Complete New Tales of Para Handy (2 page)

“It's either that, or the Inveraray polis huv managed tae work oot jist whose punt wis up the mooth of the river Shira wi' a splash net efter the Duke's salmon the last nicht we wis by here,” called a doom-laden voice from the engine-room at the Captain's feet. “Is there no sign of a Black Maria at the head of the quay?”

“I'll thank you to attend to your enchines, Mr Macphail,” said Para Handy with some dignity. “And Jum! will you look lively and break out our best heaving-line ready for when we tak' our berth. There'll be no problem today findin' someone to catch it for us seein' ass we're the star attraction at the pier!”

The traditional place for the puffers at Inveraray is on the inner, west side of the pier and the
Vital Spark
was manoeuvred round the quay-head with just a little -difficulty, for the tide was turning and the current threatened to push her back out. In the event, with some dexterous application of the helm and a touch of extra power to the propeller, Para Handy brought the boat safely into the slack water of the inshore berth.

“Right, Jum,” he called, “stand by to heave the line!” And he turned triumphantly towards the pier preparing to wave a happy acknowledgement to the crowds who must have been watching his manoeuvres with interest and approbation, and who would now be surging forward to welcome the little vessel to her Inveraray berth — only to find that he was looking at some 200 disinterested backs, for the people on the quay had taken not the slightest notice of the approach and ultimate arrival of the puffer, but were still standing, as they had been when he had first caught sight of them, staring out towards the middle of Loch Fyne as if hypnotised.

“The Chook of Argyll himself must be expected aff a yat,” said a somewhat chastened Para Handy to Dougie once they had finally secured the puffer to the quayside — Sunny Jim, as usual, having to leap for the jetty with the handline and haul the hawser in to the first bollard on his own. “And this iss his loyal lieges with their reception committee.”

Squeezing their way through the crowd, the crew managed to gain a viewpoint, but found themselves staring across an empty loch with not so much as a fishing smack in sight.

Para Handy was just turning to seek some enlightenment from the nearest bystander, when there was a collective gasp from the assembled throng, followed immediately by a ragged cheer.

A squat, grey rectangular object was rising slowly out of the waters of the loch about 200 yards offshore.

The Captain had heard all about submarines but this was the first which he and the crew had ever encountered at such close hand. They watched in awed fascination as the conning-tower, then the gun, and finally the hull of the vessel emerged from the sea.

When the figures of the submarine captain and three seamen appeared on the bridge there was another spontaneous cheer from the Inveraray crowd, and the vessel turned in towards the pier where eager lookers-on fought for the privilege of catching and securing the heaving-lines which two seamen now threw ashore from bow and stern of the grey hull.

Half-an-hour later the onlookers had dispersed homewards to discuss the excitement of the day over their teas.

On the pier, the submarine crew had deployed a spick-and-span gangway from her foredeck to the quay, a small pillar placed at the head of it carrying a coat-of-arms and the ship's name,
HMS Bulldog
. The white ropes which looped from posts at either side of the gangway were finished with turk's head knots and two seamen, immaculate in white jerseys and navy-blue bell-bottoms, stood guard at either hand with grounded rifles. On the ship's deck sailors in fatigues were polishing glass and brass on the bridge of the conning-tower, and from somewhere deep within the vessel came the constant deep throb of one of the new-fangled diesel engines.

The crew of the puffer, crammed into the wheelhouse, stared with undisguised and undiminished curiosity at their unexpected neighbour on the far side of the pier.

Eventually Para Handy squeezed his way out on deck without a word and vanished down the hatchway to the fo'c'sle.

Ten minutes later he reappeared in his best — indeed his only — pea-jacket, and wearing the cap with the white top and the splash of gold braid which he had picked up cheap at the Barras in Glasgow some years previously, but (thanks largely to the considerable amusement with which his crew had greeted its acquisition) had rarely had the courage to wear.

“Boys,” he said, scrambling up the iron ladder let into one of the pier uprights, “it iss only right that I should present my complements to a fellow captain when we find oorselves neebours in a strange port.”

And he straightened his shoulders, puffed out his chest, and marched across the quay towards the submarine's gangway.

Later that evening, in the bar of the George Hotel, the Captain and Dougie sat in a corner by a narrow window nursing two halves of beer. Sunny Jim they had left on the pier fishing, more in hope than expectation, for the makings of the next day's breakfast. Dan Macphail was in animated conversation at the far end of the bar with one of the engineers from the submarine and had been promised a guided tour of her diesels the following morning.

Para Handy's reception at the submarine's gangway had exceeded even his wildest imaginings.

“Whit way are they all keepin' at the Admirulity?” had been his opening sally to the sailors on guard duty. Before either could think of an appropriate reply, the submarine's Captain had appeared on the conning tower to take a breath of air, seen the puffer's skipper on the quayside, and invited him on board.

“A proper chentleman,” Para Handy now enthused to the mate. “A proper chentleman, Dougie. But a hard life. They have no space at aal on the shup. Chust like livin' in wan of the caurs on the Gleska Subway, but wi' watter aal round ye.

“I would not wish to change places with them, for aal their chenerosity” — the Captain had enjoyed the hospitality of the wardroom, including the very first Pink Gin he had ever encountered — “for why would ye want to run a smert shup and then hide her under the watter where naebody can admire her?”

The immediate effect of his kindly reception aboard
HMS Bulldog
had been a change in the attitude of the burghers of Inveraray towards the puffer. From the moment that Para Handy was spotted leaving the submarine and shaking hands with her Captain at the foot of the gangway, the status of the
Vital Spark
was revised upwards.

As if to underline that fact, the landlord of the George Hotel now appeared with a cloth in his hand, wiped the top of the table at which the Captain and Dougie were seated, and placed two drams on it.

“Compliments of the house, gentlemen,” he said, and whisked their empty beer glasses away.

“My Chove,” said Para Handy. “What's got into Sandy McCallum tonight?”

“You were goin' to tell me why the submarine iss in Inveraray at all, Peter,” prompted the mate.

“It's because the loch iss so deep,” said Para Handy. “They iss going to use it for the diving trials of aal the new submarines built on the Clyde.
Bulldog
iss the first, but there will be plenty more.

“They are putting something aboot it aal in the papers, which iss where the Captain hass gone tonight. There iss an Inveraray man who iss quite namely ass a writer, and who does some work for the Gleska Evening News. Captain Morris from the submarine hass gone to have an interview with him, which iss why he wass not able to choin us for a dram.”

Just at that moment the street door opened and the submarine Captain walked in, flashing more gold braid than Inveraray had seen in many months.

With him was a man of middle-height, aged about 40, with a high-domed forehead, a receding hairline, and a mild and kindly countenance.

The submariner looked round the crowded, smokey room and caught sight of Para Handy.

“Ah,” he said to his companion. “There he is, that's the chap I was telling you about. I'm sure you'll be able to get a lot of interesting material from talking to him. He certainly kept me well entertained. He's a real character, and a bit of a teller of tall tales too, I would think!”

And, taking the other man by the arm, he pushed his way through the crowd and, reaching the corner table, clapped Para Handy on the shoulder.

“Captain, here's somebody I've been telling all about you, and he's very keen to meet you. I'm sure the pair of you will have a lot to talk about!

“May I introduce Captain Peter MacFarlane — Mr Neil Munro!”

F
ACTNOTE

Certain minor liberties with chronology must be admitted to in this story. Firstly it is unlikely that a submarine of the size hinted at would have been around the Clyde in the years before the First World War; secondly it was not until after that war that submarines were given names. Previously they were identified simply by their Class Letter followed by a numeral.

The Firth has, however, been closely associated with submarines for almost 100 years. Many were built in the Clyde yards such as Fairfield, Denny, Scott and Beardmore. The deep waters of the sheltered lochs — particularly the Gareloch, Loch Fyne and Loch Long — were ideal for diving trials and the testing of torpedos produced by the huge factory at Fort Matilda, Greenock, which Neil Munro referred to in the original Para Handy story ‘Confidence'.

Much later, the Americans moved in to Holy Loch and for 30 years this was the European base for the US Nuclear Submarines which were such a crucial element of the NATO deterrent during the cold war. Now the Americans have gone, but Faslane on the Gareloch, and Coulport on Loch Long, serve the United Kingdom submarine fleet in a similar if lower-key capacity.

The real liberty taken in this tale, of course, is to place Neil Munro himself in it — but the temptation was absolutely irresistible! He must have revisited many times the community which meant so much to him and made such a lasting impression on him and influenced everything he did.

He was born and brought up in Inveraray and his first job was in the town, working in a lawyer's office. At the age of 18 he left for Glasgow, to lay the foundation of his future career as a working journalist and a talented novelist seen by many critics at the time as the natural inheritor of the mantle of Robert Louis Stevenson.