the flag of a dan buoy, all the nets neatly stowed along the inside of the bulwarks. Upon the road a car’s headlights blazed and then vanished.
‘You all right?’ Fuller called.
I shouted back to him that I wouldn’t be long and made my way to the bridge. It was an old-fashioned lay-out, a telegraph on the starboard side and the wheel at the back. But new equipment had been added, most of it ranged haphazardly under the half-circle of insloping windows – Decca radar, navigator and recorder, echo-sounder, log and speed indicator. The skipper’s seat was fixed to a piece of metal piping socketed into the floor, and on the wall behind was the VHF set and the Warden receiver.
It was old equipment, probably secondhand. Leading off the starboard gangway, to the right of the companionway down to the quarters, was an enclosed space with a shelf for chartwork, and on it was the main R/T set, a big Cresta-Vega doublesideband. The door to the master’s cabin was not locked. Inside, I found the bedding neatly piled on the bunk, all vestige of its dead occupant removed. Somebody – the girl probably, or that shambling giant of a man, who might well be the mate – had been on board and collected the old man’s things, all except an aged reefer jacket hanging on the back of the door, salt marks white on the dark cloth and traces of mildew. I put it on and went back into the bridge, standing for a moment with my hands on the wheel, trying to visualize how she would be in a seaway with the diesels at half ahead and her crew shooting the trawl, myself the owner and skipper. It was a dream, no more, and I was too cold to think very clearly, but the longing was there, deep inside me.
It was only a moment I stood at the wheel, but I can still remember the odd feeling of companionship I experienced, as though there was a presence beside me in the darkness of the bridge. Not hostile, just watchful. I let go of the wheel and it was gone, as though it were the helm itself that had communicated with me. How long, I wondered, had the 81-year-old Olav Petersen been master on this bridge?
I went back to the radio shelf outside the skipper’s cabin,remembering I had seen charts there. I thought perhaps the log might be there too, hoping that, if it went back far enough, it might give some indication of why Petersen’s daughter-in-law had become the owner. Had her husband also died on board?
But there was no log book, only the charts. These were the two Shetland Isles charts, Nos. 1118A and B, and I opened them out, laying them flat along the shelf and following the pencil marks of their last cruise. They had been trawling off Ramna Stacks on the 23rd, off Gloup Holm and The Clapper on the 24th, and had started south down Bluemull Sound at 05.35 on the 25th. It was all there, every fix, every change of course, the pencilled figures thin and shaky. But on the 25th the writing had changed. It was larger, firmer, and there were erasures, as though whoever had taken over was unaccustomed to making chart entries.
I was shivering by then, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. I put the charts back in the drawer and with a last glance round the bridge, I went out along the starboard gangway into the chill of the night breeze. I had forgotten about the reefer and I took it off and hung it in the shower compartment at the stern. The freeboard was so small with the tide near the high that I did not bother about a rope, but dived straight over the side and headed for the spit. The coldness of the water took my breath away and I was gasping for air as my feet touched bottom. I heard Fuller speaking, but I didn’t catch the words. Then the beam of a torch stabbed the night and a voice demanded, ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ It was a woman’s voice, loud and very clear, vibrant with anger.
I stopped, blinded by the glare and shivering. ‘I’ve no clothes on,’ I said, feeling foolish.
She laughed, a furious snorting sound. ‘Do
‘You all right?’ Fuller called.
I shouted back to him that I wouldn’t be long and made my way to the bridge. It was an old-fashioned lay-out, a telegraph on the starboard side and the wheel at the back. But new equipment had been added, most of it ranged haphazardly under the half-circle of insloping windows – Decca radar, navigator and recorder, echo-sounder, log and speed indicator. The skipper’s seat was fixed to a piece of metal piping socketed into the floor, and on the wall behind was the VHF set and the Warden receiver.
It was old equipment, probably secondhand. Leading off the starboard gangway, to the right of the companionway down to the quarters, was an enclosed space with a shelf for chartwork, and on it was the main R/T set, a big Cresta-Vega doublesideband. The door to the master’s cabin was not locked. Inside, I found the bedding neatly piled on the bunk, all vestige of its dead occupant removed. Somebody – the girl probably, or that shambling giant of a man, who might well be the mate – had been on board and collected the old man’s things, all except an aged reefer jacket hanging on the back of the door, salt marks white on the dark cloth and traces of mildew. I put it on and went back into the bridge, standing for a moment with my hands on the wheel, trying to visualize how she would be in a seaway with the diesels at half ahead and her crew shooting the trawl, myself the owner and skipper. It was a dream, no more, and I was too cold to think very clearly, but the longing was there, deep inside me.
It was only a moment I stood at the wheel, but I can still remember the odd feeling of companionship I experienced, as though there was a presence beside me in the darkness of the bridge. Not hostile, just watchful. I let go of the wheel and it was gone, as though it were the helm itself that had communicated with me. How long, I wondered, had the 81-year-old Olav Petersen been master on this bridge?
I went back to the radio shelf outside the skipper’s cabin,remembering I had seen charts there. I thought perhaps the log might be there too, hoping that, if it went back far enough, it might give some indication of why Petersen’s daughter-in-law had become the owner. Had her husband also died on board?
But there was no log book, only the charts. These were the two Shetland Isles charts, Nos. 1118A and B, and I opened them out, laying them flat along the shelf and following the pencil marks of their last cruise. They had been trawling off Ramna Stacks on the 23rd, off Gloup Holm and The Clapper on the 24th, and had started south down Bluemull Sound at 05.35 on the 25th. It was all there, every fix, every change of course, the pencilled figures thin and shaky. But on the 25th the writing had changed. It was larger, firmer, and there were erasures, as though whoever had taken over was unaccustomed to making chart entries.
I was shivering by then, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. I put the charts back in the drawer and with a last glance round the bridge, I went out along the starboard gangway into the chill of the night breeze. I had forgotten about the reefer and I took it off and hung it in the shower compartment at the stern. The freeboard was so small with the tide near the high that I did not bother about a rope, but dived straight over the side and headed for the spit. The coldness of the water took my breath away and I was gasping for air as my feet touched bottom. I heard Fuller speaking, but I didn’t catch the words. Then the beam of a torch stabbed the night and a voice demanded, ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ It was a woman’s voice, loud and very clear, vibrant with anger.
I stopped, blinded by the glare and shivering. ‘I’ve no clothes on,’ I said, feeling foolish.
She laughed, a furious snorting sound. ‘Do