North Star (16 page)

‘How long will that be?’

‘You tell me how many holes we have to drill before we strike oil and I’ll tell you how long. We could strike it first go, but if we don’t, then we’ll go on drilling till we do. There’s no other rig available. Not for this year, anyway. And no other trawler, none as suitable anyway. Did you know that when you told Fuller your plans for salvage and took him down to see her?’ He smiled, shaking his head. ‘No, of course you didn’t, otherwise you wouldn’t have been such a fool as to sign that charter.’ He leaned back, wiping his mouth and screwing up his paper napkin. ‘Nor did Fuller. We only discovered that after Garrard had been to see me.’

‘You looked for a replacement then?’

‘Of course we did. But it would have meant delay, and it would have cost more. On a gamble like this I don’t believe in spending a penny more than I have to. But if it comes off …’ He looked at me, a slight lift to his dark brows. ‘If it comes off, I’ll see you get a fat bonus, over and above the charter. That good enough for you?’ He wouldn’t say how much. ‘Depends on the strike, but large enough to give you a future.’ It also depended on our remaining on station throughout the period of drilling.

I didn’t say anything. To him money was the answer to everything. He’d worked it all out, striking a proper balance in that clear, calculating mind of his. But he didn’t have to lie out there in the seas that we would have to face if
North Star
continued drilling beyond the end of the summer. ‘Well, that’s settled then.’ He took my consent for granted. He was that sort of man, so sure of himself. ‘I must go now or Sparks will be paging me on the Tannoy.’ He got to his feet. ‘I wouldn’t want anybody out there in charge of the guard boat who bears me a grudge.’ He was smiling, making a joke of it, but then he added, ‘Just don’t try anything, Randall. You look after my interests and I’ll look after you. Paternalism, I think you people call it. But loyalty to one man can be a lot better than owing allegiance to a faceless bureaucracy. Nobody who has
worked for me has ever had cause to regret it. Okay?’ He nodded, turning quickly and walking to the door.

I watched him as he went out to his appointment over the ether with some executive in Rotterdam. God! How I envied him that self-assurance! I got myself another cup of coffee, lit my pipe and sat there wondering where it would all end. Would they strike oil? And if they did, would I still be here? I was remembering what he had said about offshore drilling and the country’s future, his incredible optimism. By 1980, he had said –
a saving of perhaps £5,000 million in foreign exchange … the envy of the world
,
our industry booming
,
our currency the strongest in Europe
. Tell that to the men in the shipyards or the docks! But he had believed it, that bloody overbearing self-confidence of his. And I had been swept along by his optimism into making statements just as wild. Did I really believe that the political climate was governed by the state of the country’s economy?
You change the economic climate
, I had said,
and the political climate must change
,
too
. If I were a capitalist, knowing what I did of grass-roots politics, would I back that statement with my own and other people’s money?

A sudden scurry of feet in the passageway outside and a voice shouted, ‘Coming in now, Rod.’ I got up and went out, past a door marked Sick Bay and up two flights into the open where men were already gathering with their suitcases. The sun was shining and there was an air of expectancy. Van Dam appeared at my side looking diminished and somehow ordinary in a dark blue suit and a velour hat. ‘Iz come yet?’ he asked, and at that moment I heard it. A shadow passed across the pipe deck, the roar of engines growing, then a rush of wind and dust blowing.

Three men in safety helmets dashed out from the shelter of the toolpusher’s office. The engines died, the whip of the rotor blades subsiding to a whisper. The passengers began to appear, a motley crowd that would only achieve the coherence of a team when they had changed into the rig gear of overalls,
rubber boots, gloves and safety helmets. I watched their faces as they passed me, piling down the stairway to their quarters. Somebody dropped a bundle of newspapers at my feet and I saw the headline –
North Sea Rig Strikebound
. But as I bent down to see what it said, a voice hailed me, a short, tubby man with sandy hair and a bright yellow sweater. ‘Remember me? Glasgow, wasn’t it?’

I nodded. He was one of the Clydeside men who had been with me when we had clashed with the police outside the Marston yard. ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked him.

‘I’m a motorman now. And you?’

I told him, and he said, ‘Aye, I heard ye’d gone into trawlers. Weel, I’ll be off now and get settled in.’ He gave me a quick grin and I remembered his name as he hurried on down the stairway after his mates. It was Rory – Rory Sullivan. He had been a member of the Boilermakers’ Union when I had last seen him. I turned to look again at the packet of newspapers, but it was gone now. The helicopter’s engines were roaring and in a moment it lifted clear of the rig, slanting skyward. I watched it disappear behind the derrick, dwindling to a speck as it headed south-east on the 60 miles flight back to Sumburgh Head. Then I went down to the radio room, thinking about Sullivan and unconscious of the bustle around me.

The radio room was on the lower deck of the crew’s quarters and had
TELECOMMUNICATIONS
on the door. Villiers was no longer there, only the radio operator seated at the double-sideband, earphones clamped on his head, his thumb on the key rattling out a message. He wore a white nylon shirt, open-necked and with sleeves rolled up. His arms and face were pale, a cigarette burning in a tobacco tin beside the telex.

There was a chair at a desk in the corner and I sat down, staring at the bank of equipment that filled the far side of the room from floor to ceiling, trying to think out what I was going to say, how I was to get the information I wanted.

It was too good an opportunity to miss. There was so much
traffic going out from
North Star
that it was unlikely anyone would take note of what I was saying, and though Sparks would probably be standing at my elbow listening, it wasn’t the same as having my own crew overhear the conversation, rumours flying round the ship and endless speculation.

I was still thinking how I was going to frame my questions when the door opened and two men entered, one of them with a sheet clipped to a board. ‘Well, there it is, Ed. Two of them, so you’d better keep your fingers crossed that nobody jams their hand in a winch or gets hit on the head by the kelly.’ He was a soft, rather old-maidish little man with a high, piping voice. The other was a big, hard-fisted looking American.

‘Split ’em up then, will’ya. Their room mates’ll soon tell ’em enough about your ideas of first aid to keep ’em outa that li’l sick bay of yours.’ The belly laugh was without humour. ‘An’ tell ’em this, Lennie – anybody starting a strike on this rig swims for it.’ His voice was harsh and grating. ‘One Scotch, one Irish, you say. Jeez!’ He gave a shrug and walked out.

The sick bay attendant pulled out a bench and flopped on to it, taking a pencil from behind his ear and making a note on his pad. ‘Poor bastards,’ he muttered to nobody in particular. ‘Ed’ll pass the word to his drillers and they’ll drive those boys so hard …’ He turned to the operator as he finished sending and spiked his message. ‘Any news on
Sunray II
? Ed’s feeling sore about it. He knows the toolpusher.’

Sparks nodded, his eyes magnified by his glasses. ‘From what I’ve picked up so far it appears two of the roustabouts came to blows and were ordered off the rig. One of them refused to board the supply ship and his mates stopped work until the order was cancelled.’

‘So the strike’s over.’ The little man got to his feet. ‘I’d better tell Ed. He wants to know what happened.’

‘Tell him his pal gave in to them. That’ll put him in a fine good humour.’ And as the sick bay attendant went out, Sparks turned to me, a look of enquiry on his pale face. I
asked him if he could get me a London number and I wrote it down for him.

‘You from that trawler?’

‘Yes.’ I gave him my name.

He nodded. ‘Mr Villiers mentioned it. A girl friend, he said. Haven’t you got R/T on board?’

‘It’s old equipment,’ I said. ‘I can talk to you. But Stonehaven and the GPO are outside my range.’

He nodded again and moved over to the big single-sideband set. He had to wait his turn to get through to Stonehaven. Then he asked for the number, listening with the phone to his ear while I stood beside him. ‘Ringing now,’ he said, and handed it to me.

My mouth felt dry, the ringing tone very clear. Then a voice said, ‘Can I help you?’ and I asked for Inspector Garrard. There was a long pause. Finally a different voice came on the line. ‘I’m afraid Inspector Garrard is not available at the moment. If you care to give your name and tell me what it’s about …’ But it was the voice of officialdom, abrupt and businesslike, and no chance he would understand what I was talking about. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said and handed the phone back to the radio operator.

‘Not there?’ He terminated the call and hung the phone back on its hook. ‘Just as well perhaps. I have a message for you.’ He rummaged through the papers beside the Morse key and handed me a telex sheet:
INFORM MASTER DUCHESS OF NOLFOLK MRS RANDALL BOOKED ON AIR ANGLIA FLIGHT ARRIVING SUMBURGH
09.15
TOMORROW
. The despatch time was given as 16.35 the previous day, but no indication of who had sent it.

‘Do you know where it came from?’ I asked.

‘Our Aberdeen office.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘You forgotten to pay the rent or something?’ He was looking at me, smiling, and I was suddenly reminded of the radio operator on
Fisher Maid
, his love of gossip. I glanced down at the telex again, wondering who had sent her to the Star-Trion office. And where had she come from? London? Dublin? Belfast maybe.
But why? She was city-born. She hated the country, the sea, anywhere that was empty of people. She liked crowds, intrigue, excitement – and argument. I could hear the quick clatter of her tongue voicing the thoughts of her sharp brain, incisive, persuasive, unstoppable as a gorge full of water tumbling over rock. And there had been other times when the Celtic lilt in it was gentle as rain, the hard tinkle of her words softening to seduction. Then she’d had a lovely voice, warm, full-bodied … Christ! how was it possible to love and hate a woman at one and the same time?

‘Do you want me to contact the office for you? They may know where she’s planning to stay.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘No, it doesn’t matter.’

Fiona in Shetland. Why? Why now? But I knew. I knew it in my bones. They weren’t sure of me and they were stepping up the pressure. How else would she have known where I was or how to contact me? I turned, walking blindly to the door, and almost collided with the sick bay attendant. He handed me a sheaf of typescript. ‘Standing orders for the guard boat,’ he said. ‘Ken Stewart asked me to give them to you.’

I nodded and went down the passage. I wanted somewhere quiet, time to think. But the quarters were pandemonium, with men changing, moving to their work stations, calling to each other, asking questions, home news mixed wth technicalities, like the first day in college. And out in the open there were men already on the pipe deck, climbing the long stairway to the derrick floor, and Villiers in the open doorway of the corrugated iron shelter, a safety helmet on his head. Only the helicopter deck was clear and I went and stood near the edge, looking down at the whitecaps breaking and the
Duchess
small in the distance, rolling sluggishly in the swell.

‘What d’ya think you’re doing?’

I turned, knowing who it was by the grating voice. ‘Enjoying a bit of quiet,’ I said, ‘before going back to my ship.’

He nodded, the hard face breaking into a smile. ‘I know who
you are then.’ His voice was softer, a Southern drawl, as he held out his hand. ‘Ed Wiseberg.’

‘Mike Randall,’ I said.

‘Okay, Mike. You go back to your ship now, you’ll get no quiet here. I got another whirly-bird due in shortly.’

‘I’ll need the divers’ boat.’

He shook his head. ‘Call up your own guys and have ’em come over for you. Nobody here I can spare. And one other thing.’ The mouth had hardened, the tired grey eyes watching me. ‘Vic told me something about you. I want you off this barge, and fast. There’s been a strike on one of the North Sea rigs. I won’t have any trouble like that here. Understand? You stay off this rig. An’ if you’ve got anything to talk about, you talk to me. Nobody else, see. I’ll tell the radio op. And I’ll have him call your boat for you.’ His tone, though firm, was quite amiable and he smiled as he patted my shoulder. ‘Good luck then. Glad I don’t have to pitch around out there with you.’

I went slowly across to the massive drum of No. 4 winch and started down the long staircase that led into the chill, shadowed world below the platform. As I descended the sound of the sea slopping against the columns became magnified, a hollow, eerie sound, the cross-bracing of tubular girders a visible reminder of Villiers’ words as we had examined the design drawing. I reached the bottom and stood waiting just clear of the waves rolling under my feet, the colossal deadweight structure reared above me, water jetting from cooling and sewer vents, the hum of the rig’s machinery muffled now.

It was calm, calm for these waters, the wind westerly about Force 3. I tried to picture it in storm force winds with 60–70 foot waves piling in and breaking. I could just see No. 4 anchor cable running down the side of the corner column leg and stretched taut as an iron bar. What would the tension be with a gale blowing? And the anchor over 500 feet down and more than a thousand yards from the rig.

The boat came, Henrik nosing it into the stairway. I stepped down into the centre of it, and as we came out from under the platform’s shadow I was thinking that perhaps I would rather be on the
Duchess
; it might be uncomfortable, but in a trawler there was at least freedom of manoeuvre.