‘Ah was oan ma wey hame fae here,’ said Eric sadly, ‘tired an’ ‘at. Ah wis nearly hame, naebody aboot, nae traffic, nae people, nuthin’, so I ran the red light.’
‘As I have done myself many a time,’ said Father Mick firmly, looking around the Inn.
‘An’ the next thing Ah know is there’s a coupla polis at the door. Said somebody hid reported me, an’ wis it true an’ ‘at? So Ah says aye, it wis true, it wis likely a daft thing tae dae, but—’
‘But there was no one about,’ said Father Mick impatiently, ‘And, and … ?’
‘Aye,’ said Eric, ‘but they charged me.’
‘You daft sod,’ said Sandy Bay. ‘You should’ve denied it! It was their word against yours!’
Sorley Mor glared at Sandy Bay, faking alarm. ‘Now, Sandy Bay, that kind of language isn’t advisable. This is Eric you’re talking to! As a special favour to me I’d be obliged if you’d take no notice, Eric. The bugger’s drunk and has no idea what he’s saying.’
Eric sighed. ‘Fined four hundred and fifty pounds and six penalty points,’ he said sadly.
‘You’re kidding me!’ said Father Mick.
‘Naw, honest,’ said Eric, sipping his mineral water. ‘Never been in any kind of trouble afore either.’
‘Aye, well,’ said Sorley Mor, looking around, ‘not in a car at any rate.’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Sandy Bay slowly, ‘but I would have to say that wasn’t called for.’
‘Ah know, Ah know,’ said Eric sadly.
‘If I were you, Eric,’ Sandy Bay continued, ‘I think I might be dancing with rage at that!’
Around the Inn there were several sounds: Sorley Mor’s drink going down the wrong way, Gannet coughing to cover his confusion, but mostly the sound of stifled laughter.
‘Well,’ said Sorley Mor, desperately trying to pick up the pieces. ‘Just because Eric’s a big man, there’s no need to poke fun at him! I’m sure he could dance with the best of them even if he is that size. If he wanted to dance, that is, though I’m sure he doesn’t. Not, mind you, that there would be anything wrong with him having a dance if he felt like it.’ Wondering if he might, he just might have gone slightly overboard, he thought it would be a good idea to divert attention in case anyone, that Sandy Bay especially, smelt a rat. ‘Donald, man,’ he called to the barman cheerfully, ‘bring me one of your Ploughman efforts, if you please!’
‘There wur two a’ them,’ Eric continued thoughtfully, ‘wanna thum musta knew it wisnae right.’ He sighed. ‘But ye know whit the polis is like, they likely hid a spite at me for somethin’ else, thought they’d kill two birds wi’ wan stone.’
‘Aye,’ Stamp said firmly, ‘you’re right there, Eric. It was likely, just as you say, they just decided to … to … hit two ducks with a brick.’
Later, back at MacEwan’s Row, slightly the worse for wear and with a bottle of Milk of Magnesia clutched in his hand, Sorley Mor told Chrissie of the near miss.
‘I have my suspicions about Sandy Bay,’ he said. ‘I sometimes think he can’t be one of us at all. I sometimes wonder about his mother. She used to be over-friendly with one of those Klondikers, everyone knows that, and he’s a sneaky sort, like those Russians – not like a real MacEwan at all!’
‘I can see why you’d think that,’ Chrissie replied in a mock serious tone, ‘and I’d agree with you if it wasn’t for the fact that he looks just like the rest of you.’
‘How do you make that out?’
‘Dark hair, blue eyes, sneaky tendencies. Just as you say, that kind of thing, Sorley Mor.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said the skipper innocently. ‘This is a man who sneaks around buying things and not telling people what for or why.’
‘Definitely,’ said Chrissie, ‘keeping from them things they have every right, not only to know, but to be consulted about.’
‘Exactly!’
Chrissie looked at him then shook her head. ‘You’re hopeless, man, do you know that? And what’s this I hear about you and Gannet going on the Wanderer’s last trip?’
‘You hear right, woman,’ said Sorley Mor grandly. ‘It’s only right that we should bid the old girl farewell.’
‘You could stand by the harbour and wave,’ Chrissie replied.
‘I’ve said it before, Chrissie MacEwan,’ said the skipper with exaggerated patience, ‘and I’ll say it again: you have no soul. Of course we must be with her on her final trip, she would expect nothing less!’ He looked at Gannet and the two of them smiled manly smiles at each other. Gannet threw an arm about the skipper’s shoulders.
‘Spoken, if I may say so, Skipper,’ he said emotionally, ‘like a true seaman. Like a real man of the seas, like a—’
‘Drunk,’ Chrissie said tartly. ‘Sit down the two of you before you fall down.’
‘We will not fall down,’ said the skipper, as he and Gannet swayed about. ‘You are but a woman and would not understand such things, Chrissie, but we are doing what we have always done, what we have done all our lives. We are supporting each other.’
The skipper and his first mate took an even firmer grasp of each other to drive the point home, nearly falling over in the attempt, just as Chrissie had predicted. Chrissie looked at them with a jaundiced eye.
‘The two of you are about to lose your balance and crash down, so I’ll put it another way,’ she said. ‘Sit down or I’ll push you down.’
‘Ach, Chrissie, you wouldn’t do that, now,’ said Gannet, chuckling. He put a hand out to ruffle Chrissie’s hair and she slapped it as hard as she could. ‘Fair enough,’ said Gannet, and sat down on the raised marble fireplace beside the skipper in his corner.
Chrissie shook her head. ‘To think the reason we got that slab of marble was to make the place look good,’ she said. ‘He sits on it that much that there’s a big hollow worn away in it by his arse.’
‘Language, Chrissie,’ said Sorley Mor, taking another slug of his Milk of Magnesia.
‘Some people settle for gnomes in their gardens,’ Chrissie continued. ‘Us? We get a great big arse on the fireplace. That’s when he’s able to sit. When he’s too far gone for that we lose the use of the table in the porch.’
‘Conservatory, Chrissie!’ said Sorley Mor.
‘And this daft idea of the two of you ancient mariners going on some mad farewell trip, I still don’t understand why.’
‘Because she’s the last Wanderer, Chrissie,’ Sorely Mor explained patiently. ‘We’ll never go on her again. You are watching history in the making here.’ He looked as deeply into her eyes as his own could focus, then shook his head. ‘I’ve said it before, Chrissie MacEwan,’ he sighed, ‘you have no soul.’
‘The Wanderer’s just a lump of metal, you daft old bugger,’ Chrissie responded. ‘It’s no different from all the other bits of metal on the high seas.’
Sorley Mor bristled. ‘Did you hear that, Gannet?’ he demanded indignantly, the two of them once again struggling unsteadily to their feet and throwing an arm round each other’s shoulders. ‘Did you hear her insulting our boat? Why did you let me marry a creature like this who has no finer feelings? I blame it on you entirely, Gannet, you should’ve stopped me!’
‘Ach, Skipper,’ grinned Gannet, looking at Chrissie with undying though equally unfocused devotion, ‘sure nothing could’ve stopped you. Isn’t she the most lustrous pearl, the most glittering gem of the sea! Doesn’t she gladden your heart—’ at this Sorley Mor was smiling sentimentally – ‘and make you—’
‘Fear for your life if you think I’m falling for that crap,’ Chrissie supplied acidly.
Sorley Mor looked once more into Gannet’s eyes. ‘Most of the time she’s a bad wee bitch, though,’ he said conversationally, and the two of them laughed, their arms still entwined.
‘True, true,’ Gannet conceded.
‘And she’s also the only one who’ll remember this conversation when you two are sober,’ said Chrissie.
‘True, true,’ said Ganne
t again, smiling down at her.
‘And this mad trip to annoy the rest of the crew: have you stopped to think what Sorley Og might feel about it?’
‘He understands these things, woman,’ Sorley Mor announced. ‘You can’t be expected to understand these things: these are things of men!’
‘Christ, I don’t know why I bother trying to make him see sense when he’s had a few,’ Chrissie said to herself. ‘After all these years, you’d think I’d know it’s hard enough talking sense to him when he’s sober. And by the way, who drove the Land Rover up here?’
‘Can’t remember,’ said Sorley Mor, ‘but I do know it was someone, because I was in the back with the others.’
‘Others? What others?’
‘My crew, woman!’ Sorley Mor shouted grandly.
‘Sorley Mor MacEwan, lower your voice. And if you call me “woman” just once more I swear to Christ I’ll remove your kneecaps with a fork. Just tell me, where are the others now?’
‘In the Land Rover, wo …, Chrissie, where else would they be?’
‘All of them?’
‘I think so …’ said Sorley Mor, suddenly uncertain. ‘Gannet! Gannet! Where’s the crew?’
‘Forget it,’ Chrissie said, looking at the figure sitting on her hearth, head down. ‘The big clown’s sleeping.’
A quick glance in the back of the Land Rover quickly proved that Sorley Mor told no lies. There they all were, lying in a heap, snoring – apart from the ever-sober Eric, who had returned to the Wanderer alone.
‘For God’s sake,’ Chrissie muttered, and immediately turned and made her way to Rose and Sorley Og’s house. There she discovered that her sober, responsible son had driven the vehicle home; given the time it took him and Rose to open the door, though, she guessed being responsible hadn’t been on his mind at the time. As she could hardly say, ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise you were busy, carry on,’ she asked Sorley Mor to identify the bodies that were actually in the Land Rover, because knowing her husband and his capacity for collecting people, there could be a few known to no one but their particular God. They were all crew, though, plus Father Mick ‘Hooligan’, so Rose and Chrissie called their homes, told their wives where they were and that they would be looked after, then they watched as Sorley Og disentangled limbs and dragged them and their owners into Sorley Mor and Chrissie’s house.
‘Look at Stamp!’ Chrissie laughed despite herself as she and Rose dragged him indoors. ‘He’s still got his old bunnet on! Will we look underneath, Rose?’
‘Don’t you dare!’ said Sorley Og. ‘Some deep instinct would alert him that his head had been invaded and he’d never talk to any of us again!’
One by one they were all laid in the beds vacated by MacEwan daughters and son who had left home.
‘Father Mick’s here as well,’ Sorley Mor grinned. ‘Do I throw him back or is he allowed in these days?’
‘If I say throw the wee bugger in the sea, will you do it?’ Chrissie asked. ‘Bring him in, he’s been avoiding a telling-off for months now. I can hardly wait to see his face when he wakens up and sees where he is.’
‘Or who’s there with him,’ Rose laughed.
‘Why did you let them get in to this state, Sorley Og?’ Chrissie asked. ‘I mean, this is worse than usual.’
‘I love the way you think I have any control over any of them,’ Sorley Og laughed. ‘Besides, it is a special occasion, the end of an era and all that. Everybody wanted to stand them a drink.’
‘But how many times are they to be stood a drink?’ Chrissie demanded. ‘They don’t leave for two days yet! Anyway, I’ve always wondered about that, “stand them a drink” nonsense. Usually it means they can’t stand, and tonight is no exception.’
At the skipper’s house on MacEwan’s Row all was silent that night, except that there was considerably more snoring than usual and then a crash from the porch-conservatory followed by Gannet’s voice shouting, ‘It’s only me! I’m fine!’
‘There he goes,’ said Chrissie as she lay beside the slumbering Sorley Mor. ‘Never fails. You can never really relax till he’s fallen off that table at least once.’
Next morning Chrissie had to draft Rose in to cook numerous breakfasts and dole out hangover remedies as the aroma of eggs, bacon, sausages, toast and coffee engulfed the house.
‘I feel guilty about big Eric down on the boat,’ said Chrissie. ‘He was the only one sober, and he’s the only one who has to cook his own breakfast. Doesn’t seem fair. Rose, give him a call and ask him if he wants to come up.’
In due course Eric arrived, and they all sat together around Gannet’s big table in Chrissie’s porch, the five-man summer crew of the soon-to-be-departed Wanderer, plus Father Mick ‘Hooligan’, his head down to escape Chrissie’s barbs, and the old skipper and his first mate, who seemed unnaturally quiet, even for Gannet.
‘I know the cooking won’t be up to your standard, Stamp,’ Chrissie said, distributing more coffee, ‘but Rose and I have done our best.’
‘That’s all right, Chrissie,’ Stamp replied seriously, ‘it’s not that bad.’
Chrissie exchanged a sarcastic look with Rose. ‘He bloody means that, you know!’ she said.
‘Language, Chrissie,’ said a weak voice from the end of the table.
She looked at the silent Gannet. ‘You OK?’ she asked.
Gannet nodded.
‘No, I mean it,’ Chrissie said. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Must’ve given my arm a wee bump somewhere,’ said Gannet.
‘Probably when you fell off the table,’ Chrissie suggested.
Gannet looked blank. ‘I didn’t fall off the table,’ he murmured.
Chrissie rolled her eyes at Rose. ‘No, you never do,’ she replied. ‘Let me see it.’
‘It’s fine,’ Gannet smiled unconvincingly.
‘It bloody isn’t,’ Chrissie said, looking at his left arm. She put her hand under his forearm and lifted it slightly and Gannet winced. ‘Well, either your left side has shrunk in the night, or your arm’s grown longer,’ Chrissie said. ‘The only other explanation is that you’ve really hurt that arm. Rose, call Gavin.’
‘No, no …’ Gannet protested.
‘Call Gavin,’ Chrissie repeated.
‘If he doesn’t answer, try the school,’ Sorley Og laughed.
‘Stop being snide, you,’ Chrissie said. ‘It breaks my heart to say it, but in some ways you get more like that old father of yours every day.’
Dr Gavin Johnstone, the local GP, Sorley Og’s lifelong friend and best man when he and Rose had married, arrived ten minutes later, a tall, well-built, handsome young man of about thirty, with fair hair and brown eyes.
‘My, son,’ Chrissie greeted him, ‘but you’re another one gets more like his father every day.’ She glanced at Sorley Og. ‘Only this time I mean that as a compliment,’ she said. ‘How is old Dr Johnstone, Gavin?’
‘Great, Chrissie,’ Gavin smiled. ‘On a Caribbean cruise again, loves them. Spends all his working life beside the sea, then all his retirement on it.’
‘Only with sunshine,’ Chrissie smiled back.
‘Aye, well, there is that, not to mention constant room service.’
‘There’s some gets that even when they’re ashore in these parts,’ Chrissie replied, leading him to the porch, where Gannet was still sitting with Rose, his face almost white, but protesting that there was nothing wrong with him.
‘So, what’s up?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ said Gannet.
‘It’s his left arm,’ Chrissie explained, both of them ignoring Gannet. ‘He fell off the table last night, and it just doesn’t look right.’
‘I did not!’
‘Hurts when he tries to move it,’ Chrissie said.
‘Does not,’ protested the patient, wincing again as Gavin lifted it slightly.
‘Looks as though he’s dislocated the shoulder,’ Gavin said to Chrissie.
‘I have not.’
‘How di
d you happen to fall off the table?’ he asked Gannet. ‘Is tap dancing popular with your crew, Skipper?’ He raised an eyebrow in Sorley Mor’s direction and smiled as Sorley Mor turned away and looked into the distance with an innocent expression.
‘You’d do better asking the table than asking him,’ Chrissie sniffed. ‘He was feeling no pain at the time. He was sleeping on the table and fell off, as always.’
‘Did not!’ said Gannet.
‘It’s been out too long to just slip it back now. I’ll have to take him to the hospital, do it under general anaesthetic.’
‘No!’ the patient protested.
‘Shh, you,’ Chrissie chided him. ‘This is nothing to do with you, you’ll do as you’re bloody well told.’
‘Bring him out and I’ll run him up now. I’ll put a sling on just now to protect it a bit, and if you can get some cushions to prop him up in the back seat,’ said Gavin. ‘And it might be best if we have someone sitting at either side, too.’
All this time the rest of the crew were looking on with interest, but Sorley Mor had been hovering around, being pushed back every now and again as he shoved his way between Gannet, Gavin and Chrissie.
‘Is Gannet going to die?’ he asked theatrically.
‘With any luck,’ Chrissie replied savagely. ‘How long have I been waiting for this moment?’
As Gannet was arranged in the back of the Range Rover, still protesting that it had all been a mistake, the others trooped out behind him.
Chrissie’s eyes settled on Father Mick. ‘What about you, Holy Joe?’ she asked. ‘Do you want to mutter over him a bit? How do you fancy that, Gannet, the Last Rites from the Father Hooligan here?’
Gannet shook his head vigorously, a look of horror on his face. Chrissie laughed, looking around the crowd of anxious faces.
‘Back! Back!’ she shouted, prodding at them with an imaginary chair and cracking an imaginary whip. ‘Bugger off the lot of you, but keep away from the Inn.’ She turned to Sorley Mor. ‘And you,’ she said, ‘while you’re not in the Inn, don’t eat any of Dan’s food, is that understood?’
‘But can’t I come too, Chrissie?’ the skipper pleaded.
‘No, you can’t,’ Chrissie replied. ‘The last thing the good people at the hospital need is you running about trying to tell them how to do what they have to do.’
The Last Wanderer Page 29