Murdo's War
ALAN TEMPERLEY
was born in Sunderland and educated at the Bede Grammar School. As a boy he played rugby, cricket and tennis, sang in a big church choir, had many pets, enjoyed the theatre and read his way through the children’s library. At the age of 16 he joined the Merchant Navy and has sailed as deck officer, able seaman and trawlerman. Following two years in the
RAF
, he studied at Manchester and Edinburgh Universities and became a teacher of English in the northern Highlands. It was here his first tentative writings took shape, first prize-winning short stories and poetry, then volumes of folklore, and finally novels, particularly for school-age readers. Among them are the award-winning
Harry and the Wrinklies
(turned into three series for
STV
),
Huntress of the Sea
and
The Magician of Samarkand
(televised for the
BBC
). Temperley’s most recent book,
Scar Hill
, was nominated for the 2011
CILIP
Carnegie Medal and the 2011 UKLA
Children’s Book Awards. His books appear in 18 languages. Although work and travels have taken him far afield, he constantly returns to the north. He has one son, a young solicitor in Edinburgh, and two granddaughters. He lives in a former schoolhouse in rural Galloway.
ALAN TEMPERLEY
Luath
Press Limited
EDINBURGH
First published 1988 by Canongate
This edition 2011
Reprinted 2013
eBook 2014
ISBN: 978-1-906817-34-3
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-909912-97-7
The publisher acknowledges subsidy from Creative Scotland towards the publication of this book.
Map reproduced courtesy of Alan McGowan
© Alan Temperley
A HEAVY BLANKET
of mist wrapped the bay in silence. Fold upon fold it spilled down from the moors and flowed out between fierce headlands on to the still waters of the North Atlantic. Above, the heavens were spangled with icy stars and a blazing crescent moon that lit the rolling summits of the moor. But below, where the little open boat moved secretly across the dark waters of the bay, only a faint glow lightened the walls of mist that pressed in upon her. All was quiet, save for the soft lap of ocean under her bows and the muffled roar of breakers on the beach. An occasional squeak of bruised wood on wood issued from the rowlocks where the old fisherman gently pulled his boat towards the shore. The fog froze upon her shadowy timbers. Like a lonely cork she bobbed on the swell.
Murdo, seated upon a hard-frozen coil of rope in the bows, shifted slightly and looked behind. His oilskins rustled as the creases were disturbed. On all sides the glassy swell spread around them, vanishing a few feet off into the moonlit mist. The squat figure of Hector was silhouetted, solid as a rock, on the centre thwart; quietly the blades of his oars dipped and pulled the boat forward. Between the old fisherman and himself, stacked on the bottom boards, the crates of whisky were still securely lashed beneath their tarpaulin cover. The boy brushed a warm hand across the moisture that beaded his face, and pushed a hank of wet hair from his eyes. Silently he peered around into the darkness, then settled himself once more on the icy ropes, and resumed his vigil.
For a few minutes more the boat glided forward. The waves began to build up in the shallowing water. The soft roar of their breaking grew louder; they could hear the hiss on the gently shelving sand.
Suddenly, from the beach, a voice rang out, making Murdo jump.
‘Is that you, Hector?’
It was the signal they had been waiting for, and came from somewhere to the left.
‘Aye.’
The old seaman pulled on an oar and the bows swung to port. Heedless of noise now, he rowed parallel to the shore. The sea caught his boat, the
Lobster Boy
, on the beam, so that she rocked and dipped in the waves.
In a few moments there was the loom of a torch ahead, a white patch in the mist. They were almost on top of it before Murdo could make out the dark figure of a tall thin man with a boy beside him, the sea lapping about their ankles. Hector turned the boat in. Her bows glided up the sand, and the
Lobster Boy
, gently lurching to a halt, toppled to one side.
Murdo picked up the frozen end of the painter and sprang over into the shallow water. The stern lifted a little and swung as the next wave came in. The three on shore gathered around the boat’s side and heaved as she lifted. She slid a few feet further in and then very firmly scraped to a halt.
‘That’ll do,’ the tall man said, flicking the water from his fingers. He turned to Hector, who was sliding the oars out of the way along the starboard side bench. ‘You’re losing your touch,’ he said smiling. ‘You were a hundred yards out there.’ He took the rusty steel pin that Hector handed out to him and flung it to the younger boy up the sand. ‘Well in, mind, Lachlan,’ he called. ‘The tide will soon be turning.’
Hector laughed with friendly contempt. ‘When you’ve learned to row a boat yourself, I just might listen to you, Donald,’ he said.
‘There’s two miles of fog out there, and hardly enough swell for a man to hear the rocks. If it wasn’t for young Murdo’s ears we wouldn’t be here for a while yet.’
Fifteen yards up the beach the two boys drove the pin deep into the wet sand and Murdo threw a hitch of the stiff rope around it. Then they splashed out to the boat and heaved themselves aboard.
Hector had lit his pipe and was puffing contentedly on the thwart behind the engine casing. A red glow lit his nose and cheek as he drew a mouthful of the strong black twist.
‘What’s doing here, then?’ he said, the old stem clamped in his teeth.
‘Not a thing.’ Donald had a long Highland face. ‘Quiet as the grave.’
‘All right to light the lantern?’ Murdo said.
‘I should say so.’
The boy reached into the for’ard locker and produced a storm lantern and a box of matches. In a few moments the lamp burned up, shining cheerily over the ice-sheathed timbers of the boat. A warm paraffinny smell filled the air. As Murdo leaned against the side of the boat the leather sheath of his knife pressed into his waist. He slid it around the belt, remembering afresh that he had left the knife on the jetty in Orkney that morning after a couple of splicing jobs. It annoyed him, for he treasured the knife, not that it was expensive but it had been given to him by his father two years before and he used it all the time. Regretfully he fingered the empty sheath.
Donald was counting the cases of whisky, measuring the tar- paulin with his eye.
‘Thirty, is it?’ he asked. Hector nodded. ‘Thirty-four.’
Donald whistled quietly. ‘That’s something like a cargo! What is this stuff – fifteen bob a bottle? Nine pounds a crate.’ He did the sum in his head. ‘Over three hundred quid. Yes, that is some- thing like a cargo.’
‘I daresay the odd half-crown might find its way into your own pocket,’ said Hector with a smile. ‘You never know.’
He reached into the locker beneath him and pulled out a single bottle. The lantern shone on the bright amber liquid; he held it close so that the light shone through, burning and golden.
Donald looked at it, his head on one side. ‘Aye, it’s a bonny colour,’ he said, pushing his hat back and scratching the top of his bald head. ‘Do you know, Johnnie had nothing at the bar last night but one pint of beer for every man. One pint of beer. Not a nip between here and the Sahara Desert. It’s a terrible thing, the war.’ Innocently he gazed at the golden bottle, and back to Hector’s weather-beaten face. ‘You know, I was just thinking: well, it’s a
cold night, and the fog – it gets awful into your bones when you have to stand about for a long time. A – er – wee droppie might just help to keep the cold out, don’t you think?’
The slow smile on Hector’s face broadened to a mischievous grin. Reaching into the locker again, he produced three glasses. Holding them in one hand, he leaned over the side and swished them in the salt water, then placed them on top of the engine casing beside the lamp. With a squeaking pop the cork came out of the bottle. Carefully, Hector half filled two glasses, and put a drop in the bottom of the third.
‘Och, give the boy a proper drink,’ said Donald, looking at the stocky figure of Murdo. ‘How old is he now – fifteen?’
‘No, fourteen; and that’s all he’s getting.’