A Large Measure of Snow

by Denzil Meyrick

  Provost McMurdo stood at his office window two floors above Main Street. To him the white pathways through the snow looked like the mazes contrived from great hedges at stately homes. He looked on as Andy Galbraith paused to remove his bunnet and scratch his head, wondering just where he was going. McMurdo had a mind to tap the window and guide him from above, but realised that, with Hoynes still missing, his standing with the local population was pretty low. There was no doubt that his idea to send the fishing fleet to Ayrshire in the midst of a blizzard was widely viewed as reckless, to say the least. The old man sensed his gaze and looked up at the office window. McMurdo could only smile politely and pretend he hadn’t noticed the baleful expression on the face of Andy Galbraith.

  He’d been in touch with the Royal Navy, the Coastguard and the harbour masters in both Kinloch and Girvan. The feeling was unanimous: no search could be mounted until the weather eased, and even the forecasters were unsure as to when that might be.

  Miserably, he returned to his desk and took a cigar from a drawer. He knew that someone might arrive and witness his clandestine habit, but he was past caring. He was exhausted, guilt-ridden and at the end of his tether. Having been up all night, with only weak tea as a roborative, his stamina was sorely stretched.

  Though he’d been brought up as a strict Presbyterian, once free from the influence of his overbearing father, in adulthood he’d let religion slide somewhat. But now, in desperation, he bowed his head and prayed that the weather would turn and Hoynes, his boat and crew would be found hale and hearty.

  In the middle of his plea to the heavens, the phone on his desk burst into life. ‘Hello, Provost McMurdo,’ he said wearily.

  ‘It’s Donald Fletcher here. I’m the duty harbour master at Girvan.’

  McMurdo sat straighter in his chair. Could this be the good news he was so desperate to hear? ‘Yes, Mr Fletcher, what can I do for you? What we’re looking for, I hope?’

  ‘Well, I have to be honest, Mr McMurdo. Initially we thought it was the worst news possible.’

  ‘Oh dear!’

  ‘Please, stay calm while I tell you the details.’

  Heart in mouth, McMurdo listened, lighting his cigar as a salve against what might come.

  ‘About two hours ago, a gentleman reported wreckage on a beach just outside Girvan.’

  McMurdo held his head in his hands.

  ‘The timbers were definitely from a boat, but there was something unusual about their construction. They were very black. At first I thought the timbers were fire damaged, but on examination that didn’t appear to be the case.’

  ‘Well, what then?’

  ‘We’ve had Mr Hart the county archaeologist take a look. He’s just called me from a phone box. You’ll remember we had storms a couple of weeks ago. Well, he reckons that these fragments could be hundreds of years old. The theory is they’ve been dislodged from the silt that preserved them by heavy seas. Had it not been for the beach being covered in snow, we may have missed them altogether. Mr Hart thinks he has part of a Viking longship – even part of the prow!’

  ‘Well, yes, that’s very exciting, but it doesn’t help our missing fishing boat, does it?’

  ‘No, I understand that. But the press have a hold of this already, and I didn’t want you coming across tales of wreckage in some misleading report, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘Ah, I see. Very considerate, thank you.’

  ‘But there is a bit of good news, Mr McMurdo. The snow has stopped here, and the sky’s clearing. We’ll begin our search from this end shortly. Shouldn’t be surprised if things will improve in Kintyre quite soon.’

  McMurdo expressed his gratitude and ended the call. At least this was something positive. Though the story about the Viking wreckage he could have done without.

  When he looked out of his office window, Kinloch’s provost was sure that the falling snow looked lighter, the flakes a little smaller and less frequent. He took a deep puff on his cigar and hoped for the best.

  Hamish was now in the bottom bunk where not long ago Sandy Hoynes had thought himself to be a lobster. His head was aching, and he was still slightly disoriented. But Jo was clucking over him like a mother hen, supplying him with tea and even a large chunk of cheese with bread.

  ‘You don’t have tae fuss,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ve a hard heid, you know.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that. Now drink your tea while it’s hot,’ replied Jo.

  ‘For the life of me, I canna remember how I fell. I’m usually quite sure-footed.’

  As it was clear Hamish had no memory of falling due to their tussle over her bag, Jo felt it prudent not to enlighten him. ‘Don’t fret about it. Just rest and get yourself back together.’

  ‘I’m fretting o’er Sandy. Are you sure he’s fit to be up in the wheelhouse?’

  ‘He’s fine, quite back to normal.’

  ‘And he doesna think he’s a lobster – or any other crustacean, come to that?’

  ‘No, he’s right as rain.’

  With that, Hoynes boots appeared through the hatch, shortly followed by their owner.

  ‘Skipper! How are you faring?’

  ‘Aye, I’m fine.’

  ‘No notions o’ shellfish at all?’

  ‘Eh?’ Hoynes looked bewildered.

  ‘Och, never mind. It’s good to see you back at the helm.’ Hamish paused. ‘The weather must have improved. We’ve got a fair shake on, by the sound o’ they engines.’

  ‘It’s light, at least, but still snowing.’

  ‘But you’re ploughing on?’ Hamish looked at Jo with a worried expression.

  ‘I canna spend much time chewing the fat o’er this. But suffice it tae say I had an encounter with another mariner just before dawn. He put me right in terms of direction and the like.’

  ‘No doubt he had radar or some such contraption?’

  Hoynes inclined his head in thought. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘So how did he know what directions tae gie you? Maybe news from the Coastguard on the radio?’

  ‘Och, Hamish, man. You took a right dunt on the heid, for certain sure. He was a Viking. Men like that don’t need the likes o’ radio and radar. They could navigate all the way tae Greenland wae jeest a glance at the sky, and perhaps identify a bird or two on the way.’ Hoynes shook his head. ‘I’ll need tae get back tae the wheelhouse. Just checking you were still in the land o’ the living.’ With that, he forced himself through the hatch and disappeared back on deck.

  ‘Help me up!’ wailed Hamish.

  ‘You should stay where you are!’ said Jo.

  ‘The skipper’s been talking tae Vikings. I’ll have tae get up there and talk sense intae him!’

  Jo helped Hamish to his feet and, with his arm over her shoulder, they staggered to the hatch.

  ‘If I can get up on that chair, I’ll make it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It’s that or a watery grave. Which dae you fancy?’

  Jo rushed to get the chair.

  23

  With Jo’s help, Hamish managed to manoeuvre himself through the hatch and onto the deck. The snow was deeper than ever, reaching almost halfway up his wellington boots, but he reckoned that even though the visibility was still awful, at least the flakes had reduced in size. For Hamish, this was a sure sign that the general situation was improving. Though he was dismayed to note that the Girl Maggie was hammering on at not far off her top speed. A great plume of black smoke belching from the thin funnel attached to the side of the wheelhouse bore testament to this.

  Hoynes was at the wheel, pipe gripped between his teeth, staring grimly into the white wall of falling snow.

  Though his head was thumping, Hamish realised that it was prudent to take a circuitous route in terms of expressing any concerns about their present rate of travel. Hoynes, at the best of times, was a man over-proud of his skills as a mariner. But Hamish wasn’t convinced that the advice of a passing Viking should be followed und
er these circumstances – or any circumstances, come to that.

  ‘You’ve got a fair head o’ steam on, skipper. Man, we must be hitting near ten knots.’

  ‘Aye, despite the snow, the boat’s sailing like a dream. A wee bit low in the water, mind you, but that’s tae be expected, what wae a’ this weight we’re carrying. Heavier than a hold filled tae the brim wae fish, Hamish.’

  Hamish swallowed hard before making a suggestion. ‘Sandy, dae you no’ think we should haul her back a fraction? It’s hellish hard tae see anything. Visibility must be only a few yards, and that’s no’ telling you o’er much.’

  Hoynes removed the pipe from between his teeth and addressed his first mate in a restrained, but determined manner. ‘I’ve been set a course by a man who knew fine what he was at. I’ve nae reason at all tae doubt the information. My, if you’d seen him yourself, you’d be fair ploughing on like I am.’

  Hamish cleared his throat. ‘Sandy, you’ve no’ been yourself in the last wee while.’

  ‘No’ myself? What on earth are you blethering aboot?’

  ‘It kind o’ began when you saw fit tae chase thon giant lobster aboot the deck wae a boat hook. Something wisnae jeest quite right, you understand.’

  ‘And what did I do then? Maybe a pirouette roon the stern?’

  ‘No, no’ quite, Sandy. In fact, you ended up thinking you were a lobster yourself. Fair snapping your fingers together like claws, you were. I managed tae get a few words from you aboot it all, but maybe we should consign that to the past.’

  Hoynes looked at Hamish in disbelief. ‘I can see a lump the size o’ a duck egg emerging through what’s left o’ your hair. You need to get yourself back doon intae the warmth o’ that bunk.’

  ‘There’s no need tae be so personal,’ said Hamish, who was most self-conscious that his hair wasn’t as lustrous as it once had been.

  ‘I’ve been on the water since I was a babe in arms. When the old king was no more than a midshipman. Aye, and I’ve sailed under some o’ the best skippers there’s ever been. Not tae mention my own late lamented faither. He could navigate his way tae Mars if the equipment was available tae perform such a journey.’

  They were both startled by the sound of a massive gull squawking loudly as it swept over the vessel.

  ‘That must be the biggest seagull I’ve yet tae set eyes on,’ said Hamish. ‘A junior albatross, I shouldna be surprised.’

  ‘No such thing. An albatross has an altogether different cant tae its wings, and an entirely different beak. Man, Hamish, your ornithological observation leaves a lot tae be desired, and you a man o’ the sea. I’ll tell you what it is.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a sign. My Viking friend telt me that it would arrive in good time.’

  The gull was now flying a few feet above and to the front of the Girl Maggie. It wheeled in the air and Sandy Hoynes spun the wheel to follow its course.

  ‘There we are. Good as gold. Och, we’ll be in Girvan before you can say, “Old McKirdy’s a right miserable bugger.”’

  ‘Sandy, as first mate of this vessel, I must register my opposition to your present course o’ action!’

  Hoynes pursed his lips and glared at Hamish. ‘You try any o’ that Fletcher Christian stuff and I’ll gie you another dunt on the heid wae this boat hook. I’m the captain o’ this vessel. No jeest that, I’m its owner intae the bargain. One day you’ll have your own boat to command. In the meantime, pipe doon and away and get me a hot mug o’ tea. Fair parched, I am.’

  Hamish shrugged and made his way back through the hatch and into the cabin.

  ‘Any luck?’ said Jo.

  ‘Are you a religious person at all?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘No, not particularly. Why?’

  ‘Well, if I was you, I’d try to find some o’ it as quick as you can muster. For not only are we following the nautical suggestions o’ a Viking, we’re now taking the navigational advice o’ a gull.’

  ‘That’s not good, is it?’

  ‘Aye, you could put it in those terms. Then again, you could be much mair strident.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘We get some life jackets on, go up on deck, brace ourselves and hope for the best.’

  First of all, the skies over Kinloch brightened slightly, although the snow still fell. But soon it began to slow, and before long only the odd small flake added to the great mounds of white that covered the place.

  In his office, McMurdo looked to the sky, relief spread across his face. He knew that they were a long way from finding the Girl Maggie and her crew, but at least this was a start. Soon, perhaps, they could launch a search in earnest.

  He was about to call the harbour master when a tiny square of blue sky appeared through the snow clouds. It sent a shaft of light onto the street below that would have looked heavenly had it not been for the fact that it landed on the town clerk as he made his way back from Michael Kerr’s with some bacon rolls.

  Within the space of a quarter of an hour, phone calls were made, and McMurdo sat back at his desk with a strong cup of tea, savouring the taste and smell of crispy bacon. Lifeboats from Kinloch and Girvan had been launched, and a Royal Navy destroyer was steaming down the Clyde to assist with the search.

  Kinloch’s provost closed his eyes in a silent prayer. Hoynes was a rather prickly man to deal with, and a highly vocal member of the community who often disagreed with the decisions of the town council, but at this very moment there was no other face he’d rather see.

  24

  Hamish and Jo were now huddled on deck in stout yellow lifejackets. Hoynes stared at them from the wheelhouse with barely disguised contempt. ‘For the life o’ me, I canna understand why two almost sensible folk would choose tae shiver on deck when there’s a nice warm cabin below.’

  ‘Because we want tae be ready tae dive intae the sea if you hit they rocks,’ said Hamish, quite mutinous now. He was, though, slightly taken aback by the big gull. It had held its position above the bow and was flapping as determinedly as ever, with what seemed to Hamish like clear intent. But such was the mood of the Girl Maggie’s first mate at this time of great anxiety that he saw the intent as malign, perhaps even murderous in nature.

  Jo, who’d been watching him stare at the bird, cocked her head. ‘They say that animals and birds have a sixth sense that we don’t have.’

  ‘Fish don’t. They’re right stupid creatures,’ Hamish replied.

  ‘But that’s not a flying fish, it’s a gull. Looks to me as though it knows what it’s about.’

  Hamish looked taken aback. ‘I’m no’ quite sure jeest what has got into you and the skipper. But whatever it is, I wish it would desist.’

  ‘No, honestly, you read about these things all the time. In fact we covered a story in the paper last year. A man out swimming somewhere off Mull got out of his depth. He was tiring, trying to make for the shore with the tide against him. Out of nowhere this pod of dolphins surrounded him and pushed him to the shore. You know, like a strong wind.’

  ‘Sounds mair to me like strong drink was involved, if you don’t mind me saying. I read the other day that they’d have men walking on the moon before the decade is oot. Sheer nonsense! Look at the state we’re in, and that’s on account of a bit of snow between Kinloch and Girvan. Imagine the horrors they’d encounter on the way tae the moon.’

  ‘They’ll make it, don’t you worry.’

  ‘Aye, they’ll make it up, likely. Some clever studio in Hollywood will pitch in and make gullible folk believe anything. It’s all jeest one-upmanship wae they Russians.’

  Jo grabbed Hamish’s arm. ‘Look!’ she said, pointing upwards.

  Sure enough, a small patch of blue had appeared amongst the snow clouds. It was tiny, but seemed to be growing. The snow, too, was turning into nothing more than a flurry.

  ‘Sandy!’ shouted Hamish. ‘The weather’s clearing.’

  Hoynes stuck his head from the wheelhouse and stared at the patch
of blue. ‘Aye, and you wae no faith in Vikings – or gulls, come tae that.’

  With that, the gull soared away and was soon lost in what was left of the cloud.

  ‘Bugger,’ said Hoynes under his breath.

  ‘Land ahoy!’ shouted Hamish. He was sharper-eyed than Hoynes, for soon a great white loom that definitely wasn’t sea or sky began to appear through the tiny specks of snow.

  ‘Ach,’ said Hoynes, ‘there we are. That’s the hill that overlooks Girvan harbour, if I’m no’ much mistaken.’

  A shaft of bright sunlight suddenly broke through the clouds, illuminating the ghostly land like some huge spotlight.

  ‘Never mind the hill at Girvan, Sandy. We’re at the mouth o’ the loch.’

  ‘Which loch?’ Hoynes looked on with a puzzled expression.

  ‘Our ain – Kinloch – can you no’ see it, man?’

  As Hoynes stared, his eyes widened. Sure enough, the island at the head of the loch was to his left, the red and green buoys marking the channel into the their home port.

  ‘Wow!’ said Jo.

  ‘It’s a miracle,’ Hamish remarked.

  ‘It’s no surprise tae me at all,’ said Hoynes. He slowed the Girl Maggie and made his way confidently between the buoys, taking time to tamp some tobacco into his pipe and puff it into life with two flaring matches.

  ‘What dae you mean, “no surprise”? You thought we were just about tae make port at Girvan!’ said Hamish.

  ‘I was just having you on. Man, you’re a serious cove, right enough. It would be madness to have stayed on course for Girvan. Jeest ask Hona.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Hona the Viking. I’m sure I told you all about it.’

  As the crew of the Girl Maggie argued back and forth, Jo disappeared. A few minutes later, she popped back up through the hatch, this time with her camera. It looked huge in her small hands as she framed shots and snapped away. ‘What a story this is going to make!’ she exclaimed, as Kinloch came into view at the end of the bay.