‘I do beg your pardon, madam!’
She watched with astonishment as he backed away between the boxes of oatmeal and potatoes. A saucepan clattered across the stone floor. He asked miserably, ‘Is this the post office?’
‘Aye.’
‘Could I, do you think . . . ? Do you think I could use your telephone?’
Obviously suspicious of his extraordinary conduct the shop lady said grimly, ‘If ye pay for it.’
‘Of course.’ He went into the small inner room. The telephone . . . ? He couldn’t see at first in the gloom. Then, as he lifted the receiver, ‘I want . . .’ He paused, with another attack of cold fear. ‘One moment, please.’ He put down the receiver.
‘Number, please?’
He fumbled through his trousers pockets: two pennies, a Scottish sixpence, bent beyond recall. Hurriedly he felt for his waistcoat, but it was hidden now beneath the sweater.
‘What number would ye be wanting?’
He shouted desperately, ‘One moment. I shan’t keep you . . . Just got to get some change . . .’
He went back into the shop like a demented man. From their guarded looks and the way they backed into safer positions behind barrels or the counter it was plain that they had heard everything. They were convinced that he was a lunatic.
He calmed himself with an effort. ‘Do you think you could let me have some change?’
The lady behind the counter watched him open-mouthed.
He repeated, ‘Do you think you could let me have some change?’
‘Change?’
‘Change!’ He felt his control slipping. ‘Shillings, sixpennies, pennies! I-want-some-change-for-the-telephone.’
With his cupped hands brimming over with money he stamped irascibly back to the telephone.
‘Hallo, hallo! You there, miss . . .’
The refined voice chided him gently, ‘What number would ye be wanting?’
Chapter Twenty-One
All his anger and impatience wilted in the stuffy twilight of the post office. In a few minutes he was forcing polite words between his teeth; after the half-hour he was pleading, ‘Miss, do you think . . . ? Could you try again?’ He could see the elderly shopkeeper listening with disapproval.
‘Hallo, Lydia!’ His cry of relief was instantly muted to his wife’s protest. ‘But, honey, I didn’t mean to shout. It’s just that I’m so glad to hear you . . . Yes, I know . . . Yes, but honestly, honey, it’s not been my fault . . . I know I promised . . . I really thought . . . If you could only see the man I’ve had to deal with.’
His head bowed, his eyes closed, as the last sediment of confidence drained away. ‘Yes, honey . . . Yes, honey . . . Yes, honey, of course I’m still manager . . . Yes, honey . . . But this man MacTaggart . . . Yes, honey . . . I’m sorry, honey . . .’
His body sagged with his hopes, first one elbow against the telephone bracket, then leaning against the wall, half kneeling in supplication.
‘But, Lydia, how can you say it’s a silly idea when you haven’t even seen the place? I promise you you’ll absolutely love it! It’s beautiful, Lydia, believe me. And we’ll be able to spend most of the summers there . . . what? Of course I’ll be there with you . . . But, honey, I’ve only gone to all this trouble because I wanted to make you happy . . . You’re what? But you can’t do that! No, we can’t talk about it like this, over the phone. Look, darling, will you do something for me? I want you to fly out to Kiltarra. We’ll be there some time in the late afternoon, and then we can sit down and discuss it reasonably . . . Hello? Hello, operator! Operator, we’ve been cut off! Operator!’
The operator’s voice came gently, ‘Your party’s no longer there, sir.’
He nodded. ‘Thank you. Thank you.’
He hung the receiver back on its hook. Then for a moment he stood quite still, like someone who has suffered an unexpected shock. He turned, staring vacantly at the postmistress. ‘Uh – thank you. Thank you.’
Out in the village street he stood undecided. A quarter of a mile to the boat, in these clothes! The other way, where the mountain almost swept the coast road into the sea, would be quieter. He wanted time to think. At the end of the village the cobbles gave way to sand, and the sand petered out into heather: a few rabbit tracks, a sheep walk, a path beaten out of the hillside by generations of lovers. He wandered aimlessly, climbing wherever the myriad paths led, until he sank exhausted on to a mound of short grass. Looking down, he could see the jagged coastline, the bays, the beaches, the rocks, to the end of a promontory which jutted a mile or so away into the grey Atlantic. Below him, the road came from nowhere into the first houses of the village. The sharp roofs, the square chapel, the stores: he could just see round a buttress of the hill to the harbour where a dozen small boats were at anchor. His cargo! The momentary qualm faded as quickly as it came. What did it matter? If MacTaggart sailed off, if the Maggie sank . . . Now that he had no need to worry he looked back incredulously at his ferocious efforts over the last days: chartered planes, hectic phone calls, lawyers, hired cars, stacks of shillings! For all Lydia cared . . .
He turned from his introspection as he saw someone coming towards him through the heather. At first, when she was some way off, he thought she was just a child, but as she approached, swinging her legs youthfully against the heather, he saw that she was older than he had thought: nineteen or twenty, he guessed, and as pretty as a picture.
She was coming downhill, making for the village, but when she saw him she turned and came along the path towards him.
‘Good afternoon.’ He rose awkwardly, feeling embarrassed and yet, somehow, exhilarated by her young smiling face.
She asked, ‘Would you be the American that came on Skipper MacTaggart’s old Puffer?’
‘That’s right.’
She stared at him with the bright-eyed inquisitiveness of a child. ‘I’m glad to have met ye. They told me ye’d want to be leaving soon. I’d have been sorry if ye’d left before I saw you.’
He walked beside her down the gradual slope. ‘Why did you want to see me?’ with a laugh. ‘I can’t be as famous as all that.’
She looked at him seriously. ‘Famous? It’s not that. It’s just . . . I’ve never seen an American before.’
They walked down to the level track into the village, and, listening to her gay chatter, Marshall felt his depression lifting. For the second time that day he had to adjust his sense of proportion. She was youth and happiness and laughter; she was hope; she was life. Remembering his own young wife, he felt courage to continue the fight. Kiltarra. With the cargo he had collected so carefully, the cargo that was still in the Maggie’s hold . . .
The Maggie! Was she still there? Was MacTaggart waiting? He turned to the girl, ‘Well, Miss, it sure has been nice meeting you.’
‘It was nice to meet you, too.’
‘Thank you.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you mind . . . ? Will you tell me your name?’
‘Sheena,’ she answered without embarrassment. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Marshall’; he added self-consciously, ‘Calvin B. Marshall.’
He hurried along the street, past the stores and the chapel, the second pub. His spirits were high again. He would carry out his original plan. First, to get his cargo to Kiltarra . . .
As he came round the bend of the hill he expected to see the Maggie with steam up and the crew waiting anxiously to cast off. But the boat was empty. Had they gone into the village looking for him? He was almost up to the boat before he saw the Maggie was not quite deserted. The wee boy was on hands and knees, scrubbing down the deck.
Marshall stopped by the ladder and looked round. He asked, ‘Where are the others?’
With a faint but unmistakable air of guilt the boy said, ‘In the village, sir.’
‘But aren’t we ready to go?’ He looked round. ‘Have they taken on the coal?’
‘Well, no, sir . . .’
Marshall could feel exasperation rising again. A few minutes ago he had b
een ready to forget and forgive. Now . . . He asked angrily, ‘What exactly is going on here?’
‘They’ll just be down in the village, sir.’
Two fishermen from one of the other boats were walking along the pier. They called to the boy, ‘Hallo, Douggie. Have ye come for Dave Macdougall’s party?’
Slowly, as he saw the boy’s embarrassment, Marshall understood. He had been tricked again. With an expression of ferocious resolve he started down the road to the village.
Chapter Twenty-Two
As he strode up the cobbled hill he could see the Skipper through the open doorway of the pub. With a pint pot held affectionately in one hand MacTaggart was talking with four or five old friends, seafaring men like himself. Marshall saw him empty a glass with one long draught and accept another. He was saying, ‘We’ll have to bring Mr Marshall to the party. I’d like him to meet old Davie.’
Marshall put his head in the doorway and called quietly, ‘MacTaggart!’
The Skipper looked round with an affable smile. ‘Ah, Mr Marshall. I was just coming to find ye.’ He seemed taken aback by Marshall’s impatient gesture, and followed him a little nervously into the street. ‘They canna let us have the coal before tomorrow . . .’
Calmly, wearily, the American sat on a bench outside the door and pulled the Skipper down beside him. He said carefully, ‘Look, MacTaggart. I know you came here because somebody’s having a party. I just want to ask you one thing . . .’
‘Well, it’s old Davie Macdougall, sir. He sailed with . . .’
‘I know. He sailed with your father. So okay. I just want to ask you one thing.’
‘Not my father, sir, my grandfather, Old Davie was mate when the Maggie was new.’
Marshall’s voice rose with exasperation. ‘All right, all right. I still want to ask you one thing. Doesn’t the job you’re supposed to be doing mean anything to you at all?’
‘It means a great deal, sir,’ the Skipper protested. ‘Aye, we’ll be able to get the Maggie’s plates put right. I’m very grateful to ye for the opportunity.’
‘But don’t you think you ought to fulfil your contract?’
The Skipper looked at him in surprise. ‘What contract, sir?’
‘You’re supposed to be taking me and my cargo to Kiltarra!’
‘But we are taking ye, sir. Ye’re almost there. It’s only one day’s sailing. If we’re away first thing in the morning . . .’
Marshall spoke with emotion. ‘Listen, MacTaggart. You forced me into paying you in advance when you broke up that pier . . .’
‘Forced ye, sir?’ The Skipper was scandalised. ‘Ye canna say we forced ye. Your cargo was practically stranded.’
‘MacTaggart, don’t you realise that if you fail to keep your bargain I can stop payment of the cheque I gave you?’
The threat had no effect at all. The Skipper said cheerfully, ‘Och, no. Ye couldna do that, Mr Marshall.’
‘No?’ The American eyed him narrowly. ‘If you don’t come down there and get that thing under way right now . . .’
‘Ye couldna refuse to pay us.’
The Skipper’s grin infuriated Marshall beyond control. He shouted, ‘Why couldn’t I? Why can’t I? Why wouldn’t I?’
The Skipper said confidently, ‘Ach, because ye’re an honourable man, Mr Marshall. I recognised ye for an honourable man the first minute I saw ye.’
‘But, MacTaggart . . .’
‘Ye’ve nothing to worry about, sir,’ the Skipper said, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘We’ll get ye there. And, Mr Marshall, I’ve been instructed to tell ye that ye’re included in the invitations to the party. It’ll be a grand gathering, sir.’
The American rose in frustration, stared at him speechlessly for a moment, and walked furiously back towards the harbour.
The scene was darkening as he came slowly towards the old Puffer. There was a haze over the sea and the horizon was shortening as night fell. The boats rode quietly at anchor, and the line of hills was marked against a red sky.
As he climbed on to the deck Marshall felt something more than anger – an almost unbearable loneliness. The harbour was deserted. The boats were unmanned, the fishermen’s nets were folded. Where he might have expected to see men pushing the smooth-running keels over the stones there was nothing except a few lobster pots, a meditating seagull. Everyone had gone to the party: everyone.
He went down into the cabin and lay despondently on the bunk. Courage and hope were seeping away in the lonely night. He felt cold and tired and disillusioned. Faintly, above the quiet harbour noises, came a distant chorus and a concertina. For a time he listened restlessly and then, swinging out of the bunk, made his way on to the deck.
When he went to the stern rail the sound of music was much louder. In a brightly lit hall, only a few hundred yards away, a dozen voices were lifted in a Gaelic song. Everyone in Bellabegwinnie seemed to be at the celebration. The joyful music had a melancholy ring for the American, leaning first on the rail, then against the wheelhouse door. His thoughts were at Kiltarra with the house he had planned, in London with the lovely, impatient Lydia, on the hillside with the girl Sheena.
Suddenly he was conscious of a heightening of tempo in the celebration hall. The first few voices were joined by many others as all the villagers and their guests roared into a Gaelic song. Marshall listened intently.
Then, as suddenly as it had arisen, the storm of singing died down. There was complete silence. On a sudden impulse Marshall climbed on to the pier and walked slowly towards the hall. He came quietly to one of the open windows and looked in.
There were nearly a hundred people in the hall, which was clearly a schoolroom converted for the party. They were all dressed in their best clothes. At one end of the room, on the teacher’s dais, Davie Macdougall was sitting in the place of honour. He was a fine-looking man, upright, smiling, bright-eyed. Sometimes singly, sometimes in pairs, sometimes in small family groups the villagers and their guests went forward with their presents: geese, pheasants, pigs, sweaters, pipes, a sizeable keg. Round the old man’s chair the pile of presents grew as each donor came forward to shake his hand or, if the donor was a lady, to kiss his cheek. Davie Macdougall was smiling broadly despite his tears.
Watching from the dark loneliness beyond the window Marshall felt strangely touched by what he had seen. There was friendship here and warmth, a charming sincerity that was not often met in his own efficient world of finance.
Only a few more gifts had to be presented. He saw the girl, Sheena, at the end of the line. Then, unexpectedly, the wee boy looked up and saw him standing at the window. Marshall took a step backwards, hoping to slip away into the darkness, but the boy had tugged at the Skipper’s sleeve and the Skipper had started for the door.
He came out before Marshall could escape from the reflected light beyond the windows. He called, ‘Mr Marshall! Mr Marshall! Won’t ye come in and join us?’
Marshall’s desire for flight was frustrated by MacTaggart’s swiftness. Everyone in the hall had stopped at the interruption. As the light flooded through the open doorway the American was caught undecided. ‘Come along, sir.’ The Skipper had taken his arm.
Marshall shook his head in embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry. I . . .’
The Skipper said, as he tugged him towards the doorway, ‘But ye must come in, sir. Ye must meet Davie Macdougall.’
‘Well . . .’ Feeling more embarrassed with each reluctant step, Marshall allowed himself to be dragged into the room. The guests smiled politely. The engineman, the mate and the boy were plainly delighted. The Skipper led his passenger up to the old man. He said in Gaelic, ‘Davie, this is Mr Marshall, a very important gentleman from America for whom we are doing a job. A fine man, Davie.’ He said to Marshall, ‘Shake hands with him, sir.’
Marshall took Davie Macdougall’s hand in his own. The old man seemed to look him up and down, to size him up, and then, accepting him, returned his firm handclasp. Marshall said with an odd, sincere
gesture, ‘I haven’t any . . . I haven’t brought you a present . . .’
In Gaelic the Skipper said, ‘Mr Marshall’s concerned because he’s brought no gift for you.’
Davie Macdougall smiled broadly and shook his head. Behind the wrinkled, weather-beaten skin his bright eyes showed only friendship.
Marshall said, ‘Congratulations, sir,’ and then, clumsily to the Skipper, ‘Will you tell him that where I come from we have a saying that the first hundred years are the hardest.’
The Skipper nodded with quick approval. He translated, ‘Mr Marshall asks me to tell ye that in America they have a saying, the first century is more difficult.’
The guests waited on tenterhooks to see whether the old man would take the joke. He said, ‘I don’t understand.’
The Skipper said again, ‘The first century is more difficult than the second century.’
The room waited in silence. Somewhere a boy shuffled. ‘Mother, why . . .?’ and was instantly subdued. Davie Macdougall looked at Marshall seriously for a long minute as he considered the statement. Then suddenly his face was wreathed in smiles and he began to laugh. Marshall relaxed, and laughed with him. The whole room seemed pleased and relieved. The Skipper and the other guests joined in the laughter, some of them applauded the remark. The old man leant forward and took Marshall’s hand again, and at once the musicians struck up with a dance. Following the Skipper across to the refreshment table Marshall felt inordinately pleased. He had come here a stranger. He had been accepted.
As he stood, smiling and watching the guests lining up for the dance, he felt a glass being pushed into his hand.
The Skipper said, ‘Ye must have a wee dram in . . .’
Marshall shook his head doubtfully, anxious to avoid offence. ‘No, thank you. I never take whisky.’
‘In honour of the occasion, sir. Ye must.’ He found himself ringed by the engineman, the mate and the boy. They were all grinning encouragement. ‘No.’ He tried to protest again, but he was hemmed in. There was nowhere to put the glass. ‘Ye must, sir. In honour of . . .’ With a fine feeling of bravado he swallowed the contents of the glass.
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