A Large Measure of Snow

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Could we not commandeer the boats if the fishermen don’t toe the line?’ said Galbraith.

  ‘I’m glad you’re not the provost, Jamie. You’d make auld Joe Stalin look like the fairy godmother,’ said McMurdo.

  An argument ensued, with everyone round the table talking heatedly at once.

  Banging his gavel, Provost McMurdo brought the committee – with no little difficulty – to order. ‘There is one ray of hope, mind you.’

  The warring factions around the table ceased hostilities, as every eye turned to the man in the provost’s chair.

  ‘This came through my door this morning.’ McMurdo waved a sheet of paper.

  ‘What is it, peace in our time?’ Macmillan sneered.

  ‘No. It’s a missive from Sandy Hoynes. He must have put it through my door last night, for it was on the mat first thing this morning.’

  The very mention of Hoynes engendered the odd raised eyebrow and a few grunts of disaffection.

  Undaunted, McMurdo continued. ‘He and his boat are to be featured in the Glasgow Times, no less. He tells me, and I quote, “It would give me the greatest pride imaginable to be part of the effort to keep the good people of Kinloch, who are so close to my heart, fed and watered at this difficult time.” I have to say I was quite moved.’

  ‘He hasn’t told you what he’s after yet,’ said Macmillan. ‘If I know him, the price will be his own weight in whisky. And in any case, it’s only one boat. That’ll feed no more than a few families if we’re lucky.’

  ‘Well, I think we should accept his offer of assistance. Indeed, highlighting our plight in the Glasgow Times will do no harm as far as letting people know in what straitened times we find ourselves here in Kinloch. And anyway, the rest of the fleet will follow Hoynes. You know how competitive they all are.’

  Despite the numerous doubts of those gathered, it was agreed that the council assist Sandy Hoynes in his endeavours with every resource at their disposal.

  As McMurdo brought the meeting to a close, he thanked his fellow councillors and the proposal was passed. ‘I know, while in some quarters he is considered to be—’

  ‘Fly as buggery,’ said Macmillan, finishing the provost’s sentence for him.

  ‘I would rather say . . . some remain to be convinced.’ He turned to the clerk. ‘Please strike Mr Macmillan’s comment from the minutes, Mr McIntyre.’ He stared up at the chamber windows. ‘But in times like this, beggars can’t be choosers.’

  Outside, more fat flakes were falling on Kinloch.

  5

  Having managed to avail himself of the authority of the town council via a unanimous vote, Provost McMurdo was now picking his way through the snowdrift on Main Street towards the quay. He was pleased they’d managed to reach something approaching consensus. What swung it had been the intervention of the local association of innkeepers, who foretold that beer, whisky and just about every other form of alcohol would be exhausted in less than a week. It appeared that it was not only sugar that was being hoarded by the community.

  McMurdo crossed the roundabout at the pierhead, almost immediately spying the rotund figure of Hoynes in his yellow oilskins aboard the Girl Maggie. A few stumbles and no little effort brought him athwart the vessel, where it looked as though Hoynes was busy with a paintbrush.

  ‘Good morning, Sandy,’ said McMurdo, checking his watch to ensure that noon hadn’t yet turned.

  ‘Ahoy there, provost,’ said Hoynes. ‘It’s a lovely day, is it not? Apart from the snow, that is.’

  ‘Aye, the sky is bright enough now, but that cloud is almost upon us, and it looks heavy-laden with snow to me.’

  ‘Ach, jeest passing. You’ll no’ see any snow this day. Though it’ll be blizzards up near the Rest. It could take weeks to open the road.’ He sniffed the air like a dog. ‘Remember, if you want to be sure o’ the weather, never heed that nonsense on the wireless, just ask a fisherman. Well, one of my vast experience, at any rate.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ said McMurdo, looking doubtfully heavenward.

  ‘I take it you received my wee note last night?’

  ‘Aye, I did, Sandy. A very generous offer it is, too. In fact, I’ve been in session with the council and the trade association since early this morning. The town clerk is negotiating an accommodation with the shopkeepers, but I think you’ll find the outcome will be favourable.’ He looked at the sky again. ‘Of course, you’ll be in receipt of a fine reward from the Glasgow Times, I’m quite sure, Sandy.’

  ‘Och, not a bit of it! There’s been the usual undertakings, but no hard cash has changed hands nor been agreed,’ said Hoynes, ignoring the fact that the five-pound note was sitting, tightly folded, in his wallet up in the wheelhouse. ‘But if it means feeding the starving and putting Kinloch on the map, who am I to say no, eh?’

  McMurdo raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sure you know your own business, Sandy.’

  ‘Aye, and fair thin times for business they are, right enough.’

  ‘Well, we’ll have an offer for you and the rest of the fleet before five o’clock. It’s hoped you’ll be able to put to sea tomorrow morning.’

  Hoynes rubbed his chin and looked at the sky with a leery eye. ‘I daresay we could do that. Mind you, I canna speak for my fellow skippers. As you’re aware, they’re a right thrawn outfit at the best o’ times.’

  ‘I’m sure the chance to make some money in the run-up to Christmas will be enough to change their mind. In any event, the pubs and shops are already running short of beer, whisky and the like. As you know, today is normally the brewers’ delivery day. And that’s not going to happen.’

  ‘Damn me!’ said Hoynes, suddenly feeling the need to reach for his pipe and baccy. ‘There must be a few sore heads today if the stocks are running down so far!’

  ‘I’m afraid some people have been stockpiling. Very selfish – human nature at its worst in a time of crisis.’

  ‘These folk will answer for it in the next world, and that’s for sure!’ said Hoynes, as the wad of tobacco in the bowl of his pipe glowed red amidst the white all around.

  The provost turned. A young lad was making his way through the deep snow on the pier towards them.

  ‘Is that not young Barry Hall, the grocer’s boy?’

  ‘Aye, it kinda looks like him.’ Hoynes’ eyes narrowed.

  Rosy-cheeked and out of breath, the boy reached the side of the Girl Maggie. He nodded at the provost out of deference to his office, then turned his attention to Hoynes.

  ‘Mr Hall says he canna get his van doon the quay because of a’ this bloody snow.’ Young Barry rubbed his nose on his sleeve and snorted deeply.

  ‘Oh right, young fella. In that case, tell him to leave the messages at the weigh hoose and I’ll send Hamish up with a handcart tae get them when he appears.’

  ‘Messages? It’s a case o’ whisky, Mr Hoynes.’

  McMurdo, Hoynes and young Barry fell silent for a few seconds. Those who knew the fisherman well would have been able to discern the working of his mind.

  ‘Damn me!’ Hoynes shouted in a cloud of exhaled pipe smoke. ‘Auld Hall gets mair deaf by the day. It was only one bottle o’ whisky I was after.’ He shook his head.

  ‘I’ll jeest get him tae take it back then, and I’ll bring doon the single bottle,’ said Barry, his nose red as Rudolph’s.

  ‘No, no, I don’t want a young lad like you exerting himself in this weather. No, nor Mr Hall, come tae that. Hamish will sort it oot. Sure, is that not what a first mate is for – eh, Mr McMurdo?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure. What on earth would you do with a whole case of whisky?’ He looked sceptically at Hoynes.

  ‘No, indeed.’ Hoynes reached into the pocket of his oilskins. ‘Take this for your trouble, lad. It’s a penny, but all the change I have aboot me at the moment.’ Hoynes flicked the coin through the air, and Barry caught it deftly.

  ‘Thanks very much,’ he said, because his mother had brought him up to be polite to his elders. Ho
wever, the words ‘stick the penny up your arse, you miserable auld bugger’ were at the very tip of his tongue.

  As Hoynes and McMurdo watched the boy wade through the snow back up the pier, they saw two other figures heading towards them.

  ‘At last, my first mate has roused himself fae his bunk and is back in the land of the living. Young folk these days like the hammock, and no mistake.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to your day, Sandy,’ said McMurdo. ‘Nice to see you’re applying a lick of paint to impress the newspaper.’

  Momentarily Hoynes looked astonished. ‘Nothing o’ the kind, Mr McMurdo. This is special paint tae help stop the wood fae splitting in the snow. This is a working vessel, no’ some exhibition piece.’

  ‘I see.’ McMurdo smiled to himself as a large snowflake landed on the sleeve of his black wool coat. ‘My goodness, Sandy, looks like your forecast was wrong!’

  ‘A stray flake or two, nothing more.’ He was peering at Hamish and another smaller figure as they struggled through the drifts. ‘If that’s the reporter Hamish has with him, he’s no’ a man o’ great stature, that’s for sure.’

  As Provost McMurdo looked over in order to form an opinion, the pair were obscured by a blizzard as the heavy clouds opened over Kinloch.

  ‘I better get back to the town hall while I still can.’

  ‘Aye, maybe for the best,’ Hoynes replied, noting with some irritation that the snow had extinguished his pipe.

  ‘You’ll hear from the council by five o’clock – you have my word, Sandy.’

  ‘That’s good enough for me, Mr McMurdo.’

  The provost trudged off through the swirling snow. ‘I’m not so sure I’ll be coming to you for weather forecasting advice, though.’

  As the dark-clad man disappeared into the whiteout, Sandy Hoynes smiled, but the words he muttered under his breath spoke of another expression altogether.

  6

  Though the snow was falling hard, the look of Hamish’s companion intrigued Hoynes. Hard to judge the true outline of the man as he was bundled up in a thick jacket and no doubt a stout pullover or two. But to the skipper, even though this Joe was clearly of short stature, his legs looked uncommonly spindly in moleskin trousers. He had a stout toorie pulled down over his face, all but obscuring it. Hoynes wondered as to the nature of his robustness with a difficult passage to Girvan in mind. But the man was a journalist, and surely knew his own limits, he reasoned.

  As they met at the side of the Girl Maggie, Hoynes held out his gloved hand in order to help the reporter over the gunwale. The hand offered seemed delicate, but thinking of the money, Hoynes cast aside his concerns and helped haul him aboard.

  ‘We better go below!’ shouted Hamish as he stepped nimbly from pier to boat like the well-practised mariner he was.

  Hoynes nodded in agreement, lifted the hatch, and helped the guest down the short gangway into the cramped quarters below, where bunk beds sat cheek by jowl with a chart table and tiny galley. He pulled out a chair and beckoned to Mr Baird to take no weight at all off his tiny feet.

  ‘You better take off some layers,’ he said. ‘I’ll put them by the stove over there to dry off. I fired it up this morning. It’s wee, but as Hamish will tell you, Mr Baird, there’s no warmer place than down below on the Girl Maggie – even in weather like this.’ He looked to his first mate for confirmation, but Hamish was standing in the shadows looking furtive, a nervous smile playing across his lips.

  The skipper looked on, smiling proprietorially as the journalist shook the snow free from his overcoat like a dog, and removed his hat and gloves. Hoynes instantly realised why Mr Baird’s hand had seemed so delicate.

  ‘Now, I can explain,’ said Hamish, holding his right hand before him in a calming gesture.

  The briar pipe fell from Hoynes’ mouth and landed with a clatter on the galley floor, spilling what was left of its contents, now thankfully extinguished.

  Baird held out a hand to Hoynes, who took it, his eyes bulging from his head and mouth flapping like a great cod.

  ‘It’s lovely to meet you, Mr Hoynes. Hamish has told me all about you.’ From under her neat fringe, Jo Baird smiled broadly. Her face was pale, but her green eyes bore a determined glint.

  It was one of these situations whereby had there been room in the cramped crew’s quarters Hoynes may have taken his first mate aside for a quiet chat. But as they were all within a few inches of each other, that was impossible.

  ‘Are you feeling unwell, Mr Hoynes?’ The journalist looked at the fisherman, her eyes filled with mock concern. ‘Or is something else troubling you?’

  Hoynes sat back in his chair and finally recovered the power of speech. ‘You know, Miss Baird, I’ve been at the fishing for over fifty years – man and boy – but this is the first time I’ve had such an experience.’

  As Hamish retreated as far away from Hoynes as was physically possible, the journalist looked puzzled. ‘And what experience would that be?’ She cocked her head, awaiting a reply.

  ‘A woman aboard a fishing boat.’

  ‘Good grief! That’s a story in itself, Mr Hoynes. I’m so glad you brought it up.’ Miss Baird took a notepad and pen from a bag she’d deposited on the chart table and looked keenly at the skipper. ‘Now, can you tell me just why you’ve never been aboard a fishing boat with a woman?’

  ‘I will. It’s well known to be bad luck, the very worst, in fact. Unless you include gentlemen of the cloth, and they all know better.’

  ‘It’s nineteen sixty-seven! Have you never heard of women’s liberation?’

  ‘Aye, they can be as liberated as they like, but they’re no’ doing it aboard my vessel. I’ll have to ask you to leave, Miss Baird. Snow or no snow!’ He turned to Hamish. ‘You telt me her name was Joe.’

  Before Hamish could speak, the journalist replied for him. ‘Hamish was right: my name’s Jo, short for Josephine.’ She smiled.

  ‘Aye, well, Joe, Davie, Jim – call yourself what you want. I’ll no’ have women aboard this vessel, and that’s an end to it. Only the good Lord knows the brutal fortunes you brought upon us as soon as you set foot on this fine boat. I shouldna be surprised if we’re sinking at this very minute.’ Hoynes bent down to pick up his pipe.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mr Hoynes. You see, you’ve already taken the newspaper’s money, and I’m not willing to go back on the deal.’

  ‘The money’s still safe up in the wheelhouse, I’ll fetch it for you directly.’

  ‘Oh, the wheelhouse? Is that the tiny thing that looks like half a garden shed?’

  ‘Half a garden shed! It’s easy seen that you are not acquainted with the rules of the sea, and you know nothing about the vessels that sail upon it.’ He shook his big head, jowls wobbling under his white beard. ‘I’m heart sorry, for the money was most welcome. But our agreement is over, whether you want it so or not.’

  Jo looked at Hamish. ‘Will you tell him, or shall I?’

  Hamish moved into the light of the storm lantern hanging beside the stove. ‘Now, skipper, you’ll understand that I had to negotiate in order to get this fine newspaper to feature us. Aye, and it wasn’t easy, for as you know, though the Girl Maggie might have the best lines of any vessel of the fleet, she’s no’ the most commodious, and that’s just plain-speaking fact.’

  ‘She’s the size she is so that she can ride the waves, no’ plough through them like some boats I could mention. It’s no’ all aboot size, Hamish, and well you know it.’

  Jo tried hard not to laugh, but she couldn’t hide her mirth.

  ‘It’s no laughing matter. You didna see they Vikings piling intae great big ships in order to make their way across oceans. The Girl Maggie is no different – no different at all.’

  ‘Not quite so sleek,’ observed Jo.

  ‘For she has a different function, that’s why. If me and Hamish here were set on rape and pillage, well, we’d make sure we had a vessel tae suit. But I’m too auld for such capers, and
I’m no’ sure Hamish is of that persuasion, even with youth on his side.’

  ‘So you’re telling me there’s nothing you’d like better than to ravish some poor helpless maidens?’ Jo scribbled away with her pen.

  ‘It’s jeest an expression, nothing mair. And I’ve yet to set eyes on a “helpless maiden”. There’s none tae be found in my hoose at any rate.’

  ‘Nonetheless, you’ve entered into an agreement, Mr Hoynes, and it’s one you’ll have to keep.’

  ‘I hand you back the money, and the “agreement” you mention is null and void. It’s the rule o’ the sea, and no error.’

  ‘Hamish, it’s time to come clean.’ She looked at the first mate encouragingly.

  ‘Come clean about what, Hamish?’ said Hoynes.

  Hamish shuffled as much as the space would allow and delved into the pocket of his dungarees. He produced a sheet of paper that had been crumpled rather than folded and handed it to Hoynes.

  The skipper reached into his oilskin pocket for his reading glasses. Soon they were perched on his nose as he read the missive in the dim light of the cabin. ‘A contract, no less.’ He glared at Hamish. ‘What right did you have to enter intae any contractual agreement regarding this vessel?’

  Hamish’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

  ‘Hamish is your first mate, yes?’

  ‘No’ for much longer, he’s no’.’ said Hoynes, still glaring at his charge.

  ‘Well, as such, he’s management, no question about it. As such, his word is binding on a contract regarding the vessel on which he holds this position.’ Jo sat back and folded her arms, indicating the end of the discussion.

  Hoynes eyed the journalist and his shipmate. He sighed and removed the glasses from his nose and placed them carefully on the chart table. He looked again at the crumpled document, looked at both of them, and in one swift movement rolled the paper into a ball, placed it in his mouth, and after some chewing and a swig of cold tea from a tin mug before him on the table, winced and swallowed the contract whole. It was his turn to sit back and fold his arms in a gesture of triumph.