Mistress and Commander

by Amelia Dalton

  When an offer of light commercial work came, it was a perfect distraction and I jumped at the chance to have some proper winter income, not just the occasional dive group with their love of pubs and pints. Cubby had continuously pestered me to find him this sort of winter work, since it tested his abilities and used the skills he had learnt as a child out on the hill or fishing in all weathers. It also saved him having to answer the same old tourist question: ‘What do you do in the winter, Cubby?’

  ‘Fish and fuck and the fishing’s poor!’ was always the growled reply.

  Towing fish cages around the Mull of Kintyre was not a job to play games with. Quite apart from the winter conditions, the tide ran at seven knots in places and Monaco would only be able to steam at a maximum of four knots or the whole tow would begin to bury itself and be pulled underwater.

  After dropping Hugo back in Malvern from a half-term of distractions and museums again in London, I carried on up the M6, preoccupied with John’s news. ‘Men of Harlech’ marched out of the radio as I joined in – swift as winter torrents roaring – that would definitely be no good. I waited for the shipping forecast: without good conditions there’d be no towing.

  Malin. Hebrides. South-westerly 4, decreasing 3; becoming variable. Slight or moderate, occasional rain, mainly good.

  Sounded ‘good’ to me. I hoped I’d find all ‘good’ on arrival at Crinan where Monaco was anchored, waiting for the right conditions to collect the cages. Golden Salmon Producers, operators of a major salmon farming enterprise, needed them moving from west to east; as the crow flew it was twenty-three miles but by sea it would be a hundred and forty. We could only tow four at a time and there was a total of sixteen cages to go right around the long peninsula finger of the Mull of Kintyre. Monaco had to tow them through the notorious North Channel where the waters were squeezed between Scotland and Ireland, before turning north up Loch Fyne to finish the tow just south of Inveraray. It was potentially a hazardous voyage in winter even with full manoeuvrability.

  All the way along this familiar road I wondered how John’s unexpected inheritance would affect us. It seemed a distant elderly cousin, whom I remembered from shooting days with his manservant and pristine Land Rover, had surprisingly left John a dilapidated, rain-soaked pile which lurked in the valley below his parents’ house. With the pile came rolling acres, rot and tenant farmers. Also a woman. She rented part of the stable block and referred to herself as an ‘Artist’ – most definitely with a capital ‘A’.

  ‘Hi, Cubby, I’m here at last. Hope I’ve not kept you waiting?’

  ‘No, you’re fine. It’s good to see you,’ I was pleased to hear as he gave me a welcoming kiss. It was nice to feel wanted. ‘We’re not picking up the first lot until tomorrow morning, and we’ve got to get the tide right round for the Mull. Come along in. Katie’s got the kettle on the go and Donald’s here ready too. Mind you don’t trip on the ropes.’ The deck was covered in thick orange ropes, lying waiting for action. A lingering smell of stale alcohol pervaded the salon: winter. But now there was work to do.

  ‘Will you tell me how you’ll do it, please? I need to contact the insurance people cos there’ll be trouble if we damage the cages.’

  ‘Aye, well, you’re right, but I’ve a plan for that.’ Practical as ever, he’d worked it all out. The cages were to be roped into a line by the owners with the front ropes tied onto an old tractor tyre; Monaco’s towing ropes would also tie onto the tyre. The tyre in the middle would not just take the ‘snatch’ out of the tow providing stretch and flexibility to ease the motion of the winter swell, but would also make a precise point where the responsibilities changed.

  On a beautiful cold grey morning, the tiny hamlet of Crinan, nestling under the bracken-clad hills, gazed calmly west towards the Paps of Jura. All was quiet and still, not a breath of wind disturbed the reflections of the yellowing silver birches or the little white lock-keeper’s cottage. Monaco eased her stern up to the battered fiberglass dinghy; ripples fanned out across the steely water. Cubby, leaving Kate at the wheel, jumped over the rail into the dinghy while I pushed the end of the heavy orange plaited rope as thick as my leg, through the port in the starboard gunwale. He grabbed it, tying it neatly to the tyre lying ready in the bottom of the dinghy. Donald passed over the rope on the port side and Cubby did the same quick neat knot. The knots were Cubby’s and that was enough for me but I took a quick photo just in case as he jumped back on board, going quickly up into the wheelhouse where he eased her gently into gear.

  Monaco slowly turned her stem, pointing out to the open sea and the Sound of Jura. Down both her sides the ropes, neatly flaked along the deck, began snaking sinuously out through the ports, until she took up the strain and the cages started to twitch. Four round Polar Circles began to move, each one bigger than Monaco: she could have sat in the middle without touching the sides of any one of them. Looking like giant children’s paddling pools with their black tubes just visible above the water, they began to line up, stretching out astern. The tow was over two hundred metres long. No wonder Cubby had been adamant about how he wanted it set up. Each cage had a diameter of twenty-seven metres, then there were the lengths of ropes tying one cage to another in a line, and finally from the last one stretched the tow rope to the tyre; then our ropes stretched from the tyre to Monaco’s stern. Her long ‘tail’ was so low in the water it was virtually invisible and she had to make her way through some of Britain’s most dangerous waters at a maximum speed of four knots. She had to do it successfully four times in the winter weather, taking into account the strong tides round the Mull. We needed a nice calm weather window of thirty-six hours.

  Donald came back on watch to relieve Cubby. Standing yawning, he scratched his balls as he glanced idly at the instruments. ‘Cubby! We’re going backwards! Have you not noticed, Cubby?’ Cubby turned quickly and looked at the new GPS which Colin had installed specially, its green numbers shining brightly next to the Navtex. He peered at it, frowning with concentration.

  ‘Well, just look!’ bellowed Donald into the confines of the wheelhouse. His tobacco-stained finger jabbed out at the little white box. Cubby studied it attentively, frowning.

  ‘No – how can that be? What’s going on?’

  Donald bent over the chart table, checking Monaco’s position against the figures on the GPS. Kate snorted, no longer able to prevent herself from giggling.

  ‘Aye, aye, it’s a dashed queer place this Mull,’ Cubby continued conversationally, grinning at Donald. ‘It’s the hobgoblins, they control the tide! But I reckon they’ll let us loose in about twenty minutes and then it’ll be seven to eight knots we’ll be making.’

  Designed for the drag of heavy nets on her stern, Monaco was simply made for the job. There was not a scintilla of a hesitation from the engine as she powerfully ploughed her way slowly through the North Channel and up into the sheltered waters of Loch Fyne. Donald, with little responsibility, was fascinated by her machinery and strength, while Kate revelled in being at sea with no passengers to cook for or beds to make. Cubby, when not blethering on the VHF to Malin Head Coastguards about tatties and the nuances of towing, was at his most charming and entertaining. We did our watches together and then whiled away the off time with our favourite golden syrup sandwiches while he taught me about towing and we debated how fast a trireme could have been rowed.

  After the success of the first tow, though sorry to miss the fun, I left them to it and returned down the twists and turns of the A74 to see if John was at home or working in London. I had tried to catch him a couple of times, thinking he’d like to hear how it was going, to know all was well and the income secure. I wanted to tell him about towing through the night, how Monaco had gone backwards only to shoot off at double speed when the tide turned, how we’d had to make VHF broadcasts every hour to alert any nearby shipping to be aware of the great invisible tow stretching behind us, but curiously his mobile had always switched to the answerphone.

  Fourteen />
  After an uneventful winter our usual spring cruises had begun. The adverts I had placed several months earlier in assorted glossy magazines had pulled in plenty of bookings and once again Monaco was moving amongst the islands. It was always difficult to gauge when to start. April could be cold and there was generally a sharp easterly wind to contend with; not so easy when the majority of anchorages were sheltered from the more frequently westerlies and exposed to easterlies. Cubby and I had planned the itineraries carefully to keep out of the motion and cruise the lochs and sheltered islands that abounded on this convoluted coast.

  Now it was June, high summer, and Monaco was returning from her second trip to St Kilda for the National Trust – our bread and butter. Once again the engine had faltered, not stopped but it had faltered; Colin’s contraption worked, but only to a degree and it was bad news, especially with the majority of a busy season still to come.

  I lay on the damp bank, the sun warm on my face as I listened to the swish of the line above my head. Bees buzzed; I dozed off, tired of trying to work it all out.

  ‘Stop it, you silly dog!’ Conker’s slobbery tongue licked my face, bringing me sharply back to life on the banks of the River Shin. John, encased in waders, rod in hand, stood carefully in the middle of the river casting into a deep peaty pool on the far side; he was a good fisherman and nearly always caught something. I preferred to draw the nodding blue harebells or stroll through the birch trees collecting apricot-scented, golden chanterelle mushrooms for breakfast. We were guests at a lodge a field’s distance away, filled with a slightly grumpy salmon fishing party. Everyone was complaining it was too sunny to fish and there was not enough water, but to me it was glorious. Had I not been lost in worries about the engine, Cubby’s increasingly unpredictable behaviour and what might account for John’s curious absences, it would have been idyllic; Scotland at its best.

  ‘One last cast and then we’ll go back to change for dinner,’ John called over his shoulder.

  ‘OK. But buck up and catch one! Tomorrow we’re going to Oban to see them off, don’t forget.’ Monaco had a prestigious group of Americans, our most expensive charter yet, and I wanted Cubby to see John: it was ages since they’d met and it would do them both good. I hoped it might also remind each of them that working the Monaco involved us all, and together.

  As we walked along the North Pier, I could see things were not good. Ropes lay about Monaco’s deck, uncoiled, untidy fenders lying where they had rolled. She looked unusually ill-kempt and in two hours the Americans would be arriving. John landed heavily on the deck and turned purposefully for mess door at the stern.

  Kate’s head stuck out of the galley, cutting him off. ‘Well, hello there.’

  I knew she was surprised, but I had wanted our visit to be a surprise. ‘OK,’ I said tersely, giving her a cheek a quick kiss. ‘Good to see you, but where is he? Monaco doesn’t look ready to go?’

  Whilst Kate chatted to John I went round to the stern.

  ‘Hello, Cubby. How’s things?’ Silence. Cubby was fast asleep. Tucked into the corner seat he snored away quietly. Monaco was a mess; anyone looking down from the pier could see she was in no state for a charter to St Kilda.

  I went back to the galley. ‘Kate, what do you think? I don’t want an argument about the engine or anything else but he’s clearly exhausted. I reckon he’d better have a break but we’ve only a couple of hours. If John could take him down to his mother’s, could you stay? I will see if I can find a skipper for the week and I’ll come too of course.’ I knew she’d not let me down but it was a big ask.

  ‘But I don’t want to drive down to Loch Melfort, I’d prefer to get back to the Shin and fish,’ John protested.

  ‘What else do you suggest?’ I asked. ‘The charterers will be here any moment and he’ll take it much better from you than from me. Please suggest he takes some time off, he’s not been off the boat in months and tell him you’ll drive him down to his mother’s house. Then go back to the Shin. Kate and I’ll get things ready, give the punters lunch and I’ll try to find a temporary stand-in, although he’s the only person who knows how to run the engine and machinery. I’ll try to work out what to do but it would be nice if you could give me a ring later in the day, please?’

  ‘Anyone about?’ The fuel tanker was inches from the edge of the pier and there stood Hughie, ready to pass over the big hose to shoot diesel into the tanks. I knew he was booked to fill them each time Monaco returned to Oban – it avoided condensation, Cubby had told me. ‘How much will you be wanting?’ I had absolutely no idea. I’d watched Cubby many times carefully push the five-foot long dipstick into the tanks, wiping it on the way in, as well as out, to make sure no dirt went into the tank, but I’d no idea how to work out the markings he’d made on the stick or how much diesel Monaco used.

  ‘Hello, Hughie. Cubby’s not here at the moment,’ I said, ‘so I’m not too sure. What does he usually take after a St Kilda run?’

  ‘Don’t you worry, we’ll just take it slow, no rush. I can fill her right up so you can be safely on your way.’ It was clear Cubby’s absence had already been noted.

  ‘Kate, do you think you could get a really nice lunch ready? Maybe some smoked salmon, crab, whatever. We need to distract them as they’ll be expecting to set off as soon as they arrive.’

  ‘Aye, no problem. I’ve ordered fish from Stuart for the trip so I’ll go and collect it now. We can always get some more,’ she replied, climbing easily onto the pier. Over the previous few months she and Cubby seemed to have had grown further and further apart. She had always said that if his time on board were to come to an end for some reason, hers would not. She had reassured me of that but at the time it had seemed just an idle comment. I had insisted they should be employed individually rather than as a couple, as both did separate jobs with separate responsibilities; it had seemed fair although not the standard practice for couples running boats on the west coast.

  With no Cubby, I needed a skipper; but even if I could find someone quickly enough, they would know nothing of Monaco’s Danish machinery. Cubby was the only person who’d ever driven Monaco and because of our Coke-bottle contraption, no one apart from Colin and Bill had been encouraged into the engine room. While I had always been there for the regular maintenance in Peterhead or whenever work on the engine was needed, I had no idea how it worked; that had been Cubby’s job. I loved its incredible strength, its steady purposeful power and I felt sure that whatever was wrong was superficial; we just needed to track down the problem.

  Skipper first. I flicked through my Filofax; I’d never needed or thought of needing someone to skipper Monaco.

  ‘Hi, how are you? What are you up to?’ I tried to sound casual as Donald’s lazy voice boomed into the wheelhouse.

  ‘Och, not a lot. And yourself?’

  ‘Donald, Cubby’s got a wee problem right now. Do think there’s any chance you could take our trip to St Kilda for me? I’ve a group of Americans arriving any moment.’ I tried to keep the desperation out of my voice. ‘Kate and I will be on board too.’ I wondered how John would like that. I knew he’d been expecting me to go back and join him at the fishing lodge. ‘I need someone as quickly as possible and I know you like Monaco.’ More to the point, I knew he had the qualifications and lived on the outskirts of town. He also liked Kate’s cooking.

  By now, in spite of being owned by a red-haired poncy English girl, Monaco was highly regarded in Oban. She was bigger than the other boats which operated on the west coast and I knew pretty well that any of the locals would jump at the chance to get behind the wheel. Cubby was envied: he had an impressive command, steady work and an annual salary. I knew if Donald were free, he would come. He’d be OK, he’d do. He was cautious but knew the waters, even if he was a bit of an old woman compared with Cubby. Trying to keep the excitement of my unexpected offer out of his voice, he nonchalantly asked what his wages would be and then of course agreed as I knew he would.

  Next, I ne
eded Stickers.

  ‘Hi, Ali, how are you? Fine. Is Bill there? I know it’s a Saturday but I thought he might be around. Yes, thanks, I’d love his home number.’ Tears pricked my lids, and I swallowed hard.

  ‘Hi, Bill. I’m sorry to disturb you on a Saturday. Oh, you are kind, thanks so much. Yes, all OK, but could you tell me how to start the engine?’ Without asking why, he slowly went through the steps. ‘Right,’ I said, trying to convince myself, ‘I think I’ve got it. But what if it doesn’t start?’ He chuckled down the line.

  ‘Get away with you! She’ll start. You just see. She’s a B&W Alpha, not some fancy high revving modern piece of junk.’ He sounded quite offended.

  I pulled open the heavy engine room door; warm oily air wafted out. Ducking through the opening, I plunged into the cavernous darkness. It felt almost welcoming – my boaty – she’d look after me!

  Pausing at the top of the ladder, I tried to remember Bill’s careful sequence of instructions. First I needed to fill the air bottles and that meant starting the generator to get the compressor going. I pulled the clunky handle out from under the gennie and locked it onto the shaft, giving it an experimental push. No movement. I tried again. No choice: it’s got to go. I could hear Kate chatting through the wooden bulkhead, so the Americans must have arrived, but where, I wondered, was Donald?

  Concentrate.

  Push. Push. Heave. It moved round slowly and the gennie spluttered into life, I flipped the switch turning on the air compressor. Shakily, I slithered down the ladder to stand beside the six-foot-tall air bottles strapped against the hull, close to the engine. Reaching up, I turned the big wheel on the top, opening the bottle letting in the air from the compressor and the needle slowly began to rise as the air filled the bottle.