The Maggie (11 page)

Marshall asked nervously, ‘What are you doing that for?'

Hamish, the mate, turned with a grin. ‘Radar!'

‘What do you mean?'

The boy explained. ‘So long as it plops, we're all right. But if it rattles . . .'

Marshall said, ‘If it rattles, what?'

‘Then we'll know we made a mistake.'

Trying to mask his fear by action Marshall groped slowly back to the wheelhouse. He was hardly reassured by the fact that the Skipper was quite unperturbed. He had already decided that MacTaggart was a madman.

‘I'm taking her into Fiona Bay,' the Skipper explained calmly. ‘To beach her. It's all right, sir. It's what she was built for.'

‘But what makes you think you're going into Fiona Bay and not on to some rocks?'

The Skipper paused to listen to the plopping of the coal. Then he said, ‘Ach, weel, I'm not sure I could explain it to ye. Ye just know.'

When the fog lifted, as suddenly as it had fallen, the
Maggie
was indeed safely beached, but in a position that made her appearance even more ludicrous than usual. She was high and dry on a sandbank, half a mile from the sea and half a mile from the shore. It would be hours before she could float from her indignity with the incoming tide.

Marshall, who had fallen asleep in the captain's cabin, was suddenly conscious that the engines were not going. He sat up with a startled expression, thinking that perhaps the boat had been abandoned, or was sinking. He looked at his watch, leaped up and tried to peer through the porthole. But it was too dirty for him to see anything at all, except that the mist had cleared. Scrambling clumsily from the bunk he clambered up on to the deck.

He looked wildly round and saw the Skipper with McGregor and the boy talking quietly in the bows. The mate was asleep on the hatch. On all sides the sand stretched desolately away.

Marshall came up to them furiously. ‘It's almost four o'clock. Why didn't you wake me?' Then, before the Skipper could speak, ‘All right, it doesn't matter.' He spread out his map. ‘Show me where we are on here.' As the Skipper indicated, ‘Right. Where's the nearest place with a telephone?'

The Skipper said, ‘Weel, ye could walk back to Inverkerran, but that's over the hill there. It would be quicker to go to Loch Mora – here.'

Marshall said, appalled, ‘But that's almost ten miles!'

The Skipper shrugged sympathetically. Marshall furiously folded his map, shoved it in his pocket again and strode across the deck to the side of the ship. ‘All right. Let's get going.'

The Skipper looked at him doubtfully. ‘Were ye wanting me to come with you, sir?'

‘You don't think I'm going to leave you here so that you can accidentally drift away again, do you?'

‘Drift away, sir? The tide won't be in for hours. She's no' on wheels.'

As he glanced at the vast expanse of rippled sands, wet with sea puddles and rivulets, Marshall knew that the Skipper was right, but for once in his life he was ready to acknowledge someone smarter than himself. If there was a chance in a thousand of a double-cross the Skipper would know it. He said, ‘I'd rather you came with me. A little exercise will do you good.'

The Skipper shrugged and smiled as he followed him down the rope ladder.

Across the interminable half-mile of sand Marshall plodded ahead, feeling all the time that in the eyes of MacTaggart and his crew
he
was the eccentric. To them
his need for speed and efficiency was quite incredible. Given good weather and their own peculiar knowledge of these western lochs and isles they would have proceeded happily enough, at three or four knots, until with God's good grace they might even have reached Kiltarra. A few days, a few weeks: what did it matter?

Well, to Marshall it mattered a great deal. All his life he had requested and understood the power of money. Now, with his marriage breaking up, he was going to try to buy back his young wife's love. At Kiltarra, in the Western Isles, he had bought a mansion: the cargo, which he had taken months to collect, was to make it agreeable to Lydia's fastidious taste without spoiling its picturesque appearance. Plumbing and heating apparatus, building materials, some modern ‘period' furniture. Only, the whole affair must be a surprise. The cargo which now lay in the sloping hold of the
Maggie
was more important than MacTaggart realised.

Wet to the knees, with the sand and water squelching to each step, Marshall pressed doggedly towards the shore. It was forty years or more since he had walked on a sandy beach, but he couldn't remember it being so wet or that there had been so much of it. Looking back he saw the
Maggie
as a small craft on the horizon, but the scrubby foreshore and the rising hills beyond seemed as far away as ever. He was breathing hard and perspiring. To lift each foot from the clinging sand was an effort. The Skipper, he noticed, was wearing Wellingtons and was so little exercised that he was puffing quite easily at his pipe.

Marshall said vindictively, ‘I'll tell you something else. If you think that even if you did get away with that cargo,
and landed it at Kiltarra, I'd pay you, you're out of your mind! You won't get another penny from me!'

The sand was drier near the shore, but, unexpectedly, as the beach ended, they came on a stretch of boggy ground. To Marshall this was even more of a hardship than the half-mile of sand, but the Skipper seemed so little concerned that he stopped to fill his pipe and was still only a few paces behind when they came at last to the road.

They strode silently along the quiet edges of the coast. It was a scene of utter tranquillity: the rising mountains, sheep grazing in the heather, a crofter's cottage in the sheltered lee of a quarry. The only human they saw on their long walk was a shepherd; the only sounds to break the mountain silence were the bleat of sheep and the occasional flutter of pheasants. At first Marshall led the way, striding along the rough road in an angry silence, but soon, as the stones began to cut through his thin city shoes, his pace flagged and he had difficulty in keeping up with the Skipper's unhurried step.

When they reached Loch Mora – two or three houses grouped round a pier and a stone wharf – the Skipper was still sauntering easily, but Marshall, some way behind, was a pathetic sight. He was out of condition and obviously in real pain. At the first of the houses the Skipper waited for him to limp up, but Marshall, staggering like a drunkard, passed him with a murderous look and made for the pub.

The innkeeper rose in some surprise as a man, apparently in the last stage of exhaustion, staggered through the doorway.

Marshall gasped, ‘I'd like to use your . . . telephone.'

Chapter Seventeen

Campbell's voice came over the telephone with the air of incredulous amusement that Marshall had come to dread.

‘On the beach, Mr Marshall? But how . . . ? The last time I heard from you . . .'

‘We're on the beach,' Marshall insisted gratingly, ‘What I want to know is, can your boat wait for us to get off?'

Campbell said, ‘I'm afraid there's no possibility of keeping Captain Anderson's boat another day . . . no . . . I'm sorry.' He asked, ‘Where are you, by the way?'

Marshall looked round as though he couldn't even be sure of this. The tiny bar, MacTaggart and the landlord talking closely, outside the blue water stretching away. ‘I'm at a village – if you can call it that – called Loch Mora.'

Campbell's voice came, ‘Well, if you'll hold on a minute, I'll just see . . .' He was back almost at once, ‘By the way, our friend Fraser has been doing you well in the
Star
. You won't have seen it. ‘‘The Puffer. Marshall's Assistant on Charge''.'

‘One thing about you Scotsmen,' Marshall said, ‘is your
wonderful sense of humour.' He asked plaintively, ‘But what about Loch Mora?'

‘Ah yes, Loch Mora. Well, you're in luck, Mr Marshall. We have a cattle boat calling there tomorrow afternoon to pick up some beasts. I've just checked in our records. There's an old abandoned pier which is being dismantled next week.'

Still holding the receiver, Marshall looked out of the window. There was a pier, undoubtedly: a rickety construction of wood which looked as though it might subside at any moment. ‘Well,' Marshall said, ‘It looks worse than abandoned. I'd say it was debauched.'

Campbell said, ‘If ye can have your cargo there by three o'clock ready for loading I can put some stevedores aboard. But be sure to get your cargo on the wharf. The pier won't be strong enough to take it. The stevedores can manhandle the cargo out to the head of the pier, where our boat can load.' Suddenly he began to chuckle. ‘I've just realised what you meant when you said that the pier looked worse than abandoned.' He laughed heartily. ‘That's very amusing, Mr Marshall, very amusing. I must remember to tell Mrs Campbell.'

Marshall put his hand over his eyes. ‘I'm simply full of witticisms today, Mr Campbell. I'm developing a comic temperament.' He went on briskly, ‘Right, then, I'll see that . . . What? Three . . . Yes, just a moment, operator. Hold on.'

He searched, without much hope, through his pockets for some change, then, leaving the telephone, put a pound note on the bar. He said to the publican, ‘Give me three shillings, will you?'

The publican raked through his till. ‘Here ye are, sir.'

As Marshall walked back to the telephone he was half aware of the conversation between MacTaggart and the landlord and as he struggled to make the third, truly Scottish, shilling stay in the box he heard the gist of their conversation, accompanied every few seconds by the tintinnabulations of the reluctant shilling.

The landlord was saying, ‘Have you heard about the celebration for Davie Macdougall, over at Bellabegwinnie?'

‘Aye, it's wonderful to think of old Davie reaching his hundredth birthday.'

‘There's a few people about was hoping to get over to Bellabegwinnie for the party. Will ye no' be going yeself, Peter?'

Marshall saw the Skipper look across speculatively, ‘Hmm. I canna be sure.'

At last the box accepted the shilling and the line was open again to the CSS office at Glasgow. Marshall called, ‘Hello, Mr Campbell.'

‘Hallo. Can ye arrange all that, Mr Marshall?'

‘I'll arrange it all right. The cargo will be sitting there on the wharf by three o'clock . . . Fine . . . Thank you very much.'

He replaced the receiver, and walked tiredly back to the bar to collect his change.

The Skipper looked at him hopefully. ‘Would ye care for a wee drap a . . . ?'

He shook his head. ‘No, thank you. Let's go. We may as well get back before dark.'

The Skipper suggested, ‘Would ye no prefer to put up
here for the night? Ye'd be more comfortable, and we could bring the Puffer along first thing in the . . .'

Marshall moved wearily towards the door. ‘Oh,
come on
!'

They trudged back along the torturing road. Marshall could hardly believe that feet could hurt so much or that shoes could prove so inadequate. He stumbled repeatedly, and once, for a few steps, he was glad to hold MacTaggart's arm.

When they reached the bay the tide was at half flood, and the
Maggie
, though still aground, was surrounded by water. Completely exhausted, Marshall sat on a rock while the Skipper signalled to his boat. In a few minutes the boy was rowing towards them in the dinghy.

When the Skipper shook his arm Marshall woke from the daze of exhaustion. ‘The boat's here, sir. Ye'll have to wade.' Marshall looked up dumbly and saw the boy waiting in the dinghy, some fifty or sixty yards away. ‘As close as he can get,' the Skipper shouted and started off through the shallow water in his Wellingtons.

Slowly, with immense care, Marshall unlaced and removed his shoes. Then he stumbled out behind the Skipper.

When he reached the dinghy he had no strength to climb over the side. He felt the Skipper's hand grasping his shoulder and the Skipper's cheerful voice, ‘Weel, it's a grand evening. Do ye know, ye were right. The exercise has done me good.'

Chapter Eighteen

In his desperate tiredness Marshall slept longer and more soundly than he had for years. From the depths of slumber he had vague impressions, intangible as dreams, which, even on waking, could not be distinguished as fears or reality: the Skipper drinking, arguing lugubriously with the engineman; the boy's shrill defence of his hero; the mate's concertina; a rocking of the boat, rise and fall, the engine starting, the anchor chain . . .

Marshall woke slowly, and his eyes were open for a few seconds before he remembered where he was. Quite clearly above the noise of the engine he heard the sounds of movement. McGregor in his engine-room, the Skipper's voice, the cry of seagulls. He scrambled up, fully clothed except for his shoes and jacket, and tried to stand. His outraged feet were extremities of pain; his joints seemed to creak as loudly as the rotten timbers of the
Maggie
. He held himself upright against the bunk. A lesser man would have given up the fight, would have subsided despairingly into the blankets, but Marshall was a man of determination. He had to know what MacTaggart was doing. He had to know . . .

As he leant over the side of the bunk his head swam with fatigue. His shoes: one . . . two . . . Gritting his teeth he pressed first one foot into a shoe, then the other. Never again, he knew, would he buy shoes that were smart or tight-fitting. Brogues were the things, or Wellingtons. Hearing the Skipper's shout, ‘Where's the wee boy?' he struggled to get on deck. One shoelace was fastened; the other broke under his impatient tugging. He stared at it furiously and then stuffed the broken end into his pocket.

Scrambling out of the hatch he saw that they were indeed under way. The sea was more choppy than yesterday, but the occasional whitecaps in the deep blueness of the sea added a touch of exhilaration to the scene. They also made the
Maggie
look faster than she was.