Murdo's War by Alan Temperley Page A

they found that Henry Smith had been drinking. He was sitting by himself in a corner of the hotel lounge and did not see them for a moment as they came through the door. The lamp was lit and a peat fire glowed in the hearth. A small side-table stood at the arm of his chair, with a part-empty bottle of the Orkney whisky and the remains of a plate of sandwiches upon it. His hands rested in his lap, curled loosely around a glass. An inch of the golden spirit rocked slightly in the bottom as he breathed.
    When he saw them he jumped to his feet. Half of the whisky splashed down his cardigan.
    ‘Oh damn!’ He brushed away the drops with his fingers and mopped it with a clean handkerchief. ‘Come in, come in. Do sit down.’ He set the glass on the table and pulled a couple of armchairs towards the fire.
    They sat as they were bidden, but he remained standing. He leaned towards Hector. His face was flushed and his eyes a little clouded.
    ‘You’ll have a drink,’ he said. ‘Whisky?’
    Hector shook his head. ‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘Not right now. I’m just after my dinner.’
    ‘Beer, then.’ The Englishman smiled a little tipsily. ‘Anything you want, so long as it’s beer.’
    Amused to see him so, Hector smiled, but shook his head.
    ‘Nothing at all?’
    Hector gave way with a good grace. ‘Oh well, then. A whisky. Thank you very much. A small one.’
    Henry Smith went to the door and called to a lady in the private part of the inn. A minute or two later she came through with a tray of coffee and an empty whisky glass. Hector and she were old friends. Unseen by the Englishman he gave her a conspiratorial wink. Briefly her eyes twinkled, though the days were long gone when the comings and goings of the incorrigible old man caused her any surprise. When she had gone, Mr Smith poured a heavy measure for Hector, and a drop into the bottom of his own glass.
    ‘Good health,’ he said.
    ‘Slàinte mhath.’
    Hector drank, and the Englishman tossed the last of his own whisky down his throat. His face twisted with revulsion. He pushed the glass far from him and rubbed a hand over his face.
    ‘Where’s the coffee?’ he said. ‘I’m not used to that stuff, it’s devilish.’
    Hector felt it burning in his stomach along with his dinner, and burped behind his fist.
    ‘Well,’ he said. ‘What about tonight?’
    Anxiously Henry Smith looked up from pouring his coffee, and glanced at the door, but it was shut.
    ‘I don’t like the look of the weather at all,’ Hector said. ‘It’s fairly rough now, and it’s blowing up nasty. It will be bad out there. I think it might be wise to leave it for tonight.’
    Henry Smith had been expecting it. He too had watched the weather deteriorating throughout the afternoon. ‘If only the old fool had gone on Sunday’, time and again the thought had recurred. Now he suppressed it.
    ‘We’ve got two more crossings,’ he pleaded. ‘Just two small loads, and the men. If a real storm blows up it might be days before you can get over again.’ He removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes, then shook his head slightly to try to clear the alcohol from his brain. ‘I know I’m a little drunk, but is there no chance?’
    He was so anxious that Hector sighed and scratched the back of his neck. He looked at Murdo and raised his eyebrows.
    ‘Well, I’ve been out in worse,’ he said. ‘If we went now we might get one load in. But I must say I don’t like it.’
    Henry Smith nodded. ‘That’s fair enough; we can but try. Thank you, Mr Gunn.’
    Hector chuckled. ‘Wait until we’re out there. You can thank me then.’
    The afternoon was wearing out as they put to sea. The edge of the clouds that had been rolling westward obliterated the low-burning sun, wiping the last vestiges of colour from the landscape. All turned grey and black and white. Lobster Boy was very small amid the ocean of waves that poured in from the north-east. Her bows rose and fell, leaped and splashed,