Constable by the Sea (3 page)

That morning, as I booked off duty, he asked, with a twinkle in his eye, ‘Is everything all right, Rhea?’

‘Yes, all correct, sergeant,’ I assured him.

To walk the early morning beat in Strensford is an enchanting experience. Such is the appeal of the harbourside and the beach at the dawn of a summer’s day that holiday-makers and local residents alike stir themselves from their slumbers and journey to the sea, there to explore the coast and to witness the daily routine of the fishermen. These sturdy, hard-working men may begin their work at any hour of the day or night depending upon the timing of the tides. Sometimes they return to shore in the light of a new dawn, and sometimes they rise even before the sun to busy themselves about their boats or at the nearby fishmarket.

There are times when the undulating waters of the harbour are hidden beneath a floating, constantly moving platform of fishing boats. Men clad in thigh-length waders and thick,
dark-blue
jerseys known as gansers move from boat to boat with astonishing ease and confidence, while the boats themselves are moored both side by side and stern to prow. They form a solid, gently swaying platform which reaches midway across the water, and from many of them spirals of blue smoke rise from tiny chimneys as their motors idle with a strangely fluid sound. There is the scent too, the distinctive scent of the sea and of fish and fishing, a scent not unpleasant here on the quayside.

In the summer, some of the boats belong to the local
fishermen, but others do come to Strensford as visitors. Some hail from English ports, others come from Scotland, Holland and Scandinavia, but they all seek the shoals of herring which visit Dogger Bank and inhabit the North Sea.

The visitors invariably live upon their boats, sleeping, eating and working within the spotless confines of their
accommodation
below deck. During their annual visit to Strensford, these ships are a combination of miniature floating homes, factories and fishmarkets. The men on board are dressed for combat both with the sea and with fish, for here you’ll find sou’westers, gansers, thigh-length sea-boots and one-piece pale blue denim tops with long sleeves and no buttons.

And always, there is the ever-present scent of fish, the glistening fish scales, the huge boxes of cooling ice and buckets of fresh cleansing water. Cool wetness and fish seem to be inseparable, and in those days boxes of preserving ice were manufactured at local ice factories.

To witness the careful work-a-day preparations by this
multinational
fleet is fascinating. Daily they brave the wrath of the grey North Sea in boats which seem too small and flimsy when viewed from the staiths but which are sturdy enough to cope with their tough, thankless task.

It is this unique activity which so captivates the
holiday-makers
, and we policemen who then patrolled the town were privileged to see this routine during our normal duties. And in spite of seeing it time and time again, it never lost its appeal. Sea fishermen live in a self-contained world; it is a unique way of life which is an echo of the past. There was never any overt urgency in their behaviour, just a steady, methodical style born of generations of hard-working men whose chosen career faced nature at its most severe.

Sometimes at night or in the very early dark hours of the morning, that same fleet would position itself far out at sea to undertake its work. From the shore, it could be seen as a distant town of gently moving lights, all arranged in straight lines like formal streets. I’ve known motorists high on the moors be puzzled by the appearance of the ‘mirage’ of a new town out in the blackness of the night-time sea, but those are the lights by
which these men work to drag from the deep their full nets of struggling fish. And, when the night’s work is done, they will return to Strensford to unload and sell their catch, to prepare their boats and equipment for the following day and then to embark once again, depending not upon the passage of time but upon the sequence of high tides and a knowledge of the
movements
of the herring shoals, or the availability of whiting, cod and other fish.

Although visitors did sometimes join local boats for paid fishing trips, I never anticipated stepping on board any of them, either British or foreign.

But it did happen.

The first time was when I was on early duty, my beat taking me along the harbourside.

My 6.35 a.m. point was at the telephone kiosk in the Fish Market, and on this occasion there was a call for me.

‘It’s Stan in the office,’ said the voice. ‘I’ve a pleasant little job for you.’

‘Fire away.’ I took my notebook from my tunic pocket and opened its pages on the coinbox so I could write in it.

‘It’s from a Mrs Maureen McPherson.’ He spoke slowly, allowing me time to take down his words. ‘From Aberdeen,’ and he gave me the address.

‘Yes,’ I said, having noted those details.

‘Her son, Ian, is a crewman on the fishing boat
Waverley
– it’s in our harbour all this week. It’s registered in Aberdeen, you’ll find it easily enough. We’ve got a request message for him – tell him that his mother rang. It’s to say that his wife, Joan, has given birth to a baby boy. She’s in the maternity hospital in Aberdeen, and both are doing well. Maybe he’ll give his mother a call as soon as possible?’

‘I’ll be delighted,’ I said. The delivery of these so-called ‘request messages’ was a task we often undertook for those people who did not have a telephone. On this occasion it was a pleasant message, but more often than not we had to deliver news of deaths or severe accidents. News of a happy birth was a very welcome change.

I went cheerfully about my task and soon found the fishing
boat. It was moored midway along the harbourside and lay beyond a further three, well into the centre of the full harbour. All seemed at rest, for there was no obvious work going on.

I climbed down to the deck of the nearest boat and by stepping across other decks soon reached the
Waverley
. There was no one on deck, so I tapped on the cabin door, where I was greeted by a thick-set fisherman in the customary heavy
navy-blue
sweater. In his late forties, he oozed power and authority, a formidable man to cross, I guessed.

‘Good morning,’ I said as he opened the narrow door.

‘Wha’ is it?’ There was more than a hint of suspicion in his gruff Scots voice. ‘It’s no’ bother, is it?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s good news. Is Ian McPherson below?’

‘Aye.’

‘Could I have a word with him?’

‘Here?’

‘Yes please.’

‘He’s busy, doon the galley, but Ah’ll fetch him.’

I watched his broad back disappear below and waited until a younger man arrived. He was dark-haired and swarthy, if a little more slender than the previous one. He’d be about twenty-six years old but was almost a carbon-copy of the older man. He was powerful too, thick-set with a strong chin and deep chest. I reckoned he and his father could cope with any kind of ‘bother’ as they called it.

‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Ian McPherson?’

‘Aye, Ah’m Ian, that other was ma dad.’

‘Oh, well. It’s good news. I’ve got a message from your mother. It’s to say you’re a proud dad, Ian. A lovely baby boy, born in Aberdeen maternity hospital. Your wife and baby are both fine. I was asked to inform you. Oh, and you’ve got to ring your mother.’

His dark eyes misted at my news, and this was followed by the quivering of his bottom lip, both signs of a happy new father. This tough, stolid Scotsman was doing his best not to show any emotion, but he was losing the battle.

‘Congratulations,’ I said.

‘Aye,’ he wiped an eye with the rough sleeve of his ganser. ‘Look, officer, come along doon. We’ll need to celebrate de noo.’

It was rather early in the morning to be drinking, I thought, but I did not like to appear churlish in his moment of happiness, so I followed him downstairs into the tiny, cramped galley. It was spotlessly clean and tidy. I noticed the table was laid for five breakfasts, and as I reached the end of this tiny table, Ian shouted.

‘Hey, fellers. Listen to this! Ah’m a dad, a new dad, a little lad, so we’ve got another crew member, heh?’

Four men rushed in, one of them still in pyjamas, and they slapped him on the back, congratulated him and praised him. Then they turned to the man I’d first met and offered him their congratulations on being a new grandfather. I did likewise.

‘Ah’ve fetched the constable doon for a celebration,’ said the new father. ‘Set him a place, Donal.’

One of them set a breakfast place at the end of the table and offered me a stool; I sat down, feeling a little bewildered by this turn of events, but Mr McPherson senior said, ‘This is a family boat, constable. My lad and oor cousins, that’s who we are. It’s oors and oors alone. Noo we’ve a new man to grow in tae the business and tha’s good. Verra good. You’ll be welcome to celebrate wi’ us, seeing t’was you who brought the good news. You’ll take breakfast wi’ us then?’

‘I’ll be delighted,’ I said, wondering how I’d manage two breakfasts in one short morning. The hotel would have one ready when I returned around nine o’clock.

They busied themselves in the cramped little galley, and then a bottle of Scotch appeared. It was placed in the centre of the table, and six glistening cut glasses were positioned at each of the breakfast settings. Then, as if at some unseen signal, the whole crew of five settled around the table, the pyjama-clad cousin having dressed by this time.

Then Ian’s father, whom I took to be the captain of this boat, surprised me by saying, ‘Constable, we say grace de noo.’

And they did. Those five hard, rugged Scotsmen bowed their heads as Mr McPherson said grace.

Afterwards he poured a generous tipple of whisky into each glass, and we toasted the health of the new baby and his absent mother. At that, one of them left the table and brought the first course of the breakfast. It was porridge, unsweetened, thick and eaten with salt.

I stayed there too long; I drank a little too much of their  whisky and ate far too much of their plain but wholesome breakfast, but I was pleased I’d eaten a Scots breakfast on board an immaculate fishing boat with such a caring family.

But the most memorable sight was of those five tough seamen with bowed heads meekly saying grace before they ate.

Another opportunity to go aboard a boat occurred when the daughter of the proprietor of our digs, the Breckdale Private Hotel, asked if I could obtain a clog for her. Anne, tall, pretty and blonde, asked me at lunchtime one day.

‘A clog?’ I must have sounded surprised.

‘Yes, a real clog, a Dutchman’s clog, one of those wooden ones. I’d love one of those.’

‘Why do you want a clog?’ I asked.

‘To bring good luck,’ she answered. ‘A real clog, as worn by a Dutch person, brings good luck.’

I never heard of this superstition. I knew that fisherfolk the world over were highly superstitious – the local ones, for example, believed that if the family kept a black cat, it would ensure the safe return from sea of the man-of-the-house. But once at sea, the word ‘cat’ had never to be mentioned because it would bring ill fortune, although some felt it sensible to keep a black cat on board. In the event of a shipwreck, this was first to be rescued.

Other forbidden words included
drowning,
witch,
death,
pig,
dog,
rabbit
and
rat
, as well as references to clergymen and words for various parts of the human body!

If, on their way to their boat, the fishermen met either a cross-eyed person, a woman wearing a white apron, a clergyman or a hare, there was nothing that could be done to avert a sea-faring disaster other than to turn around and go home. There is still a belief that sea-birds contain the souls of the
drowned and that their cries are the cries of the dead who are warning the living against the storms and hidden dangers.

But I knew nothing about clogs bringing good luck. A similar superstition was that if a person carried a fisherman’s sea-boots to him, they should always be borne under the arm and not over the shoulder, for fear of bringing bad luck. Another belief in some places was that old shoes should be thrown after boats as they left port as a means of either bringing good fortune or, I suggest, getting rid of old shoes!

So far as I know, Dutchmen’s clogs did not enter this little world of ancient beliefs, but because of Anne’s sincere request I promised to do my best to acquire one for her. So, whenever I worked a harbourside beat, I examined from a distance the decks of the Dutch fleet, albeit never really expecting to see a discarded clog.

But one morning, about 6.15 a.m., I espied the very thing. It was a large, yellow-painted clog made of wood, with the familiar upturned toe, and it looked exactly right for Anne. It looked huge from where I was standing on the staith, but it was lying on the prow of a Dutch fishing boat, resting on a pile of coiled rope as the fishermen busied themselves in preparation for sailing.

My heart leapt at the sight. I’d never really expected to find Anne’s treasure, but there it was, and it looked like a cast-off because it had a hole in the sole. The hole was about the size of half-crown, well over an inch across, and I wondered if clogs were re-soled like shoes. If so, how was it done? Then I wondered if it was a true cast-off or whether it was there to be thrown for good luck, after some departing vessel in times to come? Or perhaps it would be thrown overboard as rubbish?

But I could not let this opportunity pass without making some effort to obtain that clog, even if it meant buying it as a present. The first problem was how to gain legitimate possession of it.

Possession would then present the second problem, i.e. how to convey it back to Anne via the police station while I was dressed in full police uniform. This was even more of a problem because the eagle-eyed Sergeant Blaketon was on duty this morning.

But first things first. I would make an effort to get my hands on that clog. I knew the boat was preparing to sail so I dared not wait until the end of my first period of patrolling, and I was due back at the police station at 9 a.m. to report ‘off duty’ for my refreshment break. I had to get that clog immediately so I could hand it to Anne when I arrived at the hotel for breakfast. I stared at it for a long time as I debated the best course of action. I know that my mesmeric stance caused many early-strolling visitors to peer over the harbour rails, probably wondering why the constabulary was paying so much attention to a Dutch fishing boat.