Four months earlier, before we bought Monaco, I had made the first of many visits to the greatly feared Department of Transport. Without the licences, one for the boat and one for the skipper, Monaco could not move – but for a boat of her size the rules were fluid, nothing was written, everything was ‘a grey area’. I gathered that each surveyor could interpret the rules as he chose, reflecting his own particular obsessions and fetishes. Some had views on thickness of window glass, others on how the hatches should close. Exemptions were permitted, but they were at the whim of the appointed inspector and Monaco would be required to meet these safety regulations. Not that these were trivial. The west coast with its liberal scattering of submerged rocks and skerries was well known to be extremely hazardous and we would be carrying people.
In addition to the boat, each skipper had to have his own licence issued by the Department of Trade recognising his abilities, local knowledge and experience. Fortunately, Cubby had been skippering similar boats all over the west coast for more than sixteen years, so he already had a licence from the Department and we didn’t expect any worries there. But it was vital to know if the Department would approve Monaco and that she would be given her certificate to operate with passengers.
Adrian, our swivel-eyed marine surveyor, who had done the survey in Denmark, had advised against visiting the Department. ‘Get going. You need to get on if there’s a chance of meeting the National Trust deadline. You can deal with the vagaries of the Department later. That’s what everyone does. That’s the way it’s done,’ he urged. But as a judge’s daughter I had no fear of the bureaucrats in Glasgow and I was determined not to be caught out. Cubby had regaled me with tales of boats which, after extensive refits, had failed to be given a licence. This was not going to happen to us.
So, before we bought Monaco and went to the expense of going to Denmark, I had visited the Department, taking her particulars and the proposed deck plans. The bare cream-painted office had reminded me of school, with the same sensation of waiting for the headmistress. I sat by the large mahogany desk as weak sunlight shone through the metal-framed window onto a wall poster covered with curious symbols. The anchors and buoys were easy to understand, but much of the rest were simply a collection of unknown squiggles and marks. I gazed around, looking at the desk, but there were no papers, just a brass metal tray holding four clear plastic Bic biros lying side-by-side, cosily snuggled up, tips exactly aligned. There was a green one, a red one, a blue and a black. Each had a small piece of paper with something scribbled in the appropriate colour tucked inside the clear barrel with the bung carefully pushed back into place. I picked up the red one and peered at the writing. Inscribed in red ink was the single word Potts. Suddenly the door opened and I jumped, caught, biro in hand. A tall, thin-lipped man, pale with the translucence of an indoor life, entered. He had a trim little clipped beard and close-set eyes. I carefully put the biro back in the tray and stood up, stretching out my hand. ‘Good morning,’ I ventured.
‘And good morning, to you, too. I’m Captain Potts.’
His prim Morningside Edinburgh accent matched the biros. My heart sank. He looked just as neat and precise and I wondered if it would be possible to get this formal Scot on my side. Flirting clearly wasn’t an option; I would just have to be neat and precise too.
‘Captain Potts, thank you for seeing me. I’ve come to ask the Department’s advice about a boat the company I represent is thinking of purchasing.’ I didn’t want him to think it was just me, not just an English girl with a whim. ‘We are hoping the boat will be suitable for a licence to operate on the west coast,’ I declared firmly. He didn’t look like a social chit-chat sort of fellow.
‘Well, let me see.’
Carefully – I didn’t want to flick the biros for six – I unfolded the A3 diagrams of the Monaco and spread them over his desk. He peered through his gold-rimmed glasses, studying the drawings. I waited, silently. No feminine gabbling. This was professional stuff and maybe he’d interpret my silence as deference.
Eventually, he leaned back folding the glasses slowly, before laying them down at the side of his desk. ‘Aye, she looks fine. She has an acceptable hull and I see she’s Danish? I don’t think we have any Danish vessels operating on the west coast. She could make it up to a Class VIIIA. Yes, that would be good. Class VIIIA is what all these small passenger boats should be. I don’t hold with Exemptions.’
I vaguely remembered a Class VIIIA was what Cubby had mentioned, but no exemptions sounded demanding. I pressed on: ‘We’re proposing to employ Mr MacKinnon as the skipper. I think you know him, Captain Potts, he’s been skippering on the west coast for some years now and has a licence from the Department. He was born on Jura,’ I added, anxious to emphasise Cubby’s local knowledge. ‘Will he be OK to be in charge?’
‘Yes, the Department’s known Mr MacKinnon for quite a while now, so there’ll be no problems there. We know he’s been out at St Kilda many a time with the National Trust parties,’ he said.
As the work on Monaco had progressed, I and even Cubby, who loathed anything that represented authority, grudgingly came to respect the pedantic and precise Captain Potts. He was continuously and never-endingly cautious and meticulous. But if he was a constant thorn in our sides, he was a complete thorn bush to the shipyard. He ensured nothing was omitted, no corners were cut and he checked every little thing over and over again, ensuring everything was up to speed. Surprisingly he and Cubby seemed to get on well, sitting in the crew mess drinking endless mugs of coffee, discussing ship construction and marine engines. Cubby was good company and when he chose was adept at turning up the charm especially when he knew it was necessary. Potts recognised Cubby’s practical skills and admired his seamanship, not to mention his knowledge of futtock knees and freeing ports. Cubby despised Potts’s lack of experience at the sharp end. He was a desk captain in Cubby’s eyes, but Potts never had an inkling that Cubby was simply sucking up to him.
Having lodged the six thousand grubby one pound notes at the bank, I strolled back through the colourless Victorian streets to the shipyard. I felt cheerful. Things were going well on the Monaco: she was rapidly changing from an ugly duckling. I reckoned we’d make it on time for the National Trust even if all the workers had knocked off for the weekend. We had plenty to do and I would be able to send a good report: John would be pleased.
As I neared the dry dock, a sound of screeching, wrenching timber shattered the peace. As fast as I dared, I launched myself back along the horizontal ladder. The quicker I went the more it bounced over the concrete hole. I began to feel really grumpy. I had been fantasising about soaking in a bath and maybe supper in the neon-lit Chinese restaurant, Troon’s finest.
‘Hi, Kate, what the hell’s happening? What’s that horrific noise?’
Kate looked defensive, wary. ‘Aye, well, you’re not to take it bad. He’s away below. Down in the hold with the fire axe.’
The sides of the hull in the fish hold were lined with pine planking and Adrian’s plans showed this wooden panelling as being cleaned and polished to make stylish walls for the passenger cabins. But Cubby had insisted we needed to know what was behind the panelling. He argued there might be hidden rot or burrowing worms weakening Monaco’s hull. We had to know before we built the cabins, fixed the walls and installed the heating, plumbed in wash basins and loos. Loud, heated arguments between Cubby and Adrian had concluded with Adrian insisting he knew best. He was a surveyor. He knew and was adamant that once disturbed the panelling would not fit back into place, and of course it would look fantastically smart when polished up. Besides, it would save considerable expense. Cubby had been threatening to get behind the planks for some days and he’d obviously taken the opportunity while I was out of the way at the bank.
Kate watched as I disappeared through the hatch down yet another ladder into the dark of the fish hold. My stomach heaved. The stink was sickening. It was so strong I gasped. Rank, cloying, a stench of decaying fish, rancid t
allow and diesel fumes burnt my nostrils. A naked bulb, hanging from a nail under the deck, illuminated a medieval tableau on the far side. All around was inky black. Cubby, in grimy yellow oilskins, feet braced against the curve of the hull, swung the axe again and again, slicing deep into the pine.
He was clearly in a rage and was quite likely to hurl down the axe in a fury and tell me that our surveyor was a ‘pillock’, that the whole project was ridiculous and that I knew nothing about boats. It had happened before. I waited. I needed to be careful.
‘Aye, aye, it’s yourself!’ he growled. I’ve always liked this Scottish greeting, sort of non-committal, stating the obvious but not actually even saying hello, just acknowledging a presence.
‘Yes. I’ve put the money in the bank, no problem. They didn’t even ask, not a word, not one single question about where it came from.’ I could hardly breathe with the stink and he must be finding it bad too. ‘How about a cuppa?’ I ventured.
He didn’t move and clearly was not going to be fobbed off with that. I stepped warily towards him over the pools of water that lay in the uneven fish-hold floor. ‘Can you see the hull now? And the frames too?’ I asked. No point in pretending I didn’t know what he was doing.
‘No. I cannae see a goddamn fucking thing. Just black slime and I can’t breathe either. Let’s get out of here. Out of this fuckin’ stench.’
We clambered up, gasping for fresh air as the kettle whistled. Canny Kate must have been listening. Fortified by coffee, I put on my oilskins and Cubby grabbed the big yellow torch: I followed him back down the ladder.
The reek was indescribable.
Cubby swung the axe again and again. I watched horrified as the wooden planking screeched and split apart. But he was very careful and his aim was perfect. Only the panelling between the frames splintered. Soon a large area was split open. With gloved hands he pulled away the splinters of wood and I shone the torch into the jagged black hole. Every surface glistened. Evil black slime shone wickedly all over the hull and the frames, every part was covered in it.
‘Let’s get out of here. I can’t breathe or even think with this stench,’ I said, turning round, desperate to get out into the fresh air.
We did have supper in the Chinese, but despite a shower in our B&B there was a lingering pong; it seemed impossible to get it out of our noses. I wasn’t hungry. How I was going to explain this to John away in London? He would not appreciate Cubby attacking Monaco’s hull with an axe, or that I had let him ignore Adrian’s expensive advice.
Monaco was supposed to be ready in eight weeks for her first passengers. I imagined the chaos if we had followed Adrian’s advice, completed the transformation and sailed away, possibly with the heating on full blast to air the boat. Only then would that smell have come wafting out of the cabin walls, seeping through the pretty panelling. We had to find out what was causing it.
In the morning, I plucked up courage and called John. Sensibly, he recognised he was too far removed from the action. His response was one I was increasingly familiar with: ‘Get it sorted out, deal with it.’ I could tell he was running out of patience. Cubby, he said, ‘had taken unilateral action’. Any more problems and John would call a halt.
Our poor Monaco appeared to be in a concrete coffin. No one would work on her. The dry dock surrounding her supporting cradle was silent. The lads had simply refused to go into the hold, walking away saying it was impossible to breathe or work in the stench.
We embarked on the job and four solid, stinking unremitting days later we had scraped every inch of the hold. Cubby removed all the panelling and the three of us had worked around the frames and right up under the deck. We steadily scraped away, cleaning off every bit of goo by hand. We could only stand the stench for an hour at a time before being overwhelmed by nausea, but we worked at it, night and day. After all, it was pitch black down there whatever the time was. Eventually, after we’d burnt our clothes – oilskins, boots, gloves and all – we went for a walk along the beach. It was, it seemed, yet another fiendish Danish trick. No air could get at the surfaces if they were plastered in goo. No air therefore no rot; no wonder Cubby’s knife had not sunk into her hull.
Throughout the conversion, Potts had come and gone every few days, sticking his nose in everywhere, though curiously he hadn’t been perturbed about the stench and we made sure he never knew about the asbestos insulation. If he’d found that, Monaco would have been condemned. We’d clawed out every little bit of that too. It was a constant battle, each surprise seeming worse than the last one but eventually, Monaco was complete. She had seven cabins with reading lights and little bookshelves, fluffy duvets, peach-coloured towels, flannels and shower curtains. There was a drying room and a neat saloon with smart tartan cushions. On deck, in front of the wheelhouse, was a custom-built brand new steel deckhouse containing a carefully fitted stainless-steel galley and dining saloon with raised seats to give passengers clear views through the huge windows. Sea trials had been done with Potts in attendance in the waters off Ailsa Craig. We had tested fire alarms, gas alarms, bilges alarms and engine room alarms. Run out the fire hoses, tested the bilge pumps and watertight doors, hoisted the daylight signals for ‘at anchor’ and ‘not under command’, practised the man-overboard drill, swung the compass and done the stability tests. Potts watched everything. The Monaco had passed and Potts had granted her the coveted licence. She had achieved the revered Class VIIIA, and with no Exemptions. At last she was ready: we could go. In spite of everything we were only one week late. We could make the National Trust deadline if we left Troon immediately.
We were almost too tired to be excited. It was a transformation but still only a beginning.
With the shipwrights gone, the decks now clear, Monaco lay quietly in the harbour waiting as Cubby, cautious as ever, checked there were no stray rags in the engine room that might block a bilge pump, or tools left lying around to cause a problem. All was ready, ropes neatly coiled, fenders carefully stowed. A smell of fresh paint lingered: Kate and I had just completed painting MONACO round the lifebelts. We had a ten-hour passage ahead of us, north across the mouth of the Clyde, around the Mull of Kintyre, up past Jura and Crinan and finally to Oban.
My eye was caught by a tall man walking quickly towards us down the quay: the unmistakable figure of Potts. My heart jumped. But there was nothing to be frightened of. The Monaco was a fully certificated passenger-carrying boat now and it was nice of him to come and see us off. I shouted up cheerfully, ‘Hello, Captain Potts. Nice to see you! We’re just setting off for Oban, Cubby wants to catch the tide around the Mull and with any luck we should be in Oban with a day to spare before the first National Trust people arrive for St Kilda.’
He stopped on the edge of the quay, looking down at me and then surprisingly started to make his way down the ladder until he stood on the deck between me and the wheelhouse.
‘You will not be leaving with Mr MacKinnon in charge. Mr MacKinnon does not have the full qualifications. There’ll be no going to sea until you have someone on board who does have the full qualifications.’
Eight
I stared at Potts. Before we bought Monaco he had agreed that Cubby would be our skipper. All I had to do was remind him about that meeting and his agreement and it would not be a problem, but if Cubby overheard I knew there’d be trouble. He was in the engine room making last-minute checks.
‘Captain Potts, please can we discuss this off the boat. I’ll join you in the café by the entrance to the shipyard, if you don’t mind.’ Not a fool, he returned to the quay but stood waiting for me to join him.
I stuck my head into the engine room door, ‘I’ve just got a couple of bits of paperwork to sort out with Captain Potts, Cubby. I’ll be back in a moment. Won’t be long,’ I shouted through the gap in the metal plating of the engine room. I could see his head below me as he checked the bilges and prayed that he had not heard anything; I knew he would have heard the footsteps on deck. His voice came from the depths:
‘Aye, aye, it’s OK. I’ve a wee bit to see to here before we go, but don’t be long.’
I almost pushed Potts along the quay chattering about the harbour, fishing boats, prawn creels, ropes, the weather, anything so he wouldn’t have a chance to speak, and to get him out of Kate’s earshot too.
Potts, who didn’t have to explain himself, would say little, merely insisting that Cubby didn’t have the correct qualifications and that with him in charge Monaco was not going anywhere. Even without fare-paying passengers, she still couldn’t move if Cubby was in charge. I realised getting angry would achieve nothing.
‘But Captain Potts, do you not remember our meeting last autumn? Before we bought her I asked your opinion on both the Monaco and Cubby. You told me the Department had known him for a long time and were happy with his experience. I even confirmed it to you by letter afterwards.’ He looked down at his neat, highly polished black shoes and then gazed out of the window at the harbour. He looked anywhere, everywhere, except at me. And he looked evasive, not something I had ever seen in him before. Something was going on; he looked distinctly uncomfortable.
‘Captain Potts,’ I persisted, ‘please explain to me what is wrong with Mr MacKinnon as skipper? You agreed he would be OK. You know we’ve the National Trust people coming in three days’ time and I’ve promised them that Monaco will be ready. You’ve given her the certificate and their people are coming on board in Oban to go to St Kilda. We’ve done all you asked, please be kind enough to explain?’
He was immoveable. Cubby wouldn’t do. The Monaco was fine. Cubby was the problem, I had to find someone else, someone with full qualifications, a master mariner, then she could move.
How would I tell Cubby that he was not allowed to skipper the boat he’d been promised? Not allowed to work. Not allowed to do what he’d been doing for years. Not allowed to be in charge of the boat he’d worked on so hard for the last four months. Anyone would be furious, but I knew him well enough to know his Celtic sense of doom would take over; it would be a portent for the whole venture. He might well throw in the towel and just wander off.
Mistress and Commander Page 8