‘Whoot a stramash. These good men were good enough tae rescue us fae the Mull. That’s all there is tae it.’
‘That’s no’ whoot I’m hearing,’ said the Harbour Master. ‘And on top o’ that, that polisman Grant has gone missing, and Watson the Fishery Officer’s up at the Cottage Hospital.’
‘Oh, that’s good news, right enough,’ replied Hoynes, nodding at Hamish. ‘He’s a fine fella, that Watson. A wee bit highly strung, mind.’
‘He’s highly strung noo, by all accounts. Arrived at Jackie MacKinnon’s farm at the Pass thonder, covered fae head tae toe in glaur. He’s only spoken two words since.’
‘Was one o’ them “octopus”, by any chance?’ asked Hamish.
‘No, nothing aboot octopuses – jeest “Sandy Hoynes”. That’s a’ he keeps saying, over and over. “Sandy Hoynes”.’
Hoynes stroked his chin. Hamish had an infuriating I-told-you-so look on his face, while Geordie’s hands were shaking so much he was struggling to roll his cigarette. ‘As I say, fair highly strung, the man.’ He looked on as two brawny Russian seamen carried Marshall on a stretcher down the gangplank. ‘Good luck tae you, Mr Marshall. I’m sure that heid o’ yours will be jeest fine in a wee while. The ambulance is on its way.’
‘All oor geese are comin’ hame tae roost at the same time. And we’ve still no’ arranged tae rescue them back at the bothy,’ said Hamish.
‘It’s getting dark noo, Hamish. I’m sure they’ll be fine til the morning.’ Hoynes smiled. ‘It’s chickens, is it no’?’
‘The lifeboat’s away roon’ the Mull. Tae your bothy, Geordie. Watson telt MacKinnon there was a party of folk stranded there by a landslide at the Piper’s Pass,’ said the Harbour Master.
Hoynes thought for a moment. ‘You know, Hamish, the weather’s set fair the morrow. I think we should jeest have a wee nap on the boat, then get oot and get an early start tomorrow.’
‘You mean hide fae Marjorie and Maggie.’
‘Away ye go, nothing of the sort. We’ve got a hell o’ a lot o’ fishing tae catch up on.’
Hoynes and Hamish tried to settle down for the night aboard the Girl Maggie, but there was an unusual amount of activity in the harbour. At one point, Hamish swore that he could hear Marjorie asking about the whereabouts of her husband, but Hoynes said he was imagining things.
After a restless night, Hoynes shook Hamish out of his bunk, pointing to his watch. ‘It’s been light for half an hour. Time we got fired up and back oot tae the fishing. Young Peter will be here directly.’
The fishermen were readying the vessel for sea when they heard someone shouting from the pier above. ‘Is anyone on board?’ The voice was insistent.
Reluctantly, Hoynes poked his head out of the hatch and craned his neck up to the pier, shading his eyes against the early morning sun. ‘Whoot can I do for you?’
‘I’m Timothy Halley from the BBC in Glasgow. Are you Alexander Hoynes?’
‘Eh . . . aye, I am that,’ he replied. ‘But I’ve no time tae talk to the press. I’ve a fishing boat tae skipper.’
‘I hear you had rather an exciting time yesterday,’ shouted Halley.
‘Whoot’s he sayin’?’ asked Hamish from below, cleaning his teeth with an old wooden toothbrush.
‘Och, I widna say it was that exciting. Jeest another day for those o’ us that make oor living at sea.’ Hoynes gestured to his shipmate to be quiet.
‘But weren’t you caught up in some incident between the Russians and the US Navy?’
‘Like I said, nothing we’re not used tae on the ocean. Blown oot o’ all proportion, I’d say.’
‘Nearly like oor backsides,’ observed Hamish, spitting into a metal bucket.
‘I really hope you can share your experience with our viewers, Mr Hoynes.’
‘As I telt you, I’ve a vessel tae get ready for sea. Another time, perhaps. No’ that there’s anything tae talk aboot anyhow.’
‘Oh, that’s a pity, Alexander . . . may I call you that?’
‘You can call me anythin’ you want,’ replied Hoynes.
‘You can be sure everyone else will,’ said Hamish, under his breath.
‘I’ve been authorised to avail you of five pounds for your thoughts, Mr Hoynes.’
Hoynes tilted his head. ‘Five pounds, did you say?’
‘Yes, I have the money here.’ Halley pulled a fiver from his pocket and waved it in the air. ‘Look!’
‘I daresay I could describe the hardship that was put before us yesterday,’ said Hoynes, clearing his throat.
‘Dae you think you’re daein’ the right thing, Sandy?’
‘Wheesht, Hamish, there’s a fiver at stake here, man.’
Five minutes later, the two fishermen were standing in the early morning sunshine on the pier, while a technician fussed around a huge television camera and Halley looked at his notes.
‘So, Mr Hoynes. You’re the skipper of a fishing boat here in Kinloch, am I right?’
‘That’s a fact,’ replied Hoynes.
‘Now, can you tell me what happened to you yesterday? You were rescued by a Russian trawler when out on a small lobster boat with some colleagues?’
‘Yes, yes, we were. And damned grateful we were tae oor Russian freens. A valiant effort, I must say.’
‘My information is that, before you reached the safety of Kinloch harbour, this trawler – your rescuers – was fired upon by an American Naval vessel. Is this true?’
Hoynes paused, then turned his focus from the reporter to the camera, which he fixed with a beady eye. ‘I’m no’ jeest sure where you’re getting a’ this from. But whoot should be being addressed is the disappearance o’ herring in these waters this summer.’
Halley tried to interject, but Hoynes raised his hand to silence him. ‘You see, ladies and gentlemen, a plane’s being tested in the skies o’er Kinloch . . .’
17
The sun shone down on the wedding party as they made their way down the kirk’s long drive and headed towards the town centre and the County Hotel reception.
Duncan Grant, resplendent in his best uniform, complete with white gloves, walked arm-in-arm with his new bride. It was a warm day, and Maggie appeared rather flushed, although whether this was because of the summer temperature or the long shawl that was draped over her shoulders and down her back, it was hard to tell.
Next in line came Sandy Hoynes and Marjorie, alongside Grant’s parents, who had arrived the day before by ferry then bus from the Isle of Skye. Marjorie beamed as she watched her only child walk in front of her with the handsome policeman at her side. ‘She’s right bonnie, is she no’, Sandy?’
‘Aye, bonnie, right enough,’ he said, feeling naked out in public without his skipper’s cap. He patted down his Brylcreemed hair, before searching in the pocket of his best suit for his pipe.
‘Don’t you dare light up that smelly thing,’ said Marjorie with a scowl. ‘You know fine Duncan’s mother’s allergic tae pipe smoke on account o’ her asthma.’
‘But we’re outside, woman. I can understand a body no happy wae smoke at closed quarters in the hoose, but whoot’s the problem when we’re oot here in the fresh air?’
Marjorie fixed him with a stare, and the pipe remained in his pocket. ‘You’ve done a rare job running up that shawl, right enough. Does the job very well,’ remarked Hoynes.
‘Be quiet, you!’ his wife hissed. ‘You’ve nae idea how much persuasion it took tae get her tae wear it in the first place. I’m surprised you noticed anything in the church, whoot wae they puppy-dog eyes you were making at Ina Blackstock.’
‘Ina? Oh, I didna even see her.’
‘Aye, right. You should be payin’ attention tae your daughter on her big day.’
‘She’ll no’ be worried noo, anyhow. Now that the ring’s on her finger, she can let her arse grow, untrammelled. The way you did yoursel’, my love.’ Hoynes pursed his lips, missing the comfort of his pipe.
‘See if this wisna the da
y it is, Alexander Hoynes, I’d belt you roon’ the lug good and proper. I hope you brought your wallet. They’ll be expecting tae get paid at the County.’
‘They better serve up a better dram than they did the last time I was there.’
‘Oh, I’m sure they’ll see to it the local celebrity only gets the best,’ said Marjorie. ‘I don’t know how many times I’ve been stopped in the street in the last week by folk telling me how brilliant my man was on the telly.’
‘You’ve either got it, or you’ve no’. At any rate, they tell me that bloody plane’s away at the end o’ next week. That’s the power o’ the press for you. We’ll maybe get back tae some kind o’ normality at the fishin’ noo.’
‘We better, Sandy, or you an’ me will be as poor as church mice, whoot wae this wedding an’ a’ . . .’
They wedding party turned onto to Main Street, and were soon heading into the County Hotel for the reception.
In the County Hotel, Hamish was savouring his first glass of whisky at the bar, when he was approached by two men. One was dressed in a red shirt with wide trousers and black boots; the other wore a smart dark uniform, adorned with brass buttons and gold braid. ‘How ye daein’?’ he said as they joined him. ‘It’s a fine day for a dram or two.’
‘My friend, Hamish,’ said Pushkov, enveloping the fisherman in a bear hug. ‘I not recognise you with clothes you are wearing.’ He patted the sleeve of Hamish’s suit, a garment that had once belonged to his father, and was hopelessly old-fashioned, as well as being at least two sizes too big.
‘I don’t get the opportunity tae get dressed up much,’ Hamish said, patting down the quiff that was now plastered to one side of his head. ‘Och, but I fair enjoy it when I get the chance. And how are you faring, Captain?’ he enquired, turning to the tall grey-haired man in uniform.
‘I’m enjoying the company of a fellow sailor,’ Captain Walter P Rumsfeld replied. ‘In all these years, I’ve never met a Russian, but I have to say that Vladimir here is a good man. Here’s to friendship.’ Rumsfeld raised a small glass of whisky and clinked glasses with Hamish and Pushkov. ‘Here’s to friendship!’
‘That’s the way it should be. A’ brothers under the skin,’ remarked Hamish, his smile creasing his eyes. ‘Here, I might even get another in.’
Hoynes watched his first mate with a smile. They’d had dinner and, as was the tradition, had heard speeches from the groom and best man – a fellow policeman with whom Duncan Grant was friendly. Now, as was tradition in Kinloch, the father of the bride would say a few words and propose a toast once everyone was a bit more relaxed, the tables had been cleared, and a few drinks had been consumed.
‘Surely you’re no’ nervous,’ said Geordie. ‘A man that’s addressed the nation on the television is surely no’ worried aboot speaking tae his freens and family?’
‘No, no, not at all. I’m jeest taking it a’ in. Marjorie and I thought this day might never come.’
You weren’t alone there, thought Geordie, as he watched the bride and groom circulate among their guests. ‘She’s a lovely bride, right enough. Tell me, whoot’s happenin’ aboot them bottles o’ the clear stuff they pilots had. I hope they know it was nothing tae dae wae us?’
‘A storm in a teacup. Oor Duncan gied them a warning – nae mair than a slap on the wrists. Sure, they’ll be away hame next week, and probably no’ think aboot the whole episode again.’
‘No’ so much thon Marshall. I’m amazed he didna press charges.’
‘He knew fine where his bread was buttered,’ said Hoynes, lighting his pipe. ‘After all, he was the aggressor. He jumped on the man and tried tae get the bottle oot o’ his hands. In any event, there’s nae harm done. The man has a wee scar on his forehead – it’ll jeest make him look mair rakish, like thon Germans wae the duelling scars.’
‘Oh, here we go,’ said Geordie, nudging Hoynes in the ribs, almost making him drop his pipe.
‘Whoot on earth?’
Watson the Fishery Officer was making his way determinedly to their table.
‘This doesna look good,’ said Geordie.
‘Jeest you keep your hand on your ha’penny and let me dae the talking,’ whispered Hoynes as Watson stopped in front of them.
‘Gentlemen,’ he gushed. ‘My, but you’re looking like real gents in these suits.’
‘You’re no’ looking too bad yoursel’, Iain. Will you be having a dram wae us?’ offered Hoynes.
‘I have something to say,’ declared Watson.
‘Can you no’ leave the man alone on his daughter’s wedding day,’ Geordie said accusingly.
‘Now, now, Geordie, let the man speak.’ Hoynes took a hefty swig of his whisky and looked squarely at the Fishery Officer. ‘Spit it oot, man.’
‘I’d just like to say I’m sorry,’ said Watson, causing Geordie to choke on the pint of beer he was drinking.
‘Sorry? Sorry for whoot?’ asked Hoynes.
‘I’ve learned the error of my ways.’ Watson sighed. ‘Up there on the Piper’s Pass . . . I saw him.’
‘Saw who? The piper?’ asked Geordie, his eyes wide.
‘Aye. There he was, blowing away at the pipes, a lovely pibroch, too.’
‘Did you no’ want tae run a mile?’ said Hoynes.
‘No, I did not.’ Watson composed himself. ‘You see, I recognised him.’
There was a brief silence. Geordie’s mouth gaped, while Hoynes puffed furiously at his pipe.
‘The piper was my father, my own father. Dead all these years, but there he was piping away, plain as day.’
‘I didna know your faither played the pipes,’ said Geordie.
‘No, he didn’t. But, man, he was playing a fair tune up there on the pass. That is, before he stopped.’
‘Stopped? Whoot for?’ asked Hoynes.
‘He walked over to me and he said, “Iain, I’m fair affronted by you. For generations oor family went tae the fishing. Noo, you’re the man responsible for making these men’s lives a pure misery.” Well, I didn’t know whoot to say. I jeest sat there frozen to the marrow.’
‘And was that it?’ asked Hoynes.
‘No, it was not. “Make amends,” that’s whoot he said. “Change your life and make amends.” So, that’s why I’m here. I want to apologise to you all. I’ve given up the job – I’m just working a month’s notice, then I’m going to get a wee boat and I’m going to do the lobsters, or the like. A much more honest occupation than the one I’ve been toiling at these last few years.’
Hoynes was about to reply, when his wife tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Come on, you. Less o’ the gabbing. Get this speech o’ yours done, so folk can relax and enjoy the night.’
Hoynes moved to the centre of the bar and tapped his glass with the stem of his pipe. ‘The bride and groom, ladies an’ gentlemen, if I could have your attention for a moment or two. My good lady tells me it’s time I said my piece.’
‘On yoursel’, skipper,’ shouted Hamish. ‘And make it brief, mind.’
‘I’m the proudest faither in the world today. My lovely daughter’s found hersel’ a good, well-doin’ man.’ He looked across at Maggie, who was beaming at him. ‘You took your time – och, but no’ tae the swiftest the victory an’ a’ that.’ He saw Maggie’s smile fade, then cleared his throat. ‘No, no . . . We’ve folk here fae all pairts – Blaan, Machrie – aye, even Moscow an’ the US of A.’ He raised his glass to Pushkov and Rumsfeld. ‘If this day – aye, an’ recent days – reminds me o’ one thing, it’s this: we’re at oor best when we stand together.’ For this there was a smattering of applause. ‘Now, as many of you know, the fishing’s no’ been whoot it was this year. Och, we’ve blamed planes and the like, but I’ve been thinking on it for a while. They tell me there’s mair folk in the world than ever before. So, it stands tae reason that that’ll mean mair folk eating fish. Noo, jeest because there’s mair folk, it doesna follow there’s mair fish . . .’ There was a murmur of agreement. ‘When I started on the boa
ts, we used the ring nets – aye, a battle between the silver fellows and the men who were tryin’ tae catch them – a battle, but a fair yin. Noo, och, they big trawlers – nae disrespect, Vladimir – and soon a’ oor boats will be at the same thing.’ There was silence in the hall. ‘So, I suppose this is a message tae you, Duncan, my new son-in-law.’ He raised his glass. ‘O’er the course o’ married life, you’ll come up against the rocks mair than once – I know I’ve had my fair share o’ rough water . . .’ He looked over at Marjorie, who shook her head with a grin. ‘But here’s whoot I’m saying, Duncan. Bear in mind whoot I’ve jeest said. Be happy wae the catch you’ve got, for even if you’re thinking there’s mair fish in the sea, you’re probably wrong.’ At this, everyone applauded. ‘Tae both o’ you – my beautiful Maggie and big Duncan – here’s tae you. The bride an’ groom!’
Hoynes was about to sit down when he heard a voice. Coming towards him, looking rather unsteady on his feet, came Keacheran the fish merchant, clutching what looked like a jar. ‘Sandy Hoynes, you’ve done Maggie proud – aye, and us all fine the night, wae a great spread and a few drams.’ A cheer ensued. ‘So, by way of thanks, I brought you the leg o’ that octopus you were good enough tae sell me the other day. Knowing how fond I am o’ the creatures, it was good of you. So I marinated a wee bit o’ it, an’ here you are!’
Iain Watson sat open-mouthed as Hamish shrugged and announced, ‘Here’s tae you, skipper! I telt you I’d a bad feeling aboot this.’
A Note from the Author
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank my old friend Andrew Robertson, who comes from a family of Campbeltown fishermen. He kindly helped me to understand the background and feel of fishing in the sixties, based on the experiences and stories of his late father, himself the skipper of the Campbeltown fleet. He followed in those formidable footsteps, becoming a fisherman himself. Few of us can imagine the dangers and discomforts faced by these men in the course of their daily toil. Tragically, many lost, and still lose, their lives. I dedicate this book to those fishermen.
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