A Tale of Two Pretties

The sun was beating down on the crew of the Pride of Lamond as they lifted heavy crates of North Atlantic Cod off the deck and onto the quay. Sweat dripped from their foreheads as their muscles pumped in a manner somewhat reminiscent of John Major and Edwina Curry. Tourists strolled by licking ice creams. Skipper Bruce had tried to encourage Jannetta's to introduce a range of flavours, including cod, mackerel and tuna, but, inexplicably, none of them had been adopted by the famed purveyors of fine ices. Skipper Bruce had always thought it was to their loss, he was sure that the shrimp sorbet he had suggested would have been a hit.

The harbour was bustling with people making their way to the beach. One person, however, was not moving. A small, slightly dozy looking blond girl was sat on a bench watching Skipper Bruce, First Mate Glen, Deck Hand Chris and Cabin Boy Matt work. She had been there for some time.

"Who is that girl?" asked First Mate Glen.

"I don't know," whistled Deck Hand Chris in reply. "She's been there for quite a long time and she seems to be watching you, Skipper."

"Don't be silly," answered Skipper Bruce, going red. "Just get this fash off the boat."

At that moment Harbour Master Gamble wandered along the quay towards them, clipboard in hand. First Mate Glen beckoned him over.

"Harbour Master Gamble," he said, "have you any idea who that girl is?"

"Well," Harbour Master Gamble looked thoughtful, "I've never seen her before, at least I don't recognise that I've seen her before, which of course doesn't mean that I actually haven't seen her, I may have seen her in passing but just not remembered her, so I may have just lied to you, though I'm not sure you can call it a lie if it wasn't intentional but was merely an accidental conveying of false information resulting from a failure of the memory, but if I have seen her before that doesn't matter because I still don't know who she is."

"We think she has the hots for the Skip," replied First Mate Glen, nudging Skipper Bruce playfully.

"Nah," squirmed Skipper Bruce, "don't want anything to do with them."

"Too bloody right, Skipper," Cabin Boy Matt interjected. "Stay well clear. Bloody Gregorian chants!"

Skipper Bruce, First Mate Glen, Deck Hand Chris and Harbour Master Gamble just looked at each other and shrugged as Cabin Boy Matt lifted another crate of fish while muttering about tuneless music under his breath.

"I rather like Gregorian chants myself," said Harbour Master Gamble, "I have a CD of Chris de Burgh songs in the style of Gregorian chants."

Deck Hand Chris shuddered. "But you don't know who that girl is?"

"Not a clue," replied Harbour Master Gamble. "Perhaps he does, though," he said, indicating towards a policeman strolling through the crowds.

The policeman, catching Harbour Master Gamble's wave, strode purposefully towards them.

"It's Special Agent Warwick!" Stated Skipper Bruce, for indeed it was.

"Good morning," Special Agent Warwick greeted them.

"Why Warwick?" asked Harbour Master Gamble.

"It's a code name," First Mate Glen told him. "All secret agents are named after universities."

"You're wrong," replied Special Agent Warwick. "The head of MI5 left a laptop on a tram in Edinburgh, which was unfortunate because it wasn't going anywhere, as a result of which our secret identities are now in the public domain, so they had to be changed."

"And what theme did they use this time?" asked First Mate Glen.

"Castles," replied the secret agent.

"That's cool, that's cool. Which castle did they name you after?"

"Warwick."

"Oh. So you're still Special Agent Warwick?"

"No, I was Special Agent Warwick and now I'm Special Agent Warwick," answered Special Agent Warwick, patiently.

"Oh, OK," First Mate Glen thought about this for a moment. "So are you under cover as a cop at the moment?"

"No," replied Special Agent Warwick. "I decided to leave the secret service and they offered me a job as Inspector with the local police force, you don't need to rise up the ranks when you have a service history like mine. Unfortunately there was a mistake and I ended up as a Police Community Support Officer." He pointed to the back of his fluorescent jacket on which the letters PCSO stood out in white.

"Ah, unfortunate," said Deck Hand Chris, sympathetically patting Special Agent Warwick on the back. "Maybe we should just call you 'Inspector' anyway."

"Really it should be Reverend Doctor Inspector Warwick," replied Reverend Doctor Inspector Warwick. "I got a PhD not so long ago and I was ordained too so that I could go under cover as an Anglican vicar."

"Oh, right," answered Deck Hand Chris. "Well, we were wondering if you knew who that girl was over there."

"No," replied Reverend Doctor Inspector Warwick, "but I can find out." With that, he strolled over to the girl, asked her name and came back. "She's called Mairi and she owns a café in town," he said. "Now if you'll excuse me, that lad over there hasn't got his shoe laces tied properly, I should go and have a quiet word."

And with that Reverend Doctor Inspector Warwick was gone.

Skipper Bruce was about to pick up a crate of mackerel when he heard a small voice behind him. "Excuse me, Skipper?"

He turned around to see Mairi looking up at him adoringly.

"Er, yeah?" he said, looking down at her uncomfortably.

"I thought you might like some sausages," she said, smiling broadly as she held out a plate on which two black piles of soot which vaguely resembled lumps of coal were sat.

"Oh, er, thanks," Skipper Bruce replied, taking the plate from her. He stood in silence, unsure of what to say next.

"Do you like sausages?" Mairi asked him after a few moments' awkward silence.

"Er, yeah, they're all right, I guess." Skipper Bruce really hoped she wasn't going to wait for him to eat them.

Another silence ensued.

"I own a café," Mairi told him, unperturbed by the highly uncomfortable nature of the situation. "I do aaaaall the cooking myself," she beamed and waved her hands around as if to indicate her wide ranging culinary skills.

"Oh, right," replied Skipped Bruce. "That's, er, good, I guess." He glanced back at the sausages. "Well," he said, "I guess I'll, er, save these for lunch. Thanks." And with that he put the plate on the ground, picked up his crate and heading off towards the store.

"Oh," Mairi said disappointedly as she looked after him. "Don't let them go cold," she called.

Deck Hand Chris and First Mate Glen nudged their Skipper as they prepared the fish for market later that day, poking fun at his new admirer.

"Don't listen to 'em, Skip," Cabin Boy Matt said. "Chuffin' women and chuffin' Gregorian chants. Bah!"

First Mate Glen and Deck Hand Chris looked at each other again and shrugged.

"Anyway", Cabin Boy Matt turned to Deck Hand Chris, "you can say nowt, I've seen that lass giving you the eye."

"What? Mairi's been giving me the eye as well?" he said, his voice lifting to a pitch which could be heard with greater ease by dogs than by men.

"No, not Mairi, another lass. Aye, she comes by whenever we're unloading the cargo and casts her eyes over your rear end every time you bend down to pick up the crates."

"Don't be silly," he said, almost slicing his finger as he gutted a fish, his hands suddenly having become somewhat unsteady.

"She does, walks by two or three times."

"Who?"

"I dunno, do I? Small lass, glasses, brown hair, long skirt, looks quite humble."

"By humble you mean ugly?"

"No, humble."

The catch that Skipper Bruce, First Mate Glen, Deck Hand Chris and Cabin Boy Matt had brought in that morning was quite large and the sun was low in the sky as they prepared to leave the store after a serious afternoon of gutting, a distinct smell of marine life emanating from their clothes.

Skipper Bruce, who was rarely shocked by anything, almost leapt out of his skin as he opened the door to find Mairi stood looking up at him, the same beaming grin on her face.

"Hey, Skipper," she said.

"Er, hey," replied Skipper Bruce. "How are you?"

"I'm fiiiiine, how are you?"

"OK."

"I was wondering if you wanted to go out later? Maybe we could catch a movie, or go for a walk, or have a drink or I could cook for you or..."

On the inside Skipper Bruce was panicking. His heart palpitated with fear, he desperately wanted to escape but he knew his crew were stood right behind him blocking his retreat, red spots began to form in front of his eyes and he suddenly felt extremely light headed. On the outside, Skipper Bruce looked completely normal.

"Er..." he said, the note of extreme horror in his voice totally inaudible so that he appeared quite calm.

"Only first I have to go and bury my fish. It died earlier after I decided it needed some exercise and took it for a walk in Kinburn Park. Maybe we went too far."

"I'm sorry," said Skipper Bruce. "I don't believe in burying fash, I believe in eating them. I couldn't be with someone who has their priorities wrong."

"Oh," replied Mairi, her smile disappearing momentarily. "OK, then, bye bye!"

Skipper Bruce watched her skip away as his vision returned and his heart rate returned to normal. "I need a drink," he said.

* * *

"So she owns a café?" asked Deck Hand Chris. Skipper Bruce nodded. "But did you see the state of those sausages?"

"Apparently all her cooking's like that," said First Mate Glen, who was trying to take his half-pint slowly. Heather still hadn't forgiven him for the Ethel incident which had, with great misfortune, occurred last time he'd drunk a little too quickly. Ethel, for her part, now approached the Pride of Lamond's crew with caution and always made sure that the word "JESUS" was prominent on her apron, just to be sure that they knew where she stood on such matters.

"How's the nounless Bible going?" Skipper Bruce asked Cabin Boy Matt.

"Bah, don't want to talk about it," replied Cabin Boy Matt dejectedly.

"Where've you got to?"

"Song of Songs. All about chuffin' women. And it's a nightmare. Listen to this:" Cabin Boy Matt pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket. "Those of yours which can be sometimes large and sometimes small but which are usually round and attractive and which are in front are like two of those which prance and are shot and are run over and are young, like two of those young which are similar but which are not often run over as they rarely close enough to those which run over."

"What on earth was that?" asked Deck Hand Chris.

"Chapter 7 verse 3. Nightmare, isn't it. Still, it's all the Lord's work."

The others glanced at each other and swiftly downed their drinks.

* * *

When the Pride of Lamond came into port a few days later Skipper Bruce couldn't help but groan. There, on the quayside waiting for them, was Mairi. She waved excitedly as the vessel docked.

"Hey, Mairi," Skipped Bruce greeted her, throwing a crate of fish onto the quay a little too near her feet.

"Helloooooo," called Mairi. "How are you, Skipper Bruce?"

"Er, I'm well, thanks. How are you?"

"I'm really well, I've been preparing a new menu for my café as the old one wasn't very popular, people never came back. I've introduced some new and exciting dishes. I've got toad in the hole with real toads and choux pastries made of leather."

"Sounds... nice."

"So, Skipper, I just wanted you to know that, like, I really like you and would like to marry you and go everywhere with you."

Skipper Bruce felt panic setting in again.

"Er, look, Mairi, I don't really have a home, I kind of spend my life fishing, out at sea, you know. And, you know, fish have their, err, reefs, I guess, I don't know, and lobsters have their pots, but I don't have anywhere. "

"Oh," replied Mairi, her smile fading again.

"I just, you know, don't think you could cope."

"No," replied Mairi, her smile gone. "You're probably right."

"Bur I'll, er, I'll come to you café sometime," Skipper Bruce promised.

Mairi's smile returned. "OK," she beamed, and skipped off again.

"Did you just promise to go to her café?" asked Deck Hand Chris.

"Yeah," replied Skipper Bruce.

Deck Hand Chris pulled a face and bent down to pick up a crate of fish. At that moment, however, he remembered what Cabin Boy Matt had told him and whipped round.

There, stood admiring his rear end, stood a humble looking girl. She went red as she realised that Deck Hand Chris had noticed her looking.

Deck Hand Chris' heart fluttered for a second. Suddenly everything was very clear. The sun was dazzling, the wind picked out the feathers on the wings of the sea gulls, the fish he was carrying smelt more delicious than they'd ever smelt before, the laughter of the children seemed happier than he previously realised.

"Hello," he said to the girl.

"Hello," she replied. "I'm Nat."

"Hello Nat," Deck Hand Chris pronounced every single individual syllable of her delectable name. "I'm Deck Hand Chris."

"Hello Deck Hand Chris," said Nat, a humble smile appearing on her lips. And what lips they were! Deck Hand Chris thought they would taste amazing after a plate of herring.

"I believe we're going to set sail again soon," said Deck Hand Chris. "Would you... like to come?"

Nat smiled again. "I'd love to," she said. "But first let me say goodbye to my family, they'll wonder where I've gone."

"I don't think we'll have time for that," replied Deck Hand Chris. "No one who puts their hands to the rigging and looks back is fit for service on the Pride of Lamond."

Nat giggled. "Help me on board, then," she said, reaching out her hand.

Deck Hand Chris took it and smiled.

* * *

The real life Mairi is not a psychopath. She is perfectly lovely, if a wee bit dizzy, and the world would be a much worse off place without her. Her cooking has also improved somewhat in recent years.

K.Y.

Where have all the flowers gone? - Part 2

Skipper Bruce sat on a rock staring out towards the horizon. The sea lapped at his feet as he crunched on the pasta he was eating straight from the bag. When packing his supplies he hadn't taken into account the fact that he would have neither oven nor microwave with which to cook. He had tried to build fires, but with little success. The one fire he had managed to get started he had used to cook the garlic bread he had brought, but the three hours he had conservatively estimated as an approximate cooking time had proved far too much and the resulting billows of black smoke had nearly given away his presence.

As he sat crunching, Skipper Bruce's mind drifted to Deck Hand Chris. He felt desperately hurt that his friend had not only abandoned him but had preferred his death and the money which would result to their continued friendship. There would be no more games of Risk, no more shared guffaws at Doctors, no more piggy-back rides down Market Street. He felt anger that Deck Hand Chris had felt their friendship so worthless, but most of all he felt a profound hope that his friend would return.

His thoughts were interrupted as a familiar lilac reflection appeared on the water in front of him. Looking up, he saw the Pride of Lamond appear around the rocks and First Mate Glen fling a bottle into the water as it passed.

Skipper Bruce lowered himself into the water and swam out to reach the bottle. Inside was a slip of Tesco Value paper on which was scribbled a short message, clearly written by Cabin Boy Matt:

That which is used to pay for that which we either need or want has arrived and he who has betrayed us has gone. You can come back to that from where we come.

With that, Skipper Bruce began to scramble up the steep cliff face towards civilization.

* * *

Deck Hand Chris was relaxing on his huge sofa in front of a huge plasma television watching Doctors. It wasn't the same without the Pride of Lamond's crew, but that mattered little. He had everything he could ever want. A small black boy whom he employed at a very competitive rate sat on an exercise bike in the corner powering the plasma television by way of a dynamo. Out of the window of his luxury eco-villa he could see, in the distance, fourteen enormous wind turbines rising from the ocean, the source not just of the West Coast's energy but also of his fortune. He was surrounded by dreadlocked friends smoking herbal cigars which had come from Deck Hand Chris' cupboard and drinking organic wine, the grapes for which had been crushed under the feet of local neds undergoing community service, which had come from Deck Hand Chris' well-stocked cellar. This was the life.

* * *

Skipper Bruce stumbled into The Lady's Head dirty, ragged and forlorn. His clothes were ripped, his double cowlick was mattered with dust, blood and sweat and his glasses were broken. Silence fell in the church-run bar as all eyes fell on the Skipper.

"Ski... Skipper," stammered First Mate Glen, standing up. "We... we thought you were dead."

"Yes," piped in Cabin Boy Matt in a flat monotone which he thought was quite convincing, "how great to see you, Skipper Bruce, who was dead but is now, miraculously, alive, how can it be?"

Skipper Bruce fell into a seat and Ethel, the 87-year old barmaid, quickly brought him a pint of Best, which he downed in one sift gulp.

"I fell from the harbour wall," began Skipper Bruce wearily.

"No, no," whispered First Mate Glen a little too loudly, "you were washed overboard during a storm."

"Ah, yeah, that's right," said Skipper Bruce. "I was washed overboard during a really bad storm and washed up almost dead on a desert island. Luckily some seals found me and nursed me back to health until I was strong enough to sit on their backs and be taken to the shore, from where I walked all the way back here."

Silence remained as the packed bar contemplated the likelihood of the story.

"Err, quick!" shouted Cabin Boy Matt to prevent anyone having too long to think. "Drinks all round to celebrate, err, on First Mate Glen! What a generous chap he is!"

By the end of the evening everybody was pleased that Skipper Bruce was alive and well, though nobody could quite remember the story of how he had survived.

* * *

Deck Hand Chris stood in the doorway to what had, until a few minutes ago, been his villa. Global warming had come under sufficient doubt so as to have undermined the need for non-polluting energy, while vast oil reserves in the Falklands and England's crushing of South American opposition to British sovereignty had secured traditional energy sources for decades to come. Not only that, but it had become clear that wind turbines were incapable of supplying Scotland's energy needs. Revenue from the off-shore windfarm in which he had invested everything had dried up and the turbines were costing more to maintain than they made. Now he had opened the door to find a representative from Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs claiming that he owed the government hundreds of thousands of pounds in outstanding taxes from the income he had made and that his eco-villa, and everything in it, was to be taken as payment. Even the little black boy spat on him as he left.

"What did you say your name was?" Deck Hand Chris asked the scowling man who had given him the bad news and who now supervised the loading of his property into a large government van.

"To people like you it's Jay," he replied in a thick Northern Irish accent, scowling even harder. "Don't ask my real name. I know what you people are like and I don't want repercussions. I've lost enough teeth from begrudged reluctant taxpayers already."

"And are you sure you've got this right?" he asked, "how can I owe so much?"

"You make this amount of cash and don't tell Revenue and Customs, this is what happens," replied Jay.

"But, I've got nothing, what will I do?"

Jay looked at Deck Hand Chris and shrugged nonchalantly. "Not my problem."

With that, he took a bottle of the organic wine, popper the cork and took a swig. "Blah! Tastes like Clem's feet!"

* * *

The following morning, Harbour Master Gamble approached Skipper Bruce, First Mate Glen and Cabin Boy Matt as they scrubbed the Pride of Lamond.

"Can I ask you a question? I mean, I know that was a question and that I asked that without your permission, but, I mean, what I mean to say, unless of course you already understand what I mean because this is fairly commonly used phrase, the question I began with, that is, but what I meant was, do I have your permission to ask a subsequent question to the one which I have already asked you?"

"Aye," replied Skipper Bruce.

"Well," said Harbour Master Gamble, leaning towards them conspiratorially, "you weren't really washed overboard, were you?"

Skipper Bruce, First Mate Glen and Cabin Boy Matt looked at each other.

"Err, no," replied Skipper Bruce.

"I thought not, but I won't tell." Harbour Master Gamble winked. "I heard Deck Hand Chris wanted his share of the business back, and you didn't have it, so you pretended to have been killed to get the life insurance to pay him. Am I right?"

"Err, yes," replied Skipper Bruce.

"What are you going to do when the insurance company ask for the money back, may I ask, I mean, I don't mean to be nosey, I'm just a little curious, which, I know they say curiosity killed the cat, but given that I'm not a cat, as I hope you can tell, although I know that perhaps it is a little uncertain, I felt that it would be worth the risk, although I hope you don't think me imprudent for thinking so, I like to live life on the edge, if, perhaps, I may be a little impolite in doing so."

"I guess," answered First Mate Glen, "that we'll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it."

"May I ask another question," asked Harbour Master Gamble. "I mean, I know that that is a question that I asked without first asking permission but what I mean is..."

"Aye," Skipper Bruce interrupted.

"Why didn't you just sell Deck Hand Chris' share of the business to someone else?" asked Harbour Master Gamble.

Skipper Bruce, First Mate Glen and Cabin Boy Matt looked at each again.

"We never thought of that."

* * *

Deck Hand Chris phoned all his friends for help, but nobody responded. They were either having their dreadlocks redone, tie-dying shirts or on a Greenpeace ship attacking Japanese whaling boats. Feeling very cold and incredibly alone, he spent the night in a cardboard box under a bridge and the following morning went in search of a job. He managed to find mundane work on a salmon farm feeding the fish. He longed to fill his stomach with the pink and green foul smelling flakes he was feeding them, but the owners of the farm refused to let him, saying that their insurance didn't cover their employees eating food that was unfit for human consumption, nor would they give him an advance on his pitiful wage, for which he was forced to wait until the end of the month.

Consequently, Deck Hand Chris continued to lay under the freezing bridge during the long, cold nights, his stomach cramping with hunger. He thought back to Skipper Bruce. He had had true friends on the Pride of Lamond, friends who stood by him during thick and thin, friends who had supported him after the doctors had told him he was unable to have children as a result of having received the sack whack, friends who would have helped him had he lost everything. Skipper Bruce, First Mate Glen and Cabin Boy Matt always had food to eat, even when catches were poor the Skipper had made sure that his crew ate. Why was he here, cold, hungry and alone? The longer he thought over his situation, the more obvious the solution became. He would have to swallow his pride and return to St Andrews, apologise to Skipper Bruce and beg that he offer him a job doing the most menial tasks on board the Pride of Lamond.

* * *

"No, Heth, we're not going to the Seychelles on our honeymoon..." First Mate Glen was pacing backwards and forwards along the deck of the Pride of Lamond, his mobile phone clamped to his ear. Wedding preparations were not going well. "No... no, I don't want you to feel bad... Heth, I'm not... It's just that I don't see the point in going somewhere expensive and exciting when we're not going to leave the bedroom all week... No, I'm not just being cheap... No... I'm not... There are some lovely hotels in Leith... Well, no, I haven't checked them out but... It can't be that bad... The what triangle? ...No, that's not the reason... OK... OK... We won't go to Leith... No I want you to be happy... I do... Heth, I do want you to be happy... How about Springburn? ...It's quite nice in August... It is... It is... Heth, I'm not being cheap... I'm not... No, I'm not saying you're a liar... I'm not... I'm not... OK... OK... I'm sorry for calling you a liar... I am... No, I'm not contradicting myself... OK... I'm sorry... I'm sorry... Where would you like to go? ...The Seychelles? ...That sounds like a great idea."

Skipper Bruce was sat on quay with his binoculars out, scanning the horizon in all directions. He had remained there for a number of weeks, leaving only to sleep. The Pride of Lamond had come and gone on multiple voyages since his return, yet he had accompanied First Mate Glen and Cabin Boy Matt on none of them, he just remained, watching and hoping that Deck Hand Chris would return.

Cabin Boy Matt sat beside Skipper Bruce fixing nets. "I think the best bit," he told him, "is when they open the boot and find Remington Steele in his tuxedo and a smooth grin holding a cocktail and he says..."

Suddenly Skipper Bruce leapt to his feet, flung his binoculars in the air and ran as he hadn't run since trying to get from from one end of St Andrews to the other so as not to miss the start of Diagnosis Murder. Cabin Boy Matt stood in shock and First Mate Glen dropped his phone.

"My friend, my friend!" cried Skipper Bruce as he ran towards Deck Hand Chris, who he had seen in the distance. The American tourists stopped and stared as he sprinted past, some of them taking photographs of the crazy Scottish sea captain. When he reached Deck Hand Chris, Skipper Bruce flung his arms around him and embraced him.

"Deck Hand Chris!" he cried. "I'm so glad you're back, come with me."

"Wait, wait," stammered Deck Hand Chris. "Skipper, I've been terrible to you, I've treated you badly, please take me back as..."

"Nonsense!" cried Skipper Bruce, "come on, we're going to have a massive party."

* * *

That evening The Lady's Head was filled with music and dancing. The entire town turned out to celebrate the return of Deck Hand Chris and witness Skipper Bruce giving him part ownership of the Pride of Lamond once more. DJ Vector and the Yorkshire Rapper even had a rap battle in his honour.

But First Mate Glen was outraged that Deck Hand Chris had been accepted back as an equal when he and Cabin Boy Matt had been working hard during the long months of his absence. He refused to go into the party and sat outside, listening to DJ Vector's beats and sulking.

Where have all the flowers gone? - Part 1

Skipper Bruce, First Mate Glen and Cabin Boy Matt stood looking up the hill towards the town in the early morning sun. Steven Seagull circled above them, perhaps also keeping a look out. The Pride of Lamond should have left the harbour several hours before, but Deck Hand Chris was still nowhere to be seen.

"Are you still here?" asked Harbour Master Gamble, approaching the trio with clipboard in hand. "Well, I mean, I can see you're still here, at least, I think I can, it could, of course, be an illusion, or a vision or a dream, supposing, that is, that I'm still asleep, which I'm not, at least, I don't think I am, but I could be wrong, but it was just a figure of speech."

"Aye," answered Skipper Bruce.

"Deck Hand Chris still hasn't arrived," said First Mate Glen, hoping that it wasn't because he had eaten the lemon which Deck Hand Chris has been intending to use to clean the wheelhouse. That had, he knew, annoyed him somewhat.

The crew of the Pride of Lamond had taken the previous week away from the high seas for a period of relaxation. They had, after all, been working very hard. Skipper Bruce had gone skiing with Oak Hall, Cabin Boy Matt had gone on an "adrenaline bursting" tour of local authority museums and First Mate Glen had gone and got himself engaged, but nobody was sure what had happened to Deck Hand Chris. He had, so they thought, been intending to go to the Glastonbury festival, where he was due to give a live whistling performance on centre stage, but he had yet to return.

"So, you still haven't told us how you proposed," Cabin Boy Matt said to First Mate Glen.

"Haven't I?" asked First Mate Glen. "Well, er, I didn't exactly propose to her."

"What do you mean?" asked Cabin Boy Matt.

"Well, she sort of proposed to me," First Mate Glen chuckled nervously. "She got angry that I hadn't asked her yet and so I asked her and she said no because she'd forced me into it and didn't really want to and wouldn't have done if she hadn't said anything and got angry that I wasn't willing to risk upsetting her by not asking her there and then, then she proposed to me and I said yes and then she got angry that she was having to be the man in our relationship, so, er, yeah, I'm really happy."

Skipper Bruce and Cabin Boy Matt stood in silence for a few moments, unsure of what to say.

"So, er, how's the nounless Bible going?" asked First Mate Glen to cover the awkward silence.

"I'm stuck on chapter six of Exodus," replied Cabin Boy Matt.

"Ah, right, shame," replied First Mate Glen.

As the men idolly chatted they watched a lone male saunter slowly down the hill towards them. He had long, greasy hair, wore sandals on his grubby feet, carried a jute bag and wore a green tee shirt with a picture of a wind turbine on it.

"I'd recognise that whistle anywhere," said First Mate Glen.

"So would I," replied Cabin Boy Matt. "It's either Deck Hand Chris or the bloke who used to do next door's garden. It can't be the gardener because he's dead, but I don't reckon it's Deck Hand Chris neither looking like that."

At that moment, the lone figure looked up. His face was filthy and he needed a shave, but his lop-sided grin identified him immediately. It was Deck Hand Chris.

"By 'eck, you need a bloody 'air cut," exclaimed Cabin Boy Matt.

"What happened to you?" asked First Mate Glen, equally astounded.

Deck Hand Chris took a small jar of parsley from his pocket, tipped some into a strip of recycled paper, rolled it into a thin tube and put it between his lips before lighting it with a match.

"I've seen the light," he said, sucking on his herbal cigarette. "We can't continue to live the way we do. At Glastonbury I met some people who told me all about the damage we do to our planet. They knew someone who knew someone who knew someone who was once a lecturer at the University of East Anglia who used to have a colleague who said that evidence one of her undergrads had unearthed but who for data protection reasons couldn't reveal the source of the said evidence showed that human activity, especially our production of carbon through energy use, is causing all the ice in the world to melt and that as a result we're all going to die and, more importantly, all the animals will also die, throwing earth's delicate ecosystems off balance, which will cause all the flowers to die. We can't let that happen, can we?" He took the herbal cigarette from between his teeth and held it in the air between two fingers. "We need to stop using fossil fuels, for the sake of the flowers. Renewable energy is the only way. We should also become vegetarians, animals take up too much energy to prove sustainable."

"He's gone green," muttered First Mate Glen.

"He's making me bloody green with them cigarettes," Cabin Boy Matt complained.

"Never mind this," said Skipper Bruce, "let's go catch some fash!"

"No, you don't understand," said Deck Hand Chris. "I can't come with you, I need to save the world, for the flowers. Skipper, buy back my portion of the Pride of Lamond so that I can invest it in a new offshore wind farm."

"What?" asked Skipper Bruce, shocked. "I can't afford that!"

"I know you can't, but you don't have a choice, I don't want to be part of this consortium any more. You'll have to buy me out."

"But I can't," Skipper Bruce stammered, shaking, "you'll bankrupt me."

"You can, I've thought about it," said Deck Hand Chris. "If you happened to be washed overboard, you'd receive a massive payout from your life insurance which should cover my share and then some."

"You want to kill him?" asked First Mate Glen, flabbergasted.

Deck Hand Chris just shrugged. "It's not really my problem."

* * *

Early the next morning, before any other vessels had left the port, the Pride of Lamond's engine started with a belch of black smoke which made Deck Hand Chris shudder. Hours earlier, in the pitch darkness, the crew had loaded their trawler with supplies to last two months. The hold was full of Campo Largo beans, Irn Bru, Homepride Pasta Bake Sauce, coos coos and garlic bread. Skipper Bruce stared glumly forward as he guided the boat onto the open seas. Once St Andrews was out of sight, he hugged the coast, eyeing the shoreline carefully until he spotted a beach which was remote enough for him to live there unnoticed but with sufficient shelter for him to survive.

"That looks like a good spot,"said First Mate Glen, sullenly.

Skipper Bruce turned the wheel and the Pride of Lamond approached the beach. He got as close as he dare to the rocks before flinging the cases of food into the water.

"OK, lads," he said, sadness in his eyes. "Go out away from here. Wait for a storm and then radio that I've been lost overboard. Throw over my life jacket. Once the life insurance money comes in, Deck Hand Chris can take his share and go. The rest of you, keep on catching fash. I'll come back when it's all blown over and as though it were some sort of miraculous recovery."

With that Skipper Bruce scrambled over the side of the Pride of Lamond and lowered himself gingerly into the cold North Sea. First Mate Glen took the wheel and directed the vessel away from the beach as Cabin Boy Matt watched Skipper Bruce make his way to the shore. Deck Hand Chris, a smile on his face, descended to the kitchen to make a cup of lemon grass tea.

* * *

St Andrews greeted the death of Skipper Bruce with great sadness. The Free Church held a memorial service at which all the psalms were sung to Fat Boy Slim tunes and The Lady's Head offered two-for-one carb feasts in homage to the much loved Skipper. St Andrews Museum put on an exhibition of the Skipper's life, complete with plastic lobsters and a badly constructed and oddly sized model of the Pride of Lamond, which Cabin Boy Matt had made from hundreds of cereal boxes he had collected but not used during his student days. It was supposed to have been made to scale, but Cabin Boy Matt's numeracy was non-existent and, while the boat was supposed to have been on a 1:5 scale, the wheelhouse had ended up only half the size of the original.

The insurance company were unwilling, at first, to pay out given that, in the absence of a body, the Skipper's death could not be proven. During this time First Mate Glen and Cabin Boy Matt continued to fish while Deck Hand Chris stayed at home growing his hair, smoking thyme and decorating jute bags. After many months and a number of covert trips to replenish Skipper Bruce's stocks, the money from the insurance company arrived. Deck Hand Chris took his share and left St Andrews.

To be continued...

Photo of the Pride of Lamond's Crew

Steven Seagull swoops over (left to right) Cabin Boy Matt, First Mate Glen, Harbour Master Gamble, Skipper Bruce and Deck Hand Chris on board the Pride of Lamond.

Photo courtesy of Ewen Glen and Chris Arnott.

Life in Abundance

"Pull!" shouted First Mate Glen. "Pull!"

The nets were bursting with fat, juicy, north Atlantic cod as the crew of the Pride of Lamond used all their might to heave them out of the water and onto the deck. It was the hardest they had had to work in their whole fishing career, never before had the nets been so full. Cabin Boy Matt especially was struggling.

"Pull, Cabin Boy Matt, you big girl!" shouted First Mate Glen. The net was slipping from their grasp and every one of the crew needed to give their full effort. First Mate Glen could see that Cabin Boy Matt was at risk of losing the catch for them. "Retard!" he yelled at him in frustration as the net began to slip back into the water.

"I am pullin' reet 'ard!" shouted Cabin Boy Matt in return, leaning so far back as he pulled on the net that he was almost horizontal.

The sun was blazing, turning the arms of the men red as they slowly dragged the net and, more importantly, its valuable contents onto their vessel. As soon as it was safely on board the crew gave thanks to the Lord before tipping the fish into the stores below, into which First Mate Glen, Deck Hand Chris and Cabin Boy Matt immediately descended in order to gut and pack them ready for market.

The sea rose and fell beneath the Pride of Lamond as Skipper Bruce guided the vessel back to port. The sound of the the Wee Frees, First Mate Glen's favourite band, rose from the CD player on the deck below, where it jollied the men in their work. Skipper Bruce smiled. First Mate Glen had been dying to play their greatest hits album, entitled Now That's What I Call a Psalmody!, all week. The wind blew through the hair of Skipper Bruce, tugging at his double cowlick, as he leaned out of the wheelhouse window. He was happy. That week's fishing had been hugely successful and the rotting wooden hull of his vessel now groaned under the weight of the north Atlantic cod that it contained. He dreamed of all the ways he could spend the money he and his crew would gain from the haul and he allowed his mind to drift like a corpse in a river. He imagined himself in the Swiss Alps, skiing gleefully down virgin white slopes as the theme tune to Diagnosis Murder played as if by magic from the clouds. A week of that would indeed be heaven. Who knows, with this haul plus the money he was making from his DJing it may just be possible. He may even find himself a girl on his next Oak Hall trip.

He flicked open Your Two Breasts are Like Two Fawns, the book of Christian chat-up lines he had surreptitiously purchased from the top shelf at The Lady's Head. He had thought that one of them would gain him a nice young lady, but he was no longer sure. Telling a woman that he had been given the gift of tongues was not his style and he held Graham Kendrick in too high esteem to use the first line of any of his songs as a means of gaining a quick kiss. Nope. There was only one thing for it. He would have to learn how to do a rubix cube really quickly, that would impress the ladies.

His thoughts were soon brought back to reality as he saw a flare rise from the waters to his right. Following the line of smoke back down to earth he could clearly see, just a mile or so away, a stricken trawler. It had run aground on a rock and looked to be sinking quickly. Raising his binoculars to his eyes he could make out figures in the water. The situation was grave, which would be exactly where the stricken vessel's crew would be going if they did not receive help quickly.

Skipper Bruce rested his hands on the wheel of the Pride of Lamond. The grounded ship was close, but a rescue would take time. The massive haul of north Atlantic cod needed to be sold while still fresh and the catch the crew were working on at that moment needed to be prepared as soon as possible to prevent it from rotting. No. There was no way Skipper Bruce could help the crew of the sinking trawler. He turned the wheel of the Pride of Lamond to the left, towards the harbour, prosperity and rest.

* * *

"No Heth... no... that's not the case... no... it's not pronounced 'Kamchaatka', it's 'Kamchatka'... Yes, you are wrong... Yes, I did just say you were wrong... No, that doesn't mean that I'm calling you an idiot... No, it doesn't... it doesn't... OK... OK, I'm sorry, Heth... Yes, I am sorry for calling you an idiot... I am... I would prove it to you by taking you out for dinner, but I'm still pretty full... No, I had a couple of spoonfuls of Deck Hand Chris' porridge this morning and phew! I'm still stuffed!... OK, Heth... I'll see you soon... Bye... Yes, of course I love you... I do... OK... OK... Bye Heth."

First Mate Glen sighed heavily, turned off his phone and entered The Lady's Head. He spotted Cabin Boy Matt sat at a table on the other side of the room bent over a sheet of paper.

"Hey, what are you up to?" he asked his colleague, placing his half-half-pint, which would be more than enough for him, on the table and sitting down opposite the Yorkshireman.

"Ey up, First Mate Glen," replied Cabin Boy Matt. "I'm translating the Bible."

"Oh," replied First Mate Glen in reply. "That's really good, it's great that you're doing something so useful. There are so many people groups in the world that don't have the Scriptures in their own language. Wonderful. What language are you translating it into?"

"I'm putting into noun-free English," answered Cabin Boy Matt, proudly.

"What?"

"English, but without nouns. I reckon there's a real need for it."

"Oh," said First Mate Glen, a little stunned. "Er... how far have you got?"

"I've only managed the first verse of Gensis so far. It's pretty tough going, harder than it looks."

First Mate Glen swivelled the piece of paper round so that he could read it:

Very, very early on, incredibly so, he who reigns majestically and omnipotently created that which is above where those who follow him will dwell after they die and he also created that which is below upon which we now dwell, though, of course, we did not there dwell when it was first created for we did not then exist.

"It's... er... quite a mouthful, isn't it?" stated First Mate Glen.

"Aye, that'll be one o' t' drawbacks when we eradicate nouns from English. Still, that's evolution."

"Evolution?"

"Aye, we'll become more efficient by getting rid of the parts of language we don't need, like nouns."

"But it's not really more efficient, is it? We're really just beating about the bush."

"No, it is more efficient, a lot more efficient because we don't really need nouns, as the fact that I can write part of Genesis without them shows, it's just that the beating about the bush is one of the drawbacks of getting rid of them. Still, efficiency needs sacrifice."

At that moment Deck Hand Chris and Skipper Bruce, along with Ali, photographer with the St Andrews Citizen, joined them at the table.

"Ali's just been telling us what happened to that ship we saw yesterday afternoon, the one that had run aground," Deck Hand Chris informed them.

"You saw them?" asked Ali in surprise.

"Aye," replied Skipper Bruce.

"But why didn't you help them?" she asked.

"Skipper decided we had to get the fish back to port before it began to rot. We all think he did the right thing," said Deck Hand Chris.

"And we prayed for them," put in First Mate Glen. "We prayed for their safety when we'd got back to port."

"I'll have to tell Sam that," replied Ali, taking out a notepad and jotting something down.

"I'm sorry, who's Sam?" asked Deck Hand Chris.

"Sam Aritan, he's writing the report on the matter for tomorrow's paper and it's already up on his Jerusalem to Jericho blog. He's the one who told me all about it," Ali answered.

"So what happened to the boat?" asked First Mate Glen.

"Well, a few minutes after you lot had passed Pastor Iain..."

"Oh, he's a lovely chap," said Cabin Boy Matt. "Always reet jolly."

"Yes, well, Pastor Iain passed in his Abundance," continued Ali.

"In his what?" asked Deck Hand Chris.

"The Abundance is the name of his yacht. He saw them, but decided that he urgently needed to get back because he hadn't finished preparing that night's sermon."

"I've got verse two!" shouted Cabin Boy Matt.

"Excuse me?" said Ali, questioningly.

"Verse two of my noun-free English version of the Bible. It reads 'Now that upon which we now dwell was formless and empty, that which is dark was over that which is on top of that which is profound, not philosophically so but physically so, and that which is spiritual of he who reigns majestically and omnipotently was hovering over those which are wet.'"

"It's a bit repetitive," said Deck Hand Chris.

"And 'that which is spiritual' doesn't really define the Spirit of God, for surely all of God is spiritual, though N.T. Wright might not fully agree," added First Mate Glen.

"But how else would you describe the Spirit of God?" asked Cabin Boy Matt.

"Erm... I'm not sure," replied First Mate Glen. "You could try..."

"But what about the boat?" asked Skipper Bruce, becoming increasingly exasperated. "What happened to the sinking boat?"

"Oh, right, yes," said Ali. "Well, The Grey Friar passed next."

"Those scumbags!" exclaimed First Mate Glen.

"Scoundrals!" interjected Deck Hand Chris. "I bet they left them to drown like rats!"

"Actually, they stopped and helped them out of the water," continued Ali. "They let down their lifeboats and went to pick them up. The waves were apparently quite high by then, it was a bit dangerous. But anyway, they got them on board and dried and fed them. A couple of them were badly injured, broken legs and such, God knows how they managed to stay alive in the water, and they were all suffering from acute hypothermia. First Mate Fraser bandaged them up as best she could and they took them to port and paid for them to stay in a Bupa hospital until they recover fully. Captain Campbell said he'd go back in a week to check on them and pay any extra costs."

The crew of the Pride of Lamond sat in silence as Ali finished telling them what had happened.

"So the town's scum helped them?" asked First Mate Glen.

"Looks like it," replied Ali. "And you didn't. Nor did Pastor Iain."

Skipper Bruce stood up, mumbling that he had to prepare that evening's set for the club at which he was playing, Deck Hand Chris suddenly remembered that he needed to clean the oven, First Mate Glen said that Heather needed his assistance in some matter and Cabin Boy Matt decided that he needed peace and quiet to work on verse three. All left quickly, though none of them accomplished the tasks they had set themselves for the evening, each taking to his bed early, where they thought deep into the night.

The Barn

As soon as the Pride of Lamond entered port, the spirits of Skipper Bruce, First Mate Glen, Deck Hand Chris and Cabin Boy Matt fell. They had had a reasonably successful trip. It had been a long one, two weeks, and tiring also, but the catch had been immense. Baskets full of fat, juicy, pink prawns, cases upon cases of north Atlantic cod and pots of lobsters and crabs, all of which they were expecting to make a handsome profit at auction. The sea air was peppered with salt and the smell of vinegar, which Deck Hand Chris was using to clean the rails, whistling a merry tune to himself as he did. They were looking forward to a couple of pints in The Lady's Head and a slap-up meal. Well, Skipper Bruce, Deck Hand Chris and Cabin Boy Matt were looking forward to a slap-up meal, First Mate Glen was looking forward to a couple of mouthfuls of curry, which would do him for a month. Skipper Bruce was planning to spend the evening moonlighting as his alter-ego, DJ Vector, at a Dundee club, First Mate Glen was ready to enjoy a good argument with Heather, Deck Hand Chris had a game of Risk with Harbour Master Gamble in mind and Cabin Boy Matt was going to really splash out on Elaine and take her for two-for-one pizzas. Life was good.

Until the Pride of Lamond entered port and four pairs of eyes spotted something the crew had hoped not to see for a long while.

The Grey Friar towered above them, gleaming in the early morning sun, its radar twirling, its darkened windows threatening. All signs of damage from the previous autumn's fire had gone. It was as good as new and was giving out a grumble of high quality from its engine. When the four men had climbed onto the quay from their vessel they were met by the presence of something else unexpected. The old, grey block of flats which stood at the dockside had been gutted like a north Atlantic cod, painted an array of dazzling colours and fitted with a state-of-the-art refrigeration mechanism.

Captain Cambell was stood at the large door the size of an Eddie Stobart lorry supervising the fitting of a sign reading The Barn to the wall.

"Hey," he said, seeing them and smiling sympathetically. "How are you?"

"Alright," replied Skipper Bruce, but Captain Campbell hadn't waited for a reply.

"This is our new million pound storage facility," Captain Campbell said making a grand, sweeping gesture towards the building with his arm. "We estimate that we'll be bringing in around seventy thousand units a day now The Grey Friar's up and running again, so we'll be needing somewhere to store all that fish."

Skipper Bruce just nodded.

"We decided to make it fit in with the humble surroundings," Captain Campbell looked meaningfully at the Pride of Lamond, "so we've named it The Barn. A nice touch."

The Pride of Lamond's crew stared at the building. Deck Hand Chris let out a long, low, tuneful whistle.

"We're chuffin' screwed," said Cabin Boy Matt, optimistically. "I need a pint."

And so the four of them, along with Steven Seagull, headed up the hill towards The Lady's Head, where First Mate Glen purchased the full back catalogue of his favourite band, the highly acclaimed Wee Frees, called One Hundred and Forty-Nine Psalms.

* * *

After a few days of rest Skipper Bruce, First Mate Glen, Deck Hand Chris and Cabin Boy Matt returned to the Pride of Lamond, where they prepared for their next voyage. As they sat mending nets they watched as Jim the Navigator drove a yellow fork-lift piled high with cases of fresh fish into The Barn. First Mate Fraser bounced around, her curly hair rising and falling gaily, waving yellow table tennis bats to direct her colleague. Meanwhile, Louisa the Technician lifted the cases of fish from the fork-lift while Cabin Boy Henry tried to decide where they should be stored.

The Pride of Lamond's crew sat mending nets late into the afternoon and still Jim the Navigator drove back and forth between The Barn and The Grey Friar. With each trip the hearts of Skipper Bruce and his men sank a little further. Prices of fish would fall immensely now.

Eventually, First Mate Glen could take it no more.

"Come on," he said, "let's get out of here. I can't stand to watch them any longer."

Skipper Bruce nodded his agreement. "Aye," he said. "Let's go catch some fash."

But the crew could tell that their Skipper's usual enthusiasm was lacking.

* * *

The trip was another success, but the men didn't feel happy, for they new their catch could never match that of The Grey Friar. It played particularly heavily on the mind of Skipper Bruce. His DJing would keep him afloat. His tunes were reasonably popular amongst the middle aged at some of Dundee's less refined establishments, but he felt responsible for the others, who had nothing upon which to fall back. Cabin Boy Matt had suggested he and DJ Vector team up, but Skipper Bruce didn't think there was much call for a Yorkshire rapper in Fife and Tayside, or anywhere, for that matter. He flicked on the demo cassette with which Cabin Boy Matt had proudly presented him. The words filled the little hut from where Skipper Bruce steered the vessel.

All you Christian ladies know thee want to get wi' Matt,

'Cause thee knows 'at life wi' me would be reet phat,

Ah'm not sayin' that tha's big, nay tha spells it wi' "P.H.",

If tha wants to get wi' me tha can come an' be me... lady.

Ooh, aye, ooh, wotcha!

Skipper Bruce flicked the tape player off again with a shudder. No way could DJ Vector team up with the Yorkshire Rapper.

* * *

On returning to port, the crew of the Pride of Lamond were met with a guiltily pleasant surprise. Captain Campbell, Jim the Navigator, Louisa the Technician and Cabin Boy Henry were all sat forlornly on the lobster baskets looking incredibly sad. The only member of The Grey Friar's crew who didn't look sad was First Mate Fraser, who was jumping around with a big smile on her face as usual, though she assured Skipper Bruce that she was devastated.

Apparently The Barn had suffered a number of disasters. Firstly, cats had crept under the door and eaten a large proportion of the north Atlantic cod which had been stored there. Then a notorious gang of thieves, the Prawn Again Fellowship, had broken in and stolen the entire catch of molluscs that had been stored within. Finally, the warehouse's refrigeration unit had failed and the fish that had been left in the barn had become as rotten as Fife Council.

Skipper Bruce, First Mate Glen, Deck Hand Chris and Cabin Boy Matt stifled their smiles and offered their commiserations before deciding to celebrate their now valuable catch with an evening watching BBC Alba.

The Man with the Arabic Dictionary

Cabin Boy Matt was fed up. The Pride of Lamond had been at sea for two days heading towards the Norwegian coast in search of much prized North Atlantic Cod and food supplies were already running low. The Yorkshireman had no idea where the multiple tins of beans he had stocked in the cupboards before leaving port might have gone. Having scoured the small boat's kitchenette he began looking in the bedroom and began chuntering in Spanish when he failed to find anything.

"What's Cabin Boy Matt giving off about now?" asked First Mate Glen as the familiar sound of Castilian expletives drifted on the sea air from below deck.

Skipper Bruce sighed and shook his head. "Go and see what's wrong," he said.

First Mate Glen descended the steps into the bedroom where Cabin Boy Matt was on his hands and knees looking in one of the lockers beside his bunk.

"What are you doing?" asked First Mate Glen.

"Lookin' for t' beans 'at 'ave gone missin'," replied Cabin Boy Matt in frustration. "Ah must o' bought forty tins o' t' chuffin' things, but none on 'em a' 'ere."

"They can't have gone far," answered First Mate Glen.

"Well they're not 'ere, are they?" snapped Cabin Boy Matt.

"It's so dark, though, you're never going to find them. Where's your torch?"

"Under t' bed," said Cabin Boy Matt, gesturing towards Deck Hand Chris' bunk.

"Under the bed?" asked First Mate Glen, getting on his knees and peering under. "Where?"

"It's under t' bowl, o' course," Cabin Boy Matt said as though this were obvious.

First Mate Glen lifted a large orange plastic bowl to find a Maglite switched on beneath it.

"Why on earth is it under there?" asked First Mate Glen.

Cabin Boy Matt just tutted in response to such a ridiculous question and First Mate Glen decided to leave him to his search.

As soon as he returned to the deck First Mate Glen realised something was wrong. A game of Risk had been abandoned mid-turn, the dice motionless in the middle of Kamchatka among the little blue men that had been scattered before it, and a can of Pledge rolled across the wooden floor having been abandoned by Deck Hand Chris before the dust had been properly shifted from the rail. A sudden change in engine tone and the way the vessel lurched towards the starboard side brought First Mate Glen's attention to the wheelhouse, where three people appeared to be stood. Two of them were quite clearly Skipper Bruce and Deck Hand Chris, but the other was unrecognisable.

The sailor crept around towards the wheelhouse's entrance, from where he could get a better view of the situation. Facing the doorway was a middle-aged man wearing trainers, jeans and a green hoodie on which the words Andrew Melville had been embroidered below the crest of some unknown provincial university. In his hands he was holding a huge Arabic dictionary with which he appeared to be threatening Skipper Bruce and Deck Hand Chris, who were stood at the controls with their backs to the entrance as they directed the boat under his command. The situation was grave; one blow with the tome in the newcomer's hands would undoubtedly have any one of them on the floor. First Mate Glen would be in full view of the hijacker as soon as he emerged from his hiding place, but he reckoned that he had the element of surprise and that with a quick attack he could knock the dictionary from the stranger's hands, thus disarming him and freeing his companions. At that moment, however, the theme from Star Trek trilled from the mobile in his pocket, forcing him to emerge sheepishly and stand before the newcomer, who merely asked him why he wasn't answering his phone.

First Mate Glen obediently held it to his ear and listened to the caller.

"I'm sorry, Heth," he said into the receiver. "No, I couldn't... Because I was hiding... What do you mean from who? ...From an attacker... Yes, on the boat... He's holding Deck Hand Chris and the Skipper hostage... With an Arabic dictionary... Yes, I was going to help them... I was... I was going to surprise him, but then you rang and gave me away... No, Heth, I'm not blaming you... I'm not... No, I didn't say it was your fault, I said you rang and then... No, that's not saying it's your fault... It's not... What? ...No... OK... OK... I'm sorry... Yes... I love you too... Bye, Heth... Yes, bye."

"What on earth were you talking about?" asked Deck Hand Chris. "We're not being held hostage, we're helping Special Agent Warwick get to another ship."

"Another ship? Why?" asked First Mate Glen.

"Special Agent Warwick works for MI6 and needs access to it, so we're helping him get there."

"So why the dictionary?"

"I was just explaining verb lengthening patterns using Arabic to provide examples of morphological and lexographical change over a prescribed period of time," Special Agent Warwick replied.

Skipper Bruce and Deck Hand Chris just shrugged at First Mate Glen, who asked if Warwick was his real name.

"Of course not," replied the secret agent. "All operatives are named after universities. It was actually Anglia Ruskin who was supposed to be doing this job, but he resigned out of embarrassment, though we're not sure whether that was due to him being linked to a naf establishment or because, being dyslexic, he objected to being given a girl's name."

"So it must be you that's been eating all Cabin Boy Matt's beans?" asked First Mate Glen.

"Ah, yes, that would have been me, I needed to eat something while hiding on here," replied Special Agent Warwick.

"He's pretty annoyed," chuckled First Mate Glen.

"Yes, I can tell, I can basically speak Spanish, which is why I've been sent on this mission. I need to take a coded dossier from a Spanish transport vessel passing through these waters detailing plans for a military attack on Gibraltar. I'm going to replace it with information on the red squirrel, which should keep Spanish agents entertained and perhaps more than a little confused. Speaking of which, I think that vessel over there might be the one."

Special Agent Warwick took a pair of binoculars from his pocket and lifted them to eyes. He nodded as he squinted into the distance. "That's the one," he said. "Don't go any closer, I'll swim from here."

With that, the agent leapt from the bow into the sea and swam with awe inspiring speed into the distance.

"Well," said Skipper Bruce, putting on his sunglasses and turning up the volume so that the trance music pumping through the attached earphones caused his heart rate to increase, "this spot is as good as any I suppose. Do you want to catch some fash?"

Before either First Mate Glen or Deck Hand Chris could respond the attention of all three was caught by a slopping sound coming from the boat's stern. Cabin Boy Matt could be seen emptying tins of beans into the sea.

"What are you doing?" whistled Deck Hand Chris.

"Gettin' rid o' these chuffin' beans 'at Ah've managed to fahd, which i'n't all on 'em," replied Cabin Boy Matt. "Campo Largo issued a statement sayin' they've been contaminated with a chemical which causes seizures, which is probably a bit dangerous if we're w'rkin', so Ah'm tryin' ter get rid on 'em all."

"Seizures?" asked First Mate Glen, stunned.

"Aye," replied Cabin Boy Matt.

"How long have you known about this?"

"A couple o' days, that's why Ah'm so keen ter find the missin' beans, so that none o' you eat 'em."

"But why didn't you just tell us? Special Agent Warwick... You not telling us might have killed him!"

As Cabin Boy Matt tried to work out who on earth Special Agent Warwick was, Skipper Bruce, without saying a word, pushed the throttle forward and the Pride of Lamond surged in the direction of the distant ship. The rickety lilac tub bumped over the waves as the crew scoured the surface for signs of a struggling figure. Steven Seagull circled overhead ready to swoop in the direction of any sign of life. Eventually Deck Hand Chris spotted thrashing in the water and dived in to rescue the ailing spy, pulling him towards the vessel. First Mate Glen and Cabin Boy Matt lowered one of the nets, which Deck Hand Chris wrapped around Special Agent Warwick, allowing him to be pulled aboard the boat, where he coughed and spluttered for a few tense moments before beginning to mutter something about direct objects, allowing the crew to assume that he was safe from immediate danger.

Skipper Bruce turned the Pride of Lamond towards home so that Special Agent Warwick could be given professional medical treatment, but when the boat reached port the secret agent was nowhere to be seen, though a number of Happy Shopper yogurts had been removed and replaced with a note on the use of split infinitives.

It thus seemed that Special Agent Warwick had returned to his mission safely, though Cabin Boy Matt's failure to share the knowledge he had had almost cost him his life.