The Maggie (7 page)

Although Marshall's expression did not relax one muscle at this preposterous statement, he had to look away quickly before his eyes showed that he could appreciate the humour of the situation. He asked, ‘Are you serious? Were you really going to take this thing to sea?'

‘We'll be in Kiltarra not later than . . .' the Skipper began, but Marshall shook his head.

‘You may be, but not with the cargo you're carrying now.'

‘I don't think I understand ye, Mr Marshall.'

The Overseas Manager of World International Airways swung round on him suddenly. ‘Now look here, I'll say nothing about your misrepresentation of fact when you showed Mr Pusey the wrong boat . . .'

The Skipper took only a second to decide his line of defence, but in that second he gathered an impression of
the whole court, the judge – Marshall; prosecuting counsel – Pusey, looking pettishly offended, and Miss Peters, ready in the background with notebook and facts; court usher – the driver of the hired car. And for the defence? – McGregor watching non-committally from the engine-room hatch. ‘I told the auld goat not to put into Gleska!'

The Skipper repeated innocently, ‘Wrong boat, Mr Marshall?' He turned brazenly towards Pusey, who was a few paces away. ‘Ye mean there was some misunderstanding.'

For a few moments it seemed that the incredible might happen. Pusey was obviously on the brink of bad language.

But his employer saved him from this indignity. Marshall said, ‘All right, MacTaggart. I'll give you ‘‘E'' for effort. I don't even want my fifty pounds back: it probably cost you something to get
this
far. But now you're going to turn this tub around and take it back to Ardrishaig, and there you're going to unload it so that my stuff can be put aboard a sound boat. And, furthermore, I'm putting Mr Pusey aboard to see that you do.' His jaw jutted belligerently. ‘Right?'

The Skipper said, aghast, ‘But, Mr Marshall, I assure ye, we're more capable of doing the job for ye! It's entirely unnecessary for ye to go to the additional expense of . . .'

‘I'd rather you didn't speak of the expense,' Marshall said. ‘If you knew how much you've cost me already . . .' He turned to Pusey, who was nodding with sour approval in the background. ‘And look here, Pusey – if for any reason, any reason whatever, he fails to have you in Ardrishaig by five o'clock, call the police. Right?'

Pusey looked vindictively at the Skipper. ‘Yes, sir.'

Marshall said, ‘Spend the night in Ardrishaig if necessary, but see the stuff safely loaded on the other boat. I'll expect you back in London sometime tomorrow.'

‘Yes, sir.'

With the situation under control at last Marshall had another incredulous look at the
Maggie
. Then with a glance towards the Skipper he went, shaking his head, towards Miss Peters and the waiting car.

Chapter Ten

With an unbearable air of superiority Pusey watched the Skipper in his hour of defeat. Standing dismally against the bridge he was looking at the hired car jolting down the canal road as though even now by some miracle Mr Marshall might relent and allow the
Maggie
to proceed. But there was no respite. The car disappeared round a belt of trees and for a few moments a cloud of dust hung in the still air. The old lady, realising that they did not want her to open the bridge, went slowly back to her cottage. Pusey remained as victor of the field.

He said, ‘Are we ready to proceed?'

The Skipper turned and came towards him reluctantly. He stood on the bridge and looked with disgust down the canal glistening in the sunlight. But he made no move towards the
Maggie
.

Pusey asked petulantly, ‘I
said
: Are we ready to proceed?'

The Skipper answered gruffly, ‘We canna go yet.'

‘And why not?'

‘We're waiting for the mate and the boy.'

‘And,' Pusey asked, in a superior voice, ‘where are the mate and the boy?'

The Skipper did not reply, but Pusey, who now wouldn't trust him an inch, saw him exchange glances with the engineman. It seemed that they were looking anxiously towards the woods which flanked the canal road.

‘Where
are
the mate and the boy?'

As if in reply two shots sounded from the woods. Although muffled by the trees they were obviously not far away, and the Skipper, as though careless now of the consequences, nodded towards a wooded hill astern.

Pusey turned, but could see no movement in the peaceful countryside: the silent road, a copse of trees, the rising hill, and, in the distance, a line of purple mountains. He asked, ‘Where are they? What are they doing?' The Skipper turned away and in a moment another shot sounded, nearer than before. Suddenly comprehending, Pusey said, ‘They're poaching!'

His indignation seemed to amuse the Skipper and the engineman. The Skipper was grinning as he climbed on to the
Maggie
. ‘That's an ugly word, Mr Pusey. Out here we have more delicacy. We call it ‘‘The Sport''.'

‘I don't see anything amusing in breaking the law,' Pusey said, in his Sunday-school voice.

They watched in silence for the mate and the boy to appear, but there was still no movement. They heard a distant shout and then a faint crackle that might have been someone walking through the dry undergrowth. A rabbit hopped out on to the road and began nibbling at the grass
verge. A pheasant rose in alarm and flew across the canal with clacking wings.

It seemed to Pusey that it was beneath his dignity as master of the situation to wait any longer and he said firmly, ‘Very well, as they are not coming I'll go and look for them myself.' He turned towards the engineman, ‘But I insist that you come with me.'

McGregor looked at the Skipper with surprise, then, catching his shrug, stepped off the boat and followed the determined Pusey down the road. When he came to the copse he looked back, but the Skipper, who was puffing slowly at his pipe, clearly did not know what to do next.

Although he was hardly dressed for a country walk Pusey jumped without hesitation into the trees and began to plod slowly uphill. It was rough going, as he soon found, and the fact that McGregor, who was following some way behind, seemed to regard him with the tolerant amusement one affords to an eccentric or a lunatic only spurred on his determination. He stumbled in the bracken, caught his smart city trousers in the brambles, but still, angry and perspiring, managed to keep going.

The hill they were climbing was rough moorland, dotted here and there with clumps of trees. As Pusey came from one of these copses on to the open heath he turned to wait for McGregor and to regain his breath. Below, like a band of gold, was the canal with the
Maggie
still moored by the bridge. He turned towards McGregor, who was still coming leisurely up the hill.

‘Where can they be? They can't have gone very far.'

‘Would it no' be better, Mr Pusey, to wait for them at the boat?'

Pusey would dearly have liked to agree, but he could not risk being outsmarted again. He pointed to the woods ahead. ‘I'll look over here. You take that side.'

He waited until the engineman had climbed in the direction indicated, then he too climbed with weary knees against the slope. He stumbled tiredly through the woods and, finding no sign of the mate or the boy, paused where the trees were thinning on the other side. Resting with one hand against the rough bark of a pine tree he looked out over the sunlit moorland beyond, and then, suddenly, two figures moved into his vision. At first he assumed that they must be the crew of the
Maggie
. Then, as he saw them more distinctly, he realised that they must be connected with the estate.

Although they were some way away he could see them clearly – an elderly, angry-looking man with a shotgun, and a smaller but equally fierce man with a stick. The laird and factor? The laird's angry voice came down the hillside. ‘They're here somewhere. They'll not get away this time. Go and fetch the constable.'

‘Aye, sir!' The factor trudged sturdily down the hill.

It occurred to Pusey immediately that however innocent he might be it would be impolitic to show himself to the laird at that moment, so he stood discreetly hidden in the darkness beneath the trees. He knew that he had no cause for fear, but he watched thankfully as the laird, with shotgun at the ready, prowled round the further clump of trees.

Then, unexpectedly, he heard someone crashing through the undergrowth of the copse he was in. At first he thought it must be the factor. The laird had heard him too and was coming wrathfully down the hill. Pusey looked nervously as the drama moved unexpectedly in his direction. The footsteps had stopped, but then a voice, McGregor's voice, called hoarsely, ‘Hamish! Hamish!'

Hearing the unmistakable sound the laird came charging downhill. Outside the copse he halted, plainly undecided where to go, but he bellowed confidently, ‘I know you're in there! Come out!' McGregor did not obey. Nor did Pusey. He realised that once again he was a victim of a ridiculous mischance. But if he stayed quite still . . .

The laird was coming towards Pusey when from the further copse uphill a figure came running quickly across the open gap. He was a seaman, obviously, despite the gun in his hand and the dead pheasant. The mate! Pusey watched with agonised apprehension, terrified that the mate would not reach the cover of the trees before the laird turned. Pusey recognised him now as the man who had stood impassively on Glasgow dock as the Skipper and the engineman had tricked him into this ridiculous adventure. He was impassive still, despite the exertion of leaping downhill over the heather and gorse, laden with a heavy shotgun and a pheasant. His feet made little noise on the springy turf, and it was only when he had reached the cover of the trees that the laird heard him crashing through the undergrowth.

The laird came fearsomely back, peering into the woods, and fairly bristling with anger. ‘Come on out now. It'll be
better for you in the long run,' but the mate had obviously joined up with the engineman, for their heavy progress through the woods, back to the canal, could be plainly heard.

Now, obviously, was the time for Pusey to follow, but the laird was standing so close to his hiding place – only a few yards away – that he could not move without risking a burst of shotgun pellets. Besides, he was innocent!

Before he could decide what to do he saw another movement up the hill. The bushes parted and the wee boy, carrying two more pheasants, came cautiously into view. Pusey held his breath, the laird turned, but the boy was down in the long grass in an instant. Infuriated by his helplessness the laird stalked away from Pusey along the edge of the wood, and immediately the boy started a spectacular dash for freedom.

The open ground he had to cover was all downhill. The mate had crossed it in a matter of seconds although it had seemed much longer to Pusey. But the boy was severely handicapped. Two pheasants were almost as much as he could carry, his legs were shorter than the mate's, and the laird, furiously angry, was now thoroughly aroused. Pusey watched in agony as the boy burst down the steep slope. He ran a few yards and then, just as the laird was turning, tripped forward into the heather. He picked himself up cautiously, but the laird had turned his back again. The boy ran on.

He came into the copse like a small thunderbolt and ran straight into Pusey's arms.

He whispered hoarsely, ‘Mr Pusey! What are you . . . ?'

Pusey said, ‘You're to come back to the boat at once.'

The boy looked fearfully over his shoulder. ‘Ssssh! He'll hear us!'

‘Did you hear what I said? The boat is returning to Ardrishaig at once!'

They both turned, sensing danger, as the laird came cautiously into the woods. He was coming directly towards them but apparently had not seen them yet.

The boy seized Pusey's arm and tried to pull him into hiding behind a fallen tree trunk.

Pusey protested, ‘Take your hands off . . .'

‘Ssssh!' the boy whispered urgently. ‘It's the laird.' Using all his force he dragged Pusey to his knees. ‘If we're caught, it's the jail for us!'

Pusey said, ‘I don't care if . . .' He broke off, suddenly alarmed. Then with a show of confidence he added, ‘I'll not be a party to illegal . . .'

The laird was only thirty yards away now, and by descending more steeply than they had expected he had partially cut off their retreat.

‘Here he comes,' the boy said. ‘Get down!'

‘But this is . . .'

‘Get
down
! If he catches us we'll never get away at all.' Pusey muttered, ‘This is absolutely ridiculous,' but as he saw the laird's red and angry face his false courage deserted him. He dropped beside the boy in the cover of the fallen trees.

‘Come out! You can't escape! Come out!'

Pusey, with his face pressed to the earth, listened in amazement and horror.

Chapter Eleven

Seldom in Pusey's blameless life can a single half-hour have been so fraught with anguish. From the moment when he lay on the damp earth behind the tree trunk, with ants crawling over his ankles, the angry laird, armed with a shotgun, only a few yards away, he knew that once again he had allowed himself to be drawn into an indefensible position. If Mr Marshall heard . . . ! He wriggled despairingly as the ants began to crawl up his legs and was rebuked by the boy – ‘Ssssh!' The laird, realising that the poachers were cornered at last, could afford to wait, and in fact it wasn't long before the factor's shout came faintly through the woods.

‘Sir George! Where are ye, sir?'

The laird bellowed with the full force of his lungs, ‘Over here! This way!'

From his hiding place Pusey watched with growing apprehension. Common sense told him that there could be no escape, but while there was even a faint hope . . . He was in quite incredible discomfort. Exploring ants had reached the ridge of his knee, he was bathed in perspiration, but he dared not wriggle.