The Maggie (2 page)

‘Fussy!' the Skipper said. ‘No one can say that of Peter MacTaggart. Coal, d'ye, say? Well, maybe as a favour . . .'

‘Heard there was a cargo of machinery in ‘B' sheds,' Captain Anderson cut in.

‘Machinery? Now I must say, that's just a wee bit more dignified. D'ye know it's destination?'

‘New York.'

‘New York!' The Skipper gripped the bar with one hand. He drank the rest of his beer, and then, gaining courage, said firmly, ‘Where will I be finding the owner?'

‘Ye're no' seriously thinking . . . ?' began his engineman in alarm, but the Skipper shook free of his warning grasp.

‘Where will I be finding the owner?'

The landlord, who was a kind-hearted man, said as he picked up the Skipper's glass, ‘I wouldn't take them too seriously, Captain MacTaggart. I think maybe they're pulling your leg.'

‘Pulling my leg!' The Skipper glowered as laughter shattered the pretence. At a dozen tables men were leaning back, eyes closed in enjoyment of the tremendous joke. ‘As if you could get a cargo . . . !' ‘Have to sell the old tub for scrap.'

Skipper and engineman stood side by side with their backs against the counter. ‘There's not a word of truth in it!' McGregor protested. ‘We've got plenty of work!'

The Skipper nodded. ‘A very important cargo waiting for us in Campbeltown. But I just thought, as we were here, I'd ask if there wasna somebody who . . .'

‘In Glasgow?' the ferry pilot asked, doubled over his table with laughter.

‘With the owner of the last cargo still looking for you to serve a warrant?'

‘There's no need for us to be asking favours,' the Skipper said with dignity. ‘We're still greatly respected in the trade.'

‘Ach, if ye rebuilt the
Maggie
from hawse-holes to sternpost they might let ye sail on Queen's Park boating pond!'

The Skipper picked up a glass from the counter and drained it before the engineman could see what was happening. Then he turned on his grinning tormentors with passion. ‘Pach! Ye're very smug wi' your bonny caps and your five-days-a-week and your pensions and all! But ye're no better than hirelings, standing like wee bairns in front of Mr Campbell's big desk down there! Ye hav'na the freedom of operations that I have! Ye hav'na the dignity of your own command!'

From the corner of his eye he saw the swing door open and shut. His wary brain registered the fact and no more.

‘. . . And as for my boat, there's no' a finer vessel in the coastal trade, no' a finer vessel anywhere! There's . . .' He stopped apprehensively as the wee boy came pushing between the tables.

‘There's two men aboard us! In bowler hats!'

The Skipper gaped at the engineman. ‘Inspectors!'

Like sprinters off the mark they started for the door. Then, remembering, stopped together by a cubicle. ‘Hamish!'

As the mate came out with tousled hair and brick-red face to a fresh roar of laughter the landlord remembered the Skipper's drink. ‘Here! That'll be sevenpence!'

McGregor and Hamish rushed into the street as the Skipper fumbled in his pockets and catechised the boy. ‘Ye didna tell them ower much?'

‘I said ye're awa' at Pollockshaws for your mither's funeral and ye'll no' be back for a fortnight.'

‘What did they say to that?'

‘They said they'd wait.'

The Skipper gave up the vain search, as he heard the mate's impatient call from outside. He said to the boy, ‘I've no change. Pay him, will ye lad?' and a gust of laughter followed him into the street.

The boy moved indignantly through the grinning faces to the bar, where he counted slowly and carefully five pennies, three ha'pennies and two farthings.

‘They were saying the truant officer's after ye, laddie, for going to sea before you'd finished the school,' Captain Jamieson baited.

The boy did not look up from his counting as he replied, ‘It's a lie. I'm over fifteen.'

‘Well, you'll be able to finish your schooling now. The
Maggie
will no' be putting out again.'

The boy looked at him fiercely. ‘She
will.'

‘Ach, it's time Peter MacTaggart was put ashore, anyway. He's no' fit to be in charge of . . .' The big man did not finish the sentence as the boy dashed at him in passion.

‘Ye'll no' say that about the Captain!'

Caught off balance Jamieson was knocked from his stool. For a moment there was general confusion – laughter, shouts of encouragement, threats – until the landlord grabbed the boy's collar. ‘Come away, now! You've no business in a pub, anyway . . .'

As the boy was dragged outside the men in the bar leaned over their drinks and laughed like an audience at the end of a good comedy. They were sorry it was over. In a few minutes the landlord came back grinning. ‘The wee divil!'

He ducked as a large turnip struck him on the shoulder and smashed against the wall with a glorious mess, breaking a couple of glasses. ‘The wee divil!'

Chapter Three

In spite of a natural reluctance to meet the inspectors the boy was drawn irresistibly down the cobbled hill towards the
Maggie
. He came with dragging steps across the dock and stood beside the mate. Below, like the figures of a tragedy, the Skipper and McGregor were listening to the two inspectors. From the dock their conversation was inaudible, but the Skipper's drooping line as he touched, almost caressed, the wood of the boat was unmistakable. The boy looked up at the mate.

He asked, ‘Is it the loading licence?'

‘Aye.'

‘If they take it away, we'll no' be able to carry any cargo at all.'

‘Aye.'

‘No' until she has her plates repaired?'

‘Aye.'

‘Is that what we need three hundred pounds for?'

‘Aye, that's right.'

They stood back resentfully as the inspectors came up the wooden ladder.

‘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.'