Scotland Street Volume 18, Chapter 45: Neptune’s dram

While Bertie and Ranald Braveheart Macpherson were in the middle of their adventure in Edinburgh, considerably further north, in the ancient fishing town of Peterhead, Irene Pollock, now ensconced in the home of her new rescuer and lover, Graham Scroggie, the skipper of a medium-sized trawler, had embarked on a journey that represented the summation of days of cajoling and planning. None of that had been easy, but now at last, as she looked out past the bow of the Aberdeen Belle, which she wanted to temporarily rename the Melanie Klein, she was able to reflect on the personal victory that she was on the point of achieving not for progressive opinion not only in North-east of Scotland, but for the whole country. It was a sweet moment of triumph – and it was only just beginning. No fish had yet been caught, but the sea ahead of them was calm, a wide blue plain, inviting under the benign July sunset, a place of teeming pelagic fish waiting to be caught by the all-female crew of six volunteers.

44 Scotland Street

There had been resistance from both men and women. The men had been the most difficult, and Graham Scroggie had initially greeted Irene’s suggestion that women should be given the opportunity to take the boats out with undisguised hostility.

“Why?” he said. “What difference does it make? The point of the fishing industry is to catch fish, isn’t it? Does it matter who catches them?”

Irene sighed. She was in love with Graham – she would not deny that – but there were so many respects in which he was a good fifty years behind the times. And now she struggled to explain things that elsewhere had been accepted as blindingly obvious.

“I’m sorry, Graham,” she said, “but it matters a great deal. This is a matter of rights, you see. Women have a right to do any sort of job they want to do.” She paused, and gave him a look of mock-reproach.

Graham listened. He was a courteous man, and he did not consider himself to be unduly old-fashioned. “But it’s hard work,” he said quietly. “I’m not sure that a lassie could do it as well as a man, know what I mean? You need to be tough.”

“But women are tough,” said Irene. “Women do all the work that men do these days. There are women firefighters. That’s tough work. Go out to the oil rigs and you’ll find women doing all sorts of jobs. Women can be roustabouts at the bottom or rig managers at the top.”

Graham frowned. “Michty,” he said.

“So you see,” Irene continued, “women can do any sort of job. And there are women who are deckhands on trawlers – not many, perhaps, and none, obviously, on your trawler. But that really needs to change, Graham. You have to move with the times.”

Graham looked doubtful, but he had learned not to argue with Irene. Now he simply raised the issue of who might go out from Peterhead. “Do any of the local wifies want to go?” he asked.

Irene took a deep breath. “They are not wifies, Graham,” she said. “That sort of language is completely unacceptable.”

Graham cowered. “I didn’t mean it insultingly. Some of the womenfolk call other women wifies – I’ve heard them.’

“False consciousness,” snapped Irene.

“But do they want to go?” Graham pressed.

Irene was ready for this. “I’ve spoken to a number of them,” she said. “And I can tell you, Graham, that they do – at least they do now.” She paused, and allowed herself a self-congratulatory smile. “I have persuaded them.”

Graham said nothing. He wanted to ask whether any of those who agreed to go would know what they were doing. He assumed, of course, that he would be at the helm and that Irene and her friends would be the crew. Now came Irene’s bombshell.

“I shall be skipper,” she sai d. “Molly proposed me for the role, and I accepted.”

Graham stared at her. “You?” he asked.

“Yes, said Irene. “I shall have a bit of assistance. Nellie Mackie has experience of boats. She was with Caledonian MacBrayne for years. She knows about navigation and the … the steering ….”

“Helming,” muttered Graham.

“Yes, helming,” agreed Irene. “She will stand beside me. We’ll be very careful. We’ll only go out on a fine day – to begin with – and we won’t go far.”

Graham stared at the ground. He was formulating a plan that would enable him to avoid a direct row with Irene, and, at the same time, ensure that life and marine property was not put at undue risk. Wallie had a boat that he shared with a cousin, Jimmie Scroggie, and Jimmie’s son, Geordie. They could stand by, and when, as was bound to happen, the Aberdeen Belle, with its new skipper and crew, got into difficulties, they could nip out and take over. He would not tell Irene about this, of course, but they would be watching closely.

“All right,” he said. “If it means so much to you – take the Belle out and catch some fish.”

Irene beamed. “You’ve made a very wise decision, Graham,” she said. “I should have known that underneath it all, you were a new man.”

“Oh, aye,” said Graham, hoping that none of this would get into the local paper, the P & J.

“And I expect that we’ll come back with a good catch,” said Irene.

Graham struggled. “Aye …”

“One thing, though,” Irene went on. “If we do the catching, you and Wallie will do the gutting, I take it.”

Graham’s voice sounded strangled. “Aye, well –”

“Good,” said Irene quickly. “And a further thing. I’d like to use a different name for the boat for this special trip.”

Graham frowned. “You cannae change a boat’s name,” he said. “It’s bad luck.”

Irene had her answer prepared. “I’ve read about that superstition,” she said. “And I believe that if you offer compensation to Neptune in the form of a bottle of whisky poured into the sea, you can do it. It’s only going to be temporary.”

Graham’s eyes widened. “A bottle of whisky? You’re going to pour it into the sea?”

Irene nodded. It was a ridiculous superstition, she felt, but she knew that Mollie and Nellie, as well as Jennie and the other members of the crew, would like this to happen.

Graham shuddered. He had an Aberdonian soul, and the idea of pouring good whisky into the sea caused the deepest possible offence.

“Couldn’t we use Irn Bru?” he asked. “Or even tea?”

Irene shook her head. “It has to be whisky,” she said.

“Oh well,” said Graham, only conceding defeat with some reluctance. “A bottle of Bell’s, perhaps. From the Co-op.” Only Bell’s, but still …

Irene shook her head again. “Glenmorangie,” she said. “I’ve already bought it – from the housekeeping. Twelve-year-old.”

© Alexander McCall Smith, 2025. Bertie’s Theory of Ice Cream will be published by Polygon in August, price £17.99. The author welcomes comment from readers and can be contacted at [email protected]