He said nothing, just looked at me apparently unconcerned; after all, it was just the usual collection of jobs for any charter. After sinking a few pints of McEwans to wash down his supper of flaccid fish and greasy chips at a pub on the outskirts of Stirling, we parted in the bare bright passage of the Little Chef. A miasma of stale pub tobacco smoke hung in the cold air, red-and-green tinsel stars twizzled from bits of Sellotape stuck to the ceiling. It was two days before Christmas; I fought back the tears.
I was too cold to sleep much, so the alarm was almost a relief, but it still seemed like the middle of the night it was so dark. Proper light wouldn’t be up for at least four hours; daylight came so late in December. I swung my legs out of bed and pottered across to the grimy window. The oily puddles illuminated by the petrol pumps trembled gently. A steady drenching drizzle hung in curtains across the forecourt; a proper downpour would have been preferable, as they usually ended more quickly. I dressed quickly in layers, lots of them.
Across the passage, I knocked on his door. Silence. He’d asked me to wake him so I rapped harder, the flimsy door rattling loudly.
‘Hello! Hello! It’s six o’clock,’ I bellowed at the door frame, hoping there’d be some response, hoping he was already awake; too bad if I woke up the whole corridor. What would I do if he didn’t get up? ‘I’m going to the cafe for some breakfast, see you in a moment,’ I said hopefully. Still nothing. Silence. As I raised my hand to try again.
‘Fuck off! I’m not coming out to play!’
Disconsolately, sitting in the Little Chef, I gazed out of the grimy window. I had put all my faith in him, and it never occurred to me he’d come over but not do the job. How could I have thought it would work? I knew virtually nothing about him and what did my charter or any of it matter to him? I didn’t even notice the gust of cold air, as he came in.
‘Tea. Tea would be good.’
Well, at least he was up and ready to go.
Slowly the darkness loosened and the hills became solid lumps darker than the sky by the time I turned the Flying Tomato off the motorway north of Stirling. Another hour to Oban but I knew the road well, it was a drive I enjoyed and it was likely the road would be empty. Twisting and turning, we zoomed along the winding lochside making our way up Loch Lubnaig: I knew every corner, every dip, twist and turn. The drizzle had eased and I could make out the stark silhouettes of black winter trees clustered on corners, the hills reflected in the still dark waters of Loch Earn. Connor, in the passenger seat, stared ahead. Again and again I had opened a conversation, trying to think of a topic that would elicit an answer, but had failed to get a response. I gave up. If he didn’t find the silence awkward, nor would I.
Fast quick gear changes, down for the bends and up through the range as I accelerated away on the straights. I loved driving my Tomato and it was getting lighter now and the clouds had turned a milky pale blue. There were rusty brown patches of bracken and the stark silhouettes were turning into straggly silver birch trees. Eventually, as we crested the rise, Mull, the islands and Oban were spread out before us. I scanned over the roofs across the bay towards the island of Kerrera sheltering the harbour entrance, and there, safely on her mooring, was Monaco.
It was always an emotional moment: she looked smart and powerful and now I knew how to operate her she seemed even more welcoming. But it was Christmas. I would be missing everything. In spite of all that needed to be done, my mind slipped away, wrestling with the same problem I’d gone over so many times. If only I could find a reliable, safe skipper I wouldn’t need to be stuck up here, stuck away from all the other parts that made up my life. I hoped Hugo would be happy skiing, and indeed that was probably the only certain part: he would definitely enjoy the skiing. But for me, there was the responsibility of the dive charter with a skipper I knew nothing of. It would be exhausting and cold but at least I’d not have to fight him off, I was sure of that.
I brought the Flying Tomato to a halt on the North Quay and waved to Gordon, the pier master, through the window of his office. I mustn’t forget his Christmas present sitting on the back seat — a thank-you for letting me park on the quay. Connor gave himself a shake. He opened the door stretching his bandy legs onto the tarmac. Easing out of his seat, he slowly stood up, all five foot three of him, and gazed across the harbour towards the Monaco and said the first words since ‘tea’.
‘I hope this fuckin’ sea is flatter than this fuckin’ country.’
It had never occurred to me he might be carsick.
Monaco did not let me down. I managed to heave round the handle to start the gennie. The compressor pumped air into the two bottles to start the engine. I always ran through my mental list just as Bill had taught me – sight glasses on the lubricator, one for each cylinder – each was full. The filters I knew were clean, as I’d done them before going home after the last charter. When the air-start cylinder was full, I pulled down the heavy black knob of the starter lever. Poof! A huge rush of air, a moment’s pause, before—
Boom! Boom! Boom! Monaco came alive!
The none-too-generous space between the two fishing boats where Gordon had told us to go would be tight. Typical, I knew he’d done it as a test; it was tempting to ignore him and put her on the end of the pier where there was lots of space. I couldn’t even see Connor in the wheelhouse he was so small and he hadn’t even wanted to drive her around a bit to get the ‘feel’ of her, just go straight to the pier. I held my breath: the fenders were out, but I was poised, ready with one of the biggest orange balls, ready to lob it over the side wherever it might be needed. But Monaco came in so smooth and slow, she gently slipped alongside and stopped just kissing the quay. I leapt up the ladder, rope slung over my shoulder, tied a bowline and dropped it over the bollard. People crossed the pier, staring down, eager to see who was in the wheelhouse this time.
‘Hi, Stuart! All OK with you?’
‘Aye, apart from the dark and lack of life! And yourself?’
‘Fine, thanks; we’ve a dive charter for Christmas and New Year. Would you have a salmon and some prawns for me, please? I need something nice for their tea.’
Kate had asked for time off and it seemed unfair to insist she came; I knew I could manage the food and I was beginning to think Connor might not be such a bad bet after all.
He appeared out of the mess door.
‘This is Connor. He’s over from Ireland for the charter.’
‘Well, you’re welcome here and if you’ve a mind for a bite I’m cooking today.’
‘Fantastic, we’ll be there! We’re not leaving until later.’ I turned to Connor. ‘Stuart is a great cook, all from his caravan over there at the end of the pier. He’s a wizard with garlic, wine and prawns — he’s even made it into the Michelin Guide!’ Did Connor have any idea of the Michelin Guide?
Hughie’s BP tanker nosed onto the pier.
‘Hi, Hughie, how’s things?’ They felt like real friends and I knew the midwinter business would be welcome. Soon the fat hose coiled along the deck, throbbing as it pumped diesel into Monaco’s tanks.
Land Rovers appeared next, disgorging cumbersome bags of dive kit. Air bottles, dry suits came down, heavy weight belts were carefully lodged in the blue plastic fish box lashed beside the open hatch: they knew the form well. When everyone was ready, Monaco, Connor at the wheel, headed out of Oban bay, her stem pointing west towards the Sound of Mull. I pulled in the fenders, helped by a chopper pilot I knew from the last time they’d been on board. The others were out on deck too, leaning against hatches or the gunwales, all assembling their dive kit, tinkering with screwdrivers, checking neoprene seals and patching bits with gaffer tape. Diving was like boating; preparation was half the fun.
A big red-and-white CalMac ferry appeared in the harbour entrance, and still going full speed she came quickly towards us. Connor turned Monaco to starboard, red-to-red: she would pass quite close. Close enough for everyone to see. The ferry was packed with islanders heading off for Christmas wh
o gazed down in curiosity at Monaco’s deck. The divers had dressed for the occasion. Frilly knickers, lacy black bras, suspender belts and hairy legs in fishnet stockings were Christmas attire for the men of Monaco’s decks.
Carefully watching the still waters of the Sound, I stood by the gunwale under the wheelhouse window. Six fluorescent orange surface marker buoys bobbed about like little hats; each floated above a couple of divers showing us exactly where they were and where not to go. It was mild and sunny on the first morning’s dive, calm and still, and above the steady throb of Monaco’s engine I could hear a waterfall and the liquid bubbling notes of a curlew. Suddenly I realised I felt almost happy. Connor liked Monaco. He appreciated her sophisticated manoeuvrability and was most definitely in charge; everyone knew he was the boss; he simply had an air of authority. I had been right. The divers, well trained by the RAF, were disciplined, good natured and experienced. I wondered about Hugo and what John would be up to, but it felt like years since the responsibilities had been shared, years since I had been able to take the competence and cheerfulness of Monaco’s skipper for granted.
Something hit the top of my head. Ouch! Connor hung out of the window directly above, coffee mug in hand. ‘I suppose further comment’s unnecessary?’ enquired the soft Irish voice with a twinkle. More coffee was needed.
He quickly became at home on board. His entertaining Irish wit, ready grin and relaxed approach had spread an air of confidence. We even managed to get out of the sound, round near Staffa on the exposed west side of Mull, where the lads had been able to dive the Aurania: a Cunard liner launched in 1916. She’d been torpedoed by a submarine and was tucked close into the shore. The wreck was tidal and the site exposed at any time of year: in December it was a coup to reach and to dive. It was also a place I loved. I loved the loneliness, the brooding black basalt cliffs looming high above, whose columns seemed to grow out of the smooth sheep-grazed grassy slopes that swept up from the rocky shore. There was no path or track round here and it was a truly isolated and lonely spot. Black chuffs with their red beaks floated above the cliffs, their harsh croaks just audible whilst the sea surged and broke with the swell.
Connor, competent and correct under his casual air, completed the Monaco’s log each evening with the statistics for the day: where Monaco had been, which dives had been done and in what conditions. He had also added a new a section to the log entitled ‘Thought for the Day’. On New Year’s Day the entry had read, ‘Today I have no thoughts.’
His final entry was, ‘And on the Sixth Day God made Woman, and neither he nor Man have had a day’s rest since.’
Nineteen
John and I had each handled Digby’s death in our own way, and dealing with our own unhappinesses had created a gulf between us. Whatever the divide, whatever the future might be for us, I knew the Monaco and Kate and Cubby had saved my sanity. It was over a year since John and the other directors had agreed that Monaco and the whole business should be sold. I had bookings and deposits for charters more than eighteen months ahead and of course Monaco still had the coveted St Kilda contract, so John felt it made a saleable package. He had found an agent with fancy offices in a smart marina called Ocean Village on the south coast at Southampton where Monaco was to be berthed as a convenient viewing place for potential purchasers.
In late July we were ready to wave goodbye to Oban. I was surprised by how many people came to say goodbye and wish me well. Kate was happy. She had an interview coming up with CalMac as she’d applied to be pier master. I knew she’d get the job. Whether it was one of Oban’s diminishing fishing fleet or an immaculate mahogany yacht which had just sailed in, she knew how to handle them all and would revel in telling them where to tie up and what dues they had to pay. She’d do it well.
No sign of Cubby. I had wondered if he had heard it was all coming to an end. The note had been tucked into my pocket for days but I’d lacked the courage to find out where he was.
Now we were going and just a spring held Monaco on to the North Pier; the engine throbbed purposefully.
‘Just a moment,’ I shouted up to the open wheelhouse window. ‘I’ve got to drop something off before we go.’ Jumping up onto the gunwale, I scrambled up the ladder and dashed across the car park into the Oban Inn.
‘Could you please pop this behind the bar and give it to Cubby next time he’s in,’ I said breathlessly to the barman, pushing the crumpled envelope across the bar.
‘There’ll be no need for that. You can give it to him yourself, he’s just over there by the window.’ With the light behind him, I’d not noticed him. Turning, I looked across the flagged floor: the light silhouetted his tousled curls. I couldn’t find a word.
‘Hello there.’ His liquid west coast voice flowed through the bar. ‘Are you off just now or have you time for a coffee?’
They were all waiting on board, everything was ready, there was only one rope left to cast off and we needed to make use of the tide — but I didn’t hesitate a second. ‘Of course I’d love a coffee.’ And I tucked myself in beside him on the little window seat.
We’d never seen each other or spoken since the day of the Americans’ charter, since John had taken him down to his mother’s. I’d always thought he knew, in spite of the Tribunal, in spite of all of our squabbles, I wanted him back. I wanted the original Cubby, the one I had first admired. I had hoped and hoped he would come sauntering along the quay one day to jump lightly on board. My careful enquiries had led me nowhere: no one knew where he was or what he was up to. None of that mattered now. I wanted him to know I understood. I wanted him to know about the reliable, trustworthy Monaco, the Monaco with no faltering engine, and I wanted him to know about my ‘ticket’. Cosily squeezed together on the window seat we chatted happily and easily. But I really did have to go.
‘Cubby, it’s really so very good to see you. What are you up to? What are your plans?’
I wasn’t too sure I really wanted to know, but I couldn’t help myself from asking. Typically, he stretched across the table, reaching for the Rizla tin and from amongst the tobacco shreds pulled out an already-rolled thin little cigarette. I grinned; he always knew how to get the most from a moment.
I stood up, pressing on. ‘I’m not sure if I’ll be back but good luck with whatever you’re up to and thank you for all you’ve taught me.’ I bent and kissed him, on his little moustache just beside his lips.
‘Aye, well.’ He paused, the soft brown eyes looking up at me. ‘I’ll tell you one thing—’ I held my breath. ‘You don’t bear a grudge!’
Thoughtfully I walked along the quay, making my way back to Monaco. I had never wanted to be the skipper. All I had wanted was to help Kate and Cubby, plan the cruises, and introduce people to the glories of the west coast. I loved telling them about the islands, the history, seabirds and flowers. But somehow it had all gone wrong. Digby’s death, Cubby leaving and John’s unexpected inheritance had changed everything. And yet it had been a success: people had loved their time on board. They had revelled in the remote islands and lochs, walked on beaches, seen birds and whales they’d never even known existed. No one had lost any money. I had made it work.
But what of my ‘ticket’? A Class V with Command Endorsement, what good would that do me? Even now I didn’t want to take on the challenges of the Irish Sea, rounding Land’s End, or have to deal with the busy shipping lanes of the Channel.
In charge in the wheelhouse was a tobacco-chewing Dane; he’d worked for me before and was an excellent skipper. He got on with the job, had plenty of experience further afield than simply the west coast and was safe. He didn’t speak much and usually it was in Danish, unless using the VHF. Hugo had christened him ‘Talknot’.
In addition to Hugo and me, on board were Steve and Bob. Over the years both had regularly brought winter dive groups and this voyage right down the west side of England offered an opportunity to thank them. There’d be no atmosphere or wistful ending with these two.
Monaco cru
ised smoothly south out of Oban bay. Passing the Garvellachs, so romantically named ‘the isles of the sea’, she swept across the entrance to the Corryvreckan. All was sunny and peaceful, and there were little more than swirling eddies between Scarba and Jura. Oban and all the years there slipped away astern and the island chains stretched into the mist ahead, pretty, gentle and inviting. I could just make out the white block of the hotel at Crinan like a doll’s house off to port. I pushed back the memories of that fishy phone box by the pub where I had paused to ring John so many years ago. It had been good to see Cubby again; I hadn’t realised how much I had missed his reassuring experience. What would he do now, I wondered.
Early next morning we nudged into the bustling little port of Howth. Unlike Scotland where her green hull was deemed curious, here in Ireland there were lots of green fishing boats, so she simply fitted in. As instructed by the harbour master, we tied up in deep water just inside the entrance and the lads were quickly ashore to check out the Guinness. Talknot stayed on board happily chewing a wad of tobacco as he waited for the fuel tanker, while Hugo and I made a dash for Dublin. I’d promised him a look at the Book of Kells. After all, it had come from Scotland and he had been to Iona and knew all about the exquisite lettering: it appealed to his sense of draughtsmanship. To me it seemed a warm link with Scotland.
In the soft evening light Monaco slipped out of Howth again heading south further and further away from her home waters. And yet once she had fished in the Arctic. Enough of this sentimental nonsense! Our next destination would be the Scilly Isles. When Monaco had been little more than an idea, John and I had gone through the proposed deck plans and diagrams with our sailing friends in Cornwall, asking their views and advice. Now, I wanted a final bit of fun, to show her off – the finished, working article. I knew they thought she didn’t exist, was just a whim, a fantasy. Maybe someone there might like her enough to buy her.
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