Empty Nets and Promises (2 page)

3

By the time the meeting was over, Hamish and Sandy had consumed more than their fair share of the two shillings a head whisky. They were lighting their pipes outside the hotel, looking absently down Main Street.

‘You'll come a wee wander wae me o'er tae the hoose, Hamish. There's nae point in wasting a Saturday night, and I could dae wae a wee alliance against all these clucking women I've tae deal wae these days. Forbye, I've a fine bottle of malt on the go.'

‘Where did you get that fae? I'll wager you didna buy it yoursel'.'

‘The new son-in-law to be, anxious tae please, if you know whoot I mean. Like him, it's fae Skye, but no' a bad drop for all that.'

‘Could he no' have bought you a decent bottle fae one o' oor distilleries?'

‘You know how it is. He's got tae be seen as being even-handed in his profession. If he was tae buy a bottle fae one, I daresay he'd have tae buy one fae the rest, tae. An expensive exercise, as you can imagine.'

‘But mair whisky for you, Sandy.'

The old skipper thought for a moment or two, then smiled. ‘You've got a keen mind, Hamish. I'm fair lucky tae have such a canny first mate, right enough. Would you look at that,' he said, momentarily distracted by a young woman in a mini-skirt crossing the road towards them.

‘Any shorter and they'll no' need tae bother wae a skirt at all,' said Hamish, shaking his head.

‘How ye, Hamish, Mr Hoynes,' shouted the young woman as she approached. ‘A lovely evening.'

‘Nice, right enough,' said Hamish. ‘Is this you off on a wee night oot, Jenny?'

‘I am that. Getting some practice in for your Maggie's big wedding, Mr Hoynes.'

‘Well, I widna be setting my sights too high,' said Hoynes. ‘I daresay we might manage a glass o' thon Babycham and that. Of course, you canna beat the fish and chips they dae up here for functions. I must say, the County have done us proud.'

‘I'll have the chips, but I canna have the fish.' Jenny was standing in front of them now, playing with a strand of her blonde hair.

‘Why ever not?' enquired Hamish.

‘I'm a vegetarian noo. I started a week past on Thursday. It's all the rage doon in London.'

‘Och, they say all sorts doon in London. They telt me I'd never had it so good a few years ago, but the bank manager didna seem tae agree.' Hoynes took a contemplative puff of his pipe. ‘Anyhow, fish isna meat, so you'll be fine.'

‘Dae you think no'?' Jenny's face brightened. ‘I must admit, I'm no' enjoying my dinners jeest noo. No' much tae look forward tae when you're having cauliflower cheese and vegetable broth every night.'

‘No' dae much for your wind, neither,' observed Hoynes.

‘If folk were meant tae eat plants and naethin' else, then how come they made a Sunday roast so tasty? If I was you, Jenny, I'd put a' that nonsense oot o' my mind and go and get yoursel' a pie fae Blue's. You'll be needin' tae keep your strength up if you're courting. Who's the lucky boy, anyhow?' asked Hamish.

‘Here he is coming up the street noo,' she replied. ‘No stranger tae the pair o' yous, anyway, I'm thinking.'

Sure enough, a slim young man in a suit that looked at least a size too big for him was making his way up Main Street towards them, clutching a small bunch of flowers.

‘Skipper, Hamish,' said Peter, his face flushing. ‘I hope your meeting went well.'

‘You sly young dog, Peter,' said Hoynes. ‘But did you no' keep your romancing close to your chest.'

Peter shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. ‘Oh, this is oor first date, isn't it, Jenny?' He smiled bashfully at the young woman who nodded and threaded her arm through his.

‘And if we don't get a move on, we'll miss the film, Peter.'

‘Aye, you're right. I'll see you bright and early on Monday morning, skipper,' said Peter as Jenny dragged him down the street.

‘Aye, see you're in good fettle, tae. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, young man,' said Hoynes. ‘And tell your faither we're asking for him, Jenny.'

They watched as the pair walked arm-in-arm down Main Street.

‘There's no justice, Hamish.'

‘No, you're right there – none at all.'

‘How a miserable bugger like Watson the Fishery Officer can produce a bonnie wee lassie like that, I'll never know. If Maggie was as ship-shape in the beam as young Jenny, we'd have been rid o' her years ago.'

‘But then you might have a boy like Peter for your future son-in-law, not a police sergeant, Sandy.'

‘You've the right of it again, Hamish. Auld heid on young shoulders, right enough. Come on, you, and let's get a dram o' this poison fae Skye.'

‘I daresay I'll manage tae force one doon, skipper,' replied Hamish with a grin.

4

Hoynes lived in a neat, two-storey, semi-detached council house on the outskirts of Kinloch. Despite the time of year, there was a crackling fire in the grate; on the mantelpiece sat an ornamental ship's wheel flanked by old black-and-white photographs and a pair of brass candlesticks. The three-piece suite was old but comfortable, and as Hoynes went to fetch the whisky Hamish felt his eyelids grow heavy. A small television in the corner of the room flickered silently to nobody in particular.

‘I don't know why they insist on leaving that thing on when there's nobody in the room. Instead o' turning the sound down, why dae they no' jeest turn it off,' complained Hoynes, brandishing a bottle in his large right hand. ‘I'm fair crippled wae they electric bills. In the winter you can see this hoose fae miles aboot – lit up like the Ardnamurchan lighthoose, it is – every light in the place on. Aye, and us all sitting in here by the fire. Fair profligate they women are.'

‘A waste o' electricity,' muttered Hamish, looking absently at the television screen, where Andy Stewart was busy mouthing the words to a song they couldn't hear.

Hoynes switched off the set, then slid open the glass door of the display cabinet which sat next to the television. ‘Since you're no' jeest anybody, you can have your dram oot o' a crystal glass.'

‘What's the racket upstairs, Sandy?'

‘Aye, you wid think there was a herd o' baby elephants up there, no' jeest the wife and daughter. They're having the show o' presents next week, so they're busy getting the hoose ready.'

‘Surely folk won't be parading aboot in your bedroom?'

‘That's where you're wrong. The bloody presents are tae be in oor bedroom – three nights o' it. I'm going tae sleep on the boat. I canna be footered wae all this upheaval.'

Marjorie Hoynes looked on as her daughter admired herself in the wardrobe mirror. Maggie had chosen a plain white wedding gown. At thirty-five, she was far too old to be flouncing about in a fancy big meringue.

‘We'll maybe get a shawl for you, Maggie.'

‘A shawl? It's July, Mother. I'm already worried that I'll melt.'

‘Och, sure you know, a good shawl can hide a multitude o' things,' said Marjorie, her eyes drifting to the back of the dress again.

‘You mean it'll hide my rear end.'

‘Now, I never said such a thing. A shawl would complete the outfit. You could drape it o'er your shoulders, like so . . .' Marjorie mimed the action.

‘And then I could drape it further over my big backside.'

‘No, no, not at all. That's not what I meant. I could knit one – there's still time.'

‘Aye, and you can maybe knit me a bikini for my honeymoon while you're at it.'

Marjorie thought for a moment or two. ‘I widna recommend bathing in a knitted swimming costume, dear. The wool would just get waterlogged, and . . .'

‘And then Duncan would get a right good look at my arse.'

‘Och, there's no reasoning with you, Maggie. You're just as stubborn as your faither.' She folded her arms and looked away from her daughter.

‘What's that I'm hearing?' said Maggie eventually.

Her mother cocked her head. ‘It's your faither doonstairs. He must be back fae his meeting.'

‘I bet he's guzzling that good bottle of whisky my Duncan brought him last week . . . I can hear another voice too.'

The women both looked into space and listened more intently.

‘That's Hamish,' confirmed Marjorie. ‘Ye canna mistake the drawl. If you ask him nicely he'll likely tell you if you'll have a boy or a lassie when the time comes. He's got the sight, the same as his faither and grandfaither afore him.'

‘Well, that's the end of the whisky, then. I was hoping Faither would keep it for raising a toast at the reception.'

‘Maggie Hoynes! When have you ever known a bottle o' whisky last mair than a few days in this hoose? It's like sitting a monkey doon in front of a banana tree and expecting it tae take a look and say, “Och, I'll just leave them until next week”. Your faither lacks willpower when it comes tae a dram, and that's a fact.'

‘Would you say they're whispering?'

The Hoynes women strained to hear the muffled conversation coming up through the floorboards.

‘They've definitely lowered their voices – and that's never a good sign. Aye, an' maist unusual tae when they've had a few drinks.'

‘They'll be planning something devilish for my Duncan's stag night,' said Maggie, slipping out of her wedding dress. ‘I warned faither aboot it. Duncan can't be seen to be up to any high jinks, not with him being the police sergeant.'

‘Dae you mind whoot they did tae poor Johnny Souter? Och, it was a sin.'

‘Well, if they think they're going to set Duncan adrift on a raft in the Atlantic, they can think again. The poor bugger nearly got washed all the way to Donegal.'

‘An' him dressed as the Queen Mother, tae.'

Maggie pulled a housecoat over her shoulders. ‘I'm going to have a wee look at what's going on. I'll soon put that pair's gas at a peep. Duncan's got a position in society to think about. They'll not be plotting their wicked schemes on my fiancé.' She tiptoed out of the room.

Marjorie picked up her daughter's dress and looked it up and down. I better get those knitting needles oot, she thought to herself.

‘So, have you got it, Sandy? Once an adequate sufficiency has been consumed, we'll suggest taking the session elsewhere.'

‘Tae Geordie McCallum's bothy, am I right?'

‘A hell o' a trip, but Geordie will lend us his Land Rover. It's damn near the only way tae get there along they auld tracks.'

‘Agreed.'

‘It's easy for a man tae disappear for a long while away oot there. Especially wae a good cargo o' booze aboard. When they're merry, we can make oor excuses and head back tae Kinloch. When they don't turn up for work the next day, there will be a right stink. We can take advantage o' the publicity tae draw attention tae oor plight wae the fish.'

‘And nobody can accuse us o' kidnap, or the like. They came along willingly, and could've left at any time. Well, Hamish, it's genius. Pure genius, man. If you hadna been a fisherman, you'd have made a fine master criminal, and no mistake. They'll have a job on their hands making it back fae Geordie's on foot, and no mistake.'

‘Aye, we'll sort that plane, Sandy.'

The pair chuckled and clinked glasses to toast their scheme.

On the stairwell, Maggie shook her head. If they thought they were getting her Duncan pissed and on a plane, they could think again.

5

Sergeant Duncan Grant sat behind his desk in Kinloch Police Office, the black Bakelite telephone receiver clamped to his right ear. He was conscious of the fact that it was late on a Saturday evening, and he should be out checking all was well in Kinloch's many pubs, but the Chief Constable of Argyll Constabulary was on the phone, so that would have to wait.

‘Yes, sir,' soothed Grant in his soft Highland lilt. ‘But you know how it is in these wee places. They see that kind of thing as their birthright.'

‘Birthright be damned,' replied Chief Constable Semple. ‘This illicit trade in clear whisky has to stop, and stop now. I've had my opposite number in Ayrshire on the phone twice this week about it. They're taking lemonade bottles full of the stuff across there from distilleries in Kinloch. Bloody fishermen. It's modern-day smuggling – nothing more, nothing less.'

It was true that a certain amount of newly distilled spirit made its way out of the distillery of its birth and into glasses across the town, but that was the way it had always been in communities where the distilling of whisky was entrenched. Indeed, workers were given a quarter bottle of ‘the clear stuff' twice a day, as part of their contract of employment. This clear spirit, too young to be called whisky, was like the oil that lubricated the industry – as far as Duncan Grant was concerned, anyway.

Despite his feelings on the matter, he had to act. ‘So, what do you suggest, sir?'

‘I suggest you catch the buggers, Sergeant. I've spoken to Customs and Excise, and they're sending a special investigator down to Kinloch. Let me see, yes, a collector named Marshall. I want you to work hand-in-glove with him and his men.'

‘Yes, sir. Of course. I'll make it a priority.'

‘And I don't need to tell you who the main culprits are. Every stillman in Kinloch has false pockets, with these . . . these devices.'

‘Dookers, sir.'

‘Dookers?'

‘That's what you call them. Usually a bottle, tied at the neck to a piece of string. They dunk them in the casks and fill them up, screw on the cap, and away you go – down the leg of the dungarees, and off home.'

‘You seem remarkably well informed, Sergeant,' replied Semple with a sniff.

‘Well, sir, it's common practice. I'm sure the distillery owners turn a blind eye. A perk of the job, I always thought.'

‘Not any more it's not. We're a kick in the arse away from the seventies – we can't have this lawlessness going on. It's theft, no other word for it. Now these damn fishermen are exporting the stuff all over the west coast! Well, not with
my
force on the case. Have you got that, Grant?'

‘Yes, sir, absolutely.' Grant could hear the Chief Constable breathing heavily on the other end of the line.

‘I hear you're to be married, Sergeant Grant.'

‘Yes, sir. A week on Friday, actually.'

‘And to the daughter of Sandy Hoynes, I believe.'

‘Yes, sir. Mr Hoynes is to be my new father-in-law,' replied Grant with a grimace, suspecting more was to be made of this.

‘I was his lieutenant in the RNR during the war, you know. On minesweepers.'

‘Oh, I didn't know that, sir. I'll tell him you were asking for him,' said Grant, considerably encouraged by the fact that his boss knew Maggie's father so well.

‘Oh yes. He was made a petty officer because he knew the coast so well.' Semple let out a long, slow breath. ‘But I tell you this, Grant. A more devious, ingenious, scurrilous mind I have yet to encounter – especially when it came to insubordination and whisky.' He paused. ‘Now you're at the very heart of the family, you'll be well placed to keep an eye on things. This transportation of illicit spirit is just the type of caper I would expect from Hoynes, especially since the fishing has been so bad this year.'

‘Sir, you surely don't expect me to spy on my in-laws?' protested Grant.

‘That, Sergeant, is
exactly
what I expect you to do.'

The summer light was fading into starlight as Peter and Jenny stood at the front gate of the neat little cottage by the shore of the loch. The views across Kinloch and to the hills beyond reflected the mood as the couple took in the scene, hand in hand. Over on the pier, Peter could see a cart being loaded with provisions from a steam puffer. The whinny of the impatient horse at its head carried on the still night air.

‘Did you like the film, Jenny?'

‘Aye, I did. It wisna the maist romantic effort, but I enjoyed it.' She looked up at him and smiled.

‘Who would've thought
The Charge of the Light Brigade
would be so . . .' He held her gaze for a moment, their faces moving closer together, as she angled her lips up towards his. They were about to kiss when the front door of the cottage swung open and a beam of electric light illuminated the garden and the young couple at the gate.

‘That will be enough of that!' thundered Watson. ‘Where have you been, Jenny? It's nearly half past ten.'

‘Oh, Dad. It's nineteen sixty-eight, not eighteen sixty-eight. We went to the pictures and then walked back.'

‘Well, you couldn't have been walking very fast. You should've had my daughter back here as soon as the film was finished, Peter,' he scolded the young man.

‘S-sorry,' Peter stammered in reply. ‘I didn't mean to upset you, Mr Watson.'

‘Oh, don't be scared of him, Peter,' said Jenny, letting go of her beau's hand and opening the gate. ‘Give as good as you get – I do.'

‘Just get yourself indoors, young lady,' said Watson. ‘I want to have a wee chat with Peter.'

Jenny stopped in front of her father and glared at him. ‘Don't you be nasty to him,' she muttered under her breath.

‘Get inside!' shouted Watson. ‘This minute! While you're under my roof, you'll follow my rules.' He watched his daughter stomp up the path and into the house, then winced as she slammed the door.

Watson walked to the gate, where Peter waited, trembling slightly now that the sun had faded and the night air had cooled. The smell of the sea, cut grass and flowers was heady as the dusk turned into night under a full moon.

‘Now, Peter,' said Watson, remaining on the other side of the gate, his voice almost friendly. ‘How are you enjoying life with Sandy Hoynes?'

‘Oh, fine, Mr Watson. He's a good skipper – fair instructing me in the ways o' the sea an' that,' replied Peter, hoping to sound as though he was making the best of his new career.

‘Aye, well, that's commendable. Just commendable, indeed.' Watson paused. ‘You'll be asking my Jenny out on another date?'

‘Well, I'd like to – if she wants to go.'

‘Or if I give her permission.'

‘Yes, sorry . . .' mumbled Peter, gulping as he did so.

‘I want you and me to be friends too, Peter.' Watson smiled.

‘Aye, me tae.' Peter smiled back. Things were going better than he'd expected.

‘And would you agree that friends help each other, Peter?'

‘Aye, aye, I wid, Mr Watson.'

The Fishery Officer stared silently at the moon for a few moments. ‘Glad to hear it. So, with that friendship in mind, here's what I want you to do for me . . .'