Mistress and Commander

by Amelia Dalton

  ‘I’d like to go to Gareloch, please, to a shipyard called Timbercraft. It’s just next to the submarine base at Faslane.’ The taxi driver didn’t bat an eyelid. Fusty with cigarette smoke and stale beer, the car climbed out of the airport, struggling up the slip road and onto the M8. Over the bridge I’d seen from the air the taxi lumbered and I paid the toll while the driver grumbled about the cost. Turning into the sun, I concluded we were driving west along the north bank of the Clyde. Prim Victorian houses appeared – Helensburgh, the sign told me. The neat Victorian villas had blue hydrangea bushes billowing over solid garden walls, and they gazed smugly across the still water while dainty yachts swung on moorings. Abruptly this suburban idyll was interrupted by a stern ten-foot-high chain-link fence. A man with a machine gun glared out from behind the fence. Keep Out, shouted a sign, in big red letters. Looming through the fence was a mountainous black hulk: more men were spaced at regular intervals along the top of the black hulk, their machine guns silhouetted by the silver waters of the loch. A nuclear sub. Huge and menacing, it made a startling contrast to the gentle hills and peaceful surroundings.

  ‘Is this it?’ I asked incredulously.

  ‘Aye,’ was the terse reply. I levered myself out of the sunken back seat, clutching the goodies and box of wine, wondering what to do next. Dumped in the empty road I watched the taxi slowly disappear, conscious of the guns and sub just over my shoulder; I turned to study it through the chain-link fencing.

  ‘Hi there! You’ve made it!’ Kate’s powerful Glaswegian voice bellowed out behind me: I jumped and dropped the box of wine.

  ‘Oh! Hello! It’s so nice to be here! How are you?’ I gushed nervously. She scooped up my bag as I grabbed the booze and chocolates and followed her down the side of the unyielding fence along a well-worn track leading down to the shore of the loch. It seemed curious just to walk into the open again to find a huge shed with one end exposed to the waters of the loch. Inside the shed, pulled up high out of the water, was a very shiny Conochbar, so much smarter than I remembered. Her superstructure glowed, a freshly painted shiny white even in the gloom of the shed, and the hull glistened with crisp black paint, whilst her bottom was a deep brick-red with new antifouling. Separating the black from the red was a neat white line running horizontally around the hull. Cubby appeared, coming swiftly down the ladder onto the concrete, clad as ever in yellow oilskins and wellies.

  ‘Hullo. You’re here at last.’ His bright ‘sea’ eyes fixed me with a steady gaze. I remembered noticing the fishermen I’d met en route to St Kilda all had a most penetrating look — maybe all that staring into the far distance. He gave me a welcoming kiss.

  The invitation to join them had been a surprise. English, from a privileged background and with no experience of the sea, I had been offered this beautiful coastal voyage. To travel down the Gareloch into the Clyde, round the treacherous Mull of Kintyre through the North Channel, then to weave through the island chains of Islay and Jura, past Crinan and Kerrera and eventually to Oban, was a voyage to relish. Three days of sensational scenery and carefree existence. I’d looked at the map and knew exactly how lucky I was.

  ‘Flight OK?’ he asked. ‘Do you like the boot top?’

  ‘I didn’t know your wellies were so important!’ I replied, surprised.

  ‘Get away!’ he laughed. ‘It’s the white line on the hull. It may be a wee bit fancy for a fishing boat, but I like it. It looks smart and it’s the first time she’s had one. I’ve made them paint it a bit wider at the bow, a wee bit narrower mid-ships and then again wider at the stern. It’ll give her length. Aye, and slim her down too, make her less of a fishing boat,’ he said proudly. Then, taking all my things in one hand, he effortlessly climbed the ladder using the other. Constant clambering up and down ladders was a skill I needed to learn and quickly, I realised; they were usually the only way on or off. Bolted up the side of a quay, they became a vertical slippery challenge and at low water they were even longer with the bottom section, revealed by the low tide, frequently festooned with slithery seaweed. Some had fixings missing and swayed unnervingly against the quay; some had broken rungs and big gaps. Sometimes there’d be a bar in the quay top to grab onto, otherwise it was best to kneel in the inevitable puddle and get away from the edge before standing up. I learnt I had to embrace them all and be quick at climbing them, ready at the top to catch a rope.

  Kate chatted away, asking me about the flight. How were John, my parents – she remembered them all. Cubby asked about Diggers and Hugo, which was touching, as he’d never met them. Then he added, ‘And will you be taking a wee sensation?’

  ‘I’ve a cake somewhere in that bag,’ I volunteered wondering about the ‘sensation’, then was afraid this might be treading on Kate’s toes, although home-made cakes had not appeared at any time during our voyage.

  ‘Here’s your wee sensation!’ he went on, handing me a generous dram.

  ‘And,’ I carried on triumphantly, ‘a box of wine.’ Released from the plastic carrier bag it dripped steadily onto the carpet. ‘Oh no, it’s sprung a leak!’ I wailed. ‘What shall we do? Shall we decant it?’

  ‘No, no, we’ll just have to drink like fuck!’ Cubby growled, grinning.

  Next morning a party of divers arrived: five burly policemen from Burnley, who knew Kate and Cubby from their previous dive trips. Unlike me, who was fascinated to see the hull exposed and completely out of the water, they were familiar with it all. Dive suits on coat hangers and heavy bags with Scubapro in big yellow letters along the sides were loaded on board, Cubby reminding them in a no-nonsense voice where to stow everything.

  Thud! Thud! Thud! Conochbar shook throughout her whole length: the thuds came increasingly loudly from under the hull. Peering over the side, I could see men lobbing huge hammers to loosen the wedges holding her onto the wooden carriage. Cubby was quickly on deck. ‘Keep Away! Stand back! Don’t get near the gunwales!’ He bellowed and ran light-footed through the galley back into the wheelhouse. Creaking slightly, the carriage, Conochbar and all on board crept slowly but steadily backwards out of the shed towards the calm waters of the loch. The concrete slipway fifteen feet below slipped underneath faster and faster. Gaining speed, her weight took her in an unstoppable rush backwards into the sea.

  Whoosh! Her stern dug deep into the water, pushing the sea aside. For a moment she hesitated, rolled from side to side, and then calmly bobbed up like a bath toy, at home again, a boat in her element. Cubby’s dire tales the previous evening about snapping ropes and unchecked rushes into the water were unfounded. All was fine: she hadn’t fallen over and nothing had broken loose, because he had of course made sure everything was secure. Wavelets spread out, rippling the reflections of trees, hills and little houses strung along the shore as we bobbed on the still waters of the Gareloch in the morning sunshine. After a moment the engine, a green Gardner much admired for its reliability by Cubby, throbbed into life, and Kate up in the wheelhouse turned the Conochbar south, heading towards the open waters of the Clyde. Standing on deck, I couldn’t resist giving a wave to the security guard looking down from the sub and he coolly lifted a hand from his gun and saluted. It was a most perfect peaceful morning.

  Cubby appeared, oily from the engine room, having checked all was tidy, neatly stowed and to hand if needed. Soon we’d be out of the Clyde and the passage round the Mull of Kintyre was not to be taken lightly. When a boat left a shipyard, he’d told me, you could never be sure some careless worker hadn’t left a rag lying about ready to slip into the bilges and block a pump, or there might even be a sea cock left open to flood the hull. He was deeply sceptical of everyone else’s concern for safety; in his eyes no one was as careful as he was, not even Kate. Having checked the engine room meticulously, he went to relieve Kate. Hoping to be inconspicuous, and very conscious of my Home Counties accent, I went up to the wheelhouse and tucked myself on the seat at the port side by the window. The divers were clearly at home flirting with Kate. The loch stretched
ahead as bracken-clad shores and yachts, lazing on moorings, slid past. Cubby occasionally turned the wheel, a smell of frying bacon drifted up towards us out of the galley, and all was calm in the beautiful morning sunshine, just the VHF chattering away as Clyde Coastguard spoke to yachts. Cubby picked up the handset, waiting for a break and then pressed the button:

  ‘Clyde Coastguard, Clyde Coastguard, this is Conochbar, Conochbar.’

  ‘Conochbar, this is Clyde Coastguard, channel 67.’

  ‘67.’

  Stretching backwards, he leant towards the green VHF Sailor radio on the wall behind him. ‘Clyde Coastguard, this is Conochbar. Good morning to you. We’re heading round the Mull for Oban. Nine people on board. Thanks for your help and we’ll speak again when we’re next on the Clyde.’ It was fun to be back and ensconced in the wheelhouse: I wondered if there would be any buoys for me to tick off the chart this time. Conochbar began to lift gently as we made our way south, out past Bute towards Ailsa Craig.

  ‘OK, it’s your turn now. Just keep her on 220°. I’ve a few things to check on deck. Keep an eye on the oil pressure and give a shout if it changes.’ Before I had time to speak he’d gone, and l was alone in the wheelhouse. Gingerly, I turned the wheel just a little bit, to see what it felt like. Quickly she was angled towards the shore; I turned the wheel back. Too far. Now the opposite shore was straight ahead. Take it gently, I said to myself, just little movements. I tried to relax and hummed a little tune in the hope of convincing myself. I knew he’d be keeping an eye out while coiling the ropes and stowing the fenders as he chatting with the divers, who seemed to be huddled over a small black box. I hummed a bit more, looking around, checking for other boats, trying to feel in charge.

  Suddenly, the Conochbar began to lift up, and up: she sped forwards, coursing down a wave like a surfer. I looked wildly from side to side as the whole wheelhouse was engulfed in shadow and the starboard window went black as a sub blotted out the light. We were lifted up like a toy, as the huge machine pushed a mound of water ahead of it, and swept down the loch. Black and menacing it surged on purposefully, evil and threatening. A moment later, I watched as it quietly slid below the water and with barely ripple it was gone; the loch was calm again. I plonked myself down behind the wheel, legs dangling weakly from the high seat and glanced at the compass: still on 220°, I breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘Conochbar! Conochbar! This is Black Widow, Black Widow.’ I jumped again as the VHF burst out behind me.

  ‘Conochbar! Conochbar! This is Black Widow, Black Widow.’

  ‘Conochbar! Conochbar! This is Black Widow, Black Widow. Conochbar, are you receiving me?’ The voice became increasingly insistent.

  In theory I knew how to reply, but if I did the whole of the west coast would hear and wonder. But it wouldn’t do just to ignore the call. Nervously, I picked up the black handset and pressed the transmit button: ‘Black Widow! Black Widow! This is Conochbar, channel seven-zero.’ I responded, stretching back to twirl the dial, holding my breath.

  ‘Hello there, Conochbar! Black Widow here. Long time no see! We noticed you heading down the loch and wondered how you are. What’ve you been up to?’ I scanned the windows, no boat, nothing. Firmly I pressed the button. ‘Hello, Black Widow. Cubby’s out on deck and Kate’s in the galley. Can I give one of them a shout for you?’ I asked, not wanting to elaborate.

  ‘Well, who are you, then?’ they persisted. ‘What are you doing on board?’

  ‘Oh, I’m just here for a few days to lend a hand,’ I replied, realising it sounded a bit lame. I glanced round again checking there was nothing that needed avoiding. I looked at the compass, 225°: just a little movement needed.

  I waited, wondering what would be the response. A faint sound of chuckling drifted through the open window. Standing on the bow, the group of divers waved and giggled, holding up the small black box, its aerial pointing skywards. I grinned and waved back, trying not to mind having been made to look a fool.

  Of course I had returned home full of stories, and of course the boys had loved hearing tales of submarines and Mummy being in charge of the boat. So now sitting together with just the crumbs of fish fingers left, they were overcome with excitement at John’s suggestion. After the frightening tests, smells and noises of the hospital the open spaces of the sea were a heady prospect.

  It was a complete success, so over the next three years we had a succession of wonderful family summer holidays. Other families joined us from time to time, and in between I went up on my own to help cook or to be a deck hand, especially during winter dive charters. With no children of their own, Kate and Cubby had welcomed the boys and they both completely adored Diggers. Life on a boat suited him perfectly. Kate spoilt him with food that was banned at home whilst Cubby would hoist him on his shoulders and go striding off across the bog and heather telling him stories of witches, hobgoblins and elves. We swam in the burns, splashed about in waterfalls and caught wily brown trout in little mountain lochs. Cubby created little expeditions for Diggers and the other children – no adults allowed. He would pile them all in the Zodiac and putter off across the lochs to lay creels baited with the remains of smoked salmon. Pulling up the creels, the boys found bright blue lobsters and deep brown crabs scrabbling around in the bottom. Hugo learnt to windsurf and Diggers, agile when he was on all fours, could clamber in and out of the Zodiac with ease. He thrived in the cool climate and had an unerring sense of balance. He discovered that on a boat people couldn’t walk off and leave him behind and, better still, unlike some, he was never sea sick. They were idyllic summer holidays.

  Four

  Those golden holidays seemed long gone and I couldn’t even let myself remember them or I felt I would slip down into a hole, never to climb out. We had left London six months earlier when John had opened a new office for his company in Manchester; we had friends around there and it seemed good to escape London. Hugo was away at boarding school and John split his time between Manchester and London: he would leave home on Monday morning to work in the Manchester office then carry on down to London, not coming back until Friday evening. I was again by myself and unutterably lonely.

  Digby’s bedroom threatened upstairs, empty, silent but still alive with him. The smell of him. The charm of his giggles. What should I do with his precious collections of seashells and seeds, his clothes, his toys and his books?

  Three months earlier, I’d gone into his room to wake him for school. He rarely slept well but he looked angelic, slightly flushed, a gentle snore drifting up from the bed. I decided a day off school for an eight-year-old would do no harm. I went back to the ironing.

  Glancing at the kitchen clock a little later, I saw it was 9.30, so I needed to get him up, or he would not sleep at all that night. There was no little sound of gentle snoring as I walked down the passage and as soon as I looked at him I knew. He was completely still and his lips were pale blue.

  Over the next few months, life seemed to take place beyond a thick pane of glass. I was an observer, numb with no feelings. Just an all-consuming, aching emptiness. What should I have done? Why had I not gone upstairs sooner? I tried to fill the time. I didn’t eat, drink or do anything much. The doctor gave me some pills. One in the morning and one at bedtime, working up to four a day but when I took the first one I’d slept until mid-morning and then was unable to get out of bed or walk to the bathroom. I was too frightened to take any more.

  I didn’t want to be in the house with all its memories; everywhere I looked was Digby. His clothes. His toys. His pet rabbit. The funny things he’d said rang round my head.

  He would never come back. I’d never again feel his bony little body snuggling close. I’d never hear his chuckles. I’d never hear his little songs again. The sweet smell of him.

  I seemed to have no purpose in life.

  There was no one to break the silence.

  No one to talk to. No one to cook for. No one to look after.

  Just me. In a house that was no
longer a home.

  The phone rang. Desperate, I grabbed it.

  Clank. Chink. I could hear coins dropping into the box.

  ‘Hullo there! It’s yourself! How are you keeping? Are you OK?’ Cubby’s soft west coast voice purred down the line. I took a deep breath, pushing back the tears and tried to put a smile into my voice. Of course they knew about Digby but his query about me was still almost too much.

  ‘Hello. Yes, it’s me,’ I blurted. ‘How are you? It’s such an age since I heard from you. How’s Kate? Where’ve you been? Where are you now? Do you want me to call you back?’ I rushed on, trying to prevent myself bursting into tears.

  ‘Aye, well, it’s been a wee while. It’s not been so easy. I’m afraid I’ve no good news.’ Knowing Cubby’s dislike of the telephone I wondered why he was ringing. His voice went on, ‘I’m sorry but you’ll not be able to come up here again.’

  ‘I’ll call you back. What’s the number?’ I said firmly. I knew he was quite capable of just walking away, back to the boat, having said what he needed to say and not wanting to get drawn into more detail.

  An hour later, the longest I’d ever spent on the phone to him, he had told me the news. Cubby and Kate were employed to operate the Conochbar and Cubby had told me that after running the boat successfully for twelve years, their employment was being brought to an end. It seemed the owner wanted the boat for himself and without the arduous commitment of taking the National Trust volunteers out to St Kilda.

  I wandered around the house, trying to assemble my thoughts and get my frozen brain to work. I reckoned there were two choices: turn away or get involved. I knew, right then, sitting alone in the empty house, as I gazed out at sheep dotted about in the fields beyond the garden, I couldn’t just ignore their difficulties. They’d become good friends.