The Maggie (14 page)

As the
Maggie
edged carefully between the litter of craft he didn't try to reason what it was all about. Fingering his clean-shaven jowls, the patch of plaster on his chin, he waited for what fate would bring.

It brought a friendly, humorous crowd of Bellabegwinnians, who waved, shouted, helped to secure the ropes. They seemed genuinely glad to see MacTaggart and his crew.

Marshall climbed up on to the pier. He said, ‘I have an important call to make and I want to buy a change of clothes. Have we time for that?'

The Skipper waved generously. ‘Oh, I think we might manage that, sir.'

Marshall nodded, looked round at the gathering of boats, the unexpected crowd; but catching the Skipper's bland expression he turned towards the cottages. He wasn't going to reason things out. He wasn't going to worry.

There was more to the village than he had supposed. Round a shoulder of the hill there was a cluster of houses, a chapel, another pub. He even found a general stores. He looked at the goods in the window: fishing tackle, lead weights, paternosters, breakfast cereals, a side of bacon; children's bonnets, a lady's dress, Wellingtons; brooms, shovels, a dustbin; a birdcage, flypaper, scouring powder. The door-bell pinged as he walked diffidently in.

‘Gude day, sir.'

‘Oh . . . good day. I wonder . . .' He looked round in embarrassment and caught the interested gaze of two old women, a girl and a small boy who were waiting to be served.

‘Yes?'

‘I wonder . . .' He felt the colour mounting on his neck. ‘What I really want is some clothes.'

‘Clothes, sir?'

‘Yes.' He asked. ‘You do sell clothes?'

‘Oh, aye. What sort of clothes would ye be wanting?'

‘Well . . .' He gestured vaguely, like an unconfident actor before a critical audience. ‘Some trousers, some . . .' He explained, ‘I want something a bit more suitable for sailing.'

The lady behind the counter looked at his good city suit, now sadly stained and creased, his crumpled shirt and collar. She agreed, ‘Ye certainly want a change. Would ye care to go through to the parlour?' She opened the inner door and shouted, ‘Jamie, here's a gentleman wants some trews!'

Later – much later, it seemed – he stepped self-consciously out into the village street. A heavy turtle-neck sweater, dungarees, and seamen's boots. He was dreading the moment when the
Maggie
's crew would see him first. He stopped a boy who was wobbling precariously past on a ramshackle bicycle.

‘Can you direct me to the post office?'

‘Eh?'

‘Can you direct me to the post office?'

The boy stared at him as though he were mad. He pointed at the general stores. ‘Yon's the post office.'

Gathering the scattered threads of confidence he went back to the door. Ping! The shoppers, who had obviously been discussing him with relish, stared in fresh surprise. He went in, forgetting the step, and stumbled until his arms embraced a stout lady with a shopping bag.

‘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 been 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?'