Empty Nets and Promises by Denzil Meyrick Page B

smacking his lips as he emptied his glass. ‘I’ve never been o’er sure.’
    â€˜But you’re being a right Jonah, Hamish,’ said Hoynes. ‘Here we are getting a five-star passage intae Kinloch, wae their doctor looking efter Marshall, an’ us downing the tsar’s best vodka, and you’re still no’ happy. Dae you no’ think there’s hunners o’ boats oot in the broad Atlantic, and have been for years? No’ jeest the Russians, neither.’
    â€˜Well, I’ve never seen them so close tae hame, and that’s a fact. And forbye, I’ve a feeling o’ impending doom – an’ that’s never a good thing.’
    With that remark the cabin door swung open and the rotund figure of Captain Vladimir Pushkov strode into the cabin with two large bottles of vodka clasped in his meaty fists. ‘Good for you, gentlemen,’ the Russian seafarer boomed. ‘I am thinking we are needing some more vodka.’ He smiled beatifically as Geordie held out his glass. ‘And your friend – this Marshall – he will be living very well. I am speaking to doctor. So, my friends, a tragedy no more. Let us have toast!’ He unscrewed the top of one of the bottles and, one by one, poured the vodka so generously it spilled over the edge of each glass.
    â€˜Aye, here’s tae you, Vladimir,’ said Hoynes, clinking glasses with the Russian seafarer. ‘And tae the brotherhood of the sea – slainte !’
    â€˜The brotherhood of the sea . . . Sandy.’ He said the name tentatively. ‘I am thinking your name is Alexander. Am I right?’
    â€˜Aye, you have the right o’ it there,’ confirmed Hoynes.
    â€˜So, in the tradition of Mother Russia, I will call you Alexei.’ Pushkov drained his glass and reached once more for the bottle of vodka.
    â€˜You better watch your eye, Alexei ,’ said Hamish pointedly. ‘You’ll need tae work oot how we’re going tae get everyone back fae Geordie’s bothy when we get back tae Kinloch. You’ll be in no condition tae organise a rescue the way you’re downing that stuff.’
    â€˜Och, they’ll send oot the lifeboat. But the way the swell is noo, and it no’ being an emergency, it’ll no’ be until the morrow, I’m thinking.’
    â€˜Does that mean you’ll be in charge o’ the show o’ presents?’
    Hoynes stared at his first mate for a while, then burst out laughing. ‘There’ll be green snow an’ yellow hailstones before there’ll be any show o’ presents at my hoose the night. Here’s me jeest been rescued by the pride o’ the Baltic fae a watery grave. No, no, no. I’m quite happy tae sink intae this vodka – especially efter the few hours we’ve had. Man, Hamish, but sometimes you’re fair strait-laced.’ Hoynes hiccuped loudly, making Pushkov roar with laughter.
    A slight cough made everyone turn around. A man in an immaculate grey suit, white shirt and red tie stood framed in the doorway. His clothes, indeed, his whole demeanour couldn’t have made him look less like a fisherman. He stared at each man in turn.
    Quickly removing his cap and standing up, rather unsteadily, Pushkov addressed the man as ‘Commissar’. There followed a flurry of Russian, which the fishermen from Kinloch could not understand but certainly got the gist of. It was obvious that, despite Pushkov being captain of the vessel, he was somehow in thrall to this individual.
    â€˜Which one of you is in charge?’ the Commissar barked.
    â€˜Him,’ said Hamish and Geordie in unison, pointing at Hoynes. This man bore none of Pushkov’s bonhomie.
    â€˜You are British, yes?’
    â€˜Of course I am,’ replied Hoynes, his hiccups even more frequent now. ‘Four years before the mast of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, tae.’ He stood up and gave his