The Maggie (19 page)

They were silent as they considered the wee boy's analysis of the basic logic of the situation. Marshall turned to him, wanting to explain but finding no words. He waved his hand helplessly, turned as if for help to the grinning reporter, and then, utterly defeated, handed the cheque back to the Skipper.

The next minute he was overwhelmed with good wishes. The Skipper said with emotion, ‘It's been a great pleasure to have been associated with ye, sir. We'll never forget ye.'

The mate took his hand. ‘I hope we'll meet ye again, sir.'

Above it all the engineman said, ‘Aye, and if ye're ever wanting another job done . . .'

Marshall looked at him closely, but he seemed quite sincere. He nodded and started to walk away.

‘Goodbye, Mr Marshall.' Their warm farewells followed him down the pier.

‘And gude luck to ye.' The boy's cheerful, faintly derisive call was like a blow on the back. Marshall stopped and turned. Without altering his bland expression the boy met Marshall's hard and speculative stare. For a few moments they looked at each other in silence. Then, somewhere behind the eyes, the boy smiled, and, with only the faintest movement of his lips, Marshall returned the smile. He turned reluctantly and, with one last look at the
Maggie
, started up the steep hill to the hotel.

(2)

The landlord of Dirty Dan's was drying a glass tankard on his apron as he looked out over the docks. It was a typical grey day in Glasgow, with a lowering sky almost touching, it seemed, the high tops of the cranes, the masts of the liners, the tall warehouses. On the placid water all kinds of boats were floating – at anchor, in the repair basin, chugging across the river, coming thankfully in from the sea. The smoke from a dozen funnels hung in the heavy atmosphere, the seagulls whirled, a drizzle of rain was falling.

The landlord came idly to the window as another, smaller, vessel came in from the sea. A Puffer. He turned, grinning, to his only customer, Skipper Anderson of the CSS.

‘There's an old Puffer coming in.'

‘Aye?' Anderson's voice was non-committal. He was halfway through the latest murder case.

‘It wouldn't be the
Maggie
, I'm thinking,' the landlord added wistfully. ‘I always hoped she'd come back.'

‘What for?'

The landlord shrugged. ‘Oh, I don't know. Maybe to hear the whole story – as MacTaggart tells it.'

Captain Anderson put down his newspaper and chuckled. ‘Aye, it was a good story – MacTaggart at his best. It's a wonder he didn't end up in jail.'

‘He will yet.'

Anderson laughed tolerantly. ‘Ah, well, MacTaggart's a real character. Ye'll not find many like him these days.'

The landlord nodded as he arranged the tankards in neat rows at the back of the bar. It was early yet. In another hour the dockyard hooter would go, and he wouldn't be able to fill them quickly enough. By the time he had done this and mopped the polished counter the Puffer was directly below, hardly a stone's throw from his bar. He watched her with mild interest. The window of the wheel-house was misted over and he couldn't see the captain or the crew. But the name was clear enough, painted in large and rather sloppy lettering along the side. The landlord picked up a pair of binoculars he always kept beneath the bar. He asked in a puzzled voice, ‘Have you ever heard of a Puffer called . . .' he pronounced each word slowly – ‘the C
ALVIN
B. M
ARSHALL
?'