The Maggie (16 page)

He shook away his despondency. ‘Did you see MacTaggart dancing?'

When they returned to the hall he was glad that she left him, to dance with her young suitors. The revelry, which, by the volume of sound, was now at its height, had lost for him its early sparkle. He moved uneasily towards the table.

‘Hello, sir, will ye have another wee dram?'

The music blared, the villagers danced, the glass in his hand seemed to have an inexhaustible amount of whisky.

‘What about anither?'

The floor curved, walls swayed; the fiddle fuddled, music incomprehensible . . .

‘Hamish, will ye take his other arm? The boy – where's the wee boy? . . . Run on, laddie, and see his bunk's ready.'

Along the darkened wharf, water cool and enticing, the smell of tarred ropes.

‘Hold the ladder still. How can ye expect us to get him down!'

As he was being carried across the deck he heard the engineman's gloomy prediction. ‘There'll be a thick head here in the morning.'

Chapter Twenty-Four

Marshall came painfully to consciousness with the sour taste of whisky in his mouth and his eyes burning from the sunlight that came glaring down the hatch. He heard what he thought to be the beat of the engine, and it took him some seconds to realise that it was the throbbing of his own head. Carefully he touched his legs, his chest. He was fully clothed. At least he wouldn't have to go through the torture of dressing. For a minute or two, as he waited for his outraged senses to adjust themselves to the day, he had time to wonder why the boat was so quiet: no engine, no tramp of boots. MacTaggart had promised to sail with the dawn tide.

Then he heard somebody coming. He was able to keep his eyes open long enough to see the boy coming carefully down the ladder with a mug of tea. Tea! His stomach turned in protest.

‘Good morning, Mr Marshall.'

The American opened his eyes warily. He grunted, sat up too quickly, and had to clasp both hands to his head. ‘Oh! Oh!' For a moment, as he swayed through dizziness and pain, he only wanted to die.
Oh, death, where is they
sting
? He waved a weak hand at the boy and started to lie down again, but the centre of pain was there, in the hard pillow. He had to sit up. Stunned by suffering he looked vacantly at the boy, who grinned and held out the mug.

‘I thought you might like some tea, sir.'

Weakly, he accepted the mug. He took a sip and carefully nodded his thanks. To his surprise his head didn't fall off.

‘Where are we?'

The boy said, ‘We are still in Bellabegwinnie, sir.'

‘In Bella – that place we were in last night?'

‘That's right, sir.'

‘But it's daylight. In the name of goodness what time is it?' Without moving the position of his head he fumbled for his watch. He looked at it and frowned. ‘One o'clock? My watch must have stopped.' He held it to his ear, and his face furrowed with alarm. ‘One o'clock! And we're still here! Why aren't we on our way?' With a prodigious effort he swung his feet clear of the bunk. ‘What has been happening? Where is everybody?'

As he closed his eyes in pain he heard the boy's noncommittal, ‘I think they're up in the village, sir.'

With hardly more control of his limbs than he had shown on the previous night the American staggered across the cabin and up the companion ladder to the deck.

‘But, sir, don't you think . . . ?'

Marshall said wearily, ‘Oh, come on. Let's get this thing organised. Let's get out of here.'

As he came out into the cruel sunlight he had to stop on the ladder, while his tired eyes recovered from the shock.
Sunlight glinting from the water, reflecting from the wharf and the dusty road: the dazzling blue of the sky. He glanced back to the pleasing darkness of the cabin, to the boy, who was watching him anxiously. He said, ‘Never, whatever you do, never, never,
never
bring me back to Bellabegwinnie.'

Moving very carefully, like a man crossing a high girder, he tacked across the wharf and up the village street. Someone called him cheerfully, ‘Good day to ye, Mr Marshall,' and another, a woman, greeted, ‘Good afternoon, sir,' but he was not in a fit state to suffer any diversions. Looking grimly ahead, at the next step and the one beyond that, he made for his objective, the village pub. Someone, probably the boy, was following a few paces away, but he had no reserves of energy or equilibrium to turn round.

The village pub! He heard rather than saw it, for it was still an effort to keep his eyes wide open, and the babble of voices, the chink of glasses, were unmistakable. He stood carefully in the doorway and opened his eyes. The Skipper was coming cheerfully from the bar.

‘Good morning to ye, Mr Marshall. Won't ye . . .'

With an irritable gesture Marshall stepped back into the street. As he leant against the wall for support he saw the wee boy standing a few yards away and the Skipper coming through the doorway.

‘Won't ye come in and join us, sir? A wee drappie will do ye no harm at all.'

Marshall said emphatically, ‘No, no. Let's get going.'

‘But ye'll take just one, sir. I'm afraid ye left the celebrations a little abruptly last night, but all ye need is a hair of the dog that bit ye.'

With great restraint, Marshall said, ‘Come on MacTaggart. I'm serious.' He turned and walked a few paces, but the Skipper did not follow.

‘Well, I'm sorry . . . we cannot go just at the minute, sir.'

Marshall turned back. ‘Why not?'

‘Well . . . ye see, Hamish is missing somewhere, ever since last night.' He said firmly, ‘I am very angry with him, sir, very angry indeed.'

Marshall said with a steely emphasis, ‘Then leave him. But let's get out of this place
now
.'

The Skipper shuffled apologetically. ‘Well, you see, sir, I thought you wouldna mind, and I told Mr McGregor it would be all right if he went to visit his cousin . . .' He went on, uneasily, as Marshall turned away in fury, ‘But it's only a mile away, and he should be back by now, at all events . . .' The innocent explanation tailed off before the American's look of cold fury.

Marshall said, ‘All right, MacTaggart, I've had all I can stand. I'm
warning
you! If you don't get on to that boat and get under way right now, I'll . . . I don't know what I'll do, but I'll
ruin
you. I'm warning you. You're going to think a ton of bricks has fallen on you!'

The Skipper said sympathetically, ‘Ach, I know how you feel, Mr Marshall, but ye'll be all right when ye've had one or two . . .' He had actually taken the American's arm to lead him back into the pub when he was swung violently away.

‘You crazy old fool! You're drunk already!'

Charging down the street in a haze of frustration and fury Marshall came suddenly to the post office. He
remembered his humiliation there yesterday and now he went in like a desperate man, determined to stand no nonsense.

‘I want to make a telephone call.'

‘Where to, sir?' The postmistress was obviously startled by his manner.

‘Let me think a minute.' He made a quick decision. ‘I want the Central Hotel, Glasgow. I want to speak to a Mr Pusey.'

‘All right, sir. That'll cost you . . .'

‘I know, I know. I
know
!'

As he stood fuming in the post office he could see the boy still standing outside the pub. The Skipper was not in sight. The afternoon sky was darkening rapidly as storm clouds moved across the sun. The wind was rising, and a few scraps of paper, a cigarette packet, whirled with the moving dust. The engineman came tramping up the street and stopped by the boy, who nodded towards the pub. It seemed that they were both going in to join the Skipper when they saw someone trudging wearily down the road. It was Hamish the mate and he looked as though he had walked a very long way.

Marshall turned angrily from the window. ‘Have you got my number yet?'

‘Not yet, sir. They're just connecting us.'

He took up the telephone and began in a quiet but fiercely aggressive voice, ‘Hello! Pusey? Now listen. I'm in a hurry. I want you to do something for me. Get in touch with – no, don't interrupt, just pay attention. Get in touch with Campbell. Ask for the address of that MacTaggart
woman . . .
Look
, Pusey. I don't have time to explain. These maniacs have practically shanghaied me! Pusey, will you listen to what I'm . . . What? What?'

He was aware that the postmistress, fascinated by his lunacy, was listening to every word. She brought in a lamp to combat the sudden darkness and placed it so that it illuminated his haggard face.

Marshall was shouting now. ‘What? Who? You mean you're . . . ? Oh, for Heaven's sake! Well, will you put me back to reception, please . . . Hello, reception. Look, incredible as it may seem, you have
two
Mr Puseys staying at your hotel. I want the other one. That's right.' He put his hand to his forehead. ‘Two Puseys! Holy smoke!'

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Skipper, the engineman, the mate and the wee boy came in line abreast down the village street. They walked in silence, as though for once their cheerful united front was shaken. The engineman and the boy were worried; the mate was hobbling self-consciously; even the Skipper seemed to be hiding troubled thoughts behind his beard and bushy eyebrows. The storm which had been threatening for the last hour was blowing up in earnest. Heavy clouds rolling across the sun had brought an evening darkness. The street was almost deserted.

The four figures, silhouetted in the gloom, stopped as a fearsome apparition emerged from the post office. Mr Marshall!

The American stood in their path, without speaking, and his eyes, so the wee boy said afterwards, were glowing like a demon's. But it took more than a demon to daunt the Skipper. He advanced confidently, smiling and obviously eager to get on with the job.

‘Mr Marshall . . .'

Marshall said, ‘All right, MacTaggart, you asked for it right from the word “Go”, and now you've got it! I've
bought
your rotten hulk from under you.'

‘Ye've what!' The Skipper stared at him, dumbfounded.

‘I've bought it, do you understand? The thing belongs to me.' He turned away quickly, as though, perhaps, some kindlier self had spoilt his moment of revenge.

The Skipper stared unbelievingly and then stumbled after him. In a dazed voice he asked, ‘Ye've – ye've bought the
Maggie
?'

‘That's right.'

‘But what are ye – what are ye going to do with her, sir! With a Puffer?'

Marshall came back a few paces. He seemed to bite out his words as he said, ‘I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to take my cargo to Kiltarra! The moment the legal authorisation comes through, I'm moving out of here. I won't have any trouble finding a crew.' He hesitated before their hurt understanding. He shuffled and then, whipping up fresh anger, said, ‘You can come or stay here, just as you wish. And when I've got my stuff to Kiltarra, I'm going to sell that – that thing for scrap!'

He turned again and strode down the hill towards the harbour. He had expected them to argue, plead, even threaten, but their stunned silence had taken away all the joy of victory. It really meant something to them.

A scrawny chicken ran squawking before his angry steps, and a dog slunk through a half-open doorway. By golly, he had reason to be angry! Could any man put up
with more than he had suffered? What it had cost already in precious hours was something he tried not to think about; what it had cost in hard cash was a worry for his accountant. They had been definitely dishonest. A harder man would have had them in jail. MacTaggart was a lunatic and a crook, his crew amiable thugs!

When he reached the
Maggie
he looked back, expecting them to have followed him down the hill, but they were still standing where he had left them. In the gathering gloom he could just discern their shadowy outlines: the Skipper, a figure of tragedy, leaning against the sea wall, the engine man and the mate watching him from the road. And apart, like a sprite in the reflected light of the post office, the wee boy was standing with feet astride, looking down at the harbour.

Marshall clambered angrily on to the boat and went down into the cabin. He opened his briefcase and scattered some papers across the table. Crooks! Prison was the place for them! If anything, he had been too lenient.

He settled down to his papers, but somehow his brain wouldn't stay in the correct grooves. He reached automatically across the table for a telephone and then, remembering where he was, fell to brooding once more. Crooks! Lunatics!

He started guiltily as he heard someone walking across the deck. A slow light tread: the Skipper? But it was the boy who came down the companion ladder. Marshall bent busily over his papers.

‘Mr Marshall, sir . . .' Marshall looked up at the boy's reproachful face. The boy said gently, ‘Ye canna do it, sir.'

‘I'm sorry, Douggie.' The American squirmed before his small inquisitor. Then, as he remembered once more all that he had suffered, he leapt to his feet in a sudden onrush of frustration and fury. His briefcase and the papers spilled across the floor. ‘Look, I'm tired of all this. I'm not
interested
in MacTaggart and his problems. I have enough of my own. And I don't care what
you
think of him, the man is nothing better than a crook!'

The boy's lip came out mulishly: ‘He's no'!'

Marshall knelt to gather the spilled papers. ‘He's a petty thief!'

‘He's no'!' The boy, trembling with outraged loyalty, was nervously fingering the catch which held up the heavy teak table hinged to the wall.

Marshall was saying. ‘Above all he's a
liar
. Don't you understand that?'