‘Could we no’ borrow the money?’ the boy asked miserably.
The mate looked down at him cynically. ‘Who from?’
In his wheelhouse the Skipper looked out over the crowded water: smart steamers, cargo boats loading busily, the river patrol. A hooter called a challenge, and another answered from downstream. The huge cranes swung steadily to and fro. The river was alive with success.
The Skipper turned heavily towards the deck and climbed with McGregor up the ladder to the wharf. A seagull, momentarily disturbed, fluttered from the rail and perched disrespectfully a few yards away. Without speaking the Skipper started up the hill towards the town, and, like a funeral procession, his crew prepared to follow.
At first, as he climbed the hill and passed the pub, they could not even guess his intention. The boy thought that he must be wandering at random to wear out his depression, but the mate and the engineman, who had known him longer, guessed that some dark scheme was already turning in that agile brain. Crises were part of their daily life, and they had never seen the Skipper floored by one for long. But they were surprised when he stopped before the CSS offices.
They stood beside him looking through the plate-glass window at a neat model of a cargo vessel, framed photographs of impressive-looking ships, and beyond, to the reception hall and smart modern offices of the shipping company. They looked in wonder at a world so far removed from theirs that it was as incredible as any palace in an Arabian Night’s tale. Behind them was the world they knew – rattling trams, errand boys, dock workers in dungarees: only a mile away their own Maggie lay, her rusted hulk on the oily waters of the Clyde. But here was wealth. They turned away, embarrassed, as a lady secretary eyed them severely.
In a sordid doorway they held an impromptu conference. The mate said, with a note of admiration, ‘Ye’re not going in there – to bait old Campbell?’
‘Why not?’ The Skipper was plainly not as confident as he would have liked to be. ‘We can offer him a quarter share in the Maggie for three hundred pounds . . .’
McGregor asked, ‘What about Sarah?’
‘I could say my sister has a – a sort of share in the boat, but it’s a family concern and I’m acting on her behalf.’
McGregor nodded doubtfully. ‘Aye . . . aye . . . It’s a gude idea.’
They moved with a brave show of confidence up the street and through the revolving doors into the reception hall, which was even larger and more luxuriously furnished than had appeared from the street. Some of the employees, smartly-dressed men and elegant young ladies, were just going to lunch. Two CSS officers, recognising the Skipper, grinned as they passed.
‘Good morning.’ The manager’s secretary floated before them like a cool and efficient fairy. ‘Can I help you?’
The Skipper said sturdily, ‘We’d like to speak wi’ Mr Campbell.’
She glanced towards a door marked ‘MANAGER, Private’ which only partly excluded the sound of voices raised in irritated argument. She said, ‘Well, I’m afraid Mr Campbell’s engaged at the moment. And he’s already late for a luncheon appointment. But if you’d care to wait . . .’
McGregor stepped forward aggressively. ‘We canna afford to wait long. We’ve no time to waste.’
At this moment the manager’s door opened, and Campbell, a middle-aged, humorous-looking Scot, came out of the office, carrying a hat and overcoat. He said to the secretary, ‘Telephone and say I’m on my way . . .’ He put on his coat and turned irritably back to the open doorway of his office.
‘You’ve heard what Captain Jamieson says, Mr Pusey. His ship won’t be ready before tomorrow night. We’ve no other vessel available.’
‘Mr Campbell, if you’ll wait just one moment: I’m getting through now.’ Pusey, who was standing by the desk with the telephone in one hand, was a well-dressed, humourless, extremely nervous Englishman. At his elbow Captain Jamieson watched with stolid patience. Pusey complained petulantly, ‘Mr Marshall’s not going to like this. Mr Marshall can be a very impatient man . . .’
‘Impatient or not,’ Campbell said, ‘I’m afraid . . .’ He beckoned to Captain Jamieson. ‘See if you can get me a taxi.’
As Jamieson crossed the reception hall he looked curiously at the crew of the Maggie and grinned, but he had no time to talk. Pusey was shouting into the receiver, ‘Hello! World International Airways? It’s Mr Pusey here! Will you put me through to Mr Marshall, please. Yes, I’m phoning from Glasgow.’ Campbell looked at his watch, shrugged his shoulders, and moved out into the reception hall. With his attention divided between Pusey and his luncheon appointment he hardly noticed the Skipper, who had come cautiously to his elbow.
‘Mr Campbell, if ye could spare us a moment.’
Campbell looked at him distractedly and then away again as Pusey shouted: ‘Yes, I’ll hold on.’ Pusey put his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Campbell. ‘The cargo should have gone to Kiltarra days ago. Mr Marshall has two architects and any number of builders waiting. I’m sure Mr Marshall would pay the highest rates if the Captain could see his way to . . .’ He held the telephone to attention. ‘Mr Marshall? Pusey here, sir.’
As Campbell hesitated in irritation, the Skipper, prompted by a gesture from McGregor, cleared his throat. ‘Mr Campbell, sir . . .’
Pusey was saying, ‘No, it hasn’t. Well, there’s been a further delay, Mr Marshall. It’s the shipping agency. They say . . .’
‘Mr Campbell, sir, there’s a matter of business we’d like to discuss wi’ ye. If ye can spare . . .’
Campbell gave a harassed smile. ‘I’m sorry, MacTaggart. I simply haven’t the time. If you’ll come back this afternoon after three.’
Inside the office Pusey was complaining, ‘But I’ve tried everything, Mr Marshall . . . There simply isn’t a boat of any description available for charter . . .’
Campbell raised his hands in a gesture of resignation and hurried out to the waiting taxi.
For a moment the Skipper was nonplussed. He didn’t want to lose Campbell, but his canny Scots brain had already registered the nervous Pusey as a lamb. McGregor had come to the same assessment, and the Skipper found himself being urged across into Campbell’s office, where the Englishman was still plaintively bleating, ‘Not before tomorrow night, sir, and even then they can’t guarantee . . . I know, Mr Marshall, but there just isn’t a boat . . .’
The Skipper said in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘If it’s a cargo for Kiltarra ye have . . .’
Pusey looked up, startled. ‘What?’
‘There’s a boat right here.’
For a moment, as Pusey turned wildly from the telephone, the fate of the Maggie trembled in the balance. The Skipper, concealing his nervousness behind a façade of indifference, looked at the pictures on the wall – the portrait of a past president, a handsome boat, pride of the CSS Line. The office clock beat out the systole and diastole of chance; an irate voice crackled from the receiver.
Pusey wailed, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Marshall, only . . .’ Stung to action he turned desperately on the Skipper. ‘But I don’t understand. Mr Campbell just this minute said . . .’ He temporised into the mouthpiece. ‘Excuse me, sir, there seems to be some confusion. Now they say there is a boat. But Mr Camp . . . Sir? The Captain?’ He asked hoarsely, ‘Are you the Captain?’
‘Aye.’
‘Yes, Mr Marshall. The . . . certainly, sir.’ He handed the receiver to the Skipper, who accepted it with the caution of one who does not wholly believe in the telephone. Pusey muttered, ‘It’s Mr Marshall on the line. Calvin B. Marshall, General Overseas Manager of World International Airways.’
The Skipper spoke gruffly into the telephone. ‘Aye. Aye! Captain MacTaggart speaking. Aye. Aye. We have.’
Pusey, who was now seeing him properly for the first time, had his first qualm of uneasiness, which was not lessened by the sight of the mate, the engineman and the boy looking expectantly through the open doorway.
The Skipper was saying, ‘And ye want it to Kiltarra by Thursday noon
. Oh, easily, easily. Insurance?’ The very word seemed to impress him. ‘Four thousand pounds! Aye, we’ll see to it, sir. Aye. Who . . . ?’ With relief he handed the telephone back to Pusey and winked solemnly to McGregor outside.
‘Mr Marshall, I’m still not quite sure . . .’ Pusey began, trying to voice his uneasiness, but he was frozen into obedience by the crackle of authority. ‘Well . . . yes, Mr Marshall. I will, sir. Yes, Mr Marshall. Goodbye, Mr . . .’ Miserably he replaced the receiver.
As he looked up and saw the Skipper standing respectfully by the table and the two men and a boy who had moved guilelessly into the room, he had an absurd feeling that he was trapped. There was no one in the reception hall outside. The office was empty. A lamb must feel like this surrounded by determined but not-too-hungry wolves. To quell his apprehension he turned vigorously to the Skipper. ‘Will you tell me why, if a boat is available, Mr Campbell didn’t say so? He placed me in a most embarrassing position!’
The Skipper said, ‘We were just trying to explain to him, sir . . .’
As Pusey moved nervously across the room to the overcoat he had left on a chair he was aware that the crew were moving into new positions. The boy was hovering by Campbell’s desk, examining the objects with interest: the inkwell, a paper-weight, a fountain pen: the inkwell, a paperweight . . . Pusey felt that he must get out into the free air. He could have sworn there had been a fountain pen.
He asked, ‘Where is your boat lying?’
The Skipper jerked his thumb. ‘No’ far from here. Just down the road.’
‘Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll just have a look at it. ‘Make sure it’s a sound boat,’ Mr Marshall said. ‘That’s all that matters.’ Pusey put on his Homburg hat, picked up his briefcase, and went innocently into the cruel world.
Chapter Four
Along the busy street and down the steep cobbled hill the Skipper and McGregor had difficult in keeping pace with the Englishman. Not only was he in a hurry, but he couldn’t suppress a feeling that the worst was still to come. They didn’t look respectable. He walked quickly, with short mincing steps, and the Skipper and McGregor, who were the brains of the Maggie, kept doggedly at his shoulder. They left Hamish and the boy trailing behind.
As they came out on to the open wharf Pusey hesitated, blinking in the sunlight. ‘Where is the . . . ?’
The Skipper gave a vague motion. ‘This way, sir.’
Pusey could see only one vessel in that direction. To a landsman it looked substantial enough, and as he walked across the rough concrete of the wharf he felt relieved that his fears should have been proved unfounded. With more warmth than he he had dared to show before he asked, ‘Now, will you give me an estimate of the charges?’
The Skipper hedged. ‘Well, it’s difficult to say exactly, sir . . .’ then, catching the engineman’s signal – three fingers held aloft – ‘maybe . . . perhaps . . . three hundred pounds . . .’
Pusey stopped. ‘That does seem rather high. However . . .’ He fumbled with his briefcase. ‘The goods are lying at Berth 17, Customs House Dock, checked and crated ready for shipment. Mainly plumbing and heating apparatus, some timber – a variety of materials, all extremely valuable.’
The Skipper tried to look impressed. ‘Aye.’
‘So,’ Pusey said, ‘I’ve been instructed to make sure that the ship is perfectly sound.’
The Skipper nodded uneasily. He hung back a few steps, wanting the engineman’s support. This, they knew, was where fortune could desert them. Following reluctantly across the wharf they were surprised to see the direction Pusey was taking. Ignoring the Maggie he seemed to be making for the big cargo ship alongside. It was a minute before they realised that from his position on the wharf only the top of the Maggie’s derrick was showing. The Skipper called half-heartedly, ‘Er . . . Mr . . . er . . .’ but Pusey was too far away to hear. The Skipper had the grace to feel embarrassed.
Urged on by McGregor and followed by Hamish and the boy, he approached the lower end of the gangplank and looked up to where Pusey was surveying the cargo ship. Far below, the Maggie rubbed against the dock.
Pusey called down. ‘Ah, yes, well, I see no cause for concern on that score.’ He seemed to be gaining reassurance every minute. As he came down the gangplank he asked, ‘Shall we return to the office? Or,’ glancing at his watch, ‘better still, if we could settle the matter here . . .’
‘Aye,’ said McGregor with enthusiasm. ‘That’s a better idea.’
The Skipper was in a state of tension. Up on the cargo ship an officer, strolling along the deck, paused curiously to watch the little group of strangers on his gangplank.
Pusey was saying. ‘I think, in the circumstances, I can – uh – agree to the – uh – three hundred. If you’ll just sign the inventory. In triplicate, please.’ He took a folder from his briefcase, spread out three typed lists, and handed the Skipper a pen.
Against the deck rail Nemesis leant and watched while the Skipper weighed up the chances – solvency or jail. ‘Where do I sign?’
Pusey said, ‘Mr Marshall spoke to you about the insurance. I take it I can leave that to you?’
McGregor agreed heartily, ‘Och aye. Just leave it to us.’
‘Yes, well . . .’ Although he couldn’t have explained why, Pusey felt his doubts returning. A fine ship, newly painted, obviously seaworthy.. . . They only had to go to Kiltarra. But he said, ‘Just one thing: I’d like Mr Campbell to ring me at my office tomorrow morning, so that I can be certain everything got away all right.’
McGregor held the fort while the Skipper struggled with three signatures. ‘Everything will get away all right. Aye.’
Pusey said nervously, ‘Well, you’ll want something on account, I presume.’ He felt in his pocket. ‘I’ll give you a cheque for . . .’
The Skipper stood up, holding the pen and the three sheets of paper. Now that he was committed he had no regrets. ‘Cash would be better, if ye can manage it,’ he said.
‘But I only have about fifty pounds . . .’
The Skipper held out his hand. ‘That’ll do fine, sir. You can let us have the rest when we’ve got the job done.’
‘Well . . .’ Pusey reluctantly passed over a wad of five-pound notes. He too was committed now and he wanted to get away. ‘I’m afraid I must . . .’ He held out his hand. ‘Good morning.’
‘And good day to ye, sir.’
Pusey hurried across the dock, trying to forget their excited faces and the boy raising his cap so respectfully. ‘And gude luck to ye.’
With the money firmly in his hands the Skipper could afford to have a conscience. He said regretfully, ‘It seems to me yon laddie’s the victim of a serious misunderstanding.’
The mate came forward loyally. ‘Ye didna tell him a thing that wasna true.’
But it was McGregor who solved all their doubts. He said happily, ‘Ach, ye wouldna want him to deal with the CSS, would you? The villains would only try to do him down!’
Chapter Five
The door of the pub opened suddenly, and the Maggie’s crew came roaring into the night. The Skipper and McGregor clung together in song; the mate was playing his concertina. Only the wee boy was entirely sober.
‘I belong to Gleska
Dear old Gleska toon . . .’
The road to the dock was steeper and more cluttered with obstacles than they remembered. Across the water, lights flickered entrancingly and multiplied to a glitter of diamonds. A ship’s hooter was a brave sound that deserved a cheer. Lamp-posts leant tantalisingly from the touch, and in a sheltered doorway a policeman stood watching with clicking disapproval.
‘I belong to Gleska . . .’ They marched in line astern across the dock with the boy in front treading carefully through the darkness, the Skipper, the engineman, ready to fight the world, and Hamish, the mate, with his concertina.
‘Careful now.’ The boy had found the wooden ladder.
‘I’m ower young to marry yet . . .’ The Skipper halted as ne
ar the edge as the boy would permit, and sang with gusto to the night. Tears of happiness and emotion were in his eyes. He was still humming as he came down to the deck and went groping towards his cabin. He stopped by the hatch and looked back, puzzled. ‘Who put my light on?’
McGregor and the boy were concentrating too much on their own course to answer any irrelevant questions and presently they heard the Skipper clumping down to his cabin. Then all peace was shattered.
A female voice cried fiercely, ‘Ha! Ye thought I wouldna catch ye, ye scoundrel.’
‘Sarah!’ The Skipper’s anguished cry pierced the stillness.
‘But I’ve had people watching for ye everywhere,’ the woman said.
Above, the engineman grasped the hatch. ‘Holy smoke, it’s Sarah!’ He took a few cautious steps down into the cabin – enough to see Sarah MacTaggart standing menacingly above her brother. She was a large, badly-dressed, fearsome woman of fifty-five or so, and legally she could control the Maggie.
‘Ye’ll no’ get away with it this time like the others,’ Sarah was saying.
The Skipper was spectacularly upset. ‘Sarah! I was comin’ to see ye, Sarah . . .’
‘Ye were nothing of the sort!’
‘Will ye no’ sit down, Sarah? And we can discuss . . .’
‘There’s nothing to discuss, ye black-hearted swindler! Ye owe me over four hundred pounds. And ye signed a paper what says I own the major share in the vessel!’ She hit the bulkhead and looked with contempt at the dirt on her glove. ‘The filthy thing! Well, she’s no’ worth a penny afloat but she’ll fetch five hundred as scrap, and I’m going to sell her to get back my money.’
The mate and the engineman and the wee boy, who were listening at the lighted cowling above the Skipper’s cabin, groaned dismally. McGregor said, ‘She’s got a court order! I told him not to put into Gleska, the old goat! He wouldn’t . . .’
‘He’s no’ an old goat,’ the boy said, bridling.
‘Oh, shut your blethering!’
In the cabin the Skipper seemed stunned by his sister’s ruthlessness. He nodded slowly, then turned away and took a bottle of whisky and two glasses from the locker. He said heavily, ‘Aye. Aye. I’m glad ye’ve come, Sarah. I’ll no’ be giving ye an argument. The Maggie’s yours.’
The Maggie Page 2