An octopus. You don’t see many o’ them in these waters, eh, Hamish?’ ‘No, that you don’t. It’ll fetch a pretty penny fae auld Keacheran. They tell me he sends exotic stuff like that to Glasgow, and it ends up on the best tables in London.’ ‘Poor recompense for the lack o’ herring.’ ‘Och, but at least we caught something, Sandy.’ The Girl Maggie was sitting on a gentle swell south-east of the Isle of Arran. The day had been milky warm – even out at sea. They had fallen upon a small shoal of herring and picked up other bits and pieces, including the unfortunate octopus, in a catch that would have seemed on the slim side only a few months ago, but was now enough to raise spirits on the vessel. ‘Whoot are you up tae, Peter?’ asked Hamish. ‘We’ve no’ had a peep oot o’ you all day.’ ‘Nothing, jeest taking notes,’ muttered the young fisherman. ‘Notes on whoot?’ asked Hoynes. ‘Och, you know, places we fish and where we get the best chances o’ a catch.
