The Maggie (3 page)

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.

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 near 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.'

‘And what treachery are ye scheming now?' She shied away from the whisky. ‘I'll no' drink wi' ye. It wouldna surprise me if it was
drugged.'

The Skipper shook his head sadly and proceeded to pour out two stiff measures. He said, with conscious pathos, ‘Ye don't trust me, Sarah. Ach, ye're right. And ye're right to take the boat, for it's time I was giving it up. A man can only give so many years to the sea. The best man there is has to be put ashore at the end.' He put his hand dramatically on his heart. ‘And I didna write to ye because I thought ye might worry yourself . . . but I've no' been well . . .'

Believing none of this, his sister suddenly swung her handbag at him striking his shoulder a solid blow. She said scornfully, ‘You're as strong as a horse!'

‘No, no.' The Skipper looked round at the familiar objects of his tiny cabin and nodded sadly. ‘Aye. I was born aboard the
Maggie
, sixty years ago, and I'd always hoped – that one day I would die aboard her.'

For the first time Sarah felt uneasy. She eyed him reflectively as she sipped her whisky. ‘There's no need to talk like that.'

‘But we're both already overdue for the breaker's yard,' the Skipper said, topping up her glass. He turned away, apparently overcome by emotion, and covered his face with his hands.

Sarah protested doubtfully, ‘Ye'll no' get round me like that, d'ye hear, Peter MacTaggart?'

In terrible despair the Skipper confessed, ‘I said to myself, if only we could do this job, if only we could get this three hundred pounds, then ye might agree to wait for the rest. But I was afraid to come and see ye till I had the money to hand to ye.'

‘Three hundred pounds?' asked Sarah, drinking quickly.

‘Aye.' He shook his head. ‘But ye might never get it. The
Maggie's
no' sound. If she sank on the way . . .'

‘Ye'd never let her sink! Whatever's to be said against ye, you're a seaman like your father.'

‘I'm an old man, Sarah.'

She poured herself another drink. ‘Ach, will ye stop
talking
like that! What's the matter wi' ye? I may have been o'er-hasty . . . Let me think.'

On the open deck Hamish embraced McGregor, and McGregor embraced the boy. They were still talking and laughing quietly together a quarter of an hour later when
the Skipper and his sister emerged from the cabin. McGregor, who was Sarah's sworn enemy, was profoundly affable, bowing, scraping, smiling, almost falling overboard, as she pushed her massive body through the hatch. She glared at him suspiciously and then turned to her brother, who was following her out of the hatch.

‘But mind ye, it's me to handle the business.'

The Skipper touched her arm reassuringly. ‘Of course, Sarah. It's right that ye should. I'll take ye to the CSS office in the morning. It was through them we got the cargo.'

She crossed the deck and wheezed up the first rungs of the ladder. Then she paused as a new suspicion threatened her peace of mind. ‘How am I to know you won't sneak away before morning?'