The Maggie (15 page)

The threat had no effect at all. The Skipper said cheerfully, ‘Och, no. Ye couldna do that, Mr Marshall.'

‘No?' The American eyed him narrowly. ‘If you don't come down there and get that thing under way right now . . .'

‘Ye couldna refuse to pay us.'

The Skipper's grin infuriated Marshall beyond control. He shouted, ‘
Why
couldn't I? Why
can't
I? Why
wouldn't
I?'

The Skipper said confidently, ‘Ach, because ye're an honourable man, Mr Marshall. I recognised ye for an honourable man the first minute I saw ye.'

‘But, MacTaggart . . .'

‘Ye've nothing to worry about, sir,' the Skipper said, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘We'll get ye there. And, Mr Marshall, I've been instructed to tell ye that ye're included in the invitations to the party. It'll be a grand gathering, sir.'

The American rose in frustration, stared at him speechlessly for a moment, and walked furiously back towards the harbour.

The scene was darkening as he came slowly towards the old Puffer. There was a haze over the sea and the horizon was shortening as night fell. The boats rode quietly at anchor, and the line of hills was marked against a red sky.

As he climbed on to the deck Marshall felt something more than anger – an almost unbearable loneliness. The harbour was deserted. The boats were unmanned, the fishermen's nets were folded. Where he might have expected to see men pushing the smooth-running keels over the stones there was nothing except a few lobster pots, a meditating seagull. Everyone had gone to the party: everyone.

He went down into the cabin and lay despondently on the bunk. Courage and hope were seeping away in the lonely night. He felt cold and tired and disillusioned. Faintly, above the quiet harbour noises, came a distant
chorus and a concertina. For a time he listened restlessly and then, swinging out of the bunk, made his way on to the deck.

When he went to the stern rail the sound of music was much louder. In a brightly lit hall, only a few hundred yards away, a dozen voices were lifted in a Gaelic song. Everyone in Bellabegwinnie seemed to be at the celebration. The joyful music had a melancholy ring for the American, leaning first on the rail, then against the wheelhouse door. His thoughts were at Kiltarra with the house he had planned, in London with the lovely, impatient Lydia, on the hillside with the girl Sheena.

Suddenly he was conscious of a heightening of tempo in the celebration hall. The first few voices were joined by many others as all the villagers and their guests roared into a Gaelic song. Marshall listened intently.

Then, as suddenly as it had arisen, the storm of singing died down. There was complete silence. On a sudden impulse Marshall climbed on to the pier and walked slowly towards the hall. He came quietly to one of the open windows and looked in.

There were nearly a hundred people in the hall, which was clearly a schoolroom converted for the party. They were all dressed in their best clothes. At one end of the room, on the teacher's dais, Davie Macdougall was sitting in the place of honour. He was a fine-looking man, upright, smiling, bright-eyed. Sometimes singly, sometimes in pairs, sometimes in small family groups the villagers and their guests went forward with their presents: geese, pheasants, pigs, sweaters, pipes, a sizeable keg. Round the
old man's chair the pile of presents grew as each donor came forward to shake his hand or, if the donor was a lady, to kiss his cheek. Davie Macdougall was smiling broadly despite his tears.

Watching from the dark loneliness beyond the window Marshall felt strangely touched by what he had seen. There was friendship here and warmth, a charming sincerity that was not often met in his own efficient world of finance.

Only a few more gifts had to be presented. He saw the girl, Sheena, at the end of the line. Then, unexpectedly, the wee boy looked up and saw him standing at the window. Marshall took a step backwards, hoping to slip away into the darkness, but the boy had tugged at the Skipper's sleeve and the Skipper had started for the door.

He came out before Marshall could escape from the reflected light beyond the windows. He called, ‘Mr Marshall! Mr Marshall! Won't ye come in and join us?'

Marshall's desire for flight was frustrated by MacTaggart's swiftness. Everyone in the hall had stopped at the interruption. As the light flooded through the open doorway the American was caught undecided. ‘Come along, sir.' The Skipper had taken his arm.

Marshall shook his head in embarrassment. ‘I'm sorry. I . . .'

The Skipper said, as he tugged him towards the doorway, ‘But ye must come in, sir. Ye must meet Davie Macdougall.'

‘Well . . .' Feeling more embarrassed with each reluctant step, Marshall allowed himself to be dragged into the room. The guests smiled politely. The engineman, the mate and the boy were plainly delighted. The Skipper led
his passenger up to the old man. He said in Gaelic, ‘Davie, this is Mr Marshall, a very important gentleman from America for whom we are doing a job. A fine man, Davie.' He said to Marshall, ‘Shake hands with him, sir.'

Marshall took Davie Macdougall's hand in his own. The old man seemed to look him up and down, to size him up, and then, accepting him, returned his firm handclasp. Marshall said with an odd, sincere gesture, ‘I haven't any . . . I haven't brought you a present . . .'

In Gaelic the Skipper said, ‘Mr Marshall's concerned because he's brought no gift for you.'

Davie Macdougall smiled broadly and shook his head. Behind the wrinkled, weather-beaten skin his bright eyes showed only friendship.

Marshall said, ‘Congratulations, sir,' and then, clumsily to the Skipper, ‘Will you tell him that where I come from we have a saying that the first hundred years are the hardest.'

The Skipper nodded with quick approval. He translated, ‘Mr Marshall asks me to tell ye that in America they have a saying, the first century is more difficult.'

The guests waited on tenterhooks to see whether the old man would take the joke. He said, ‘I don't understand.'

The Skipper said again, ‘The first century is more difficult than the second century.'

The room waited in silence. Somewhere a boy shuffled. ‘Mother, why . . .?' and was instantly subdued. Davie Macdougall looked at Marshall seriously for a long minute as he considered the statement. Then suddenly his face was wreathed in smiles and he began to laugh. Marshall relaxed,
and laughed with him. The whole room seemed pleased and relieved. The Skipper and the other guests joined in the laughter, some of them applauded the remark. The old man leant forward and took Marshall's hand again, and at once the musicians struck up with a dance. Following the Skipper across to the refreshment table Marshall felt inordinately pleased. He had come here a stranger. He had been accepted.

As he stood, smiling and watching the guests lining up for the dance, he felt a glass being pushed into his hand.

The Skipper said, ‘Ye must have a wee dram in . . .'

Marshall shook his head doubtfully, anxious to avoid offence. ‘No, thank you. I never take whisky.'

‘In honour of the occasion, sir. Ye must.' He found himself ringed by the engineman, the mate and the boy. They were all grinning encouragement. ‘No.' He tried to protest again, but he was hemmed in. There was nowhere to put the glass. ‘Ye must, sir. In honour of . . .' With a fine feeling of bravado he swallowed the contents of the glass.

He coughed slightly and looked at them in surprise. ‘Is that whisky?'

The Skipper said, ‘Ach, not the kind ye're used to, sir. It's the old
uisge-beatha
. The water of life. Here, ye must have another, it'll give ye the mood for the dancing.'

Marshall started to protest again, but there was a lot of noise now and he could scarcely make himself heard. Fiddle, drums, concertina, stamping feet, whirling laughter, sudden screams of excitement. It was impossible to remain indifferent to the crescendo of gaiety. Stamp-beat-stamp: stamp-beat-stamp. He stood, grinning with
pleasure, and he was not really surprised when he felt a touch on his arm and turned to face the girl Sheena. She stood before him, young and beautiful, and, with a gay directness, held out her hands to him for a dance. It was all part of the evening. Again Marshall protested, although not too vehemently, and he was not really upset when the engineman gave him a gentle push into the girl's arms.

With her cool hands gripping firmly she pulled him out on to the floor. For a second he panicked, realising that he knew nothing of their dance, not a single step, but as the girl seemed full of confidence he stayed. Very awkwardly at first, and with his eyes watching every movement of the other dancers, he began to hop. It was difficult, without a doubt. He stumbled, went the wrong way, almost fell in his anxiety. Then, fortified by the pulsating whisky and by the boisterous encouragement of the
Maggie
's crew, he began to improve. He began to relax. Sheena smiled at him with pleasure. He was enjoying himself!

They danced up and down the hall, missing one couple, hitting another. As they wheeled in a complex manœuvre he happened to catch the Skipper's eyes, and for no reason at all, unless it was the irresistible air of friendship, the whisky, Sheena's youthful charm, he began to laugh. Turning, wheeling, laughing, he saw MacTaggart, the engineman, the mate and the wee boy nodding with approval like a group of benevolent but slightly intoxicated gnomes.

Chapter Twenty-Three

When Sheena ran out into the garden Marshall followed without thinking. He couldn't have explained why. Normally a cautious man, he felt almost light-headed this evening. Irresponsible! Coming sharply from the brightly lit hall into the darkness of the garden he stumbled across the grass, almost fell into a bush.

‘Don't run away! Where are you?'

Sheena stopped within sight of the house and leant breathlessly against a low stone wall. She was laughing with happiness and excitement. ‘Oh, isn't it a lovely party?'

Marshall diffidently leant against the wall beside her. Round the garden other couples were walking, there was romance in the air. He said uneasily, ‘What I can't understand is why you should want to spend the whole evening with me, when all those young fellows . . .'

She said, with a toss of her head, ‘Oh, I can always dance with them, and it's exciting to meet a stranger. Not many strange men come to Bellabegwinnie, as you can guess.' She looked at him seriously. ‘And you're a very attractive man.'

‘I?' He was truly astonished. ‘I am?'

‘Of course you are.' She glanced up at him slyly. ‘Do you think I'm attractive?'

‘Well – yes, I do.'

‘I'm glad. It will do the two of them good to see that.'

‘The two of them? Which two?'

She took his arm and pointed at the hall. ‘Look!' He was disturbed to see that two pleasant-faced young men were watching them, one at the door and one at the window. They were obviously trying to hide their anxiety behind a cloak of indifference, but neither was succeeding.

Marshall said, ‘I saw them in the hall, while we were dancing. They've been watching you every minute. Who are they?'

She turned her back on them and smiled as she looked up at Marshall. ‘The one in the window is Donald Macdougall. He's a fisherman. The one in the door is Ian McCullough, and he owns the store by the pier, and the question is – which should I marry?'

‘Oh!'

She said with a charming naïvety, ‘It's very difficult, when you're only nineteen, to make such a decision. It would be easier if I were older. I would know so much more – I mean, about men . . .'

Seeing her two suitors waiting so anxiously Marshall thought she wasn't doing too badly. He smiled and asked, ‘Well – but how will you choose?'

She said, ‘Well, everyone says that Ian should be the one, because he owns the store, and already he is planning
to buy another on Colonsay. And people say that Ian McCullough will be a great man one day.'

‘And the other? Donald Macdougall?'

Her voice softened. ‘He's – just a fisherman, who sails with his brothers, when they're not all drinking or fighting or running after girls. And he hasn't much money. And he's not so handsome as Ian McCullough, everyone agrees to that.'

Marshall raised his hands. ‘Well, Sheena, I don't want to influence you, but it doesn't seem a very difficult choice.'

‘You mean I should marry Ian?'

‘Well, if he's really going to be somebody, if he really wants to make something of himself . . . You'll want a man you know can take care of you and can give you the things you need.'

‘Yes . . .' she agreed. ‘It would be exciting to be married to a man who will do big things, a man who is going far in the world. And it would be exciting to be taken to places, and to be given fine clothes and expensive presents. I would like all those things. But . . .', she looked up at his face, ‘I think it will be the other I'll be taking.'

‘But why? I don't understand.'

She explained gently, ‘Oh . . . it's simply that, even though he's away with his brothers so much, he'll have more time for me. He'll not be so interested in what he's trying to do, or where he's going to, because – he'll just be fishing. And when he's come home from the fishing – there'll just be me. And when we're very old we'll have only what we have been able to make together for ourselves . . . And I think, perhaps, that is all we'll need.'

The girl stopped as though suddenly embarrassed by the frankness of her simple thoughts. Glancing at him shyly she saw his set, unhappy face and, not understanding, wondered desperately how she could change the subject.

But Marshall was not thinking of Sheena. He could only remember the simple truth she had expounded. At home in London, Lydia fluttered pretty wings about her expensive cage, while her husband, Calvin B. Marshall, the boss man, the success . . .