Empty Nets and Promises

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Aye, me tae.’ Peter smiled back. Things were going better than he’d expected.

  ‘And would you agree that friends help each other, Peter?’

  ‘Aye, aye, I wid, Mr Watson.’

  The Fishery Officer stared silently at the moon for a few moments. ‘Glad to hear it. So, with that friendship in mind, here’s what I want you to do for me . . .’

  6

  ‘Well, would you look at that. An octopus. You don’t see many o’ them in these waters, eh, Hamish?’

  ‘No, that you don’t. It’ll fetch a pretty penny fae auld Keacheran. They tell me he sends exotic stuff like that to Glasgow, and it ends up on the best tables in London.’

  ‘Poor recompense for the lack o’ herring.’

  ‘Och, but at least we caught something, Sandy.’

  The Girl Maggie was sitting on a gentle swell south-east of the Isle of Arran. The day had been milky warm – even out at sea. They had fallen upon a small shoal of herring and picked up other bits and pieces, including the unfortunate octopus, in a catch that would have seemed on the slim side only a few months ago, but was now enough to raise spirits on the vessel.

  ‘Whoot are you up tae, Peter?’ asked Hamish. ‘We’ve no’ had a peep oot o’ you all day.’

  ‘Nothing, jeest taking notes,’ muttered the young fisherman.

  ‘Notes on whoot?’ asked Hoynes.

  ‘Och, you know, places we fish and where we get the best chances o’ a catch. I’ve tae go tae college in Glesca for a whiles in November, so this is the kind o’ stuff they’re after. Jeest tae make sure you’re learning on the job.’

  ‘A college for the fishing – whootever next,’ remarked Hamish. ‘They’ll be sending nurses tae university before you know it.’

  ‘You’ll likely need letters after your name tae empty the bins, the way things are going,’ added Hoynes. ‘Still, at least you’ve got something tae write doon the day, so that’s a bonus – for us all.’

  ‘Can you tell me the weight o’ they fish, skipper?’

  ‘My, you’re the keen one, right enough, Peter. If you hang on until we get back, you can take the weight from the scales on the pier. It’s good tae see a young man so involved in learning his trade.’ Hoynes smiled and sent a puff of pipe smoke heavenward.

  ‘The weather’s tae break on Wednesday. Did you hear it on the wireless there?’ said Hamish.

  The two older men exchanged a glance.

  ‘Well, that will be as good a day as any,’ said Hoynes.

  ‘A good day for what?’ enquired Peter, sensing there was something afoot.

  ‘Och, ne’er you mind. Jeest you keep your nose in that jotter. And while you’re at it, you can leave oot any mention o’ that octopus. I’m sure me and Keacheran can dae a wee sale on the side wae that creature,’ said Hoynes, rubbing his hands.

  ‘A sale on the side? What’s that when it’s at home?’

  ‘That’s fae the advanced course they’ll likely no’ teach you at college, Peter. Time enough for you tae learn that. Whoot do you say, Hamish?’

  ‘As the bard would say himsel’, there are more things in heaven, earth and fishing boats than are dreamt o’ in your philosophy,’ replied Hamish sagely.

  ‘My, but was he no’ a clever one, thon Shakespeare. Though I’d nae idea he’d been at the fishing,’ said Hoynes with a wink.

  As his crewmates laughed to themselves, Peter carefully jotted down the word ‘octopus’ at the back of his jotter, alongside the date and time.

  Duncan and Maggie were strolling along Kinloch’s esplanade. It had been a hot day at the police office, with the narrow gaps under the crumbling old sash windows letting in little of the scant breeze. The evening was mercifully cooler, and Duncan was enjoying being out in the fresh air, the waft of Maggie’s perfume adding a pleasing note to the tang of the sea.

  ‘Not long now, love,’ he said, glancing at his intended.

  ‘No,’ said Maggie. ‘Just the show of presents to get through. And then there’s your stag night . . .’

  ‘A few drinks with your father, Hamish and some of the boys – I wouldn’t exactly call it a stag night, Maggie.’

  She stopped and looked up at him, holding both of his hands in hers. ‘You don’t know what they’re like, Duncan. It’s a kind of tradition here – amongst the fishermen – when one of their own gets hitched. Oh, they have a bit of a carry-on, all together.’

  ‘I’m not one of their own, though. Don’t worry, they’ll not get up to any high jinks with me.’ He smiled reassuringly.

  ‘That’s what they all say.’ Maggie was chewing her lip. ‘They shaved off Norrie Maclean’s eyebrows. He looked like something out of a waxworks on his wedding day. And big Tommy McMichael nearly missed his big day altogether.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘They tied him to a lamppost – he was there all night, and it set off his pleurisy. He looked like a ghost in front of the minister. They had to have oxygen on standby. Poor wee Sheena was bawling all through the service.’

  ‘Maggie, trust me. Nothing like that’s going to happen to me. I’m more than a match for your father and his cronies. In any case, there’ll be a squad of my men there, so relax.’

  She looked away. Across the loch the throaty putter of the Gardiner diesel engine heralded the arrival of her father’s boat as it made its way into harbour. ‘There’s the old bugger there,’ she said.

  ‘Oh aye. And trailing some gulls – they must have a decent catch for once.’

  ‘They’re up to something, Duncan.’ She grabbed his hands again. ‘Something to do with a plane. I wouldn’t be surprised if you ended up on Islay, or maybe even darkest Africa. That lot are capable of anything!’

  ‘What do you mean, a plane?’

  ‘Just that. I heard Hamish and my father on Saturday night. They were plotting something, no doubt about it. I know them better than you, remember.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ said Duncan. Then he remembered his conversation with Semple. ‘Surely they’re not sending the stuff out by plane,’ he said out loud before realising it.

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing at all. Just thinking about a case. It was when you mentioned a plane.’ He stared across the loch. Sure enough, there was Sandy Hoynes at the prow of the Girl Maggie, puffs of pipe smoke billowing out behind him.

  7

  As it turned out, the following Wednesday was exactly as forecast. Rain pelted Kinloch, aided and abetted by a strong westerly gale, which kept mariners and aviators alike away from their toil.

  Sandy Hoynes was standing beside Hamish and a slightly built man with a squint at the bar of the Douglas Arms. The hostelry was busy, with a fair number of land-bound fishermen taking advantage of the day off to enjoy a dram or two.

  ‘No’ a sign o’ they pilots, Hamish. Isn’t it jeest typical – the way oor luck’s been playing o’er the last while, and no mistake.’

  ‘Och, Sandy, but you’re a right pessimist. I telt you, I had that dream last night – we’ll meet them today, right here. There’s nae doubt aboot it.’

  ‘Fortunately I have faith in your prescience, Hamish. But I could still do wae another wee sensation – jeest tae keep the spirits up. Is it no’ your round, Geordie?’

  The man with the squint turned; he appeared to take in both Hoynes and Hamish at the same time before reaching into his pocket. ‘Is it no’ enough you’re commandeering my wee bothy and my Land Rover? You want me tae buy drinks, tae.’

  ‘We’ve filled her up wae diesel, Geordie. Aye, and this wee scheme will be an advantage tae you as well. You’ve caught less than us o’er the last few weeks,’ noted Hamish.

  ‘I don’t deny it. If I hadna kept they sheep an’ that oot at Glen Brackie, I don’t know how we’d have made ends meet.’

  ‘It’s a hell o’ a trek, mind,’ said Hoynes. ‘I’m no’ sure I’d want tae dae that every day, especially efter a hard day at sea. Off tae look efter sheep and the
like. You’ve got a big heart, Geordie.’

  ‘You know fine I widna manage it mysel’. Beth does a lot o’ that – unless the weather’s the way it is today. She doesn’t like running the risk o’ the Piper’s Pass in heavy rain.’

  ‘The Piper’s Pass is as safe as hooses. I canna mind the last time there was a landslide,’ said Hamish.

  ‘Easy for you tae say. Her grandfaither was crushed under it in nineteen forty-seven. Every time there’s any heavy rain, she’ll no’ go anywhere near it. Jeest as well we’re on this mission the day. I’d have tae have gone oot in any event.’

  ‘Ten miles o’ rough tracks, then a pile o’ auld sheep for company. As I say, you’ve got a big heart, Geordie.’

  Geordie paid for the drinks and sighed. ‘It’s no’ all bad. The wee bothy is cosy enough once you get the fire set. Everything you need. I’ve even got a wireless, so it’s no’ much different fae being in the wheelhoose. I get a brew goin’, get a bite on the wee stove, and sit back. Not a soul tae bother you, herself back in the toon, the gas lamps flickering wae the firelight – it’s fair relaxing.’

  ‘No’ if the Piper’s Pass comes doon on your heid,’ remarked Hamish, taking the first sip of his fresh dram.

  ‘It’s happened once since I had the place – well, since I’ve been married tae Beth, it coming fae her family.’

  ‘Was that in fifty-six, Geordie?’ asked Hoynes.

  ‘Aye, it was that. Fortunately, it was Davy, Beth’s brother who’d gone oot. We’d had tae put in at Sanda, if you mind. Hellish weather, all together. Beth widna consider it, so he stepped intae the breach.’

  ‘An’ him busy at the bank all day, tae,’ said Hamish.

  ‘But the crofting’s still in his blood. Mark you, he hasna offered since.’

  ‘Are you surprised?’ said Hoynes. ‘Was he no’ stranded for near a week?’

  ‘He was that. It was the worst week o’ gales anyone can remember. We managed tae get the lifeboat intae the wee bay at Caribeg and got him hame. He’d been eating limpets, the poor bugger. Near lost the will tae live.’

  ‘At least it didna fall on his heid,’ said Hamish.

  ‘No, but he didna miss it by much. Maybe aboot half an hour. He heard the roar as the hillside collapsed, mind. Aye, and the piper, tae.’

  ‘That’s jeest an auld wife’s tale,’ scoffed Hoynes. ‘It was likely the wind whistling through the eaves o’ that bothy o’ yours.’

  ‘Indeed it was not,’ said Geordie indignantly. ‘He even named the tune – “The Flooers O’ The Forest”. You can ask him to this day.’

  The three of them stood in silence, contemplating the plight of the stranded man. Their musings were interrupted when the door burst open to reveal two men, rain running off their slate-grey raincoats in rivulets.

  ‘A pint of your very best, landlord!’ shouted the taller of the two, as they shrugged off their soaking garments. ‘And a drink for the bar, while you’re at it,’ he added, spreading his coat over a radiator.

  Amidst the clamour of orders, Hoynes winked at Hamish. ‘No’ slow wae a dram, right enough. The game’s on, my freens.’

  Watson the Fishery Officer and Marshall, the stony-faced Collector from Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise, sat opposite Sergeant Grant in Kinloch Police Office.

  ‘My information is that it’s to be today. Whatever they’re up to, that is,’ said Watson. ‘We have to strike while the iron’s hot, Duncan. I know this is difficult for you, under the circumstances, but the law is the law, and I’m sure you’re more than aware of the seriousness of all this.’

  ‘Difficult – why so?’ queried Marshall.

  ‘The sergeant here has a personal connection to Mr Hoynes . . . sir,’ replied Watson obsequiously.

  ‘The fact that I’m just about to marry Sandy Hoynes’ daughter makes absolutely no difference, Mr Watson. If a crime is being committed, my duty is clear. I’ll not flinch from it,’ said Grant.

  ‘And it better had remain that way, Sergeant,’ replied Marshall. ‘There’s a lot of interest in this case at Customs House in Glasgow. Make no mistake, everyone is taking this smuggling issue very seriously indeed. Careers may depend upon it. I hope I make myself clear?’ He raised his eyebrows for emphasis.

  ‘You needn’t worry about me,’ replied Watson. ‘I’ve been after Sandy Hoynes for a long time. I’ve never been able to pin anything on him – slippery as an eel – but we’ve got him this time. Dealing in octopuses now, would you believe.’

  ‘I’m less worried about the creatures of the deep and more about other matters,’ said Marshall.

  Watson stood. ‘I have it on very good authority that Hoynes and his sidekick are meeting with someone today. A plot is on the go. This very afternoon.’

  ‘They are currently holed up in the Douglas Arms. I have one of my officers making discreet observations, as you requested, Mr Marshall. But I need to know more.’

  ‘If our information is correct, they are meeting people with access to a plane. We can only assume that this is with a view to transporting Plain British Spirit out of bond, illicitly, to another destination. We already know that this stuff has made its way to Ayrshire.’ Marshall looked the policeman in the eye. ‘This is where it ends.’

  Grant thought for a moment or two. Did he suspect that his prospective father-in-law may not exactly adhere to the rulebook when it came to fishing? Yes. Did he think he was smuggling large quantities of illegal booze? No. He thought about Maggie, the wedding, and just how difficult this was likely to make their nuptials. He had no choice. ‘Of course, my resources are at your disposal. I’ve already talked to my chief constable about this, so Argyll Constabulary is ready to participate in any way you see fit.’

  ‘Excellent, Sergeant,’ replied Marshall, a gleam in his eye. ‘Now all we have to do is watch and wait.’

  Hoynes and his first mate, followed by Geordie, sidled up to the bar and introduced themselves to the pilots.

  ‘They tell me you both served in the war. I’m privileged to say I did myself,’ said Hoynes, his chest swelling.

  ‘I was in Spits, but Bertie here was part of the lumbering squad.’ He winked at his colleague.

  ‘Lumbering, Ralph? Remember the parable of the tortoise and the hare, my friend,’ joked Bertie. ‘All very well for you chaps looping the loop and showing off with victory rolls. When it came to beating Jerry in his own backyard it was left to us.’

  ‘Touché.’

  ‘But things must be very different noo,’ remarked Hamish. ‘I mean that great beast you’re flying jeest noo – can you imagine whoot they Nazis wid have done wae such a contraption?’

  ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about. If Jerry had managed to get a march on us with jet fighters – and they damn nearly did – the war would have had a very different outcome,’ said Ralph, suddenly looking very serious.

  Hoynes puffed at his pipe thoughtfully. ‘I’m a seafarer, as you know. Served wae the RNR as a petty officer. I’m no’ much good when it comes tae science, an’ that.’

  ‘Spit it out, Sandy,’ said Bertie. ‘Another dram?’

  ‘Och, I don’t mind if I do. Very kind, very kind, indeed.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Hamish, raising his glass.

  As Bertie got the drinks in, Hoynes addressed Ralph. ‘I was wondering how come that aircraft of yours makes such a bloody racket?’

  ‘No magic to it. As we go past the sound barrier – the speed at which sound can travel – that barrier breaks on the nose of the crate. That’s putting it simply, of course. It’s a wonderful piece of engineering.’

  ‘It would be mair wonderful if they could shut it up a wee bit,’ observed Hamish.

  The little group of drinkers savoured the first sips of their whisky before the conversation resumed.

  ‘So how long wid it take you to get to New York?’ asked Geordie. ‘I’ve got a cousin there I would love tae visit one day.’

  ‘From here? Oh, if we were going full tilt and given a dece
nt wind we could be there in four hours,’ said Bertie.

  ‘Four hours tae New York?’ spluttered Hoynes. ‘It takes six hoors on the bus tae get tae Glesca!’

  ‘They’ll never fly it that fast with passengers, mind you,’ Bertie continued. ‘But our job is to test it to the limit.’

  ‘There’ll come a day when folk will be stayin’ here in Kinloch an’ working in America, or even Australia. It’s all mapped oot, if you care tae think aboot it,’ said Hamish.

  ‘You boys must be remarkable pilots, right enough.’ Hoynes tapped his pipe out in a glass ashtray. ‘I’m thinking there won’t be very many of you about?’

  ‘With supersonic experience? I should say not,’ replied Ralph. ‘A dozen, maybe fifteen.’

  ‘Are they all oot at the base at Machrie?’

  ‘No, not at all. I meant in the whole world. We’re a rare breed, aren’t we, Bertie?’

  ‘That we are.’

  Hamish looked at Hoynes and winked. Rare breeds like these would be sadly missed – even if it was only for a short while. Time enough to attract the world’s attention to the plight of Kinloch’s herring fishermen.

  8

  The three women sat in the Hoynes’ living room, nursing cups of tea. The fuller figures of Marjorie and Maggie bookended a birdlike woman, with a tiny face and hair scraped back in a scraggy bun.

  ‘He canna hauld his drink. The least wee tipple an’ he’s singing like a bird,’ griped Geordie McCallum’s wife Beth. ‘You jeest have tae be careful how you go aboot getting any sense oot o’ him.’

  ‘If they think they’re going to spirit my Duncan off they can think again. That’s not going to happen.’ Maggie lifted her chin and stared from one woman to the other. ‘He’s finishing early today, and we’re going to get him a suit for the honeymoon.’

  ‘You better hope he’s no’ finished already and doon the Douglas Arms wae that faither o’ yours.’ Beth shook her head to emphasise the seriousness of their predicament. ‘They’re taking someone tae oor wee bothy – who else could it be, Maggie? Aye, an’ whoot’s goin’ tae happen afterwards?’