Empty Nets and Promises

A note on the author

Denzil Meyrick was born in Glasgow and brought up in Campbeltown. After studying politics, he pursued a varied career including time spent as a police officer, freelance journalist and director of several companies in the engineering, leisure and marketing sectors. His first novel,
Whisky from Small Glasses
, was reissued by Polygon. His second book,
The Last Witness
(Polygon, 2014), reached the top twenty of the UK eBook charts, and his third book,
Dark
Suits
and
Sad
Songs
, is a print and eBook bestseller. The fourth Daley novel
The
Rat
Stone
Serenade
will be published in April 2016. And a Daley prequel short story,
Two One Three
is also available as an eBook. He lives on Loch Lomond side with his wife Fiona.

First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd.

Birlinn Ltd
West Newington House
10 Newington Road
Edinburgh
EH9 1QS
www.polygonbooks.co.uk

Copyright © Denzil Meyrick 2016

The right of Denzil Meyrick to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patent Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

eBook ISBN: 978 0 85790 907 7

‘On life's vast ocean diversely we sail,
Reason the card, but passion is the gale.'
Alexander Pope

Contents

  
1

  
2

  
3

  
4

  
5

  
6

  
7

  
8

  
9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

Acknowledgement

1

1968

It was a warm, gin-clear July day. The wooden fishing boat bobbed gently on the low swell of an ocean that looked as thick as treacle. Under a blue sky unburdened by cloud, the dome of Ailsa Craig shimmered in the haze, framed by the dark line of the Ayrshire coast, which appeared to be distantly floating on the still air.

All was quiet, save for the gentle lap of the waves on the side of the clinker-built hull and the occasional plop as a seal surfaced before diving back into the torpid depths in search of fish. The creature would reappear every time with no sign of a wriggling silver herring clasped between its jaws and, if such a thing were possible, a rather disconsolate look on its face.

The stout old mariner surveyed the scene with dismay, his pipe clenched between his teeth. ‘Och, even the creatures o' the deep canna get a bite,' he observed, addressing the spotty youth at his side. ‘That beast is looking fair emaciated, and nae wonder.' A cloud of pungent blue smoke spiralled into the air. ‘In fifty years o' this, I've never seen the like. Mid July, and no' a catch worthy of the name. It's enough tae gaur ye greet.'

‘Is that a nautical term? ' asked the boy, anxious to impress.

‘No, it's not, young Peter. It means it's enough tae make you burst intae tears.'

‘Is it really that bad? I mean, will the fish no' jeest turn up when they're ready?'

‘Och, aye.' Sandy Hoynes took the pipe from his mouth and fixed the ship's boy with a beady eye. ‘The herring are probably away on one o' they new package holidays. A few weeks swimming in the warm waters o' the Mediterranean, before coming back here tae surprise the hell oot o' us by fair jumping intae the nets. We'll no' need tae bother putting tae sea at all. Likely, the silver darlings will jeest launch themselves intae the fish boxes on the quay, and tell auld Erchie Keacheran the fish buyer tae get on his bike and come up the hoose and let us know how big the catch is.'

‘I canna work oot whoot's wrong,' said Peter, desperately trying to retrieve the situation.

‘Noo, you're less than a year oot o' school. Jeest you tell me: whoot would we normally expect tae see when we're plying oor trade here?'

Peter bit his lip, deep in thought. ‘Water, we always see plenty o' water, skipper.'

‘My, but you're a bright spark, right enough. It's easy tae see how I spotted your fine intellect and offered you a half share aboard this fine vessel.'

‘Dae you mean that?'

‘No. The only reason you've been given the chance tae learn your trade aboard a state-o'-the-art craft like this, is that I owed your aunt Ina a wee favour.' Hoynes tapped his pipe on the hull and searched in the front pocket of his bib and braces for his pouch of tobacco. He wore an almost beatific expression as he stared out to sea.

‘I didna know you knew my auntie Ina.'

‘Clearly there are a multitude o' things you don't know aboot. Your auntie an' me have been freens for a long number o' years. A clever, bonnie lassie she was in the school. I'm mair than sad tae note that none o' that intelligence has managed tae fight its way through the family tae you. Have you ever heard the like, Hamish?'

A round face appeared through the wheelhouse window. ‘The answer you were looking for was gulls, Peter. We'd be in a poor state right enough if we were oot here and there was nae water,' chided Hamish. He looked to be in his late thirties, though it was hard to tell under the olive tan of his skin. Certainly, there wasn't a fleck of grey to be seen in the dark quiff he'd constructed from what was left of his hair. It rose from his head like a small edifice. Had it not been for the bright blue of his slanted eyes, he would have had an almost oriental appearance. ‘No' a gull tae be seen – I've never known it like this. They're usually fair mobbing the boat. I canna think it's anything less than the worst sign.' He craned his head further out of the window and looked heavenward. ‘We'll have another seven hours o' light anyway. Maybe we'll hit a proud shoal yet, skipper.'

‘You're like your faither, Hamish. Never saw him wae an attack o' the glums in all the years I knew him. Quick wae the premonitions, tae.'

‘He looked pretty glum the last time I saw him,' remarked Hamish ruefully.

‘Och, how so?'

‘He was laid oot on auld Kennedy the undertaker's slab in his best Sunday suit.'

‘Well, anybody can be forgiven for looking a wee bit glum under they circumstances. I wouldn't hold that against the man. A natural optimist, he was – right cheery when he'd a few drams on board, tae. But I tell you this, even he'd be crying in his whisky by now.'

‘Nae herring, and you with your Maggie getting wed, tae,' said Hamish, leaning on the wheelhouse windowsill, lighting his own pipe.

‘Me and the wife have been waiting thirty-five years for that – I'm buggered if the lack o' a fish or two will put paid tae the exercise. Aye, even if I've got tae dip intae my own nest egg.'

‘She's been a while settling,' observed Hamish, a coy look on his face.

‘Och, you know yoursel', the Good Lord didna see fit tae adorn her wae the keenest o' looks,' replied Hoynes. Beside him, young Peter raised his eyebrows, out of sight of his skipper. ‘But she's got a big heart.'

‘And a fair-sized arse, tae,' said Peter, thinking out loud then regretting it when his skipper caught him a clip behind the ear.

‘That comes from her mother's side o' the family – nothing she can dae aboot it. The women canna all be as svelte as your auntie Ina . . .' His musings as to the feminine qualities of Ina Blackstock were cut short by a low rumble followed by a distinct boom.

‘There it's again,' shouted Hamish. ‘That's the sonic boom o' that jet they're testing.'

Hoynes relit his pipe, a look of distaste spreading across his face. ‘Noo, Hamish, you've been at the fishing since you were a boy.'

‘You have the right o' it there, skipper,' he agreed.

‘And in all that time, have you ever known a spell like this wae hardly a herring tae box?'

‘No, I have not. I mind fifty-seven wisna such a good year, but it was nowhere near as bad as this.'

‘Man, fifty-seven was like a bumper compared tae this, man. I'll tell you why I think it's happened, tae.'

‘You mean you know?' asked Peter excitedly, keen to restore his skipper's faith in him after his ill-advised comment as to the size of his daughter's backside.

‘It's that bloody plane. All this sonic boom stuff. When did they start they flight tests, Hamish?'

‘Och, aboot the end of April – jeest as the nights wir getting longer.'

‘Aye, and jeest as oor wee silver freens were getting busy spawning. I'm telling you, that racket's fair frightening the fish. It's no' natural, and that's a fact. I'm no' the only man who thinks so, neither.'

‘But whoot can we dae aboot it?' asked Hamish.

‘We're having a meeting on Friday night – all the skippers, aye, and anyone else who's interested.'

‘Whereaboots?'

‘In the County Hotel. Seven thirty, on the dot. We would have had it at McGinty's, but the way things have been, half the boys are barred until they can pay off their tick.'

‘There's loyalty for you,' remarked Hamish. ‘The McGinty sisters have nae shame – when you think o' the money that gets spent in there by the fishing community.'

‘I know fine. This crisis wae the herring, it's the kind o' thing that tears communities apart, and no mistake. Aye, an' forbye that, the McGinties sell the cheapest dram in the toon.'

‘They dae that,' Hamish agreed, ‘but fae very small glasses.'

2

The function room of the County Hotel was thick with smoke, as sweet, blue pipe tobacco mixed with the bitter tang of unfiltered cigarettes. A young waitress manoeuvred through the crowd of fishermen bearing a tray of drams, which she placed on the long table in the centre of the room, then fought her way back through the throng of seafarers as they descended on it like a pack of hyenas.

Sandy Hoynes took his seat at the head of the table. Since he'd called the meeting, he reserved the right to chair proceedings. By his side, his first mate Hamish took a sip of his whisky and grimaced. ‘I'm no' jeest sure whoot distillery this came fae, but they've a lot tae learn aboot the art of making a good dram, and no mistake. I've cleaned my kitchen floor wae mair appetising fare.'

‘Whoot dae you expect for two shillings a heid?' replied Hoynes. ‘In any case, we're no' here for the whisky.' He tapped the side of his glass with the stem of his pipe, and soon the room came to order. Though there were only thirty seats around the table, as many again stood leaning on the backs of chairs, looking expectantly at Hoynes.

‘Can I make a point of order before we start?' said an old man sporting a cavernous yellow Sou'wester despite being indoors. Spare flesh hung from his throat beneath a sparse grey beard, and His voice was rasping and weak, though his dark eyes were keen.

‘Aye, you can that, Johnny,' replied Hoynes with a sigh.

‘I'm no' sure that you're the right man tae be chairing this august body of mariners. I'm the auldest skipper in the fleet, and as such the honour should be mine.'

‘Well, if you're so old and wise, why didn't you call a meeting yourself?' piped up Hamish in defence of his shipmate.

‘Och, Hamish, but you're a loyal wee dog, so you are. Your faither must be proud, looking down and seeing that you've replaced him wae Sandy Hoynes. The heavenly tears will be spilling doon his face, I've nae doubt. It's jeest a pity he couldna keep a hauld o' his own boat, then you'd be a skipper in your ain right noo.'

‘Don't worry, Johnny,' intervened Hoynes. ‘If he's looking tae replace his great-great-grandfaither, I'm certain sure he'll be at your door in jig time. Noo,' he changed the subject quickly, not giving the old man time to upset Hamish further, ‘we all know whoot a perilous position we're in wae regards tae the fish – or lack o' them, mair accurately.' There was a murmur of agreement around the room. ‘The question is: why is it happening, and whoot can we dae aboot it?'

‘My mother says it's tae dae wae the telly and radio, and suchlike,' offered a tall, thin youth in a black pea jacket. ‘She reckons the signals is fair going through the fish and sending them off in the wrong directions – you know, confusing the poor buggers.'

‘Aye, aye. Noo, I can see that being a valid notion. If they're as confused as me when I listen tae thon pop music, I'm quite sure the buggers are driven tae distraction. But somehow, I canna think she has the right of it there, Wullie.'

‘How no'?'

‘Well, I've seen many things in my life – once you've been at the mercy o' a German U-boat, the rest o' the world seems a gentler place – but I've yet tae see a fish showing any interest in the television. And even if they had, it's unlikely they'd get a decent signal doon there in the depths.'

Amidst the chuckles, Hamish said, ‘You're right, Sandy. My poor mother gets nothing but interference, an' she's only at the top end o' the Glebe Row.'

Sandy Hoynes waited for the mirth to subside, then leaned forward in his chair. ‘The truth of it is, the wireless and television have been around for long enough noo and they've made nae difference tae oor catch o'er the years. There's something new, something different that's tae blame. Something oot o' the ordinary . . . no' natural.' He looked around the room to see if anyone would come up with the correct answer.

‘Is it something tae dae with that daughter o' yours getting hitched?' asked Johnny, a gleam back in his eye. ‘If you're asking me, there's naethin' natural aboot that.'

‘You're lucky you're an old man, right enough, Johnny, or I'd jump o'er this table and give you the hiding o' your life,' replied Hoynes, his face beetroot. ‘I'm telling you, her backside is hereditary, there's no' a thing she can dae aboot it.'

‘Hereditary like a stately home, and no' much difference in size.' Johnny sat back in his seat and enjoyed the laughter.

A young man stood up. Beneath a mop of curly hair, his face was a mask of concern. ‘I'm thinking it's something tae dae wae that plane, Sandy. If things go on the way they are, I'll have tae sell the boat – and whoot's going tae happen then? Mind, I've two young children and another on the way.' He looked around the roomful of fishermen. ‘Do you no' all think the same? It's that bloody plane, and all the antics it goes through – thon banging and everything.'

‘Well said, Paddy Meenan,' roared Hoynes. ‘The very thing – the
only
thing it can be. We've never had bother like this before – no' even in the war, when there was all sorts o' craft, explosions and other goings-on. This plane, and that noise – well, it gies me the creeps. It's enough tae wake the deid.'

‘That's likely how auld Johnny made it here the night,' said Hamish, relishing the opportunity to get back at the acid-tongued old fisherman.

Hoynes stood up. ‘The question is, whoot are we going tae dae?'

‘We could contact oor MP, Sandy,' said one of the fishermen.

‘Och, that article. He's mair at hame doon in London than he is here. I canna mind the last time I saw him in Kinloch,' sniffed Hoynes.

‘Whoot aboot the Fishery Office?' asked Paddy Meenan.

The room fell silent.

‘Mind now, young Paddy,' said Hoynes, his tone serious. ‘You give the Fishery Officer one chance and before you know it he'll be up at your house for tea, fair grilling you aboot nets and catches and how much money's in your bank account, and whether you bought new underpants recently. The very Devil, they are. Much better they know nothing about it, and that's a fact. Agents o' the state they are – and the very worst kind.'

‘Well, in that case, all we can do is go oot tae the airbase en masse and confront the buggers,' said Meenan. ‘Tell them tae take their plane somewhere else.'

‘Och, they'll no' listen,' said Hamish. ‘Big company – even the French are involved, so I'm told. They'll nae mair listen tae us than fly in the air.'

‘Mind you, Hamish, that's kind o' whoot we don't want them tae dae,' said Hoynes.

‘No, we have tae be fly cute wae this one,' Hamish continued. ‘The big thing these days is protest. Sure, they're never done marching doon in London. I even hear that women are burning their knickers oot o' protest.'

‘For any's sake,' observed Johnny. ‘Sheer desperation. Mind you, I can think o' a few lassies, who, if they decided tae set fire tae their undergarments, wid cause a fair conflagration.'

‘They burn their brassieres, no' their knickers,' said Hoynes, eyeing Johnny vengefully.

‘No, whoot we need is publicity,' persisted Hamish. ‘If we march up and doon the Main Street, nae bugger'll ever hear aboot it – aye, no' even if we were tae burn oor oilskins. We need something tae attract the attention o' the papers an' that.'

‘The pilots are nice blokes,' said Meenan.

‘How do you know that?' asked Hoynes.

‘Och, if the weather's rough – too much wind or rain – they canna fly. They head intae the Douglas Arms for a few drams. Ex-RAF pilots, good lads. No' slow tae put their hands in their pockets, neither.'

There was silence for a moment, then Hamish looked around the room with a smile. ‘Wait a minute. In that case, I've an idea . . . And all we need's a right bad day.'