‘Good afternoon, Mr Davies.’ I read the fluttering text out to him, detailing our liabilities. ‘I’m hoping to get the work done by Friday, we’ve a full complement of passengers for Easter,’ I went on. ‘Yes, Mr MacKinnon is still the skipper. Yes, he had to sign it before the shipyard would pull her up.’ I read it through again. ‘Yes, Mr MacKinnon is very much aware of the cruise timetable.’ He asked me if I felt Cubby had signed it ‘under duress’. I paused, wondering. ‘Ah, I see, that makes a difference, does it? Yes, of course he was very much “under duress” with our timetable. So you say it’s worthless then, we’re not responsible for anything. Well, that’s just fine, thank you for your help.’
Coming out into the tearing wind, grinning and relieved, I saw Bill had arrived. He stood under the Monaco his compact, five foot two stocky body encased in a crisp blue boiler suit: ‘Sunday best’ for the Monaco.
‘Hi, Bill! Good to see you, it’s really kind of you to come. You look terribly smart!’ He grinned, pleased I’d noticed the boiler suit.
‘Aye, it’s good to get away frae the yard and they’ve given me a new boiler suit for the trip.’
I thought of Ali’s comment I’d once heard in the canteen, ‘Well, it’ll be all oysters and champagne working for Amelia.’
Monaco appeared to be being eviscerated. Bill patiently explained how the five-foot-long heavy shaft had to come out so the propeller could be dismantled and the bent blade replaced; at his feet on the slip lay the shiny new brass one. The rubber seals, keeping the corrosive salt water out of the mechanics, would be renewed and the rods to turn the blades for forwards or astern reconnected.
To rationalise the costs, while out of the water Monaco would be painted, renewing the green and white on the hull, the old antifouling was to be scraped off and a fresh brick-red coat put on. The eroded sacrificial anodes would be replaced, the decks and hull recaulked where necessary. Bill and Cubby worked on the propeller while Kate and I spring-cleaned the cabins. We were lucky it stayed dry and the work went quickly. When the lads clocked off at midday for lunch on Friday, Monaco, shiny with her new paint, was ready. High water was at two; she could be back in the water by four and if Cubby put the handle down we could be in Oban in time.
For the hundredth time I looked at my watch. Where were they? Why are they not back from lunch? The slipway was silent. Not a soul about. It was nearly two, the tide would turn shortly and she had to go down on the tide.
I made myself wait another fifteen minutes before making for the office. Big Hands the foreman was ensconced behind the scruffy desk. Glancing up casually, he enquired, ‘All going well?’
Could he not remember our conversation? Did he not know his workforce had completed the painting the previous afternoon? Did he not know Monaco was finished?
‘Yes, thanks. A great job. All done now and we’re ready to go. Could you please get the lads to put her back in the water?’ I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice.
‘You’re in an awful big hurry!’
‘Yes, I’m afraid we are. It’s been good getting everything done so quickly, thanks very much. But we’ve passengers arriving tomorrow in Oban.’ He stood up slowly.
‘Och well, that’ll not be possible. It’ll be next week now. They’re all away to the sheep. It’s the lambing, you know.’
‘What do you mean – “away to the sheep”? That’s worse than mañana!’
‘Aye, well, there’s nothing that urgent up here.’
‘Are you down there? Cubby! Bill!’ A muffled ‘aye’ came from the depths of Monaco’s engine room. ‘The foreman says all the lads are away to the lambing! There’s no one here to get Monaco down the slip, and they’ve no intention of getting her away till next week!’
Cubby’s oily engine room bobble hat appeared slowly up the ladder.
‘Stornoway!’ He said disparagingly. ‘Stornoway! Sheepshaggers! Sheepshaggers, the lot of them! We’ll just have to do it ourselves.’
The passengers appeared in dribs and drabs along the quay looking bemused, weaving through the bustle of ferry passengers, purposeful yellow-overalled trawler men and the odd yachty, neat in a navy-blue jersey. They looked down at the Monaco. I remembered my first Oban arrival: perhaps they too felt disappointment that she was not a sleek white yacht, but there were photos in our brochure. As always, they were an ill-assorted bunch: a bouncing little Irishwoman in a divided tweed skirt, a pair of straight-backed mid-sixties ladies, a bristling moustachioed little man, clearly ex-army and Penny, a scatty but talented chaotic artist friend from Yorkshire.
April was frequently cold on the west coast, and Easter was not always easy to fill: Penny was my solution. With a gift for watercolour landscapes, she was to teach anyone wanting to have a go while she captured the hills and lochs for an exhibition of her own to be held in Ilkley.
‘I get sick as a parrot, I can’t possibly come!’ she’d protested but I knew the silvery island seascapes would be the perfect material for her exhibition.
‘Penny, don’t worry, it’s a spring cruise: we’ll only be amongst the islands – there’s lots of shelter and I’ll put something about you and the exhibition into the summer brochure,’ I’d added as a lure.
Kate’s soup and ‘pieces’ broke the ice as we went south out of the bay. Though Monaco was not full there were enough to warrant the dash from Stornoway and I hoped there would be time for me and Cubby to have a walk or two, maybe for me to do some painting. Hugo would be joining us halfway through.
‘Good to be here! I assume I’m welcome?’ the moustachioed man volunteered.
Moments earlier I had given the safety talk, but he clearly felt the passenger rules didn’t apply to him. He had come round the stern and through the crew mess, in spite of being told it was a crew area and only for passengers if invited. Standing behind Cubby in the wheelhouse, he volunteered, ‘I’ve my own yacht, don’t you know? No fear of me being sick — too experienced! Looking forward to the fun! What’s the forecast, eh?’
‘Aye, well now, you’ve your own yacht, you say! There’s a thing. Then you’ll not be minding a hash of wind!’ Cubby managed to sound polite but I could see him suppressing a grin. ‘There’ll be a fair breeze tonight and then it’s looking good.’
‘Yes, yes. She’s a fine craft.’ He ignored Cubby’s reply. ‘I keep her on the Solent. Plenty of work with tides down there! Just you let me know when you need a hand. Always ready to give a hand where it’s needed.’ Having established his credentials, he went back through the mess, leaving a whiff of sickly hair oil mingling with the cigarette smoke.
‘What’s the rest of ’em like?’ Cubby growled, ‘I didn’t see them all come on board, only those stiff-necked old ducks. More lesbians! Have you found a lesbian magazine for the adverts? There’s that many of them coming, with their hairy legs, sensible shoes and chopped-off hair. They’re more men than that wee mannie.’
‘Come on, you love teasing them! Anyway, there’s a cheerful little Irishwoman you’ll like and watching how Penny captures the islands and sea with her paints is amazing. Are the sea eagles still nesting in Loch Spelve?’
‘Aye, they’re there in the entrance. Tell the passengers they’ll get a good view of that big bundle of a nest on the port side as we go in. And you can tell them too they’ll see some big fat herons on the shore, fishing, if they’ve not all been eaten.’
‘What do you mean “eaten”? And herons are never big and fat, they’re scrawny and thin!’
‘Well, you’re right, but right now they’ll be big and fat, it’s just after Spring tides and they’re always fatter then.’
‘Cubby, what are you on about? How can the moon and tides make a difference to a heron and who eats them anyway?’ I asked incredulously.
‘Well, you see, it’s the moonlight; they’ve more time to fish so they get fatter. They’re good eating but only after the moon — a wee bit fishy mind, but no bad if you’re not too fussy!’ It sounded plausible, but the twinkle in
his eyes made me wonder if he was teasing me again.
The two arms of Loch Spelve cut deep into the eastern side of Mull and it was a favourite anchorage of his in a storm. Few yachties took on the narrow entrance so there was rarely anyone around. The loch remained a wild spot despite being so close to Oban, and sometimes we heard the whistle of a dog otter. Cubby had insisted at the outset Monaco would run off batteries when at anchor. No machinery noises, no hum of a gennie, or persistent throb of a motor was to ruffle the still black waters of our loch anchorages. While enjoying an evening drink on deck, passengers frequently heard the scrunch of deer coming down to eat seaweed on the shore, a rutting stag grunting, the bark of a seal or bubbling call of a curlew up on the hill.
After two days at anchor, with days filled with walking and painting, the early morning sun felt warm on my back as I leant over the stem. Hosing down the anchor chain, I blasted the sticky grey mud from between the links; it splashed off to return to the dark peaty depths in heavy clods. The chain clonked its way on board, and coming up and over the gypsy, it fell noisily into the chain locker below. It was good holding, a tidy place to be in a storm. The passengers stood about on deck, enjoying their post-breakfast coffee in anticipation of another beautiful day. The little Irishwoman, snug in tweed, peered over the side, carefully studying the anchor chain. The chain came out of the waters a solid grey column, more like a rope until the links were revealed by the squirting hose. She straightened up and looked at me, then leant on the gunwale peering again over the side at the chain. She repeated this several times, hopping from foot to foot, watching as the anchor appeared with a huge clod of grey mud stuck between the blades.
‘And does the anchor reach right down to the bottom?’ she burst out. How did she imagine Monaco had remained unmoving in the same spot through the days and nights in spite of the powerful gusts?
‘Penny, we’re going south, around Mull, through the Torran Rocks towards the Treshnish Isles and Staffa. If there’s not too much motion we’ll try to land there but more likely it’ll be Iona this afternoon. It’s a glorious trip but there’ll be a bit of swell after yesterday so you might like to take a pill. If you get right up in the bow and ride it like being at the fair, you’ll be fine.’
It was a beautiful passage threading through the turbulent tidal floes of the Torran Rocks before the flat shapes of the Treshnish Isles came into view, but I knew it would also be lumpy. As Monaco cruised out of Loch Spelve and past Loch Buie, Penny, singing at the top of her voice, was firmly wedged at the stem riding the swells. It was my favourite spot too, sheltered and exhilarating and she’d get a perfect view. Our dapper army officer was not on deck enjoying the sunshine like the others, but sat upright in the saloon, staring fixedly ahead. Penny‘s paints and open handbag lay next to him on the seat, with glasses, paint brushes and note book poking out of her bag.
‘Hi, Kate, how you doing? Cubby says the swell will stop once we’re round the corner, so maybe we should do a late lunch?’
‘That’s fine; no bother. Kettle’s just boiled – could you see if the major’d like a cuppa? I’ll take this one up to Cubby.’ She disappeared along the deck towards the wheelhouse, mugs in one hand.
The major still sat ramrod stiff, staring ahead, but now, beside him on the seat, Penny‘s handbag overflowed. Lips tightly together he said not a word: rather than lose face and be sick in a bag or over the side he had simply leant sideways and made use of her handbag.
Running the cold water in the galley, I tipped the contents, sick and all, into the sink; there was a curious clunk. Water rinsed off her glasses, a paint brush and a handkerchief but in amongst it all, clunking round the stainless-steel bowl, were the major’s false teeth.
Our non-practising, or as Cubby liked to believe, practising lesbians remained supercilious and disapproving throughout the week. Even Hugo’s arrival had not thawed the frost. Their Greek and Latin pupils at Cheltenham Ladies’ College must have had a dry time and their parting remarks joined the anchor chain ones in Monaco’s log book.
‘We did so love the Canberra! But this was . . . this was very different.’
It was a relief to see them go but at least they had noticed Monaco didn’t have over two thousand passengers and the sheepshaggers of Stornoway hadn’t prevented our start to the season.
Twelve
The empty house echoed with stillness, there was only me. No one there. No Digby. No Hugo, he was away at boarding school. John was working in London. But I couldn’t escape all of the time. I had the office to run – and I had marketing to do, adverts to write, cruise details to send to passengers, the ever-daunting VAT returns to complete as well as next year’s itinerary to plan and brochure to write.
It took willpower not to give in to the slightest excuse to slide north, back to Scotland, back to the exciting unpredictability of life at sea with Cubby.
I’d met John when I was sixteen and still at school; he was seven years older than me. It took me years to realise he was a loner, preferring his own company, and, most sad of all, that he was not a family man. He buried himself more and more in his work, and during Digby’s short life he had been absorbed by work, just joining us for parts of the school holidays. In between the family holidays, while Hugo was at boarding school, Diggers and I had often gone north, and for the three years Kate and Cubby had known him, they had supported both of us. Life on a boat had suited Diggers and they had adored him. But after Digby died I threw myself more and more into life in Scotland: I would have been totally lost without them.
Over the years Cubby taught me about working at sea, whatever the weather, in winter or summer. I’d happily soaked up his knowledge, learning how to throw a rope so it uncurled across the gap, how to row into a gale: from bowlines to buoyage it had all been new to me but he was an expert and I loved learning. In return I’d told him about the wildlife, sea birds, orchids and wild flowers all around him. He revelled in the wildness of the west coast, its space, uninhabited islands, deer, seals and freedom. We’d crawled to the edge of cliffs watching basking sharks below, tickled trout in peaty burns and poached salmon by starlight. His relationship with Diggers was a delight and Digby adored him. Once when anchored amongst the Cullins in Loch Coriusk, he had decided Digby should see the burn turned into a torrent by the overnight rain. In his little red wellies and matching yellow oilskins, sou’wester pulled down tightly, Diggers sat high up on Cubby’s shoulders chattering ceaselessly even though he hated the rain. Splodging across the bog, the sphagnum moss was plump under my boots as I tried to catch up whilst Conker snuffled about amongst the seaweed and pebbles. Cubby worked his way along the shore, sure-footedly stepping from boulder to boulder amongst the bladderwrack and seaweed.
Above the thundering water, I heard, ‘Well, my lad, and what do you think of that?’ They stood watching the peaty brown water cascading into the loch. Digby surveyed the scene from his unusual height
‘Cubby, I think it’s the wonderfullest waterfall in all the world.’
Cubby’s charm, lively wit and sense of the ridiculous were disarming. Kate, less of an outdoor girl, had been happy to stay on board and watch the telly, turning out fortifying stews and bacon butties. These happy memories were so much less painful than the echoes of Digby’s presence at home.
By now Monaco was becoming increasingly successful, with our National Trust charter, summer cruises and winter scuba diving weekends – she worked steadily and Kate and Cubby enjoyed their local success. We had acquired some light commercial work towing fish cages around the Mull of Kintyre as well as working for the Admiralty surveying coastal waters. Meticulously mapping the rocky shores of the Outer Hebrides with a bunch of boffins on board making notes and observations pushed Cubby’s skills, testing his accuracy, but he liked an achievable challenge and Kate enjoyed a flirt with the boffins.
But, in spite of our financial success, I had two major problems and one fed on the other. Monaco’s engine had a seemingly untraceable proble
m and this in turn exacerbated Cubby’s reactions to avoid being in Oban or anything else he didn’t like. It was becoming increasingly difficult for me to handle this and keep the problems from John and the shareholders.
In spite of her Rolls Royce of an engine sometimes, after throbbing powerfully for hours pushing across the seas, it would fade. It never stopped completely, but suddenly, unpredictably, there would be barely any power, she would slowly lose way and start to drift. It was terrifying, there seemed to be no pattern and it was completely undermining. On a lee shore or near the stacs at St Kilda, with or without passengers, she would suddenly lose power. We couldn’t find the reason and not surprisingly it affected Cubby. I organised the top man to come over from the makers, Burmeister & Wein based in Denmark, but during the three intensive and expensive weeks he was on board the engine had never faltered. Bill and Ali, our engineer gurus in Peterhead, said it was fuel starvation and next time we were in Peterhead sight glass sections should be fitted into the fuel pipes so we would see that the pink diesel was being pumped into the ‘day’ tank where it fell down to the engine by gravity. In the meantime, Colin, our guru in Oban, had fitted a Heath-Robinson style collection of plastic coca cola bottles to let the air escape. It had worked superbly and Monaco had made it through until the end of the cruise season without a falter.
But it wouldn’t do for the long term. We needed to know where the air came from so now, on a golden October morning, enfolded by Highland peaks, Monaco chugged gently along the pine-tree shrouded reaches of the Caledonian Canal. Rising up through Neptune’s Staircase, it had been warm in the locks and there was nothing to worry about – no weather, no rocks, no lee shores, no passengers. If the engine stopped it wouldn’t matter. We were going to Peterhead to get the Stickers gurus to put it right.
‘You’ll have to hurry!’ said the lock-keeper as he stretched up, passing a dram to Cubby who leant as ever, grinning, out of the wheelhouse window. ‘They’re starting to drain the water, so the reach’ll soon be dry.’
Mistress and Commander Page 11