Mistress and Commander

by Amelia Dalton

  It couldn’t go on, though. Something had to change.

  My hand shook as I plotted a course out of Oban bay. Easy, I’d done it lots of times while Cubby watched. But this was an uncompromising, pristine chart, not the friendly one I knew well with endless rubbings and pencil scribblings scattered across the depths of the Minch and around the rocky shores of Skye. A waft of sweet perfume enveloped me and a white turban loomed over my shoulder.

  When I usually looked at a chart spread on the chart table in Monaco’s wheelhouse, it was in a cloud of smoke from a roll-up, gulls crying and a whiff of diesel, not this effete elegance. Through the window, as the silvery River Clyde snaked away into the distance weaving through the tower blocks of Glasgow, I tried to focus my thoughts. I was in the Department of Trade’s offices and the turban topped the narrow head of the Chief Examiner of Masters and Mates to the United Kingdom: to my surprise he had turned out to be a suave inscrutable Sikh.

  ‘Two years on watch? Is that the requirement for applying?’ I had queried.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Dalton. Let me make it quite clear, that is time actually on watch, time logged in your seaman’s book and not simply time spent at sea. Then of course there are the certificates proving your capabilities: Survival at Sea, Firefighting and First Aid.’

  Pressing on, with nothing to lose, I had persisted. ‘But that means I can never acquire the necessary ticket. To accumulate two years on watch would mean I’d have to be working at sea for about five years!’

  I tried to quell the fury in my voice and not shriek. I would not be fobbed off. I reminded the Department that Monaco had a grant issued by the Highlands & Islands Development Board and a mortgage from the Clydesdale Bank enabling her to take tourists bringing income to remote islands and distant communities. ‘If I were to have the certificates, could I come for a test, please?’ I had persisted and so the Department had agreed. In between the weekend dive groups, I had to get the required certificates.

  I started with what Cubby would have described as a ‘yachty’ course and could hear his whispered comments whirling around my head: ‘If you’re wanting to reach a harbour, say across the Minch, then plot your course to either north or south, then if you’re a wee bit out you know exactly which way to turn, rather than reach the shore and start wondering where you are.’ His advice was learnt from years of practical seamanship. My tutors were not so keen, but I knew wind or swell could easily put you ‘out’ by a bit and I knew whose advice I would follow.

  ‘Lights and Shapes’ are the same throughout the world and the swift changing of the pressure systems off the west coast were a more-than-adequate training for me to cope with the weather section. But I still needed the certificates for safety at sea, first aid and finally firefighting, and I wanted them as quickly as possible; the prospect of another season of leering skippers was spur enough.

  Shivering in my pink-and-blue floral swimsuit, a cumbersome lifejacket strapped round me, I stood at the bottom of the ladder. It was bone chillingly cold and difficult to see much, and the flashing blue lights, occasionally illuminating the massive square pool, were disorientating. It was supposed to be cold; the North Sea off Aberdeen in February was a cold place and I’d tramped through snow on my way into the Offshore Sea Survival College.

  I was the only female, surrounded by tough-looking men. Each was at least ten years younger than me and all worked on the nearby oil rigs. I shivered again. If I’d known the Sea Survival Course entailed jumping off a high board into a pool with huge waves while disorientated by flashing lights I might not have signed up.

  The wave machine thundered on.

  We’d been told to wait for the signal before we were to jump. The water needed to reach a fifteen-foot swell.

  ‘Don’t you worry, lass, we’ll fix the life raft for you,’ said a friendly Geordie beside me.

  ‘Thanks, that’s really kind, but I need to know how to do it! Hopefully I’ll never need to again!’ He looked surprised as I turned to follow a pair of hairy muscular legs up the ladder.

  It was totally confusing: the sirens, flashing lights and darkness. When I reached the platform I didn’t even look at the water below. Remembering what we’d been told – ‘Hand over your mouth and nose, hold down the lifejacket, look straight ahead – not down, and step out boldly’ – I did.

  My breath was knocked out of me as I plunged down into the icy water. I bobbed up and thrashed through the swell but it was difficult to swim or move in the bulky lifejacket.

  Where was the ‘door’? We’d been told there’d be a rope ladder hanging down under the life raft – ‘Use it to get inside.’ The raft spun around in the make-believe sea of wind, rain and swell. The ladder banged into my shin and I slithered in, landing like a beached whale on the wet bouncing floor to find I had made it first. One up to Dalton.

  Next we learnt how to get across the sea to a distant life raft. This was becoming fun. I was inured to the cold now and barely noticed the flashing blue helicopter lights and sirens. Even the swell felt bouncy not frightening.

  Legs, strong and most definitely male pushed up under my arm pits and wrapped around me, ankles crossing over my boobs; my head was in his groin. This was how we were to link up forming a sort of human caterpillar with our arms free to whirl like a paddle steamer; our synchronised swimming quickly took us across the pool to a now upside-down life raft.

  Why, I wondered, had I been detailed to try to right it?

  The instructions were to get out of the water onto its upside-down ‘floor’, to stand in the middle, grasp the strap stretching across the bottom and then walk backwards pulling on the strap so it would ‘flip’ over. And of course, at the last minute duck out of the way so as not to end up underneath.

  Easy: the wind blew, but the flashing lights had stopped; it was very dark. I needed to use the wind to help. If I could pull up one side into the wind, it would do the rest. Wishing I had accepted the Geordie’s offer, I heaved myself out of the water and scrambled onto the top; that was the worst bit. The wind did the rest and I was sure a hand or four were helping underneath in the darkness. Sea Survival, certificate number one: I’d got it. The lads had been curious as to why I needed it but by now I was entirely accustomed to being an oddity.

  I headed south to be an oddity again, to the Fire Service College in Chorley. At least it was near home and I could have a really decent hot bath instead of the usual meagre B&B puddle.

  Firefighting turned out to be equally frightening.

  After practising on different types of fires with extinguishers, blankets and using whatever might be to hand, we were taught how to get out of a burning building – from the third floor, with only the remains of a staircase and clad in the full breathing apparatus.

  I knew how to scuba dive so a face mask and breathing tank would hold no fear for me, I thought blithely.

  Peering through the tiny clouded mask, I clanked up the metal framework staircase to the top of the ‘building’. The steel-soled boots were far too big, so heavy and cumbersome, I was frightened I’d trip and fall. It was a long way down.

  ‘OK, your turn. Off you go! There’s no one in front of you now.’ The instructor at the top gave me a prod and I started to feel my way into the room. Smoke prevented me from seeing, but I could just hear crackling over my hurried breathing.

  ‘Don’t lean on the wall – it might be hot. Stretch out and sweep one foot right to left in front of you to check the floor is still there, take one step forwards. Repeat. Sweep your hand up, down the wall at every step. Keep going one step at a time always in the same direction; eventually you’ll get out.’

  I was out of the room and onto the staircase.

  ‘Check each tread in the same way. Keep close to the wall where the treads will be stronger, less likely to give way.’

  I carefully worked my way down two flights and was halfway round the next room as I began to realise I was catching up with the student in front of me. There was definitely heavy brea
thing ahead above my own clumping footsteps, although I could see no one. This room had obstacles. I manoeuvred around an easy chair, avoided a table before bumping into something hard. Stretching out a gloved hand a voice came out of the gloom, ‘Help! Can you fucking help! I’m stuck!’

  Through the drifting smoke and my foggy mask, I could make out a similarly clad figure whose top half seemed be flailing around; his bottom half was unmoving. Our wily course-setters had left a bed without a mattress as a trap. The would-be firefighter had stumbled onto the bed and was trapped amongst the springs, he was in leg irons. No pass for him, but I had certificate number two; just one to go.

  First aid involved pumping dummies, breathing into a Laerdal mask, finding a pulse on a plastic arm and turning it over to drain out the water.

  All I learnt I knew was useful, but I fervently hoped I would never be called upon to use any of it.

  With my three certificates it was now the moment of truth. I wanted my skipper’s ticket.

  I drew the pencil line on the chart. Silence from the Turban. Sweet, Indian scents wafted around. Silence.

  ‘Mrs Dalton, would you like to start again?’

  I looked down at the chart. I had plotted my virtual Monaco straight onto the rocks; she would have been high and dry below the Lismore lighthouse.

  Every time I set about the assigned task, just as I was getting into it, he’d change his mind, asking me to do something different; it was exhausting. I answered his questions on rules of the road, cardinal buoys, radar, wind speed, sea conditions, shipping forecasts and lights.

  ‘And what do two black balls mean, Mrs Dalton?’

  I suppressed a grin. ‘Not Under Command. You must hoist two black balls to warn other shipping you have no power and are drifting. If you’re at anchor it’s one black ball.’

  Over the past four years Monaco’s set of black balls and other emergency shapes had come out regularly but only for departmental inspections, thankfully never in earnest. Now that Colin had rerouted the overflow pipe and the air problem was solved, there had not been the slightest falter or pause from the engine. I felt confident about black balls.

  Most detailed of all were his questions about fog: what would I do and what were the necessary warning sounds? ‘Find a quiet corner and drop the hook,’ had been my immediate response, remembering Cubby doing exactly that even when in his familiar stamping ground just north of Jura.

  Five hours later, I flopped into the driving seat of the Flying Tomato and reached for the mobile.

  ‘Done it! I’ve got it!’ I shouted ecstatically at Kate. Then I tried John just in case he might be in his office, and surprisingly he was.

  ‘He’s given me a Class V with Command Endorsement! Can you hear it?’ I scrunched the piece of paper near the mouth piece. ‘It was exhausting! He’s not bad really, but pretty frightening. I never had a clue how I was getting on but I got eighty-five per cent —not bad, don’t you think? What’s the news on the tribunal? Has Cubby been in touch? What! That’s fantastic, I’m so relieved he’s dropped it – did you have to pay him?’

  It seemed Cubby had already found employment on another boat. I wondered if I’d ever see him again.

  Sunny memories of walks ashore, the flower-filled fields of Canna and long watches en route to St Kilda drifted through my mind. The Monaco without Cubby seemed pointless. I knew he would have been so proud of me; he’d have loved the formality of my Class V.

  John was still speaking; I came back to the present with a jolt.

  ‘Yes, I’m still here. What?’

  I listened, holding my breath, incredulous. Monaco with all her needs from shareholders to Stickers had blotted out Digby’s death; I had had no time to think about him and I had filled the holidays too with amusements and distractions for Hugo. Now, it seemed my world was to fall apart again. John no longer wished to be at home. He intended only to come home when Hugo was there.

  Seventeen

  I hated leaving him. The grey January afternoon and imposing red-brick buildings of school swallowed him up. I knew Hugo needed to catch up with his friends and I should leave quickly, not prolonging the goodbyes.

  The Flying Tomato dropped down through the tidy streets of Malvern and cruised across the flat river plain, the Malvern Hills behind me and the Pennines ahead. This was a tedious slog at any time and with again the prospect of an empty house ahead, I found I was struggling to hold back the tears as I turned onto the M6. John would be in London or Yorkshire, of course; already the chill and emptiness of the house seemed tangible. Christmas and New Year, staying with James and Fanny, had been a ‘proper’ family time with Midnight Mass, carols, games in front of the fire and long walks, all fortified by James’s generous quantities of wine and Fanny’s imaginative food. We had raised a toast to Diggers.

  The Grahams were good at family times. Their two girls were Hugo’s friends: they got on easily and holidays together had been a happy escape. I punched the button on the dashboard. Crystal Gayle, ready as ever to keep me company, swooned, ‘Don’t it make my brown eyes blue’. It suited the turmoil in my mind.

  Three hours later, Crystal was still at it and I was still determinedly joining in. The cattle grid at the end of the drive rattled underneath as a new mobile phone brick, lurking beside me on the passenger seat, burst into life. Gravel spurted across the field as the Tomato screeched to a halt.

  ‘Good afternoon, the Monaco,’ I said, consciously putting a smile into my voice.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ responded a polite secretarial voice. ‘I wonder if you can help me, I am looking for a dive boat for a few days in February.’

  I held my breath. Work in the dark and dreary months of February was just what was needed: it would give the machinery a work out, and Monaco would be warm and moving.

  ‘Yes, she is available in February, we keep her working all the year round. A long weekend? Just a moment please while I check the diary.’ I fluttered the pages of my Filofax wanting to sound as if I did actually need to check. ‘Yes, we can do that one. Start in Oban? That’s fine.’ I quoted a nice low rate, keen to encourage them, and went through the basics, ending with my usual confirmation. ‘I’ll send a letter with all the details, costs and booking form later today, if you could let me have an address, please? Just the invoice with bank details? Well, if you’re sure.’ I should have realised then, but I was far too excited at a mid-winter booking to wonder. Without bothering to drive on up to the house I called John’s mobile, longing to share the good news of a mid-winter charter. It went straight to his answerphone.

  When the cheque arrived bearing the name of a well-known ad agency, I realised I should have charged double.

  The ‘story’ they wanted to tell had to be instantly clear, visually appealing as well as intriguing; there was to be no leaving the sofa to put on the kettle during this ad. In no more than five minutes the message had to be clear: it was that of an entrepreneur establishing a scuba-diving school somewhere inaccessible — St Martins in the Isles of Scilly. He needed a loan. He needed a friendly bank. There were to be shots of the bank’s rep, inappropriately dressed in a City suit and tie leaving London by sleeper. Next, in a now much-crumpled suit, he was to take the ferry out to the island archipelago. In bright sunshine as the silvery spray soaked his suit, nothing daunted, he was to continue his arduous journey to meet the entrepreneurial businessman on a faraway island. Underwater sequences were to follow as the dive school owner was seen leading his learner-divers through clear blue water with breath-taking scenes of coral encrusted wrecks. As it was a new business, all the divers were to be kitted out in the newest smartest dive gear. All possible due to the attentive support and extraordinarily generous loan terms from the bank.

  They had already shot the above water footage at the Scilly Isles, with sequences of the rep clinging unhappily to a little boat as it bounced across the sea to St Martins, but they still needed a couple of minutes’ footage of smartly kitted divers underwater with pretty fi
sh swimming past a colourful coral-encrusted wreck. The Scillies, though sunny and awash with daffodils in early February, had proved too windy; the surrounding open waters were too rough for diving the exposed wrecks. But we had the Sound of Mull: we had shelter and Monaco had a growing reputation for year-round diving. I had no concerns: we would be able to find them a good wreck dive whatever the weather. There were wooden Armada galleons, Cunard liners or just every day steel cargo ships: there was plenty of choice.

  Apart from my not having quoted enough, it was a great opportunity. Monaco’s machinery would get a work out; it would warm her through, and it provided me with a perfect way of thanking our regular divers.

  ‘Hi, Steve, Andy, John. Great to see you all.’ My team was squeezed around a table at the Little Chef in Dunbarton. Knives and forks worked on demolishing ‘heart attack specials’; mugs of tea washed down beans, hash browns, sausages, bacon, black pudding, eggs and fried bread. Steve was to be the ‘entrepreneurial owner’. No matter that he bore no resemblance to the ‘entrepreneur’ in the Scillies; he would be unrecognisable in full dive kit.

  I was worrying whether Duncan, one of our most dreary stand-in winter skippers, would have Monaco ready. I had arranged for six sets of matching black-and-yellow Scubapro suits, gloves, weight belts, tanks and torches to be delivered to Monaco, but would he check the compressor was running cleanly with a new charcoal filter as I’d asked? Compressors for filling the air bottles were notoriously temperamental and it had been at least a month since Monaco had been working. I had no worries about Kate. I knew she’d have soup, butties, baps, butter and biscuits ready: she’d be up for the fun and a flirt.