The Maggie (6 page)

‘We should like to be sure of delivery . . .' With notebook open on her knee, pencil poised, the immaculate Miss Peters gently prompted.

‘Sorry!' Marshall jerked back to his letter. ‘We should like to be sure of delivery before the 27th instant.'

In the next room Pusey was working methodically down the list. ‘Hallo, hallo. Greenock 61827? Is that the pier master?' Occasionally, like a warning rattle, the telephone bar would be irritably tapped. ‘Hallo, miss. That was the wrong number you gave me. Well, I assure you! I asked plainly enough for . . .'

After dinner they returned to work. The hours lost in flying to Glasgow must be recovered somehow. Fortunately, by returning on the night sleeper, the journey back to London would cost them nothing in precious hours and minutes. A necessary extravagance was the telephone call from Marshall's wife.

He spoke to her quietly, almost deferentially, in a tone he used to no other person. ‘That's right, honey, just a routine business matter . . . Uh-huh, either by train tonight or on the first plane tomorrow morning . . .'

As he spoke, Miss Peters came quickly into the room. She started to withdraw, but, as Marshall raised his finger, she remained. He saw that the strain of the day's business was beginning to show even on her usually untroubled brow. She stood fidgeting nervously until he finished.

‘If I have to stay over, I'll ring you later tonight. . . . Yes, that's right. Well, thanks for calling, honey. Good night.'

He replaced the receiver, and turned with a smile of encouragement to Miss Peters. At least, this absurd episode had left no mark on
him
.

Miss Peters said, ‘I've just had a call from the harbour master at Greenock, Mr Marshall. He says the Puffer arrived there ten minutes ago . . .'

Marshall nodded with satisfaction. ‘Good. Now, here's the plan. First, tell Pusey to . . .'

Miss Peters interrupted him with hysteria in her voice, ‘But, Mr Marshall, he said that when he gave them your instructions . . .' She faltered, seeing his expression.

‘Yes?'

‘Oh, Mr Marshall. They just sailed right out again!'

Chapter Eight

The
Maggie
steamed peacefully northwards through the blue waters of Loch Fyne. It was a perfect day. Along the shore the pleasant countryside, rolling hills, heath-land, dark pine woods, showed clearly in the sunlight. A landward breeze flecked the water with white and filled the sails of passing yachts. Seagulls circled patiently over their wake and sometimes, wearying perhaps of the laggardly progress, came down to rest on the stern rail.

On deck the scene was as peaceful and untroubled as the day. McGregor was sitting on his hatch reading a comic book. Nearby the mate lay full-length in the sunshine as he struggled, not too successfully, with the intricacies of his concertina. Only the boy was working. He was scrubbing the deck – not because he had been told to do so, but because of his fierce inarticulate loyalty to the Skipper and the Skipper's boat.

From his wheelhouse the Skipper shouted down to McGregor, ‘See if ye can't get another half-knot out of her. She's not making more than five.'

Without looking up from his comic McGregor answered, ‘She's making six!'

‘Five at the outside.'

‘She's making six!'

The Skipper replied diplomatically, ‘Then see if she'll do seven.'

McGregor rose slowly and came across the deck. ‘She'll no' make seven, ye know that! What's the matter with ye? Considering that ye'll no' spend a penny to get her boilers cleaned . . .'

The Skipper said guardedly, ‘Never mind about that. If we're to get to Kiltarra by . . .' He looked up, distracted by an aircraft that was diving down towards the loch. With the sun behind it and the cloudless sky it was difficult to see, and the Skipper turned to face McGregor, who was standing, full of argument, below his wheelhouse.

The engineman said, ‘Who was it put the boat on the subway?'

‘I'll have no insubordination aboard my vessel,' the Skipper threatened.

‘Insubordination! Who was it who was too drunk to find the way out of Campbeltown harbour last . . . ?'

His voice was smothered by the roar of the engine as the aircraft, flying low over the water, swept a matter of yards, it seemed, above the deck. Startled by the suddenness the engineman almost jumped overboard. The boy looked up astounded. Even the mate jumped to his feet.

‘What in the name of goodness!'

They stared as the plane banked and turned.

‘It's coming back.'

They made for cover, the Skipper into his wheelhouse, McGregor into the engine-room, the mate flat on the deck. But the boy, with the courage of indignation, saw, as he thought, one of the passengers behind the pilot; and the passenger was Pusey.

As the plane banked and climbed, McGregor clambered from his hatch with an ancient, double-barrelled shotgun. The Skipper shouted, ‘If he does it again, give him both barrels!'

But there was no cause for bloodshed. The plane, climbing steadily in the hard sunlight, flew down the loch until it was lost to sight and the engine was only a faint receding drone. As the crew of the
Maggie
stared into the distance they waited in silence, loth to voice the fear they all had. At last the boy said, ‘Captain, sir. Did ye no' see who was in it?'

The Skipper shook his head. ‘I've no' got eyes of a hawk, laddie.'

‘But, sir, I looked. I saw him plainly. It was Mr Pusey.'

‘Mr Pusey!' They laughed unconvincingly. ‘And what would he be doing in an airplane?'

‘Trying to stop us, maybe.'

The Skipper shuffled uneasily. He cleared his throat. ‘If that was Pusey, it'd be Mr Marshall, the boss, with him.'

‘Aye, that's right.'

‘It was Mr Marshall, yon master at Greenock said, would be wanting us to put in for unloading.'

‘Aye, that's right.'

They stood thoughtfully, side by side, while the
Maggie
chugged forward on her own erratic course. There was the
possibility here of danger, all their plans could be defeated, but the Skipper was not the man to meet trouble halfway. He slapped McGregor heartily on the back. ‘Och, what's there to worry about? He'd no be able to stop us even if it was Marshall, even if he wanted to.'

The boy said reasonably, ‘They flew south. Would they no' be making for Campbeltown?'

‘Campbeltown?'

‘They could get a car there.'

‘What for?'

‘To catch up wi' us before we get through the Crinan Canal.'

Once again there was silence as his seniors thought their way out of an unpleasant probability. The mate flicked absent-mindedly at a seagull that was watching them from the rail. A yacht went about suddenly to escape their bows. ‘Where the hell are ye steering?'

McGregor said, ‘They'd never make it. By road it's forty miles.'

‘Nearer fifty,' the mate said.

‘By road they'll be travelling faster than us,' the boy said.

‘Even if they walk it,' the Skipper said, looking at the engineman. Then, before their previous argument could develop, he added cheerfully, ‘Ach, I'm thinking that couldna have been Mr Marshall. But if it was he'll have seen how far we've come already. He'll know he's got nothing to worry about. Anyway, once we're into the canal we'll be safe enough.'

The boy shook his head as he picked up his pail and scrubbing brush. ‘Still, if he's troubled to hire a plane . . .'

The Skipper ruffled his hair. ‘Ach, ye worry too much. The
Maggie
's not a ship that responds well to pessimism.'

As they steamed slowly up Loch Fyne towards Ardrishaig it seemed that the Skipper's confidence would be justified. The
Maggie
was a steady as a liner on the still water. The sun was really hot despite the breeze, and there were no further signs of pursuit, real or imagined. Towards midafternoon they entered the Crinan Canal and now with the surface as smooth as an arterial road their passage was even more pleasant.

From a landsman's point of view, from one of the crofter's cottages that lay half hidden among the heather and the gorse, the
Maggie
presented a strange, almost fantastic, sight. With her big funnel, her derricks, her unusual outline, she moved across the scene of moorland, meadows, a copse of pine trees, the distant mountains, and it might be only the weird music of the mate's concertina, or the steady beat of the engine, that would tell an onlooker a ship was crossing the landscape.

On deck the industrious boy was now washing some clothes in a bucket. The mate was still stretched on the deck. Suddenly the afternoon quiet was broken by the clear, metallic cackling of a pheasant. The boy held up a hand, but the mate, too, had heard. They looked towards the woods, exchanged meaning glances, and then turned appealingly towards the Skipper.

The Skipper was looking over their heads, to a copse where a fine-looking pheasant strutted through the undergrowth. The Skipper jabbed thoughtfully at his pipe. He said, ‘Aye, ship's stores are getting a bit low. But I wouldn't
want to see ye taking other people's property.' He slowly turned his back on them. ‘No. If you take other people's property, I wouldn't want to see it.'

A happy grin of anticipation brightened the boy's face. As he turned he saw that the mate was already at the derrick. They lowered the boom and, as the Skipper slowed down and steered as close to the canal bank as the depth of water would allow, they leaned over and swung out across the bank. McGregor, who had been too near his engines to hear the pheasant, saw at once what was happening and threw his shotgun down to the mate. As the
Maggie
moved slowly along the canal the mate and the boy ducked into the copse.

Turning a guileless face from the impending crime the Skipper sang happily in his wheelhouse. ‘I'm ower young to marry . . .' McGregor, governing the engine to its lowest speed, anticipated the taste and smell of pheasant. Two happy men without a care in the world.

The
Maggie
was now sailing calmly towards a point where the canal narrowed at a small swing-bridge. A little, grey-haired woman was turning the handle. ‘I'm ower young to marry . . .'

Just then McGregor saw the car which had stopped beside the bridge. The front doors opened – from one side the driver, from the other – Pusey!

McGregor turned in dismay towards the Skipper. ‘Holy smoke!'he said. ‘They've caught us.'

Chapter Nine

As he saw the car waiting at the swing-bridge and the reception committee, headed by Pusey, the Skipper ducked involuntarily into his wheelhouse. Then he came up slowly, realising that there was no escape, and decided to brazen it out. His tough old face assumed an expression of affable innocence. He glanced sideways to the deck, but there was no support from that quarter. McGregor had gone to ground in his engine-room.

The Skipper steered slowly towards his fate. As the
Maggie
bellied through the calm sunlit water he was able to take in the whole pleasant scene; no guns or barbed wire or handcuffs to show that a criminal had been cornered – not even a policeman. Behind the car and the grey-haired old lady a cottage dozed in the afternoon sun. Roses draped themselves languidly along the low garden wall, sweet williams showed their bright mosaic, pink and red valerians glowed from the bank. Against the cottage door an ancient porch wilted beneath a cascade of honeysuckle.

From this idyllic scene one of the waiting group – Pusey – walked into the hard sunlight on the swing-bridge.
He looked down silently, with lips pursed, as the
Maggie
drifted up to him and stopped. The door of the wheelhouse opened, and the Skipper, with an ingratiating smile, called out, ‘My, now, and look who's here! Mr Pusey! How are ye, sir?'

Pusey glanced back to the shadows. ‘You see what kind of man he is!' The car door opened and Marshall clambered deliberately into the road. Seeing him, the Skipper thought once again of flight, but with the swing-bridge closed and the canal at this point not more than thirty feet wide he was, without a doubt, cornered. With a nervous glance towards Marshall, who was waiting with the driver and Miss Peters beside the car, he came on to the deck and clambered up to Pusey on the bridge.

He asked amiably, ‘And what brings ye all the way to Crinan?' Although he was talking to Pusey he hardly expected an answer and in fact his attention at the time was concentrated over Pusey's shoulder to the group by the car. He saw Marshall watching him steadily, his eyes apparently half-closed from deep emotion. He saw Marshall take a few steps forward.

With a nervous smile the Skipper said to Pusey, ‘We thought you'd returned to London, sir. We never expected to see you here. We had a bit of difficulty in Glasgow, sir; ye may have read about it in the papers. Aye, but your cargo's safe and sound. Not a scratch on it anywhere.'

At last he could bear the suspense no longer. He stepped past Pusey and walked across the bridge with outstretched hand. He smiled imbecilically. ‘I don't think I've met this
gentleman. Is it . . . er . . . is it by any chance himself? Mr Marshall?'

Marshall stepped like a presiding judge on to the swing-bridge. He looked at the Skipper solemnly. Then, surprisingly, he took the proffered hand. ‘That's right, Captain. And it's my cargo you've got aboard this . . . this . . .' He walked the length of the bridge, ignoring Pusey and McGregor, who seemed flabbergasted at his tolerance. He pointed to the
Maggie
. ‘. . . this incredible-looking tub.'

Following him along the bridge the Skipper nodded good-naturedly. ‘The
Maggie?
Oh, the
Maggie
's a fine old Puffer. A coat of paint and ye'd never recognise her.' He added with a confidence that even surprised himself, ‘She's a sound ship and greatly respected in the trade.'