Mistress and Commander

by Amelia Dalton

  Clean and cheerful, I joined Kate and Brenda, our new help in the saloon. She was getting on fine although seemed, like Grey, to be slightly surprised by the mix of camaraderie and professionalism.

  ‘Are you really sparkies?’ Brenda asked.

  ‘We’re not just sparkies, we’re Welsh sparkies,’ was the proud response.

  ‘Aye, well, I’ve wee job for you, then.’ This seemed almost cheeky – was she really someone to be giving them jobs, I wondered as she disappeared along the deck making for her cabin? A moment later she reappeared, clutching a washbag bulging with lumps, curious pink shapes stuck out of the top. Tipping it up, she emptied the bag onto the saloon table. Eight vibrators, some pink, some black, some with built-in sparkles, rolled out, lolling around on the saloon table.

  ‘None of these damn things works any more! Could you mend them for me, as you say you’re sparkies?’ I leant against the saloon door, watching as little screwdrivers and toolkits appeared; heads bent over the vibrators, completely unfazed, they set about taking them apart. Brenda must be quite a girl to have brought so many with her just for a weekend.

  ‘Have you found the problem with that one?’ someone asked.

  ‘I reckon I’ve fixed this one.’

  By the time they’d finished their tea, pink, black and sparkly vibrators jiggled and jumped, writhing and wiggling across the table. A burly fellow picked one up. ‘You won’t be needing one of these tonight,’ he growled and winked at her.

  Grey had not seen all aspects of life on board.

  Ten

  The Monaco weaved her way between the anchored yachts, creeping into the small harbour in the soft grey mid-summer night. It seemed still and safe after the swells of the open Atlantic beyond the Hebrides and around St Kilda. We were approaching Cubby’s second favourite island. (Nothing of course could beat Jura where he was born and where ‘the sun always shone’. ‘There you are! Just take a peek!’ was his standard comment, pointing to the south where the Paps of Jura would be bathed in sunshine.)

  He was annoyed because the yachts didn’t need to be just there. Anchored between the churches, they could be further in, leaving the deeper water for Monaco. But the yachty ‘bible’ said to anchor between the two churches and in his eyes August was ‘the silly season’, full of part-time yachties. There would be a few puffins still out on the stac on the south side and the walking was perfect. Our passengers always loved a leg stretch here, enjoying the island’s many charms from corncrakes to roses.

  A whiff of frying bacon greeted me as I came on deck and I stuck my head into the saloon next morning; twelve happy-looking passengers were tucking into one of Kate’s generous breakfasts. The sun blazed down and after three glorious days at St Kilda everyone else was in a sunny mood.

  ‘Good morning, everyone. I hope you all slept well. Cubby says we’ll be here overnight so lots of time to explore and Kate will be happy to fix you up with a sandwich to eat ashore if you wish. Then we’ll continue to the Sound of Mull, with a final stop in Tobermory en route.’ I could feel Kate grinning behind me; we all loved an excuse to stop in Tobermory: the pub was the hub of the west coast, there was always fun to be had and fishermen to flirt with.

  A soft breath tickled my ear, ‘I’m off to get my tatties, do you want to come?’ Cubby quietly whispered behind me.

  ‘Tatties! There’s plenty on board, what do you want more for?’

  ‘Och, those’re not real tatties! They’re for the passengers!’ was the scornful answer. ‘You know the Small Isles grow the best tatties in the world? Golden Wonders!’

  I agreed with alacrity. There was no mobile coverage in the harbour and I needed to see if there were any new bookings. Besides, a stroll ashore together was always entertaining. Cubby rarely left Monaco while she was at anchor, so it meant he wanted a walk too. We always bumped into someone he’d known for years and the craic would start.

  We sauntered along in sunny warmth, sea on one side as we passed the little church, where tombstones hairy with lichen leant precariously towards the clutch of low stone buildings huddled on the shoreline at the inner end of the harbour. Oystercatchers like bustling waiters worked along the high-water mark, checking under the stones and chattering to each other. We passed the white gate by the entrance to the drive. It was propped open and the track disappeared into a little copse of wind-shaped oak and rowan trees leading to the Campbells’ house calmly gazing over the trees across the harbour. I remembered my first visit and that little kiss in the dusk. Cubby, looking at me, winked and held out his hand; large and calloused, it entirely engulfed mine.

  ‘Hello there!’ Cubby called towards the byre. Out of the dark doorway came a tall tanned man in his thirties, a broad grin creasing the sunburnt face as he stretched out a hand. He pushed back his cap and scratched his head, revealing a pure white forehead and curly jet-black hair.

  ‘I saw your boaty come in and knew you’d not be long. They’re all ready for you over there.’ A bulging paper sack leant against the white cobbled wall. ‘And who’s this then?’ Alasdair asked, his deep brown eyes boring into me. The west coast ‘look’: people didn’t just glance at you, they really looked; it was highly effective.

  ‘This is Amelia, you’ve met her before, she was in the Mishnish that night of the Lifeboat party.’ I couldn’t remember him either. I could only remember trying not to fall over; it had been a well-fuelled night in a wintry Tobermory. ‘Cheers, Alasdair, there’s almost no tatties left on board,’ Cubby went on. The white potatoes the passengers had were irrelevant and Cubby often cooked his own supper; none of the fancy passenger meals for him. Tatties, gravy and a piece of clootie dumpling cooked by his mother were his favourites at the end of the day.

  ‘Amelia needs to make a wee call, if that’s OK, shall I take her down to the wood?’

  I looked at him quizzically.

  ‘It’s no bother,’ Alasdair replied. ‘You just take your sack and I’ll take her down to the wood.’

  The two of them set off side-by-side walking along the shore-side track, blethering and swapping news.

  What wood? Why could I not use the farmhouse phone? But I knew better than to interrupt. west coast islanders had old fashioned manners and interrupting would simply be ignored: it was me who wanted a favour. Having passed the church, Cubby repeated his thanks for the potatoes, said goodbye to Alasdair, ending with, ‘Give me a whistle when you’re done and I’ll come and collect you.’ In spite of the tattie sack across his shoulders he quickly picked his way over slippery seaweed and boulders towards the Zodiac nodding in the still water.

  Alasdair turned inland towards the wood. ‘This way to the phone.’ He disappeared through a gap in the wall surrounding the little copse. Twigs snapped under his boots as he pushed through the shrubby undergrowth deeper into the trees. Further and further he disappeared into the shade while I followed, hesitantly. Stooping, he bent down by a rotting log half hidden amongst the dog’s mercury and yellowing bluebell leaves. He fossicked about underneath it.

  ‘Aye, here it is! Will no one put it back where it belongs?’ he grumbled, straightening up with a large key in his hand. Pushing on between the trees, he stopped at a small grey hut with a mossy corrugated iron roof and green-painted door. The key turned smoothly.

  ‘Just you make yourself at home, there’s a wee chair in here too and if you’ve a mind there’s a magazine or two while you’re waiting. When you’re done, just lock up and put the key under yon stone.’

  The canny islanders had tapped into the phone system: the whole world was a free phone call away. I settled down on the rusty chair and pushed aside a well-thumbed copy of Playboy, making space for my notebook. Monaco was just visible through the trees so I wondered why I had never noticed the little hut before.

  ‘So here you are, at last!’ a voice squeaked down from the Tobermory pier. It was Jimmy, a Tobermory fisherman who had eyes only for Kate.

  ‘Hello there! Aye, we’re back again from St Kilda,’ s
he called out of the galley door. ‘Come on down; would you like a coffee?’

  Although he was just a solid five foot nothing, Jimmy knew better than to jump onto the deck even if it was high water and the distance small. He came purposefully down the ladder and disappeared into the galley. Passengers stood about on deck, keeping out of Cubby’s way as he coiled up the ropes, adjusted the big orange ball fenders and put out the springs.

  I listed the local attractions, ‘We’ll be here until two o’clock when we have to leave the pier for the ferry. The little museum is interesting, over there at the foot of the hill is the Tobermory distillery, there’s a great book shop and a few other little shops too. Don’t forget to have a quick one in the Mishnish —that’s the bright yellow building just there!’

  The passengers filed up the ladder, making for the colourful little shops and pubs that lined the harbour.

  ‘Kate,’ I asked, ‘would you like a hand with the washing up?’ Water sloshed noisily about in the stainless-steel sink while Jimmy leant against a cupboard, clutching his mug, grinning.

  ‘No, its fine, thanks, Jimmy’s offered to dry up, so you go and have a walk ashore.’ He really must have the hots for her if he, a fisherman, was prepared to do the drying up.

  When I came back across the pier the passengers were already standing about the deck and the engine was throbbing away. Cubby leant scowling out of the wheelhouse window: it seemed he was in a hurry.

  ‘Am I late?’ I asked, knowing perfectly well I wasn’t.

  ‘No, you’re fine, but I’m told Hebridean Princess will be here in a moment and they want our place alongside; we’ve got to move.’

  Jimmy bounced out of the galley door and up onto the pier, ready to throw off the ropes. As I scrambled down the ladder, he growled at me, ‘Have you any influence with her? I keep asking her out but I’m not getting anywhere. Maybe you could tell her for me? Just tell her!’ He hunted for words. ‘Just tell her, it’s small but busy!’

  Cubby, whiling away the time, as ever was listening to the VHF when I joined him in the wheelhouse. I recognised the voice, Kenny the pier master on the north pier; he was discussing arrangements for the Gun Club dance with Angus, skipper of one of the rapidly diminishing fleet of small clam dredging boats that operated out of Oban. Their ‘chain-mail’ dredges, which ploughed across the sea bed smashing everything as well as snagging the scallops, were increasingly unpopular, but he had a neat little boat and was president of the local Gun Club.

  ‘Aye, well, it sounds good. You’ve got a good band fixed,’ went on Angus. ‘A squeeze box, I hear but not too much of that heedrum hodrum music, I hope.’

  ‘Aye, they’re good, so tell the men each of their respectable wives needs to bring the soap flakes,’ Kenny said.

  As quick as a flash, Cubby pressed the talk button, butting in, without the hint of a smile in his voice. ‘Well now! And who’s got a respectable wife?’ Kenny had never been the brightest and words tended to get muddled.

  ‘Cubby, what are the soap flakes for? I thought the Gun Club dance was a highlight of the year, not a washing party?’ I asked.

  ‘They’re for the floor. You need a good slippery surface for all that jigging, so all the ladies scatter soap flakes; Lux, mind you, not that new powdery stuff: as you dance it polishes the floor. Shall we go?’

  After hearing Cubby was listening, Kenny passed on the news to him. It seemed his father, Old Man MacKinnon, had to appear in front of the Oban magistrates in a couple of days’ time. He was eighty-two, didn’t have a car and drank what locally was known as ‘socially’.

  ‘The old bugger’s been caught again! He’s been netting red fish!’ Cubby couldn’t keep the grin out of his voice. ‘I’ll need to go down and see him, could you run me down when we get in?’

  ‘Of course, my car’s at the back of the pier.’ I was lucky. Kenny had allocated a special place for the Flying Tomato; another little sign I was slowly being accepted into the Oban scene.

  With the passengers gone, we moved Monaco and tied her alongside Rory’s boat. She’d be OK there with no need to move her for a few hours at least.

  Rory, unlike most of the men I’d come across on the west coast, had ambition. He hailed from Barra in the Outer Hebrides, one of the islands famous for its seamen, a special race with saltwater in their veins and faraway, horizon-scanning piercing eyes. He also had craggy features and unruly black hair – maybe a Spaniard or two had been washed ashore there from the Armada. They were a swarthy lot. He and Cubby had been mates for years, they both had the Gaelic and blethered over the VHF while passing the time on passage between the islands. I loved listening even if I couldn’t understand a word; the cadences had a lilt and a song to them. Rory was Cubby’s only real friend, the one person Cubby truly respected.

  Rory had worked his way up from small-time trawling for prawns in the Minch to become skipper of a smart newly built steel boat. Unique on the west coast, she consisted of eight water tanks – viviers – and Rory’s job was to call at the fish farms dotted amongst the sheltered lochs and collect the grown farmed salmon for processing. With saltwater constantly flowing through the tanks, they remained in prime condition during the transfer. We often tied up outside him against the pier in Oban, as Monaco was smaller. As I clambered over Monaco’s gunwale on the way to get my car, I noticed all the tanks were empty, no fish, no water and Rory, in the ubiquitous yellow oilskins, directed a powerful jet from the hose into the second tank on the starboard side: the stink of stale fish hung like a blanket over the decks.

  ‘Hi, Rory, have you got a problem?’

  ‘Hello there. It was real bad round Ardnamurchan with a hoor of a swell and the damned fish were seasick; the tanks need a real good clean.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Rory! Salmon seasick! I know I’m English and a girl, but even I am not going to fall for that one!’

  ‘No, no, you’re wrong. When the swell’s that bad the motion gets going in the tanks, the poor wee fish get sloshed from side to side, they get real seasick trying to keep themselves straight. I had to jettison the lot off Mull they were in such bad condition.’

  ‘Well, I learn something every day up here,’ I replied. ‘We’ve no one on board till the Natty Trust lot tomorrow afternoon, so if you fancy a cuppa come on over later. I’m taking Cubby down to see his father now, but won’t be long.’ I was always keen to get the two seamen together; the stories and craic were informative and entertaining.

  Eleven

  In the bright April sunshine, the twenty-seater plane banked sharply, giving me a clear view of the dour cluster of grey buildings below: Stornoway. I’d seen all I needed to know. There, like a bath toy, was a tiny Monaco. I wasn’t too late; she was not yet out of the water. I glanced at my watch, still a couple of hours before Bill was due in from Aberdeen; I wondered how much he’d had to pay to get the big propeller blade onto the plane. Needs must. It was Monday morning and if we could fix it by Friday and the weather was kind, we’d make it back to Oban in time.

  In the course of coming up to Oban from Crinan, Cubby had noticed a vibration. It was the week before Easter, seven days before the start of the season and the first proper work since the winter. After some time in the bay, Colin, our Oban engineer, had agreed one of the blades on Monaco’s sophisticated variable pitch propeller was out of alignment. There was no choice —it had to be fixed and that meant getting her out of the water. The Clyde or Stornoway were the only choices as nowhere else on the west coast had a slipway big enough. I had no intention of cancelling the cruise; our passengers had booked for Easter under blue skies and the opportunity to walk on bouncy turf scattered with spring primroses.

  The sunshine made little impression against the thin wind. Scraps of paper were pinned like rosettes against the metal mesh of the shipyard gates beyond which Monaco was inching up out of the water.

  Cubby as usual hung out of the wheelhouse window. Grinning, he blew me a kiss.

  ‘Hullo, you’re here at last.
’ It always sounded as if he’d been counting the hours. ‘I’ve had to sign a piece of paper,’ he continued. ‘You’d better go and take a wee look, up in the office yonder.’ He pointed to the building at the side of the slipway. My heart sank. I could tell he wasn’t happy, but whatever it was he was trying to let me down gently.

  ‘Hello there,’ I said, walking into the office, ‘I’m Amelia. We talked on the phone earlier. Thanks for fitting Monaco in. It’s really helpful of you to let our engineer do the work. She’s a bit of an oddity with her Danish machinery.’

  He needed to know I understood what it was about. The huge man uncurled, and standing up behind a battered desk, he held out a grubby hand.

  ‘We’re really keen to get the work done as quickly as possible, so as not to miss our Easter passengers. Mr MacKinnon tells me I should see the paper he’s signed.’

  After a moment’s shuffling through his papers, he held out a single sheet. It detailed how any accident in the shipyard, even a dropped spanner on a big toe, would be down to us, our liability. I flipped open my Filofax searching for the phone number.

  Tucking myself out of the wind behind the shed, Motorola wedged under my arm, I dialled the insurance company. ‘Could I speak to Mr Davies, please? It’s Amelia Dalton; I’m calling about the Monaco.’

  It was the first time we’d had to contact them since the costly tow across the North Sea three years before: would they remember who we were? Would ‘Monaco’ send a ripple through their offices? Unlikely — they’d probably forgotten all about us.