North Star Page 2

  ‘Why?’

  ‘’Cos they doan’t know when they’re well off, always itching for something. Me, I joost want what they’ve got – raight now I’d settle for the missis, all warm and cosy laike, a naice soft bed that didn’t move unless I made it.’ He grinned, winking an eye, the longing of weeks at sea on his face.

  My watch ended and I went to my bunk, lying in the dark, thinking wearily. I was an idealist, and idealists get cut down to size when ideals are transposed into politics. Maybe I wasn’t tough enough. When it came to the crunch … Was I a coward then, my ideals shattered by a petrol bomb? But the doubts had started long before that. When was it? At that Clydeside meeting when a small group of militants screamed ‘Fascist!’ at me because I had tried to spell out for them what would happen? I had dried up and handed the mike over to a man, who talked their language, not the logic of falling orders and redundancies. Was that when the doubts had started? I couldn’t be sure. It was such an accumulation of things.

  It was just on ten when I went back on to the bridge, daylight now, a grey world, cloud and sea all one in colour and the whitecaps rolling in from dead astern. I glanced at the gyro and then at the skipper. ‘You’ve altered course.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Aberdeen?’

  He nodded, his eyes on a small freighter headed for Norway and making heavy weather of it as she butted the tail end of the storm.

  ‘Did you talk to Watt?’

  He didn’t answer me and after a moment I ducked out of the bridge to the door of the radio room. The fug in that little cubbyhole was overpowering, the air thick with smoke. Sparks was thumbing the key, tapping out a message in his shirt sleeves, a cigarette burning beside him in a rusty tobacco tin full of stubs. I waited, sweating there, until he had finished. ‘Any news for me?’ I asked.

  He picked up his cigarette, turning in his chair and looking at me, his dark eyes large behind the steel-rimmed glasses. ‘You know we’re headed for Aberdeen?’ Morse crackled from the loudspeaker and he reached out tobacco-stained fingers for his message pad, listening with his pencil poised. Then he relaxed. ‘That rig again. So much traffic for Redco 2 I’ve hardly been able to send at all, and the old man desperate to jump the queue and get us slipped.’

  ‘He hasn’t notified the Aberdeen police?’

  ‘Not his job to do that. The office knows, of course, so maybe they have.’ He leaned back, his eyes fixed on me, but half his mind on the Morse. ‘They’re waiting to haul anchors so I suppose they got no joy on the Bressay Bank. Les is fit again, by the way.’ And he added, ‘Sorry about that. The old man’ll be sorry, too, in a way. Les isn’t the best mate in the fleet. What’ll you do when we get in?’

  I hesitated, wondering whether the police would be waiting for me at Aberdeen. ‘Go on the club again, I suppose.’ One trip in six months. I was hating myself for being so dependent on trawler owners for employment, conscious of a deep-seated urge to start something on my own.

  ‘Why don’t you switch to oil – supply ships, something like that? That’s where the future is. Trawling …’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Doesn’t matter to me. I go where Marconi send me. But a man like you, with a master’s certificate, you want to go where the future is.’ He jerked his head at the sound of the Morse. ‘He’s talking to the tug owners now, a big German job steaming north from Heligoland. The forecast’s good, so they’ll be under tow tomorrow night. Every trip it’s the same; down past Brent and Auk, all this area of the North Sea, nothing but rig talk – Bluewater, Staflo, North Star, Glomar. Take my advice – I listen and I know. There’ll be more rig supply ships than trawlers soon.’

  ‘Maybe.’ I stood there for a moment listening to the crackle of the Morse. Clydebank, Newcastle, Hull, all the political involvement of my life … My mind switched to Shetland, to the islands now far down below the horizon. Was it the island blood in my veins that had made me abandon capitalist America as a kid? Was that why I had started on my wanderings, seeking the values I could not find in the rich world my mother had embraced? Or was it the legendary figure of my father? Had I built him up as a hero in my mind simply because she had tried to bury him? I didn’t know. My mind was confused. All I knew for certain was that everything I had done, everything I had believed in, had suddenly turned sour.

  And then Sparks murmured, ‘The offshore capital of the world.’ He coughed over his cigarette. ‘Aberdeen – you know it?’

  I shook my head. ‘Never been there.’

  He smiled. ‘Well, that’s what they call it.’ The Morse ceased and he glanced at the clock, his fingers reaching for the dials, tuning to the emergency waveband. ‘Take a walk round the harbour when you get there. Have a look at the pipe storage depots, the diving outfits, all the clutter of stuff the oil rigs need. You’ll get the message then all right. Aberdeen’s no longer a fish port. It’s an oil rig supply base, and if I were in your shoes …’ He stopped then, his body suddenly tense as a ghostly voice, calling in clear, began repeating the single word – ‘Mayday, Mayday, Mayday …’ The voice was urgent, giving details now … It was a trawler with its engines out of order being swept on to a rock-bound coast in heavy seas.

  ‘Shetland.’ Sparks was scribbling it down on his pad, and as the voice began to repeat the vessel’s position, he glanced up at a large-scale map. ‘Looks like he’ll drive ashore on Whalsay Island.’ He ripped the sheet off his pad and got to his feet. ‘Nothing we can do about it, but the old man better know.’ And he hurried past me through into the bridge.

  The name of the trawler was the Duchess of Norfolk. We looked her up out of curiosity. She was just under 200 tons, built at Lowestoft in 1939 and owned now by G. Petersen of Hamnavoe, Shetland. New engines 1968, Paxman diesels, so what had gone wrong? All the Chief said was, ‘Bloody Shetlanders, they wouldn’t know a crankshaft from a camshaft.’ He didn’t like the Shetlanders, having been stuck there once with gales and a leaking ship.

  The Duchess of Norfolk was in fact south of Whalsay and, with the wind backed into the north-east, she drove towards South Nesting. We caught snatches of radio talk, very faint, as the trawler Ranger steamed to her assistance. It gave me something to occupy my mind, following her progress on the Shetland Isles chart No. 3059. She cleared Muckle Fladdicap, a bare three cables to the eastward, drifted inside Muckla Billan and Litla Billan, missed the rock islet of Climnie by a shift of the tide and hit Fiska Skerry at 13.46. By then the trawler Ranger was almost up with her and inside of half an hour had a line aboard. That was the last I heard of her, for we were already in sight of Aberdeen’s North Pier, with the city showing grey through the murk above the pale line of the Links, and I was busy getting ready to dock.

  The skipper took us in, heading straight for Albert Basin, where the trawlers lay. As we approached Point Law, a survey vessel sweeping past us and a tug manoeuvring across our bows, the harbour area began to open up. Sparks appeared at my elbow. ‘See what I mean?’ He nodded towards a cluster of tanks to starboard with supply ships moored alongside. ‘Mud silos,’ he said. The area beyond was being developed, the sound of reconstruction work coming to us across the water. ‘That’s the future you’re looking at.’

  It was an extraordinary sight, the whole harbour area crowded with ships, drilling ships, survey vessels, seismic ships, tugs and ancillary craft all jam-packed among the fishing vessels. And, up-river from Torry Harbour, a litter of pipes and buoys, equipment of all sorts, lay piled on the quay, more mud silos and a new berth nearly completed. As we moved slowly into Albert Basin we passed very close to Point Law and the supply ship bunkering there. It was the first time I had been really close to one of these flat-bottomed, tug-like vessels that keep the rigs drilling.

  ‘I only know trawlers,’ I said. Moored there, the ship looked very sleek, very efficient, but I had seen one once heading out to the Brent in a strong westerly gale, seas breaking over the flat, open after-deck. ‘I’d rather have the Fisher Maid up around Bear Island than one of those in a
North Sea gale.’

  He shrugged, his eyes smiling behind his glasses. ‘All I’m saying is, if you got in on the act, you wouldn’t be short of a ship for years, not the way new rigs are coming into service.’

  A trawler passed us very close, another just ahead of us, as we nosed our way down the length of Albert Quay, searching for a berth. I could see the fish market now, and then a gap opened up and the skipper said quietly, ‘Looks a laikely hole. Reckon there’s just room for us.’ He ordered port wheel, our bows swinging, and I took the loudhailer out on to the wing of the bridge.

  We were tied up by 14.00, the lumpers offloading the catch. Since Aberdeen was not our home port, there was no pay, only subs from the local agent to see the boys home. They had a long rail journey ahead of them and most of them were away by the time the first pound boards were being replaced and the emptied compartments hosed down. The skipper called me to his cabin. He was packing his bag. ‘You in a hurry to get back?’ He knew I was the only officer who hadn’t got a wife waiting for him in Hull.

  I shook my head.

  He was standing holding a shirt and a bundle of dirty socks in his hand, a slug of whisky on the locker behind him. ‘Ah thought not.’ The bulging eyeballs stared at me. ‘Take it then you won’t object to staying the night aboard. We’ve no ship’s husband here, you see, and Les doesn’t arrive till tomorrow.’ He waited a moment and then nodded. ‘Good. That’s settled then. Better use my cabin so’s you can keep an eye on things laike.’

  The lumpers packed it in shortly before 19.00 and then I had the ship to myself. I sat on the bridge smoking a pipe and watching the lights come on as dusk descended over the city and the high land behind it. A stillness had settled on the Basin, the quay deserted except for the occasional figure moving along the shadowed wall of the sheds. A siren blared briefly and a trawler up near the entrance started backing out. I watched her as she headed for the open sea, thinking of the mate preparing his gear and the ice ahead and the skipper wondering where the hell he’d get a catch that would satisfy his gaffers.

  After that the port seemed dead, nothing stirring. Night had closed down on Aberdeen. I tapped out my pipe and went to the galley to collect a plateful of shepherd’s pie and veg the cook had left for me. The galley stove was still warm and I put a kettle on for coffee. With the coffee I had a glass of brandy from the officers’ ex-bond locker. A cat had come aboard and as I drank I watched it stalk its prey in the shadows cast by the deck lights.

  To be suddenly alone on a ship gives one an odd feeling of isolation. All during the voyage the Fisher Maid had been alive with men, an organized unit of activity, her hull vibrating to the pulse of her engines, resounding to the noise of the sea. Now it was deserted, a hollow shell, inactive, still and strangely quiet. I had time to think now, but somehow I seemed unable to concentrate. I was tired, of course, but I think it was the stillness and the quiet that prevented my mind from focusing clearly. I finished my drink, went down to my cabin and packed my gear, shifting it to the skipper’s cabin in the bridge housing. Then I turned in.

  I was in my pyjamas, having a last smoke, when I heard footsteps crossing the gangway, the murmur of voices. I went through into the bridge and out on to the wing. Two figures stood talking on the deck below. ‘Looking for somebody?’

  They turned at the sound of my voice, their faces pale in shadow, something slightly menacing as they stared up at me. Then one of them moved, coming out of the shadows to the foot of the ladder. ‘Heard you were still aboard. We’d like a word with you.’ He started up the ladder, a short, burly figure, his round, pugnacious face framed in dark sideburns, eyes deep-set and a full-lipped mouth. ‘Remember me?’

  I nodded, the sight of him taking me back to that angry meeting in Hull. He was a Newark man and nothing to do with the shipyards. His name was Bob Scunton and he had confronted me when I was still trying to address the meeting, prodding me in the stomach and telling me to belt up and stop talking a load of statistical rubbish the lads didn’t want to know. The other man I had never seen before. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘You can come up.’ And I led them into the bridge. There was only one seat, so we stood facing each other, and I didn’t like it. I had the feeling of being cornered. ‘Well, what is it?’

  ‘Last month, the night of the shipyard workers’ meeting.’ Scunton’s voice was slow and deliberate, his eyes watching me. ‘You got a little girl out of a burning house and handed her over to the neighbours. Didn’t give your name. Just handed her over and slipped away. Right?’

  I didn’t say anything, standing there, waiting, conscious of the other man with a slight cast in the left eye that made his gaze oddly disconcerting.

  ‘Thought no doubt you wouldn’t be recognized.’

  My mouth felt dry, all my fears now suddenly realized. I knew Scunton, knew his reputation. These were men who operated in the shadows, manoeuvring and motivating others, controlling events. They weren’t union men. They weren’t members of any political party. But they were always there, in the background, whenever there was trouble. ‘Come to the point,’ I said.

  ‘All right, I will.’ He licked his lips, his eyes darting round the bridge. ‘What about a drink while we’re discussing it?’

  ‘It’s been a hard trip,’ I told him. ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘So are we,’ he growled. ‘Soon as we heard you weren’t putting into Hull we came north.’ He thrust his head forward. ‘You haven’t talked to the police yet, have you?’

  ‘No.’

  He nodded. ‘Okay, but when you do, what are you going to tell them? That’s what we want to know.’

  ‘It’s no business of yours.’ But I knew it was. I could see it in the way the two of them glanced at each other, and suddenly all the turmoil and the doubts exploded in anger. ‘You bastards put them up to it, is that it? Is that what you’re scared of – that I’ll identify them and they’ll involve you?’

  Scunton moved towards me. ‘You shop them and we’ll –’

  But the other man interrupted him. ‘I’ll handle this, Bob.’ His voice was quiet, a hard, fiat voice. ‘You were recognized. One of the neighbours, a man. The police will expect a statement.’ He paused, the disconcerting gaze sliding past me. Then suddenly he asked, ‘What were you doing standing there in the rain outside No. 5 Washbrook Road?’

  I hesitated, unwilling to explain myself to men I knew would never understand. ‘You weren’t at the meeting that night.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There was a mood of violence,’ I said. ‘A lot of threats were made, mainly directed at Pierson & Watt and the yard foreman –’

  ‘We believe in solidarity,’ Scunton growled in that thick voice of his. ‘Pierson & Watt were the one yard –’

  ‘You believe in violence,’ I told him.

  ‘All right. Maybe we do, when it’s necessary.’

  I turned back to face the other man. ‘If I hadn’t been there, Bucknall and that fellow Claxby might well be facing a murder charge.’

  ‘So you know who it was,’ Scunton cut in.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I know who they were.’ And suddenly I didn’t care. ‘If you want to throw petrol bombs, why the hell don’t you have the guts to do it yourselves? And to risk innocent lives – a little girl …’

  ‘You threw it.’ His voice was so quiet it stopped me like a bucket of ice-cold water. ‘That’s what we came to tell you.’

  Staring at him, seeing the hard, bitter line of his mouth, the cold grey eyes glinting in the gleam of the deck lights, I felt suddenly scared of him. ‘Who are you?’ I asked him.

  He gave a little shrug, a shut look on his face. ‘We have a witness.’ He pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered me one, and when I pushed it away, he said, ‘You were alone, nobody to corroborate your evidence.’ He took out a cigarette and lit it, the movement of his hands deliberate. He was giving me time to take it in. ‘So it will be your word against his, and the man who will say you threw the petrol bom
b is a local man. He’ll make a good witness.’

  ‘Get out!’ My hands were clenched, the words coming through my teeth.

  He didn’t move, drawing in a lungful of smoke and staring at me. ‘Bucknall doesn’t matter. But Claxby is too useful a man to be thrown away.’

  ‘Get out of here!’

  ‘You could be useful, too.’ He said it reflectively, as though considering the matter. Then he shrugged. ‘But at the moment we’re concerned with the East Coast yards. We’ve failed with the trawlermen. The fisheries officer of their union won’t play. But if we can hold the strike long enough, then there’ll be very little fish coming in anyway. That will give the unions the leverage they need in their negotiations. A trial, with two militants in dock, wouldn’t suit us at all.’ He paused, and then added, ‘We were able to have a word with your radio operator before coming here. In a pub. You’re out of a job again, it seems.’ And when I didn’t say anything, he smiled. ‘He told us he thought you ought to be commanding a supply ship. That’s where the future lies, isn’t it?’

  He was looking at me again and the expression of his eyes had a speculative quality. ‘Get into oil,’ he said quietly. ‘And forget about what you saw in Washbrook Road.’ He stubbed out his cigarette, then turned abruptly towards the door, jerking his head at Scunton. ‘Think about it,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘All you need tell the police is that it was too dark to see who they were.’

  ‘And if I tell them the truth?’

  He swung round on me. ‘Then you’d be a fool.’ And he added, ‘You keep your mouth shut and I’ll see our witness does the same. You understand?’ He stared at me a moment. Then he nodded and went out, Scunton following, their footsteps sounding hollow as they went down the ladder and across the deck to the gangway. And after that I was alone again, still in my pyjamas and feeling cold.

  I got myself a drink, my hands trembling, wishing, as I had done so often in my life, that I had somebody to fall back on, not just the legendary figure of my father, but somebody, something, to give me strength. And suddenly I was thinking of the islands seen the previous evening black against that green strip of sky. Shetland, the land where my father had been born. I had never been so close to Shetland before, and sitting there, the brandy warming my guts, it gradually came to me that now was the moment. I would go north to the islands – now while I had the chance.