The Maggie by James Dillon White

like a mithfa tay, sir?’
    Marshall looked at him, startled. ‘What?’
    â€˜Can I bring ye a mithfa tay, sir?’
    Marshall turned the words over in his mind – ‘A mithfa tay’. Presumably they were English, his own language. They only needed decoding.
    â€˜Can I bring ye a mithfa tay, sir?’
    Marshall waved his hand testily. ‘Well, whatever it is, no.’ He watched the wee boy turn disappointedly towards the hatch.
    Peace returned again, but not comfort. After a few minutes the deck assumed an uncanny torturing hardness, the metal rivets on the wheelhouse were small but irritating as a stone in the shoe. For thirty years Marshall had not suffered any discomfort more severe than a bumpy air crossing. Now, with flesh and bones still aching from the long car ride, he tried to wriggle first one way, then another, to find a position of comfort and sleep. This day was a complete loss. He was resigned to that. But it was essential to sleep well tonight so that at least some of tomorrow’s hours might be saved. A cool breeze had sprung up and the wind blowing in from the open loch was chilling his body wherever the blankets slid away. He clutched at comfort with both hands, nestling into his blankets like a Red Indian beside a camp fire.
    At last as warmth returned Marshall began to feel the first drowsy symptoms of sleep. His eyes were heavy, his thoughts blurred. It had been a long day.
    Another figure came noisily from the forward hatch. This time it was the engineman with a bucket and rope. He stepped over Marshall’s body and from the stern rail threw the bucket into the harbour with a resounding plop. When he drew it up, brimming with water, he clattered carelessly back across the deck, stepping over Marshall and spilling a good deal of water in the process.
    Marshall stood up furiously. He looked wildly round the boat. For one moment he was tempted to find a room at the inn. Then he walked round to the other side of the wheelhouse. He opened the door. There was just room enough, he considered, for a man lying hunched up toprostrate himself on the floor. Dragging the palliasse and blankets along the deck he wondered desperately whether there would be any end to his annoyances. Sleep: all he wanted was some small corner where he could be quiet and free from interruption. Grovelling in the darkness he managed to fix up an unsatisfactory bed, but when he lay down he found that he was so tired that sleep would surely come.
    At first he did not hear the mate coming along the jetty. A low murmur of conversation, a hum of lover’s talk like bees on a summer afternoon; then quite definitely they were there, only a few feet from the wheelhouse – Hamish and a girl. He could hear every word they said.
    â€˜Did ye really mean what ye said, Hamish? Tell me the truth.. . . Am I really the one for you?’
    Marshall opened his eyes, deliberately listening.
    â€˜Ach, ye said that the last time, and then ye went away and didn’t come back for over a year . . .’ There was the sound of a kiss – ‘Ah, Hamish, me love . . .’
    Marshall rose slowly on to his elbows.
    â€˜Do ye love me, Hamish? Oh, Hamish . . . Hamish .’
    Marshall’s face appeared slowly above the level of the window. He stared out at the couple on the wharf with the eyes of a madman.

Chapter Sixteen
    In the brightness of morning Marshall felt confidence returning. Although it was only an hour since dawn the sun was already warm on the deck. The cottages, the pub, the small grey chapel, were sharply delineated in the clear air. Across the water a heat mist was rising and the distant mountains were shrouded in haze. From the harbour wall the fishermen passed slowly across the smooth loch, rowing because there was not a breath of wind to fill their sails.
    â€˜A fine morning, sir.’ The Skipper, who had come to Marshall’s side, seemed quite unaffected