A Risk Worth Taking

by Robin Pilcher

  “Bloody hell!” exclaimed Dan, jumping back from the stove and wiping his blackened hands down the front of his leather jacket before he knew what he was doing. “Shit!”

  “Don’t worry! It’s going to go. Look!”

  The smoke was now curling back into the stove, like someone exhaling cigarette smoke from his mouth and sucking it up through his nose.

  “Put more wood on it, then!” Dan cried out urgently.

  Josh stuffed the remainder of the pile of twigs into the fire. “Should I close the door?”

  “No, just leave it for a moment.”

  They stood back and watched mesmerically as the flames slowly crept up through the twigs and then began to curl up the chimney. Thirty seconds later, there was a healthy roar from the stove.

  “Right,” said Dan. “I think that’s cracked it. We’ll stick a couple of logs in there too, and pray that it doesn’t go out.” He glanced at the watch on his sooty wrist. “God, it’s eleven o’clock and we haven’t even started yet.”

  “How are we going to wash?” Josh asked, staring at his filthy hands. “The water will still be freezing.”

  “Hell’s teeth, Josh! What’s the point of cleaning ourselves up now?” He swept a hand around the dust-covered room. “We’ve got this to do yet.” Josh looked suitably despondent. “Never mind, by the time we’ve finished, the water should be hot.” He walked over to the cupboard and took out the mop and bucket and handed them to Josh. “Right, now for the real work.”

  An hour and a half later, they had the place cleaned from Ajaxed bath to Flash-sparkled floor. By that time, the stove had managed to heat the water to a bearable tepidity, and they were able to wash off the worst of their engrained dirt before taking their belongings in from the car and starting to unpack them.

  Dan was shoving a pile of shirts into his small chest of drawers when Josh entered the bedroom, frowning quizzically at his mobile phone.

  “This thing’s broken,” he said, giving it a shake. “The battery’s full, but all it does is bleep at me.”

  “Probably because there’s no reception here.”

  “What do you mean, no reception? Mobile phones work everywhere, don’t they?”

  “Not in a tube train, they don’t.”

  “We’re not in a tube train, Dad.”

  “I know, but the principle’s the same. If you’re out of range of a signal, then you don’t get reception.”

  “Do you mean to say that we’re out of range up here?”

  “Probably.”

  “But this is mainland Britain. I thought the whole place was covered.”

  “Obviously not.”

  “Well, how am I meant to text my mates?”

  Dan laughed as he threw a handful of socks into a drawer. “I don’t know. Try walking up the hill at the back of the cottage. You might get lucky up there.”

  With a discontented groan, Josh slipped the mobile into the pocket of his trousers. His eye caught the contents of Dan’s suitcase on the bed. “What on earth is that?”

  “What on earth is what?” Dan asked, following Josh’s baffled gaze.

  “That beige thing.”

  “It’s my skiing outfit.”

  “Why have you brought that?”

  “Because, Josh, it can get like the Arctic up here, and I don’t possess any other clothes that suit extreme weather conditions.”

  Josh laughed. “Maybe, but you can’t walk around in a pair of sludge-coloured salopettes. It’s just . . . geeksville.” He pulled the bulky outfit out of the suitcase and threw it onto the bed. “What else have you got in here?” He flicked through Dan’s clothes. “Dad, you’ve brought at least three of your Armani suits! When are you thinking of wearing them?”

  Dan gave his son’s hand a slap to get him away from his suitcase. “All right, mastermind. Just because your daily attire makes you look as if you’re about to muck out a pigsty.”

  “Oooh!” Josh sang out. “That’s a bit acid.”

  Dan smiled. “Okay, point taken. We’ll go find a shop in Fort William this afternoon and I’ll get myself kitted out in some appallingly countrified attire. How would that suit you?”

  “I’m sure whatever you wear, Dad, you won’t forego your usual sartorial elegance.”

  Dan blew a raspberry. “My word, you are an eloquent little devil today, aren’t you?”

  At twenty past one, having shared the peaty-brown water of a deep and luxuriously hot bath, they left a warming cottage and drove to the Trenchards’ house for lunch. It turned out to be a hurried affair, mostly because Patrick was champing at the bit to get to the factory and start showing Dan and Josh the ropes. By a quarter to three, he had both father and son standing in the packing room, wearing identical garb of a blue boiler suit with matching peaked cap, a pair of Wellington boots, a long plastic apron, and a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves. Both looked awesomely surprised at the speed of their incumbency and at the task that Patrick had set for them.

  “Best way to learn about this business is from the grass roots upwards,” he said, pushing himself in his wheelchair over to one of the long, stainless steel packing tables. “Maria José! Could you come over here for a minute?”

  A young Spanish girl with flawless sallow skin and dark brown eyes walked across from the far side of the packing room. Her black hair was gathered in a pony-tail and pulled through the adjusting band at the back of her cap, and even though she was dressed in the similarly unsexy style of both Dan and Josh, it did nothing to diminish her obvious Latin good looks.

  “Right,” Patrick continued. “Maria José, this is Dan and Josh.” Sticky rubber-gloved handshakes ensued between them. “Maria José is in charge of both our packer training and quality control. She’s going to show you everything you need to know about prawns; how to grade them, how to pack them, how to tell a bad one from a good one. By the end of a week, you should both know instinctively the source of a consignment by its quality, as well as the destination of each of the boxes you have packed.” He laughed out loud at the expression of horror on Dan’s face. “Don’t look so worried, Dan. You’ll manage fine.”

  “Talk about being thrown in at the deep end,” Dan groaned. “I’m not the most practical of people, you know.”

  “Neither was I when I started in here. In fact, it took me about two months to get to grips with it all.” He reached out and gave Dan’s arm a shove. “It’s important that you do this, Dan, not only to help you understand the business, but also it shows the others that you can work alongside them. It’s only for a week, and Maria José will be looking after you the whole time. She won’t let you make a mistake. Anyway, look at Josh.” Dan turned to see that Josh had already started to sift through a large yellow box of prawns that stood beside the packing table, listening attentively to what the Spanish girl had to say about them in her husky, broken English accent. “He seems to be enthusiastic enough.”

  “I’m not sure if the enthusiasm stems from the sorting of the prawns,” Dan said out of the corner of his mouth.

  Patrick laughed. “In that case, he’ll learn fast.” He backed his wheelchair away from the table. “Kate said that you’ll be wanting to buy some provisions?”

  “Yes, and I’ve also got to find myself something a little more suitable to wear for your unpredictable Scottish weather.”

  “Probably not a bad idea. Well, we’re only going to be working until four o’clock this afternoon, so we’ll head into Fort William after we’ve finished up here. Then tomorrow morning, it would be best if you both started with the rest of the gang at seven o’clock. Reckon you’re up to that?”

  “It’ll be just like old times.”

  “Good.” He turned his wheelchair towards the door that led through to the office, and then glanced back over his shoulder. “Oh, and another thing. Does Josh drive?”

  Dan sucked in a breath. “He’s passed his test, but he’s hardly been behind the wheel since then. He always used public transport in London.�
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  “Well, this is probably the best place for him to get back into it again. The reason why I mentioned it is that, eventually, you and I will be away from the factory quite a bit, and he’ll need to have a way of getting to and from work.”

  “In that case, we can both take our lives in our hands and let him start this afternoon.”

  “Okay. And then maybe in a couple of days when he’s got back into the way of it, you can stop by our house on your way into work and drive me here in the Merc.”

  Dan looked uncertain. “Well, let’s just see how Josh gets on, shall we?”

  “What’s the matter? Don’t think I can manage it?”

  “I’m sure you can, Patrick, but maybe Katie might think differently.”

  “Don’t worry. I know my limitations—and that’s all that matters, right?”

  The remark was not made as a lighthearted quip, but more as a firm directive. It took Dan by surprise.

  “If you say so,” he replied, determined not to show outright acceptance of the idea. He watched as Patrick negotiated the shallow ramp that had been built for him at the door, then turned to find that Josh had two boxes of neatly packed prawns already sitting on the table in front of him. Dan guessed that the expression of delight on his face was not so much due to the successful completion of the task as with the fact that Maria José was standing close to him and bathing him in brown-eyed congratulations.

  16

  That’s your full fry-up, Ronnie,” said Eck, the proprietor of the Cormorant Café, as he slid a plate brimming with eggs, bacon, sausage, black pudding, and tomatoes across the table.

  Ronnie Macaskill held a hand to the edge of the Formica top to stop the plate from overshooting and ending up in his lap. He rolled his copy of the Daily Record into a tube and placed it at the side of the table next to the battered black notebook and mobile phone. “Thanks, Eck,” he said, glancing up at the man as he sidled back to his place behind the counter, wiping his hands on his stained white apron.

  He took a large mouthful of his breakfast just as his mobile rang. He pulled a small paper napkin from the dispenser on the table and wiped his hands, and then picked up the phone, checking the source of the call on the screen before hitting the SPEAK button. “Good morning, Betty,” he said, gulping down his food. “How are things with you in Fort William?”

  “Oh, it’s a fine day here now, Ronnie,” the office manager at Seascape replied in her euphonious voice. “That wretched cold weather seems to have moved on, so maybe we’ll be getting that Indian summer after all.”

  “Aye, that would be suiting us now, would it not?” Ronnie replied, before taking a swig of hot, sweet tea from his mug.

  “And what like is it in Oban?” Betty asked.

  “Much the same.” He looked out of the window, catching sight of a seagull settling itself awkwardly on the top of the winch drum of one of the trawlers. “There’s quite a stiff breeze down here at the harbour, but the sky seems settled enough.”

  “So have you been buying for us today?”

  “Aye, I have.” He reached over for his notebook, opened it, and flicked through the pages. “I gave you a call earlier, but your phone was engaged.”

  “Och, I can well believe that. It’s been havoc here this morning. Jimmy called in from Buckie, and then Patrick from Mallaig, so the line has been red hot.”

  “Patrick’s up in Mallaig, is he? Now, how would he be managing that?”

  “He went up with this new chappie from London. Did you not know about him working for us?”

  “No. Never heard a word. How long has he been with Seascape?”

  “Just over a week now. Dan Porter’s his name. He came up with his son Josh, and they’ve both been working in the packing house to get the feel of the place. This is the first morning that Patrick and he have been off buying together.”

  “And what’s this Dan Porter from London like?”

  “He seems to be a pleasant enough man. He’s managed to put Patrick in a better mood, at any rate.”

  “And does he know anything about the prawn?”

  “He knows more now than he did a week ago. He’s been a banker in his life—not a fisherman or the like.”

  “A banker, eh? So what happened to the lad that we were to be getting from Ocean Produce in Aberdeen?” Ronnie broke the yoke of his second fried egg with a piece of bread and put it in his mouth.

  “The company’s not letting him away for the next four months. Dan Porter is only here temporary-like, just to give Patrick a hand.”

  “And how does Patrick seem to be keeping?”

  Betty’s voice seemed to hush. “I wouldn’t say he’s that good, Ronnie. When did you last see him?”

  “Not for a couple of months or so.”

  “Well, you’d see a big change. He’s still walking around on sticks, but to my mind, it’s awful dangerous for him. He’s fallen over in the office a number of times now.”

  “Aye, it’s truly a bad thing, especially for a man so active as himself.”

  “If he wasn’t so active, it might be a great saving to him. Since Dan Porter has started in the job, Patrick has been coming into the factory at seven o’clock every morning.”

  “That’s Patrick for you, though. He’ll keep going to the end.”

  “Which could well be hastened, Ronnie, if he goes on like this.” Betty rustled some papers. “Look here, I’ve been speaking too long again. You’d better be letting me know what you have for us.”

  Ronnie ran a stubby finger down the page as he gave Betty the names of the boats, the number of boxes that were coming off each, and the price paid. He read slowly, knowing that Betty would be entering them in the database as he spoke. Bonnie Maud, 4 boxes, £14 per stone; Misty Blue, 5 boxes, £16 per stone; Minch Hunter, 6 boxes, £18 per stone. They weren’t the best, having been caught by deep-sea trawlers working the inky depths of the Minch. He much preferred to buy off the small fishing boats that set their creels close into the rocky shoreline of the Mull of Kintyre. That was where the clonkers were caught.

  “And that’s it for the day,” Ronnie said, holding the mobile between his cheek and shoulder and slipping the elastic band over the notebook.

  “Thanks, Ronnie. Will you be buying from Oban tomorrow as well?”

  “I’ll have to find out if there are any boats due in. If not, I might just take a ride down to Campbeltown and see if I can pick up some clonkers for you.”

  “Well, we certainly could do with some. Mercamadrid were on the phone this morning from Spain looking for some big ones.”

  “I’ll do my best, Betty. Speak to you tomorrow.”

  He pressed the button on his mobile and put it down on the notebook, and went back to enjoying his breakfast.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  Ronnie looked up to see Billy Inglis, the buyer for one of Seascape’s rival companies, standing in front of him. He glanced over to the table that Billy had been occupying up until a moment ago, and wondered why he wanted to come over to his table. Besides being rivals at the bid, Ronnie never felt that he had much in common with the lanky East Coast man.

  “Aye, if you wish,” Ronnie said, pointing to a chair with a fork laden with bacon and black pudding.

  Billy pulled out the chair and sat down, and immediately leaned forward on his elbows and blinkered his eyes with his hands.

  “Is something wrong, Billy?” Ronnie asked, his brow creased questioningly.

  “Have ye no’ seen the car that’s just pulled up oot-side?”

  “No.”

  “Well, hae a look.”

  Letting out a sigh, Ronnie laid down his knife and fork, got to his feet, and went over to the window. He angled his vision so that he could see farther up the pier, and caught sight of the ageing BMW, lovingly polished as always so that its bright red paintwork gleamed in the morning sun.

  “Och, for heaven’s sakes,” he mumbled to himself. “It’s the bloody politician.” He returned to the table
, where Billy continued to shield his face. “Aye, I see what you mean. What the hell’s he doing down here?”

  “Probably bored a’body else on the West Coast.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “I canna be sure aboot that. I’m takin’ no risks, though.”

  The door of the café opened and a large man in his early thirties with a bull neck and a supercilious smile on his florid face heaved himself up the steep step. His football-sized head was prematurely balding and those few strands of hair that still survived were splayed out across his scalp like parched rhizome roots in a desert. He pulled off a pair of string-backed driving gloves, finger by finger, before unbuttoning his blue serge overcoat to reveal an enormous belly that overhung the trousers of his charcoal grey suit.

  “God’s sake,” Ronnie murmured, sliding lower in his chair so that he could use Billy as a screen. “Imagine getting that stuck in your fishing net.”

  “Is it him?” Billy asked, darting his eyes from side to side, trying to use his peripheral vision to catch a glimpse at what lay behind him.

  “Who else? He’s not seen us yet, though.”

  Ronnie noticed that Eck, the owner of the Cormorant Café, had done his utmost to avoid catching the eye of the man, but eventually had to turn from the grease-splattered cooker to thump yet another full fryup on the counter. The man greeted him loudly, and did a jumpy little dance as he tucked his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and pulled them up. He had called Eck by name and followed it by casting his piggy eyes around those tables closest to the counter to see if anyone had noticed that he had done so. But no one took a blind bit of notice of him. It was clear that others felt the same as Ronnie and Billy—that being acquainted with the man would do nothing to enrich one’s life.