Complete New Tales of Para Handy (3 page)

The chronicle of the gradual public indifference to his serious writing, and the rapid growth in their esteem and affection for works which he saw as slight and ephemeral, is well known. The tales of puffer skipper Para Handy, of waiter/beadle Erchie MacPherson and of commercial traveller Jimmy Swan, were all written for his regular columns in the Glasgow
Evening News
. And written anonymously for he did not wish to tarnish with trivia his reputation as a novelist of significance.

The real strength of his short stories, and the reason for their undiminished popularity, is that as well as being both highly amusing and beautifully crafted, they bring to life the people, places and pleasures of a long-lost world.

2

The Marriage at Canna

I
t was a Friday evening in July and the
Vital Spark
, on one of her rare sorties beyond the Firth, lay alongside the inner arm of a Skye pier which she was visiting for the first time.

An atmosphere of lethargy appropriate to the hottest day of the summer was evident not just in the village but particularly on board the puffer. Macphail thumbed the pages of a new romance with little enthusiasm, his eyelids heavy and his head nodding with the effort of staying awake. Sunny Jim sprawled across the tarpaulin covering the hatchway of the hold, sound asleep and spasmodically producing a staccato series of loud snorts to Para Handy's considerable annoyance.

The only cloud on the crew's horizon was that they had just returned from the local Inn and now faced a dry weekend, having spent their last coppers on a small canister of beer. With little prospect of more where that came from.

It had been a bad week for the puffer. More accurately, it had been a
very
bad week for her owner — but a splendid one for the crew — and all because of a partly-deaf clerk in the main Post Office in Glasgow.

The previous Monday, after shedding a cargo of coals at Crarae, Para Handy had gone ashore to telegraph the owner's Broomielaw office for instructions. Two hours later the postmaster's son appeared on the quayside with the reply. “My Chove,” said Para Handy as he perused the familiar yellow form,. “it's foreign perts for us, boys.”

What the telegram should have said was “Proceed Immediately To Ormidale To Load Pit Props”.

What it actually said (thanks to the aforementioned clerk's hearing difficulties) was “Proceed Immediately To
Armadale
…”

Thus the
Vital Spark
lay at a Skye pier two days steaming from Loch Riddon on the Kyles where her cargo awaited. Her owner's language on receipt of Para Handy's telegram complaining that nobody at Armadale had ever heard of the puffer or her pit props is best left to the imagination.

However, as a man of some resource (or more accurately a man unwilling to see the costs incurred in getting the puffer to Skye becoming a total loss) he had told the skipper to wait for further instructions and was now hunting the Highlands and Islands for a cargo she could profitably bring back to the Clyde, while the crew enjoyed an unexpected holiday.

His most recent telegram had promised a decision about their next move on Monday morning, with money wired then too; but since that was a promise that neither the innkeeper nor the grocer at Armadale regarded as adequate collateral for ‘tick', the crew faced a thirsty and hungry weekend.

“There's no food on board save yon barrel of salt herrin' from Campbeltown,” Para Handy complained to the mate. “And nothin' to quench the thirst it gi'es ye except tea. Tea!” And he gave a shudder of distaste.

At that point came a discreet cough from the quayside and, turning, Para Handy was surprised to see a handful of men with the innkeeper at their head. “Captain,” said this worthy, “we hae some business tae propose. May we come aboard?”

“Man, Dougie,” said Para Handy early next morning, “this iss the life, eh?” The
Vital Spark
was an hour out from Armadale heading west into the Cuillin Sound. The sun shone on a bright blue sea, the puffer's deck was crowded with a throng of smartly dressed men, women and children — all in holiday mood.

“This iss what she wass built for,” he enthused, beaming with pride. “The
Vital Spark
wass never meant to cairry coals an' stane an' sichlike ass if she wass a common gabbart. People iss oor merket — passengers! MacBrayne himsel' would be prood to have her in his fleet if he could see her noo!”

He leaned from the wheelhouse to gaze fondly at the colourful pageant below. A gaggle of children played a boisterous game of tag despite the protests of anxious mothers, and young couples promenaded arm-in-arm. A huddle of men in shiny blue and brown suits passed a bottle surreptitiously from hand-to-hand, with a wary eye on the hatch where their prim womenfolk sat silently knitting. Perched at the very point of the bows, Sunny Jim was obliging with a virtuoso performance on the melodeon.

The innkeeper's ‘business proposition' had been simple. There was a wedding on Canna, one of the small islands to the south of Skye, on Saturday: his own son was marrying one of the island girls. The Armadale men had never seen eye-to-eye with the men from Canna till now: here was a fine chance to heal old wounds.

But the Mallaig fishing smack which had been booked to ferry the wedding party to and from Canna was late getting back from the herring-grounds thanks to the calm and windless weather. If the
Vital Spark
didn't come to their aid there would be no wedding. Of course, there would be a generous whip-round for the crew and in the meantime drinks would be ‘on the house' at the Armadale Inn.

“If she chust had another lum sure you would tak' her for the
Grenadier
,” enthused the captain. “I wish we'd room for wan of they Cherman Bands. At least we've got Jum's melodeon — but I'm vexed we cannae gi' e them a cup of tea.”

“It's no tea they're wantin',” cried a cheerless voice from the engine-room below. “When did ye ever see a Skye man wi' a
cup
in his haunds? Ah'm tellin' you Para Handy, ye'll be gey sorry aboot this trup afore it's over, wait and see, there's troubles tae come.”

“Chust keep stokin', Macphail, and leave dealin' wi' passengers to them that ken what they're at,” said the skipper with some exasperation. “You're nothin' but a right misery!”

And indeed so it seemed. They tied up alongside Canna's jetty just three hours out of Armadale after a crossing as calm as if they were sailing a millpond. The crew were invited to join the wedding party at the hall after the nuptials in the little church. There was an accordion band, and two pipers, pretty girls a-plenty, tables groaning with the weight of the food on them and a most astonishing quantity of whisky from the illicit stills for which the island was notorious.

“Man, Jum,” said Para Handy as he reached out for another glass later that evening, “this Canna iss some place for high jinks!”

Even the morose Macphail had come out of his shell and was in animated argument with the bride's father — himself a retired engineer. Dougie had been coaxed onto the floor for a polka by the bolder of the two bridesmaids.

The shattering of the idyll began a couple of hours before their planned departure for Armadale, when Para Handy stepped out for a breath of air. Behind him the jollification was ever more raucous and the first casualties of the bride's father's hospitality were to be seen, propped up in various stages of inebriation against the dyke which surrounded the hall.

The first warning of impending doom came when the skipper felt a fresh westerly wind on his face and saw, looming over the horizon, a growing mantle of ominously dark cloud. He returned to the wedding-party to give Dougie the bad news and see if the Armadale folk could be persuaded to leave sooner than planned.

It was too late.

Afterwards nobody could say what had happened, nobody was aware of hearing the first harsh word or seeing the first blow, but when Para Handy got back to the hall battle had been joined with a will and now the bride's and bridegroom's friends and relations were trading insults and punches. The women and children of Canna fled to the adjacent church, those from Armadale headed for the jetty.

Not even the puffer's crew could escape involvement in that general melee.

“You're to blame, bringin' godless Armadale men here at all!” cried the bride's father to Macphail, loosing a haymaker which that worthy luckily side-stepped. Two sidesmen frogmarched Para Handy to the doorway and threw him out with threats of horrible vengeance if he ever returned. Sunny Jim ran for the boat as if the hounds of hell were at his heels, but the slower mate was caught by the brothers of the girl he had been dancing with and given a very undeserved black eye.

From the comparative safety of the deck of the
Vital Spark
they eventually watched in disbelief as the Armadale men were forced to fight their way to the pier and back on board.

“My Cot,” exclaimed the skipper, as the warps were loosed and the puffer moved out of the harbour. “Cross Canna off the charts boys. We never daur put in there again! Thank the Lord that's over.”

Something almost as bad was still to come, however. The calm water of their outward journey was now a sea of white horses and with a rising wind dead astern the puffer, riding light, was tossed hither and thither uncontrollably as a cork. In the late evening light the deck began to look like a battlefield, strewn with moaning, whey-faced bodies as the relentless pitching and tossing took its toll.

“You and your bluidy passengers,” protested Macphail from the engine-room. “D'ye see the state of this boat! She'll hae tae be hosed doon when we get tae port!”