The Maggie (17 page)

The boy's expression changed from doggedness to a new fearful hope as he realised the possibilities of the catch.

‘He lied and lied and lied,' Marshall was saying. ‘There's not a trick in the book that he hasn't used . . .'

The boy swallowed twice.

‘. . . Well, he's pulled his last trick on me. He . . .'

With the smallest of gestures and with an expression of sorrow rather than anger, the boy pulled the catch. The heavy table fell with a sickening thud, and Marshall's voice died in his throat.

The crew of the
Maggie
, a small group of pathetic, defeated, bewildered men, were still standing near the post office as the boy trudged slowly up the hill. Only the mate turned to face him as he approached.

The boy licked his lips and swallowed. ‘Hamish!'

‘Aye?'

‘Ye better go aboard. I think I've killed him.'

Chapter Twenty-Six

(1)

The wee boy sat on a bollard watching the lighted hatch of the captain's cabin. Below him, on the deck, McGregor and Hamish were waiting anxiously and in silence. Securely wrapped by darkness the boy had time to think of what he had done. The deliberate moving of the catch, the heavy table: the police would only call it one thing – murder. He was quite sure that Marshall would die. Against the stiffening wind the boat rose and fell, rose and fell. The choppy waves slapped her bottom as she rubbed skittishly against the pier. The good old
Maggie
. The boy clenched his fists. He wasn't sorry for what he had done. A man who would sell her to the breaker's yard deserved all that was coming to him – even a ship's heavy table. He wondered tearfully whether the Skipper would come to see him in the condemned cell.

He leant forward as a head appeared in the hatchway; the engineman and the mate rushed forward. ‘Is he all right?'

The Skipper, who was first up the companion ladder, did not answer. He turned to assist the doctor, an elderly little man, who in spite of twenty years in a fishing village was still a landsman at heart. The doctor's voice, distorted by the wind, gave a reprieve ‘. . . Nothing to worry about, but he must rest. I've given him a strong sedative. He won't waken till morning.'

McGregor and Hamish embraced in the darkness, and the Skipper, coming up on to the pier with the doctor, raised his thumb. Only the boy showed no obvious signs of relief. If the
Maggie
was really to be sold . . .

The Skipper bade a thankful farewell to the doctor. ‘Goodbye to ye, doctor. We're greatly obliged . . .' And as the little man trod carefully along the dark pier the engineman added his own note of relief, ‘And good luck to ye, sir!'

‘Well!' They looked at each other happily. That was one nightmare disposed of. The Skipper, understanding more than was apparent from his innocent countenance, touched the boy on the shoulder. He said, ‘Well, laddie, there's no need for ye to worry any more. Mr Marshall will be all right.'

‘Is he still going to sell the
Maggie
?'

‘Well . . .' the Skipper added, with characteristic confidence, ‘he'll no' be able to think about that tonight, nor yet tomorrow. Maybe he'll forget . . .'

As if to refute his easy assurance the gaunt figure of the postmistress was coming along the pier. They heard her frigid greeting, ‘Good night, doctor,' and then she was bearing down on them, ready to destroy their new-found gaiety. She passed the boy, who was still sitting on the
bollard, and would have passed the Skipper if she had not been afraid of the uncertain climb down to the deck. She said, ‘I've a telegram . . .' and, snatching it from the Skipper's grasp, ‘for Mr Marshall'.

‘He's a sick man,' the Skipper said. ‘He'll no' be fit . . . Ye'd better give it to me.'

For a moment it seemed as though she would demand to see the body before she departed from the strict line of duty. Then she asked, ‘Marshall . . . is that yon phoning body?'

‘Aye.'

She thrust the envelope into the Skipper's hands. ‘Ye can take it – and welcome!'

As she went with her disapproval into the darkness the Skipper held up the telegram, as though by the feel of it or the texture of the paper he could read what was inside. He looked down at the engineman and the mate. Then he shrugged and said in a hopeless voice, ‘I suppose it's all right for me to open it – if it's from me own sister.'

Tearing slowly and hesitantly with his forefinger he opened the envelope. He unfolded the paper and held it close to his eyes while the crew waited in dreadful suspense. ‘I can't make out . . .' Even under the pier lamp the light wasn't good.

Then, as he read and understood, his expression changed. They saw him staring incredulously, as though the news was even worse than he had expected.

He said, in an awestruck voice, ‘It's no' from Sarah. It's from Pusey. He says, “She refuses to sell under any circumstances. Stop. What are your instructions?”'

They were too amazed to feel the rising tide of gladness. The boy had jumped to his feet. ‘She wouldna sell.'

Then, after the first shock, the Skipper was ready to snap at opportunity. He beat a clenched fist into his open palm. There was excitement now in his voice as he said, ‘With any luck we can have him in Kiltarra by the time he wakes up.' He climbed nimbly down the ladder. ‘We'd best get under way.'

(2)

The
Maggie
nosed fussily through the comparatively calm water of the harbour and made for the open sea. There was a stiff wind blowing, and the white combers showed clearly in the darkness ahead. Angry-looking clouds were racing across the sky, but in the brief intervals of moonlight the forbidding coastline, the rising mountains, showed above the stern, and a few lights were all that could be seen of Bellabegwinnie.

As they came out into the Atlantic they met the real weather, the wind, driving spray, a heavy swell. The
Maggie
lurched, tossed, and then, shaking herself clear of water, butted gamely into the next heavy wave. In the wheelhouse the Skipper and the mate were poring over crumpled charts. By the uncertain light of an oil lamp they plotted their course. Bellabegwinnie to Kiltarra. ‘With luck,' the Skipper shouted, ‘we'll be there in the morning,' repeating for his own confidence the assurance he had given on the pier.

In the engine-room McGregor was sweating blasphemously: open door, red-hot furnace, long shovel: stoke
her up, stoke her up. ‘Give her everything you've got,' the Skipper had said. ‘Let's see what she can do.' McGregor slammed the furnace door. If that was what he wanted! He felt a part of the machinery and drew his hand away quickly. Glowering, he ministered with his oil-can. Six knots, he wanted – as if she'd do it! He took up his shovel.

In the bows the boy was alone and happy. The white line of the waves rose and fell as the ship tossed. Wind and spray were stinging his face. Breathing contentment he turned and glanced up at the sky. He saw the mast rolling with an odd kind of dignity and the patchy clouds scudding across the heavens.

Through the night they battled westward in rough seas. Only the American, asleep in the cabin, missed the excitement and urgency of their voyage. Towards dawn the tide turned, but the wind and the waves were as strong as ever. Sometimes, as she sank into a deep trough, it seemed that the
Maggie
would never recover. It was a miracle that she had not submerged, a miracle repeated a hundred times that night.

Dawn broke behind them, with a few grey pennants of light across the streaky sky. Above the howling wind they could hear a new sound, the roar of surf against rocks, and, as the light grew stronger, they could see the white foam some distance away to starboard.

The Skipper looked at his watch and nudged the mate to take the wheel. With oilskins flattened against his legs, the spray whipping coldly on his face, he traversed the heaving deck to the engine-room hatch. It was true that he had been born on the
Maggie
, and now sixty years later he knew the feel of every inch of her, and in every kind of
weather. She was so much a part of him that he could feel in the heartbeat from the engine-room that she wasn't going well. He stood with his hands gripping the hatch and his head bent forward, listening. He went crab-wise down the steps.

‘ She's no soundin' so well.'

The engineman looked up from the coal bunker and scowled. ‘Haven't I always been telling ye? Ye'll no' spend a penny to get her boilers cleaned . . .'

The Skipper was worried. ‘Can ye hear anything?'

‘Hear anything! She's going the same as she always has – considering she's not had a penny spent on maintenance, not a spanner, not even an oily rag . . .'

The Skipper could never be worried for long. He said optimistically as he climbed the ladder; ‘Ah weel, in half an hour it'll be daylight. We'll be nearly to Kiltarra.'

As he came out into the blustery dawn the boy met him with a steaming cup of tea.

‘Thanks, laddie. There's nothing like a good cup of tea.'

He climbed down the companion ladder into his own cabin. Without releasing his grip on the ladder he could see the small stuffy cabin: the table (folded to the wall now), the glass of medicine, the folded clothes. In the bunk Marshall was sleeping peacefully.

(3)

But the Skipper was wrong. As he climbed quietly back on to the deck the man in the bunk opened his eyes. He too was listening to the heavy, slightly irregular beat of the engine.
His expression was oddly quiet and thoughtful. So much had happened since he had decided to send his precious cargo to Kiltarra. From the pitch of the boat and the early sunlight filtering down the hatch he guessed that the journey was nearly over. Glasgow to Kiltarra; some furniture, building material, a boiler: not a difficult order, by any means, and yet . . . So much had happened; so much had changed. Lydia, Pusey, the girl Sheena. He realised how MacTaggart and his crew had come like spirits into his well-ordered life, how they had shaken him from his complacency until now he wasn't sure of anything any more, not even of himself.

He rose carefully on one elbow and propped a pillow behind his back. The sunlight was brighter now, but the wind was still blowing strongly enough to throw the boat up and down, backwards and forwards, until he felt drowsy again with the swaying. Would Lydia be at Kiltarra?

More feet were coming down the companion ladder: the mate. Finding the passenger awake, Hamish assumed a transparent air of heartiness.

‘How are ye, Mr Marshall? I'm afraid ye had a nasty accident.' He fingered the table and was obviously embarrassed by the necessary lie. ‘The table must have been . . .'

Marshall asked quietly, ‘Is Douggie aboard?' When the mate hesitated he said, ‘Tell him I want to see him.'

The mate turned doubtfully towards the companion ladder. He made as if to speak and then thought better of it. He climbed up on to the deck.

Marshall rose, feeling his head gingerly, and tried to look out of the porthole. He heard the faint voices on deck: ‘He's awake. He wants to see Douggie.'

‘No, I'll no' see him.'

And then the Skipper's voice, ‘It's all right, lad. Ye'd better go.'

In a few minutes the boy came slowly down the ladder. At the bottom he turned and faced Marshall.

Marshall said quietly, ‘You might have killed me, Douggie.'

The boy watched him with dour wariness.

‘Did you hear what I said? You might have killed me. Why?'

‘Ye were taking the
Maggie
away from the Captain.'

‘I'd every right to buy this . . .'

The boy interrupted passionately, ‘Ye did not. And anyway, there was a telegram . . . The Captain's sister wouldna sell it to ye!'

‘Wouldn't sell!' Marshall saw from the boy's look of grim satisfaction that he was telling the truth. He asked, ‘Why not?'

‘Ach, ye wouldn't understand.'

Marshall put a hand to his aching head. He asked weakly, ‘How soon do we get in?'

‘An hour, maybe.' As conscience struggled with loyalty the boy flared out, ‘Ye were going to leave the Captain ashore without his ship. Ye didn't care what happened to him, an old man . . .'

Marshall protested indignantly, ‘Well, did he care at all what happened to my cargo?'

‘He got ye here, didn't he?'

‘After seven days and nights of . . .'

‘Ye were going to take his
ship
,' the boy interrupted,
almost in tears. He hesitated, then added guiltily, ‘I'm sorry for what happened.'

‘You are?'

‘Aye.' Then with another touch of belligerence, ‘But I'd do it again. The Captain may have been slow in getting your cargo to Kiltarra for ye, and ye may not think much of his boat . . . and maybe he's
not
the best skipper in the coastal trade like I said. But it was no reason to do what ye did. No reason at all.'

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Some minutes had passed before Marshall realised that the engine had stopped. He was vaguely conscious that the boy had run up on to the deck and that somewhere alongside voices were raised in violent argument. The boy's unexpected condemnation was, he knew, a condemnation of all his ideals, of money, efficiency, success. He had learnt so much in these few days.

Slowly the unexpected silence broke through his thoughts. The heavy engine beat was gone, the rhythmic throb that had lulled him through the night. Now there was only the engineman's voice clashing with the Skipper's, while the boat, wallowing in the heavy sea, seemed to be going in all directions at once. Marshall put his head against the partition to hear what the argument was about in the engine-room. He could hear the engineman's voice, raised in passion, and a steady clang of metal against metal as though he was emphasising each point with a spanner.

‘Ye wouldna listen! Look at it! Look at the eccentric rod!' Clang. ‘We'll never get it straight!' Clang. ‘Ye wouldna spend a penny!' Clang.