The Maggie Read online

  The Maggie

  This edition published in 2014 by

  Birlinn Ltd

  West Newington House

  10 Newington Road

  Edinburgh eh9 1qs

  www.birlinn.co.uk

  First published in 1954 by William Heinemann Ltd

  eBook ISBN: 9780857908261

  ISBN: 9781780272498

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter One

  The pub known as Dirty Dan’s is not in a fashionable part of Glasgow, nor is it particularly well known except to the dock workers and seamen who like to be near ships and water even in their leisure hours. From the low mullioned windows the hill drops steeply to the waterfront so that a man drinking at the bar can look down over the roof of the customs house to the wharf, and by moving only a few paces towards the window can see ships of every description on the cold grey waters of the Clyde. To a seafaring man such a scene is full of enchantment – the cargo vessels being plucked clean by swinging cranes; tankers, ferry boats, liners coming in from the Atlantic to anchor in calm water. Sometimes, by contrast, one of the tiny Puffers, the ancient boats which still manage to ply their trade, comes nosing fussily between the bigger ships to find a berth and, if possible, a cargo, and along the waterfront men who have lived and loved and talked boats all their lives nudge their companions and smile with affection and pride.

  The landlord was an old sailor, but his first expression on seeing the Maggie was of incredulity. He had been swabbing the counter as he watched the Puffer coming in at a steady four knots, but it wasn’t until he saw the wee boy on deck and the mate leaning against the stern rail with a coiled rope that he really took notice.

  ‘Well, I’ll be . . .!’

  The drinkers looked up with mild interest. Two skippers with the initials CSS on their caps half rose from their chairs. ‘What is it?’

  The landlord pointed with his swabbing cloth. ‘Isn’t that the Maggie?’

  There was a scraping of chairs and a scramble of boots on the floor as men crowded to the windows.

  ‘It’s the Maggie all right. Coming in bold as brass.’

  ‘Never thought we’d see her back in Glasgow.’

  ‘And isn’t that the skipper himself, old MacTaggart, in the wheelhouse?’

  ‘It’s him all right.’

  A foreigner, an Englishman from Liverpool, asked, ‘Who’s MacTaggart, and what’s that coal bucket he’s sailing?’

  ‘Coal bucket!’ The landlord planted two hands firmly on the counter. ‘If ye knew the first thing about boats, laddie, I wouldna’ have to tell ye that those old Puffers could be used for any job in the trade – anything. If it’s coal ye’re wanting or a few head of cattle or a wee bit of machinery maybe, and just supposing ye want it delivered to one of the islands where there’s no port, maybe not even a jetty: ye don’t charter a CSS boat – Captain Jamieson’s here, or Captain Anderson’s. And why not? Because they’re deep water boats. Ye’d go to a skipper like . . .’ He looked down at the wharf where MacTaggart was climbing slowly, and apprehensively it seemed, from the wheelhouse; then he added defensively, ‘Ye’d charter a Puffer.’

  ‘If that’s a Puffer,’ the Englishman said, ‘I’d think twice before filling her with cargo. Look at her now – half under the wharf. She’ll be gone completely when the tide runs out.’ It was true. The Maggie had tied up beside – almost underneath – a big cargo vessel. With her funnel below the level of the wharf it looked almost as though she were hiding under the stern of the bigger boat.

  ‘She’s no’ so big,’ the landlord agreed, ‘for the reasons I’m telling ye, but she’s a bonny boat just the same – or was.’

  ‘She could do with a lick of paint.’

  ‘Aye, and her boiler’s half eaten with rust.’

  ‘It’s a wonder MacTaggart hasn’t had the bottom out of her before this.’

  The landlord nodded sadly at their criticisms. He knew that they had as much sentiment for the old Maggie as he had, but they had too much pride in their calling to pronounce her a good boat.

  ‘She’d be good for another ten years with a coat of paint and a new skipper,’ Captain Jamieson said loyally.

  The Englishman pushed his empty glass and a florin towards the landlord. ‘The same again.’ He looked down over their shoulders and saw MacTaggart with the mate and the engineman coming ashore. They looked quickly to right and left before hurrying from the wharf. Only the boy was left aboard.

  ‘What’s wrong with MacTaggart?’ the Englishman asked. He realised at once that he had spoken out of turn.

  ‘Wrong with him?’ They looked at each other awkwardly, as the question was tossed from glance to glance. At last it was Captain Jamieson who said, ‘I suppose he drinks.’

  ‘Who doesn’t?’ the Englishman said, laughing.

  ‘I’ve seen him drunk three times in the one day.’

  They drifted away from the windows, back to their half-empty glasses. It wasn’t until the Englishman had finished his beer and gone outside to the ‘Gents’ that their embarrassment began to thaw. Then they drew on their cherished store of anecdotes and tossed them one by one into the kitty of laughter. The atmosphere warmed and was friendly once more. Coins rattled on the counter, glasses were filled and emptied, the sun played on the sanded floor.

  ‘Wasn’t he the one that caused all that trouble in the Kyles?’

  The story was confirmed and embellished as the deep laughter bellied through the room.

  ‘Well, I never thought we’d see him back.’

  ‘He’s asking for it this time.’

  From his vantage point at the bar the landlord could watch the boat below, and as they talked he saw the boy, who had been left in charge, climb with difficulty on to the wharf, where he stood with hands in pockets, looking disrespectfully at the big cargo vessel alongside and occasionally spitting towards its painted stern. Two men wearing blue serge suits and bowler hats came purposefully along the concrete and stopped beside the Maggie. The boy didn’t see them until they tapped him on the shoulder. Then he turned and ducked quickly, ready to run, only to find himself firmly held by the collar.

  ‘There’s trouble already,’ the landlord said, polishing a glass.

  ‘Police?’

  ‘No. Two bodies in bowler hats – inspectors maybe.’

  Captain Jamieson stood up so that he could see. ‘Aye, they’re inspectors all right.’ He watched as the wee boy stood up manfully to officialdom. The hands gestured and pointed. ‘Wonder what story he’s telling them?’ Whatever it was, the inspectors were not impressed, for they pushed past him to the wooden ladder and began climbing down to the boat. Speechless with this violation of rights the boy watched until only the
head and shoulders of the second inspector showed above the wharf. Then with one deft kick he sent the bowler hat sailing down to the deck.

  ‘The wee devil! Three months out of school and he’s as big a rogue as the ither three!’ The landlord chuckled as he moved along the bar. ‘Wonder how old MacTaggart’ll get shift of those bodies.’

  He looked up with his business smile as the street doorbell rang, but it was only his barmaid, Molly. She was flushed as though she had been running, and there was a sparkle of excitement in her eyes. She walked quickly over to the bar. ‘Ye know who’s just docked?’

  ‘Aye.’

  She was disappointed that he knew. ‘Ye’ve seen her – the Maggie?’

  ‘Aye.’

  She said, ‘I was in Bateson’s as they left the dock. They’re coming up the hill. Maybe they’ll come in here.’

  Chapter Two

  The men in the bar listened gleefully to the hum of argument outside. The crew of the Maggie were coming in all right. The swing door was pushed half open and then closed again with a slam, but the husky sea voices could be heard plainly enough through the open window.

  ‘I’m still the Master of yon vessel, and I know what I’m about.’

  Then a second voice, complaining. ‘Then tell me this: if we had to put into Gleska, could we no’ at least have waited till after it was dark?’

  ‘We’ve nothing to fear from any man,’ came from the Skipper, ‘or woman either. We’ll only be here long enough to find ourselves a cargo. Then we’ll be off again. And if Sarah or anybody’s watching for us they’d be watching by night. They’d never expect us to have the effrontery to put in by day!’

  The swing door opened fully this time, and, like actors coming on to a stage, the three men entered. They came in with a grin, for they were all playing the same part, officers of a busy merchantman snatching an hour’s leisure between trips. To complete the illusion they needed something more than confidence and a jaunty step – a call for drinks all round perhaps, but it was noticed that none of them seemed anxious to be first at the bar and that when the Skipper did come reluctantly forward he asked in a low voice for one half-pint and made no attempt to pay for that. McGregor, the engineman, apparently encouraged, also took a half-pint, which, on being reminded by the landlord, he paid for.

  Hamish, the mate, was too busy to drink. Molly’s bright eyes had drawn him irresistibly across the room to one of the cubicles, where she was making a half-hearted attempt to swab the table, while resisting his embraces.

  ‘Och, will you stop it! This is no’ the place for . . .’

  ‘We’re no’ putting out till tomorrow,’ the mate suggested.

  There was a flurry of arms and apron. ‘Stop it! Ye canna come to Glasgow once in two years and expect me to believe you’ve any honest feeling for me!’

  The Skipper turned with one foot on the bar-rail. He raised his glass to Captain Jamieson.

  ‘Jamieson, me boy. And how’s the world treating ye?’

  ‘No’ so bad. And how’s yeself?’

  The Skipper made a dramatic gesture of fatigue. ‘Busy – busy. One trip after anither. Never a day to rest.’

  ‘What are ye doing now?’

  The Skipper and McGregor exchanged glances. ‘It just so happens that through force of circumstances we’re – just for the moment – without a cargo.’

  ‘Would ye be looking for one, then?’ Captain Jamieson was something of an actor himself. He asked the question without a smile, aware that everyone in the room was with him.

  ‘Well . . .’ The Skipper’s hand muted McGregor’s eagerness. ‘I’m no’ so keen. It’d need careful consideration, of course.’ He nodded solemnly. ‘Careful consideration.’

  ‘What sort of a cargo had ye in mind?’ McGregor asked.

  ‘Nothing in particular,’ Captain Jamieson said. ‘But there must be plenty who’d be glad to use your services.’ He looked round at his audience for encouragement. ‘A fine craft like yours.’

  The ferry pilot drank deeply and pushed his empty glass across the table. ‘If ye weren’t fussy,’ he began, ‘there’s maybe some coal . . .’

  ‘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.