A Large Measure of Snow Page 2

  ‘You married into the family,’ said Hamish, with a hint of indignation.

  ‘Aye, well, it was between the wars, and us women in the town weren’t exactly spoilt for choice. And your father was a well-doing soul . . . until the bottle became his best friend, that is.’

  Hamish knew this only too well. The family had lost their fishing boat because of his father’s enthusiasm for whisky. It was a hobby that killed him not long after. Had it not been for the generosity of spirit of Sandy Hoynes, who took him on as first mate, Hamish had no idea where he’d have ended up. A life down the pit at Machrie or across in the shipyard where the noise was sufficient to frighten the dead were the most likely options. It was a thought that often made him shudder.

  But he felt no ill will towards his father. He knew himself the pull of a convivial dram. But he was as determined to master it as he was to make an impression this day. ‘I have my sights set high, Mother. My father might be dead, and my grandfather a miserable old bugger cadging drinks in the bar at the County, but that’s not me.’

  ‘Well, I’ll no’ be here to find oot. But you have a look of your grandfather, and no mistake. I see it more every day as your hair falls out. It’s across the eyes – there’s a right slant to them.’

  ‘Will you stop with the hair and the eyes! I’m getting one o’ they complexes.’

  ‘Don’t be so dramatic. If there’s one thing a woman doesn’t like, it’s a man with a favour for exaggeration.’

  ‘Anyway, I never mentioned a woman.’

  ‘Well, if you’re all dressed up to meet Sandy Hoynes, I’m worried.’

  ‘If you must know, I’m to be interviewed for the Glasgow Times. They’re doing a piece on young fishermen from around the country.’

  ‘And they chose you?’ Hamish’s mother looked momentarily taken aback.

  ‘Well, not right at the start, no. Duncan O’May was their first choice, but he caught the chickenpox last week.’

  ‘Oh well, that was lucky.’

  ‘Then they went for Archie Robertson, but he’s self-conscious because of that stutter.’

  ‘But he’s a fine-looking boy, great heid of hair tae, and no mistake. So you were the third choice?’

  ‘No’ exactly.’ Hamish screwed up his face. ‘They were keen on Alex Morrans, but he got the jail at the weekend for fighting with Bobby Johnson and he’s no’ out till the hearing on Friday when the Sheriff gets here.’

  ‘Dear me, we’re running out of young fishermen.’ She raised her eyes to the ceiling.

  ‘Sandy put me forward. Said it would be great to have me in the papers representing a fine craft like the Girl Maggie.’

  ‘Oh aye, like the Queen Mary, so she is.’

  ‘Mother, as fishing boats go, there’s not a better sail in the fleet.’

  ‘I daresay, but she looks like a tramp’s underpants.’

  ‘Sandy doesna believe in style over substance, Mother. He says it’s a working vessel. We’re serious fishermen, no’ they day-sailors who’re just after prettification.’

  ‘Well, he’s certainly succeeded in that desire. Aye, and you’re starting to sound like him. I’d guard against that if I were you. For folk from Kinloch to Copenhagen know fine what a rogue the man is.’

  ‘He is not! He’s always been fair to me, and I’ll not forget him for it. And I’m proud to have my photograph taken in front of his fishing boat. Proud as punch, and no mistake.’

  ‘Aye, well, jeest don’t give it any of that second-sight stuff to the reporter. That’s another trait you take from your grandda.’

  ‘Och, wheesht, Mother.’ Hamish took one last look at himself in the mirror. ‘Right, that’s me off to meet Joe.’

  ‘Joe who?’

  ‘Joe Baird. He’s the journalist from the Glasgow Times. His secretary phoned Sandy last night at his house.’

  ‘Aye, good luck. You’ll need it in all this snow.’

  ‘Och, it’ll make the pictures look fair dramatic, so it will.’

  ‘Aye, if you say so, son.’

  Hamish wished he’d worn his thick pea jacket against the elements as he took the short cut from his mother’s flat in the Glebe Fields down the distillery lane. By the time he’d turned into Long Road, his feet were freezing in his good Sunday shoes, and he was huddled into the old suit that offered little protection against the heavy snow.

  It didn’t take him long to get to the café in the centre of Kinloch, though on the way, even with the camouflage of a thick coating of snow, his wearing of a suit was noted and remarked upon by the locals. Jean McNaughton thought he might be heading for court, while old Peter Carmichael was sure he was after a job interview at the new clothes factory.

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous, Peter,’ said Jean indignantly. ‘If it’s a job at the new clothing factory he’s after, he would hardly be heading there in a suit that’s damn near twenty years old. What kind of impression would that make?’

  Peter nodded sagely. He could see the reasoning in this. ‘Wait, he’s stopped.’

  Despite the deepening snow, Hamish was standing in front of the florist, checking his reflection in the window; he dallied for a few moments, brushing snow from his suit and checking his quiff was still intact.

  ‘It’s a woman!’ said Jean with surprise.

  ‘No, not Hamish. If he ever had any notions of a wife, the confidence to ask a lassie oot will have been well and truly sooked out of him by that mother of his. She could turn whisky sour.’

  ‘A shilling on it, if you’re so confident.’

  ‘Sixpence!’

  ‘Right, you’re on!’ Jean rubbed her mittened hands together. ‘I’ll get some nice sausages from young Alastair the butcher as a treat when I win.’

  ‘Oh aye. He might be no mair than a lad, but he’s a genius wae a sausage, and no mistake.’

  They looked on intently as Hamish pushed open the door to the café.

  3

  The gimlet-eyed proprietor of the County Hotel watched them with a furrowed brow when they arrived. But the prospect of a parcel of fishermen in funds, spending what promised to be a bad day for business in front of his fire, was a tempting one.

  Soon, oilskins, bunnets and sou’westers were left hanging on the coat stand in the lobby, while the men who’d worn them sat bathing in the warmth of the coal fire in the bar.

  ‘Aye, but is that not a fine feeling?’ said Peeny, as melting snow dripped from the end of his nose. ‘Whoot more is there in life but a good fire on a winter’s day, fine conversation and a dram in your fist?’

  ‘A larger dram would be an improvement,’ Hoynes remarked from his seat right in front of the flames. ‘But I have to say, there is a certain conviviality aboot it all, nonetheless.’

  The proprietor leaned against the bar. ‘Don’t you all be of the notion that this is jeest a port in a storm. These seats have to be paid for. You’re not all filling up places customers willing to put their hands in their pockets will be looking for come lunchtime.’

  ‘Who do you think will brave the weather to come out on a day like this?’ said McKirdy. ‘They’d have to be bereft of mind.’

  With that, the front door swung open, bringing with it an icy draught. Hamish stood framed in the entrance, his suit plastered in snow and his quiff white and sticking up like one of the new-fangled ice-cream cones they’d been selling at Gino’s café.

  ‘There you have it,’ said McKirdy. ‘I’m right. Would you look at this apparition! Fair wanting in the heid to be out in this without so much as a toorie.’

  ‘Ach, leave the boy alone,’ said Hoynes. ‘Young folk these days are fair filled with ideas that oor generation canna get a handle on. I mean, who’d have thought that there’d be men walking aboot with hair the length of a lassie’s, and the lassies themselves turned oot with barely a skirt on at all?’

  ‘Aye, you’re right, Sandy,’ said Peeny. ‘It’s worse things is getting, tae. My nephew arrived hame the other night and produced one of they joi
nts.’

  McKirdy looked confused. ‘Whether it was beef, lamb or pork, there’s nothing to be sniffed at aboot a joint, surely?’

  ‘Naw, not that kind of joint! The one you see these yobs wae the guitars smoking. Whoot do they call it?’

  ‘Silly shag?’ said Jim McMichael.

  ‘Ach, away! It’s the wacky baccy they’re calling it. You wouldna put that stuff in a decent briar pipe,’ said Hoynes.

  ‘Well, he lit up right in front o’ my sister Jean. Of course, she didna have a clue whoot was afoot, but I could smell it straightaway.’

  ‘How do you recognise it?’

  ‘Was I no’ at that accordion and fiddle club ceilidh last month. They musicians are all at it.’

  ‘No’ wee Roger surely, he’s only a boy!’ said McKirdy.

  ‘No’ him. But I’m telling you, I recognise the odour; it’s right particular, so it is.’ He crossed his arms to make the point, as the rest of the assembled fishermen looked into the flames and tried to picture the members of the Kinloch and District Fiddle and Accordion club partaking in forbidden substances.

  ‘It’s this “tune in and drop out” – they’re all at it. I saw it on the news. Well, I’m here to tell you, the last time I heard old McGeachy at the fiddle he might have dropped oot, but he certainly hadn’t tuned in. Fair wailing, it was,’ said Hoynes.

  ‘Mind you, it’s no’ a patch on a good dram,’ said Peeny.

  ‘Man, you didna partake in a draw yourself, did you?’

  Peeny sat back in his chair with his hands behind his head. ‘Aye, well, whoot does a man’s journey through life mean if he’s no’ willing to take a new path?’

  They all turned to look at him, mouths agape.

  ‘But it has to be said that while I got a wee sensation, it was only fleeting. After it, my mouth tasted like a Bedouin’s sandal.’ The thought prompted him to take his baccy from his pocket and tamp some down in the bowl of his pipe with a thumb.

  ‘Maybe I’ll gie it a go myself,’ said Andy Duncan, at ninety the oldest present.

  ‘I widna be in a rush to be doing that, Andy. I’m sure we had to get the ambulance for you last year when you had one o’ they Babychams,’ said Hoynes.

  ‘It wisna that at all,’ said McKirdy. ‘The man drank near a bottle o’ Johnnie Walker before he had a glass o’ that stuff. They’d to rinse his liver oot wae a mangle.’

  The old man looked McKirdy squarely in the face and raised his withered middle digit by way of a reply.

  ‘Hamish, brush yourself doon, man. You’ll catch your death encased in all that snow,’ said Hoynes in an avuncular manner. ‘And when you’ve done that, I’d be fair grateful for a dram. It’s a skipper’s privilege. One day you’ll be asking the same of your crew. Just for me, mind. This parcel of rogues can dip in their ain pockets. Aye, and be sure to get yourself one while you’re at it, before we need tae send for one o’ they big dogs from the Alps. The creatures wae the wee barrels strung through their collars.’

  ‘Saint Bernards,’ said Hamish.

  ‘I’m no’ right sure who they belong to, but I’ve always fancied bumping into one,’ said Hoynes. ‘But if they do belong to this saint, he’s got no business encouraging folk to partake in alcohol. There’s nothing Christian aboot that, at all.’

  ‘Unless you’re the Reverend McSorley,’ said Peeny.

  ‘Aye, but he gets dispensation to be half cut most of the day on account of him being blown up at Monte Cassino wae the Argylls,’ opined Alex Watson, who’d only just thawed out enough to be able to speak.

  ‘Aye, he got blown up right enough. But he must have landed in a cask o’ wine, for he’s no’ been oot his cups since,’ said old Andy Duncan.

  ‘Well, here’s hoping he doesna take to the Babycham,’ said Hoynes. ‘The ambulance will be fair rushed off its feet.’

  Amidst the laughter, and having brushed most of the snow from his suit, Hamish tapped Hoynes on the shoulder. ‘Can I have a word with you, skipper?’

  ‘There’s no need tae whisper, Hamish. We’re amongst friends here,’ he said loudly. Then in a quieter voice: ‘It’s no’ aboot that wee favour I did for Mrs McKay, is it?’

  Hamish shook his head.

  ‘Aye, well, spill what’s on your mind, Hamish.’ Hoynes was back to his ebullient self. ‘Oh, and while you’re at it, you can maybe tell me why you’re all dressed up in your faither’s suit? May he rest in peace.’

  ‘Sure you know, I’ve been speaking to the Glasgow Times, remember?’

  ‘Och, that’s right enough,’ said Hoynes, grabbing Hamish’s arm. ‘They’ve chosen oor Hamish here to represent young fishermen everywhere. The Glasgow Times, no less.’

  ‘Aye, after they went round just aboot the whole fleet asking everybody else,’ said McKirdy. ‘And you’re no spring chicken, neither, Hamish. You must be pushing thirty, if you’re a day.’

  ‘Wheesht, McKirdy,’ said Hoynes. ‘Let my man speak.’

  ‘The reporter has asked us a favour, Sandy,’ said Hamish.

  ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘Well, it’s a case of wondering if we’ll be heading off tae bring supplies for the toon from across on the Ayrshire coast. I let on that it sometimes happens in times of snow like this.’

  ‘And you did right! My, tae see the Girl Maggie featured in the Glasgow Times as she braves the elements tae save Kinloch would be a fair spectacle. What do you think, men?’

  ‘I’d gie her a lick o’ paint, if I were you,’ said McKirdy waspishly.

  ‘In this weather? No’ likely. The Girl Maggie is a working vessel, no’ some pleasure cruiser. She’ll be pictured as she is – a brave wee boat, working hard to save the people of Kinloch from fair starving to death. It’s an honour.’

  This was greeted by a disaffected murmur.

  ‘A round of drinks for my friends to celebrate!’ Hoynes smiled beatifically at his colleagues, old and young.

  ‘Och, maybe it’s not a bad thing, right enough,’ said Peeny. ‘A wee boost for the fleet will do it the world of good. Make mine a malt – by way of celebration, you understand.’

  Hoynes gazed at him malevolently for a moment, then drew his attention back to his first mate. ‘This reporter, what’s his name?’

  Hamish shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot. ‘Baird, the reporter’s name is Baird. Aye, and here’s a down payment, a kind of retainer, you understand. We’ll get the full sum when the job’s done.’ He fished out a large white five-pound note from his pocket.

  Hoynes grabbed it like a flytrap. ‘Well, now, you see. Isn’t that a sight to behold? A fine man this Baird must be, right enough.’ He pocketed the fiver with relish.

  Beside him, Hamish’s face bore a pained, some might say anguished expression.

  4

  The snow didn’t stop for the rest of that day, nor through the night. When first light dawned, the sky was bright, but to the east more ominous clouds were gathering battalions of snowflakes in good order, ready to march on Kinloch.

  As predicted the previous day, the Glasgow road was snowbound, and the good people of the town were indeed cut off from the rest of civilisation. The unfortunate Reverend McNee had been forced to seek shelter from the snow halfway between Kinloch and Glasgow at Inveraray.

  The town itself had taken on an altogether different aspect. Houses, once with sharply defined gabled roofs, looked more akin to bakers’ loaves. Every angle had been softened under the thick snow, and if anyone acquainted with the familiar silhouettes had been presented with this new spectacle, they wouldn’t have recognised the place. Fences could barely be seen. Sheep looked a dirty white against the virgin snow. The council’s gritting lorry had long since given up the ghost, stuck fast as it was at the top of the Still Brae. Shops, though staying open, boasted only a trickle of customers, wrapped up in so many hoods, hats and scarves as to make them unidentifiable. This was something of a novelty for the community, where everyone knew everyone else. The new pastime of wo
rking out who was who under each great huddle of clothes was both intriguing and unsettling.

  An emergency meeting of Kinloch’s town council was in session in the wood-panelled chamber in the town hall. Its members sat around a huge, polished mahogany table, each face etched with concern.

  ‘I’m minded to hold my hand out to our brave fishing community,’ said Francis McMurdo, the town’s provost and senior politician. ‘They came through for us in nineteen forty-seven, and I’m sure they’ll rise to the occasion again.’

  Jessie McCorkindale looked less optimistic. ‘Aye, and you’ll recall the bad feeling that emerged after that. The shopkeepers gave them the bare minimum then doubled the price of everything. There was damn near a revolution!’

  ‘Well, I have no special powers to force fishermen or shopkeepers to bend the knee to any of the ideas put in place by this council. We can only appeal to the better nature of all those involved.’

  There was a general air of scepticism around the table at this remark. For memory was long in Kinloch, and an un-righted wrong was bound to have consequences even two decades on.

  ‘I suggest we declare a state of emergency and call in the army,’ said Councillor Galbraith. ‘Get them on the boats at gunpoint, if necessary.’

  McMurdo eyed him as he puffed on his pipe. ‘There’s a few flaws in that notion, Jamie. For one, if the army could get here, they’d be able to bring supplies themselves. And secondly, even if we could avail ourselves of their services, you’ll remember the riots we had on our hands when they redcaps came during the war to arrest that local lad who went AWOL.’

  ‘They flung them in the loch!’ hooted Alec Macmillan, often one of the more obdurate members around the table. ‘And in any case, the idea of forcing men to sea in what could be life-threatening circumstances is reckless in the extreme. You’d have a terrible load to deal with if only a fraction of the fleet returned, and no mistake.’

  ‘The lives of the whole community will be at risk if we can’t get any food from somewhere,’ said the provost. ‘The Co-op’s running low, and the same goes for just about every shop in the town. Of course, folk are panic buying. I saw the widow Munro this very morning with a shopping basket of sugar that would have sweetened every cup of tea of a battalion on the move.’