‘Here, get that cleaned off, Hamish!’ shouted Hoynes. ‘These bloody gulls.’
In short order, Hamish appeared in front of the window and went to work with a chamois leather and bucket of soapy water, his breath clouding in front of him.
Hoynes popped his head out of the wheelhouse door and looked heavenward. Now that the first light of dawn was spreading across the eastern horizon, it revealed a great bank of cloud ahead, dark but with the pearlescent quality of snow. Though he could see the Isle of Arran to his left, the Ayrshire coast – their destination – had not emerged with the dawn.
‘Your predictions are awry again, Hamish. I’m thinking you should stay clear o’ weather forecasting, for that cloud is just about to dump a great blizzard upon us.’
Sure enough, as he spoke, the first flakes appeared on Hamish’s Breton cap.
‘And jeest where did you get that fancy bunnet?’ Hoynes asked. ‘You look like one o’ they French matelots, no’ a proper Scots fisherman.’
‘Och, they’re a’ the rage in London. I’m sure they Beatles were wearing them no’ that long ago.’
‘Well, if that’s no’ enough to put you off such millinery, I don’t know what is. There’s nae room for a fashion statement aboard a vessel o’ the sea. The minute you pick up the guitar, you’re back ashore, and no mistake.’
Gradually, as though the emergence of the day had been merely a short respite, darkness engulfed the Girl Maggie. Not the pitch black of night, but an eerie grey that rendered their surroundings almost invisible. Even the water lapping at the sides of the vessel was muffled, as though they had put to sea in a small pond. Great clouds of snow began to sweep over the fishing boat.
Hamish joined Hoynes in the wheelhouse. ‘My goodness, skipper. I don’t think I’ve ever put to sea in conditions like this. It’s as though we’ve entered another realm.’
‘You have a flair for the dramatic, Hamish. Och, you get that from your mother. The hoops I’d tae go through tae stop her from heading doon the quay last night to save your virtue near turned me into a circus dog. It’s time you put your foot doon and showed her who’s boss. You canna go on at the beck an’ call o’ your mother, no’ a man your age.’
‘It’s a’ very well saying that, Sandy. But where would I go? I can rustle up some beans and bacon, but that’s aboot it. And when it comes tae a’ this washing and pressing o’ clothes – well, that’s me buggered.’
‘It’s a wife you’re needing, plain and simple. Nature is designed wae that in mind. While we’re oot braving the wild ocean, they’re at home attending tae the tasks that are a mystery tae menfolk. I have these twin tubs in the kitchen now. Man, they might as well be fae outer space, for I’ve no idea how to use them. But Marjorie fair swings intae action. Before you know it, the scullery is filled wae steam and she’s hauling wet clothes hither and thon. Quite miraculous it is tae watch.’
‘My auld mother still has a mangle. She’s got forearms like a miner, so she has.’
Hoynes lit his pipe thoughtfully. In truth, he’d always felt rather inferior to the opposite sex. The manner in which they dealt with everything from domestic tasks to wiping the backsides of infants had to be admired. He’d been forced to change his daughter’s nappy on mercifully few occasions. Each time it had ruined his appetite for days, and the mere sight of oxtail soup set his stomach churning to this day. But Marjorie performed the task with alacrity, happily conversing as she dealt with a great deposit the size of which a carthorse would have been proud.
‘You wait, Hamish. Wae this women’s lib and all, there will be a woman sitting in Downing Street before you can canter.’
‘Och, no.’ Hamish removed his cap and slicked back his diminishing quiff with an oily hand. ‘It widna be proper.’
‘What do you have tae say aboot Her Majesty, in that case? Would you no’ consider that she’s making a fair fist o’ things?’
‘Aye, but she’s got the royal blood, Sandy. Look at auld Victoria, for example. She was only a slip o’ a lassie when she became queen and she ruled a huge empire. I’m sure your Marjorie couldna set her hands tae that. No offence, mark you.’
‘Maybe no’, but I think your mother would give it a go.’
Hamish nodded, a faraway look in his eyes. ‘You might be right there.’
‘There’s a condition wae women who’ve lost their husbands in tragic circumstances and the like.’
‘And jeest what would that be?’ Hamish asked.
‘Och, they become fair attached tae their sons. No’ in any romantic way, you understand, but enough that they want them aboot the place. Put it like this, have you ever brought home a lassie that met with your mother’s approval?’
‘That’s a simple question tae answer, skipper. I’ve never brought a lassie hame at all. My mother would just find fault.’
‘Aye, an’ you were close enough wae Jessie McGown for a good while.’
‘I was.’ Hamish lowered his head.
‘You never told me why it all came tae an end.’
A look of regret passed over the first mate’s face. ‘My mother wisna keen. Apparently Jessie’s great-grandfather had been hung by the Duke o’ Argyll for poaching. You canna bring blood like that intae the family line.’
‘Nonsense. I knew the man. I was only a boy, but I can see him yet. He was a shepherd doon at Pollyfergus farm in Blaan. A fine fellow. Died on the hill wae his sheep, as all men o’ that trade are want tae do.’
Hamish looked momentarily bewildered. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I am that. Sure, he was great pals wae my own grandfaither. He was a man o’ the land. On my mother’s side, you understand.’
‘So my mother didna have the right o’ it at all?’
‘No. And I’m here tae tell you that she knew fine what she was at. Jeest fair keen that you stayed by her fireside.’
‘I can hardly believe it.’
‘I’m telling you, Hamish. You need tae get yourself sorted wae a nice lassie, quick smart. I know you’re proud o’ thon coo’s lick o’ yours. But, man, that’ll no’ last for ever. And once you’re bald, you’ve nae chance finding a wife.’
‘In that event I’ll jeest keep my bunnet on, Sandy.’
‘Ach, you’re havering. You’ll pardon me for the descriptive nature of what I’m aboot tae say. You’d be a bonny sight, fair caught up in the throes o’ passion in your marriage bed, and you wae your bunnet on. Man, you might as well have your pipe clenched between your teeth intae the bargain.’
It was hard to gauge what Hamish thought of this. His expression went from one of abject horror to an embarrassed red hue. Almost as though the mere contemplation of the carnal act minus pipe and bunnet may well be a sin against all that was holy.
The snow was now falling like feathers from a burst pillow. ‘I hope my calculations are right,’ said Hoynes, ‘or we’ll fair batter intae the Cock o’ Arran. For I don’t know aboot you, but I canna see much beyond the prow.’
‘I’m getting a bad feeling, Sandy.’
‘Again? My, but you’re a right doom-monger. You’ll need tae brighten up your act. No woman wants to be wed tae some prophet o’ doom.’ With that, Hoynes sounded the ship’s horn in the unlikely event that some other vessel was in the vicinity. For it had to be said, only the bravest or most foolish of mariners would have put to sea this day. Though it all depended on your perspective.
11
Down below, things on the Girl Maggie had taken a turn for the worse, as far as Jo was concerned. She’d stuck her head above the cabin hatch for just a moment as they were leaving the harbour. But even in those calm waters, just a glimpse of the houses on the north shore of the loch swaying to and fro was enough to set her stomach churning.
She’d consulted the large stained chart that sat before her on the table. Though she knew next to nothing about the ways of the sea, she calculated that the alarming change in circumstances aboard coincided with their emergence into the sound. It was plain enou
gh on the chart.
The Girl Maggie lurched in the swell, and with it the journalist’s stomach. She tried to focus on a little copper cooking pot that hung from a nail over the stove, reasoning that orientating herself within the cabin may ease her plight. But this had the opposite effect, and she felt the bile rise in her throat. Thankfully, there was an old bucket close at hand, into which she vomited copiously.
Believing that her symptoms would now ease, she rested her head on the chart table. Unfortunately, this only made matters worse, and in a few moments she was retching again into the bucket.
She remembered a story she’d read about Admiral Lord Nelson. As a young midshipman he’d suffered terrible seasickness, making his first three years or so aboard a manof-war hell. Miserably, Jo tried to console herself that this was a relatively short journey, or so Hoynes had assured her.
Hamish stuck his head through the hatch, his Breton cap defying gravity and remaining attached firmly to his head. ‘How are you faring down below?’ he asked.
Through her misery, Jo managed a retort. ‘That’s a very personal question to ask a young lady.’
Hamish looked startled. ‘Och, I meant . . . I meant no offence. Jeest wondered how you were managing, and the like,’ he stammered, face bright red.
‘It wouldn’t be polite to give a truthful answer.’ Again Jo bent over the bucket.
‘Oh dear!’ Hamish eased his way through the hatch and into the cabin. ‘It’ll be the seasickness you have.’
‘I kinda worked that out for myself.’
‘Och, not tae worry. There’s barely a man – or woman – at sea who takes to it right away. Though, mark you, they say they do. I myself was right seasick when I first landed aboard a vessel. But it soon passed.’
‘How long did it take?’ Jo asked quickly before heaving again.
‘No time at all. Less than a year, at any rate.’
‘Let me die now,’ she groaned, laying her head back on the chart table.
‘I know fine what you require: a nice mug o’ tea. My mother swears by it, a cure-all suitable for every occasion. Personally, I prefer a dram myself, but I do believe women are of a different construction.’
‘So you’ve just noticed?’
Ignoring the barb, Hamish set to and hung the iron kettle above the stove. ‘I’ll make you a brew.’
As her head lolled from side to side on the chart table, the thought of a cup of tea only made Jo feel worse.
Then she had an idea. ‘Thank you, Hamish. I’d love some tea, please.’
‘It’ll set your stomach to rights in no time.’
But just as he was preparing three tin mugs, a loud voice sounded through the speaking tube from the wheelhouse above.
‘Get your backside up here, Hamish. I canna see a thing. We’ll have tae take it slow and check depths.’
‘I’ll need to go back on deck. My goodness, that’s a call dreaded aboard any vessel. It usually only happens in the worst fog. But this snow has the same effect. I’ll be back down directly and make you some tea. But colliding wae the Cock o’ Arran would do us no favours at all.’
‘The cock of who?’ said Jo groggily.
‘Never you mind.’
As his wellington boots disappeared through the hatch, Jo’s heart sank. The prospect of a mug of tea had suddenly become an attractive one, but not perhaps for the reasons Hamish assumed. She laid her head back on the table and tried to will herself not to be sick again.
Hamish whirled the line with the brass end through the air, as though he was about to lasso a horse. At exactly the right moment he let it go, and just like a cast from an expert fly fisherman it disappeared through the heavy snow and landed well to the port side of the Girl Maggie with a thick plop in the unseen swell.
It was eerie, with not a seabird to be heard, or sight of land or sky. The deck of the boat was now garnished with a thick icing of snow. Hoynes peered out from the wheelhouse through a window frosted like a shop from a Dickensian Christmas scene. ‘How’s she looking?’ he shouted to Hamish as he hauled in the line.
‘Aye, we’re okay, Sandy. We’ll have to take it steady, mind. When did you get your last bearing?’
‘Jeest after we passed the island, Hamish. I’m pretty sure we’re on course, but cocooned like this it’s hard to tell if it’s New Year or New York!’
‘I’ll fling the line every few minutes, just to make sure.’
‘Aye, we’ll come across the seabed long before we hit the rocks. But I’m convinced we’re on the mark, tae. Mind you, I’ll take her down to a crawl, jeest in case.’ The tone of the engine lowered as the skipper slowed the craft.
‘It’s jeest like being Jonah – you know, stuck in the belly o’ the whale,’ said Hamish.
‘Damn me, it wisna snowing in there tae, was it?’
‘I’m wondering. Would it no’ be safer to turn roon and go back the way we came? You surely weren’t expecting a blizzard like this when we set off, Sandy?’
‘I listened to two sources of information: the shipping forecast and your predictions. It would appear that both were sadly lacking. As far as turning round, what good would that do us? We could go clattering intae the rest o’ the fleet. I don’t want to be the man responsible for scuppering this emergency mission.’
Hamish nodded sagely at this reasoning.
‘I’m like a block o’ ice, Hamish. You take the wheel a while. Keep her on the current heading unless you have a notion we’re nearing the rocks. I’ll away and warm my backside at the stove and get a mug o’ tea. How’s the lassie doing, by the way?’
‘Och, no’ good at all, Sandy. She’s seasick.’
‘You canna expect much else fae a lassie. It’ll teach her tae be so forthcoming and manipulative in order tae get aboard this vessel in the first place. Right cunning, if ever I saw it.’
‘Will you get her a mug, skipper? I was about to when you asked me to haul the line.’
‘Hopefully that will brighten her up. There’s nothing like tea for altering your outlook on life – aside fae a dram, that is. It’s no’ quite the time tae splice the main brace yet.’ He squinted at the sky. ‘Though that time might come before we get back hame.’
Hoynes left the wheelhouse, to be replaced by Hamish. The skipper held out his gloved hand and almost immediately it gathered a covering of snow. He shook his head and made for the hatch.
12
Jo had managed to make it to the stove. She’d set herself a mug and poured some water into the tin teapot, to which Hamish had already added some tea leaves. She reached into her pocket and found the small packet containing the sugar lumps. She’d have been tempted to forgo the tea and just dissolve one on her tongue, but the thought of it made her stomach churn. She was also bitterly cold, so the warm beverage would be most welcome.
Jo was just about to place the sugar lump in her mug when Hoynes burst through the hatch like a cork fired from a gun. He landed on his feet with a thud, hard enough that he had to bend his knees in order to absorb the impact. Startled, Jo dropped the sugar lump not in her mug, but in the open packet used by the crew.
Hoynes eyed the hatch with disdain. ‘Man, I’ll need tae get that widened. The wood has fair contracted over the years. It’s the effects of salt water, you understand.’
Though the cognitive part of Jo’s brain registered this as nonsense, and it was obvious that, on the contrary, Sandy Hoynes’ waistline had burgeoned, she didn’t have the energy to contradict him. She slumped at the side of the galley, the cabin spinning as though she was on a merry-go-round.
‘Here now, this won’t do, no, not all.’ He caught her under the arms and hefted the seasick journalist into the bottom bunk, normally reserved for his own use. ‘Why don’t you have a wee lie doon and I’ll fetch you some tea. This isn’t quite the jolly you imagined it would be, eh?’
Jo now felt so miserable she could barely muster a reply. She grunted and turned over on her side to see if it would banish her nausea.
Hoynes made for the galley, the curtain that separated it from the rest of the cabin already pulled aside. He placed the kettle back on the hook and soon heard it bubble to the boil. He prepared two mugs, noticing that the young journalist had already laid one out for herself. ‘How many sugars?’ he asked her.
‘Just one, please,’ she replied weakly.
‘This will sort you out. If it doesna, the only place for you is up on deck. You need tae catch sight o’ the horizon. Mind you, right at the moment there’s no horizon tae be seen.’ He reached for the sugar and put four lumps in his own mug, then two for Hamish and one for his stricken passenger. Hoynes stirred the leaves in the tin pot sitting snugly in its little guard nest on the stove.
As he waited for the tea to brew, he reached for the speaking tube. ‘How are we looking, Hamish?’
‘So far, so good,’ came the muffled reply from the wheel-house. ‘But if anything, the snow’s heavier than it was just a couple o’ minutes ago when you went below.’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen the like. I’ll give you a shout when the tea’s brewed. I’ll hand it up through the hatch.’
Satisfied that the brew was sufficiently infused, Hoynes poured the tea into each mug. The sound of tea pouring was always a comfort, the ritual of making it almost as satisfying as the beverage itself. He gave each mug a stir, added some milk from the bottle kept in an ice bucket he’d purloined from the County Hotel, and took a sip from his own mug to make sure all was well.
He tapped Jo on the shoulder. ‘Here, get this doon you, lassie. I hope the next time you’re sitting in your fancy office in Glasgow you’ll take note o’ the desperate conditions us fishermen have to endure. Man o’ man, the whole profession is fair heroic, and no mistake.’
She turned round in the bunk and accepted the mug of tea with trembling hands.
‘I canna see you being in any condition to take photographs and write your piece. Wae this snow, there’s no’ so much tae photograph at the moment.’ He took a sip of his tea thoughtfully. ‘Would you like me tae jot down a few o’ my musings? Jeest tae give you a hand, what wae you in your current plight an’ all.’
A Large Measure of Snow Page 6