The Maggie by James Dillon White Read Free Book Online Page B

Fortunately, by returning on the night sleeper, the journey back to London would cost them nothing in precious hours and minutes. A necessary extravagance was the telephone call from Marshall’s wife.
    He spoke to her quietly, almost deferentially, in a tone he used to no other person. ‘That’s right, honey, just a routine business matter . . . Uh-huh, either by train tonight or on the first plane tomorrow morning . . .’
    As he spoke, Miss Peters came quickly into the room. She started to withdraw, but, as Marshall raised his finger, she remained. He saw that the strain of the day’s business was beginning to show even on her usually untroubled brow. She stood fidgeting nervously until he finished.
    â€˜If I have to stay over, I’ll ring you later tonight. . . . Yes, that’s right. Well, thanks for calling, honey. Good night.’
    He replaced the receiver, and turned with a smile of encouragement to Miss Peters. At least, this absurd episode had left no mark on him .
    Miss Peters said, ‘I’ve just had a call from the harbour master at Greenock, Mr Marshall. He says the Puffer arrived there ten minutes ago . . .’
    Marshall nodded with satisfaction. ‘Good. Now, here’s the plan. First, tell Pusey to . . .’
    Miss Peters interrupted him with hysteria in her voice, ‘But, Mr Marshall, he said that when he gave them your instructions . . .’ She faltered, seeing his expression.
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜Oh, Mr Marshall. They just sailed right out again!’

Chapter Eight
    The Maggie steamed peacefully northwards through the blue waters of Loch Fyne. It was a perfect day. Along the shore the pleasant countryside, rolling hills, heath-land, dark pine woods, showed clearly in the sunlight. A landward breeze flecked the water with white and filled the sails of passing yachts. Seagulls circled patiently over their wake and sometimes, wearying perhaps of the laggardly progress, came down to rest on the stern rail.
    On deck the scene was as peaceful and untroubled as the day. McGregor was sitting on his hatch reading a comic book. Nearby the mate lay full-length in the sunshine as he struggled, not too successfully, with the intricacies of his concertina. Only the boy was working. He was scrubbing the deck – not because he had been told to do so, but because of his fierce inarticulate loyalty to the Skipper and the Skipper’s boat.
    From his wheelhouse the Skipper shouted down to McGregor, ‘See if ye can’t get another half-knot out of her. She’s not making more than five.’
    Without looking up from his comic McGregor answered, ‘She’s making six!’
    â€˜Five at the outside.’
    â€˜She’s making six!’
    The Skipper replied diplomatically, ‘Then see if she’ll do seven.’
    McGregor rose slowly and came across the deck. ‘She’ll no’ make seven, ye know that! What’s the matter with ye? Considering that ye’ll no’ spend a penny to get her boilers cleaned . . .’
    The Skipper said guardedly, ‘Never mind about that. If we’re to get to Kiltarra by . . .’ He looked up, distracted by an aircraft that was diving down towards the loch. With the sun behind it and the cloudless sky it was difficult to see, and the Skipper turned to face McGregor, who was standing, full of argument, below his wheelhouse.
    The engineman said, ‘Who was it put the boat on the subway?’
    â€˜I’ll have no insubordination aboard my vessel,’ the Skipper threatened.
    â€˜Insubordination! Who was it who was too drunk to find the way out of Campbeltown harbour last . . . ?’
    His voice was smothered by the roar of the engine as the aircraft, flying low over the water, swept a matter of yards, it seemed, above the deck. Startled by the suddenness the engineman almost jumped overboard. The boy looked up astounded.