‘More tea?’
Marshall hesitated, then pushed the mug across. ‘All right.’ After the humdrum strain of business, the sudden apoplectic chase, he felt relaxed. In the untidy cabin, with the greasy plate, broken teapot, a mug of dark brown tea in his hand, it seemed impossible to judge things by any normal values. The Skipper was a rogue, but a cheerful rogue; the boy at least was loyal.
Marshall asked, ‘Don’t they ever call you anything but ‘the wee boy’?’
‘My name’s Douggie, sir.’ He had collected the plates, and was now washing them in a bucket of water.
Marshall said, ‘Well, Douggie, you’re a good ham and eggs cooker, anyway.’
From the smile that flickered across the pert, serious face it was obvious that the boy was pleased. For a few moments he washed with vigour, sloshing a good deal of water over the deck. Then he looked up. ‘Why won’t you let the Captain take the cargo for ye, Mr Marshall?’
Marshall was quite calm now. He explained reasonably and gently. ‘Because he caused me a great deal of trouble and expense. You know that.’
‘I know, sir. But why won’t ye let him take the cargo for ye?’
‘Well, he double-crossed me. He behaved very badly.’
‘I know he did, si
r. But why won’t ye let him take the cargo for ye?’
Marshall drank his tea. He looked thoughtfully at the boy’s serious face, then he chuckled and shook his head in admiration. He said, ‘Douggie, I could use a few people like you in my own business. You’d better come and work for me.’
The boy considered this seriously. Then he explained, ‘I wouldna want to leave the Captain, sir. The Captain is the best skipper in the coastal trade. Everybody knows that. There’s not many skippers like Captain MacTaggart.’
Marshall subdued a smile. ‘You’re so right.’ He leant forward. ‘Tell me: was the Captain really born aboard this boat, or is that just a . . . ?’
The boy was collecting the knives and forks from the table. ‘Yes, sir. He was. Right here in this cabin.’
‘But how did that happen?’
‘Well, sir. ’Twas like this. The Maggie was just launched then. The Captain’s granddad was the skipper of her, and his dad was the mate. Well, the Captain was supposed to be born in Applecross, but his mother needed a doctor, so they were taking her across to Portree, and there was a storm . . .’ He shrugged, ‘So the Captain was born right here on the Maggie.’
Marshall was silent. He tried to imagine the rough night, the woman moaning in the bunk; the tossing boat, the husband at the wheel. And out of that night of agony had been born – the Skipper. He saw for the first time that under the bland air of untrustworthy innocence the Skipper really did love the Maggie. She was more to him than any other boat could ever be.
The boy was saying, ‘If we got the rest of the money from ye, sir, we could get her plates put right. It would mean a lot to the Captain. Why won’t ye let him take the cargo for ye, sir?’
Chapter Nineteen
(1)
In the morning sunlight Loch Mora looked picturesque but deserted: hardly the place for a swift movement of cargo. As the Maggie tied up at the wharf a crofter drove a few shaggy cattle out on to the dilapidated pier, where they stood looking disconsolately over the water. The pub door was shut, and only the lowing of a bull from some hidden barn showed that there was life at all in the cluster of cottages. The rising moorland was deserted, and along the line of hills a dark pine forest rose like a wall.
Marshall called to the crew, ‘Come on now. Let’s get moving. We’ll be hard pushed as it is before the CSS boat comes in.’
The three men and the boy started reluctantly to unload the cargo, with McGregor controlling the donkey-engine and the mate at the derrick. The Skipper shuffled between the hold and the wharf, showing by his good example how to forgive a personal affront. The boy, following him backwards and forwards, looked so bitterly at Marshall that the American found himself turning away in embarrassment. Was he really to be blamed for wanting his cargo safe? Any rational observer would confirm that the old Puffer was unseaworthy. There were many hazards between Loch Mora and Kiltarra: rough seas, uncertain tides, rocky shores, where a boat could have the bottom ripped out of her in a matter of minutes. And was the Skipper such a good seaman that he could be trusted to deliver the cargo safely, whatever the hazards? Despite the boy’s loyal protests Marshall could not forget the fiasco at Glasgow. ‘Puffer stuck on subway!’ And the pilot’s admiring testimonial, ‘I seen him so drunk . . . !’
Marshall shook away his doubts. ‘Get a move on there. Get a move on!’
They worked stoically, accepting their fate – all except the Skipper. As the cargo piled on to the wharf he retreated to his wheelhouse, where he leant broodingly, looking at nothing and saying nothing, but, Marshall felt, thinking a lot. He would have given a great deal to have known what plans were hatching behind that formidable nose and the bright speculative eyes. Marshall moved uneasily along the wharf, trying to think what he would do if he were in MacTaggart’s place. But it was no good. The man was a lunatic. Although he couldn’t feel entirely at rest until the CSS boat came in, he could see no possible weakness that even a man of MacTaggart’s ingenuity could turn to advantage. The cargo was there, on the stone wharf: the last crate was being landed.
He looked towards the pub. The door was open now and the landlord standing in the doorway raised a hand in salutation. There was a window facing the wharf. Marshall called, ‘MacTaggart!’
‘Aye?’
‘I’m going over to the pub to phone. But, in case you should have any bright ideas, remember that I’ll be by the window. I’ll be able to see everything.’
(2)
The wee boy walked disconsolately along the deck. His face was dirty and his hands were cut from handling the wooden crates; but his physical discomfort was nothing compared with his soreness of spirit. The Skipper had been defeated. The Maggie would be sold or broken up. The inevitable end was near. He dragged wearily towards the stern.
Then he stopped. Here was something that no one had seen, not even Marshall. The rails at the stern were broken and the stern was projecting eighteen inches or so directly under the heavy cross-beams of the pier. As the Maggie rose with the tide . . . ! He turned excitedly to the wheelhouse. ‘Captain, sir!’
The Skipper turned disinterestedly, ‘Aye?’
‘Captain, sir, look at the way she’s lying. When the tide comes in will she no’ catch under the pier?’
The Skipper turned without undue concern. A foot or two in reverse. There was no hurry.
The boy said timorously, ‘Wait a minute, sir . . . I mean, sir . . . If ye left her the way she is, and the tide comes in, would there no’ be an . . . accident?’
At first the Skipper did not grasp the point. ‘Are ye daft, lad? It would ruin . . .’ His voice trailed off as understanding showed in his eyes. He looked guilelessly across at the pub where Marshall was telephoning by the open window. The American was watching alertly, but no one could see what was happening or what was likely to happen under the pier except from the deck of the Maggie. The Skipper smiled broadly as he clapped the wee boy on the shoulder. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Just leave her the way she is. Ye’re a good lad, Douggie. A good lad, and I’m not denying it. Ye’ll be a skipper one day, yourself.’
(3)
Marshall could not have said how soon he began to sense that something was wrong. Along the window ledge beside the telephone he had placed neat stacks of shillings; the window was open and, as he had said, he could see everything that happened on the wharf. McGregor was there and Hamish the mate. The Skipper and the boy were talking on deck.
He started as the operator connected him with his number. ‘Hallo, World International Airways?’ Then for a few minutes his attention was diverted as a grubby boy came along the road, driving a score of geese. As they waddled across the cobbles they protested with waggling tails, outstretched necks and a loud indignant cackling. Auk-auk-auk! Auk-auk-auk! Marshall looked furiously at the urchin and then at the crew, who were watching him with amusement from the wharf. He dared not shut the window. It even crossed his mind that they might have arranged this – as a diversion? It could easily be the fruit of MacTaggart’s fertile brain. Auk-auk-auk!
‘Hallo! World International . . . ? Hallo!’
He put down the receiver and slammed the door shut.
‘Hallo! Hallo! Is that . . . ?’ He bellowed angrily. ‘Who’s shouting? Do you know who you’re talking to?’ Down the road the cackling came as mocking laughter. Auk-auk-auk! Auk-auk-auk!
His piles of shillings diminished as he indulged in an orgy of telephoning: so many orders to be given, so much to arrange. And on the wharf the Skipper and boy had joined McGregor and the mate. They were laughing uproariously together. Was it then that he had his first premonition of disaster?
He hurried through his last conversation. ‘Right. Thank you, Miss Peters. Tell Mrs Marshall I will definitely be home tomorrow. Thank you.’ He replaced the receiver slowly as the Maggie’s crew came across the sunlit road. He heard the Skipper’s cheerful cry, ‘All right, lads, I’ll buy the drinks.’
Marshall took a few paces into the road and then stopped to watch as they a
pproached. His misgivings grew as they came nearer. They were laughing, nudging, full of the joys of life, such an extraordinary change of attitude from their previous despondency.
They passed close to him without stopping. They were all grinning fatuously and, as they entered the pub, the mate began to giggle. Marshall turned and followed them into the bar.
He stood aggressively in the doorway. ‘All right, all right. Let me in on it, will you? What’s so funny?’
They turned together, leaning on the bar, and looked at him with bland innocence.
‘Oh, hell!’ Marshall stalked angrily into the road and crossed over to the wharf.
His first thoughts were for his cargo. Crates, timber, machinery: he checked it all carefully, pressing his finger into sacking covers, testing the weight of boxed crates. There was nothing wrong that he could see. He sat down on guard. Far out on the water a cargo boat was turning shorewards. The CSS boat? A surge of laughter came from the pub, across the deserted street, and up into the silent hills. A dog was sniffing round the cargo. At the end of the pier the cattle bellowed mournfully to the sea. Marshall sat doggedly on guard.
Although there was no possibility of disaster that he could see, he still turned uneasily from the merriment in the pub. A piano was played for a few inaccurate bars. Outside in the sunlight the boy was staring over the sea. Marshall tried to laugh away his fears: the cargo was here, on the wharf; he was sitting on it. The CSS boat was on its way.
One of the cattle lowed and was answered by its mate. Then again . . . Marshall looked round, puzzled. It seemed to him that the sound he had just heard, a deep, hoarse groaning, had not come from the cattle. And yet . . . He couldn’t be sure. It was like the lowing he had heard before and yet, somehow, different. Perhaps he had been mistaken.
He settled down again, and again the noise broke through his complacency. There was no doubt about it this time. It hadn’t come from the cattle. He saw them standing dejectedly with heads bent, silent. The deep groaning came again.
The Maggie Page 9
