Lovers Meeting

by Irene Carr

  ‘No, I’ve come to you in your capacity as representing Coal Carriers Ltd.’

  Packer’s smile widened. ‘I am Coal Carriers Ltd.’

  Josie took a breath. ‘I am here to make enquiries on behalf of the Langley Shipping Company.’

  Packer, taken by surprise, blinked rapidly. ‘I don’t know it.’

  ‘It has only recently been formed.’

  ‘I see. And your position in this company?’

  ‘I am a partner.’

  Packer probed, ‘And the other partners?’

  ‘Captain Thomas Collingwood is the principal partner.’

  Packer nodded, making notes now. ‘I know of Captain Collingwood.’

  ‘And Mrs Kitty Duggan.’

  Packer wrote it down. ‘And why “Langley”?’

  ‘We are trading from the Langley house.’

  ‘I see. And the nature of the business?’ But Packer had already decided to be involved. He wanted to know all he could about the Langleys because Garbutt would pay for the information.

  When he finally escorted Josie to the front door and returned to his office, he sat at his desk, smirking still. Reuben Garbutt would be pleased. Packer had to go to London on business soon and he would report to Garbutt then. And the transaction he had just agreed would be profitable – for him, if not for the Langley Shipping Company.

  Josie returned to the Langley house in a horse-drawn cab. She got down at the front door and once in the hall she knocked on the door of the office and entered at Tom’s call, still unbuttoning her coat. As Tom rose from his seat at his desk Josie said breathlessly, ‘I’ve got a cargo, Captain Collingwood!’

  Tom blinked at her, incredulous, but Josie explained and he listened, then examined the figures Packer had supplied and Josie had noted down. She waited nervously, but he looked up and said, ‘I’ve heard of Packer, and not all good, but this seems straight, if a bit unusual. He supplies the coal, we deliver it just south of Aberdeen and collect payment, pay him the cost of the coal and the rest is our profit.’ He tapped the paper with the figures. ‘That selling price will give us a handsome profit. Better for him, of course. We do all the work while he sits back and takes his cut.’

  Josie said, hopefully and eagerly, ‘But you agree it’s an opportunity?’

  Tom frowned but nodded. ‘Aye. I’m just wondering where the catch is.’

  ‘I can’t see any.’ And Josie ventured, ‘Maybe there isn’t a catch. And it is a cargo. The ship would not be lying idle and losing money. There would be some profit.’

  ‘True enough.’ Tom had to admit it, though he was wary of this strange woman who was intruding in a man’s world. ‘But we need to see this contract.’

  ‘I have it here.’ Josie produced it from her bag. ‘I’ve read it. You could look it over in the cab – it’s waiting outside. Then you could sign it in Packer’s office. He wants us to load tomorrow and sail that night.’ She hesitated then and asked uncertainly, ‘Can we?’

  Tom saw her doubt and grinned. ‘Aye, we can.’ Her enthusiasm was infectious and he was ready to go to sea. ‘I’ll do it.’ He took the contract and started for the door.

  Josie watched the cab wheel away down one arm of the U-shaped carriage drive – as the Blakemore motor car drove up the other. It halted at the foot of the steps and the chauffeur got down and opened the rear door for Felicity Blakemore. Josie swung the front door wide for her as Felicity mounted the steps with her maid, Susie, at her heels.

  ‘Ah! Mrs Miller. Tell Captain Collingwood I’m here.’ And as she swayed past into the hall, ‘Then bring some tea and give Susie something in the kitchen and send a cup out to Jarvis.’

  ‘I’m afraid the captain has just left on business, miss,’ replied Josie, realising Felicity could not have seen Tom on the other arm of the drive because of the trees and shrubs of the garden between them.

  Felicity frowned. ‘I told him I would call some time today.’ She sighed. ‘Well, I’ll wait.’ And she walked on into the sitting room.

  Susie pulled a face and Josie grinned at her and led her through to the kitchen where she introduced her to the others. ‘This is Susie Evans, Miss Blakemore’s maid.’

  Kitty took a loaded tray in to Felicity, muttering as she set out, ‘Hope it poisons the stuck-up …’ The door closing behind her cut off the last words. Then Annie carried a mug out to Jarvis, the chauffeur.

  Finally all four sat down around the kitchen table and Annie asked, ‘What’s she like to work for?’

  Susie shrugged and nodded at Josie. ‘Like I told you the other day, the money’s good. And she likes to get about a bit: Paris, London, Biarritz, South o’ France. And I go with her.’ Josie nodded understanding; she had been to all of those places with the Urquharts. Susie was going on, ‘I could tell some stories – but I won’t.’ She giggled. ‘And then I get to wear some lovely clothes when she’s not there. Her and me are about the same size and I’ve got the pick of her wardrobe. You should see me when I go out, it would make your eyes pop out.’

  Kitty stood up and said reluctantly, ‘I’d better go and see if she wants anything. It’s only good manners.’

  But Josie, wary of Kitty’s plain speaking under provocation, said quickly, ‘I’ll go.’

  Tom had returned. Josie heard the bass rumble of his voice as she walked along the passage and into the hall. The sitting-room door was open and now Felicity emerged, saying, ‘I’m sure you know best, darling, but I think this Langley Shipping Company is a waste of your time and talents. You would do better to take command of a big, ocean-going ship that’s part of a fleet.’

  Josie silently admitted that this was true.

  Tom replied patiently, ‘I’ve already explained: this way I can spend more time ashore attending to affairs here.’

  Felicity sighed. ‘And you’re sailing tomorrow. Very well. At least I can pass the time while you are away planning my trousseau.’ She paused at the front door, waiting for Tom to open it for her, and saw Josie approaching. ‘Where is that girl Susie? Send her out immediately.’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ Josie answered, and called the maid out of the kitchen. Susie came hurrying and scuttled down the steps to climb into the car after her mistress.

  As the car turned out of the drive and was lost to sight, Josie asked, ‘Is everything all right, Captain Collingwood?’

  Tom nodded. ‘There’s only one thing – we still need a cook. None of the hands have any experience of that and I’d rather they didn’t learn at the expense of my stomach.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Josie laughed, full of confidence now. ‘Kitty will do it, of course.’ She watched Tom stride into his office, smiling at his broad back. Then she sauntered along the passage to the kitchen, singing.

  ‘No!’ Kitty shook her head decisively. ‘I’m a partner. I didn’t sign on as cook.’

  Josie explained, ‘But we haven’t got a cook. Captain Collingwood wants one and he sails tomorrow night.’

  Kitty shrugged. ‘I can’t help that. I’m not going to sea.’

  Josie reasoned, ‘But you used to sail with your husband.’

  Kitty agreed: ‘Aye, when we were first married. But I was as sick as a dog every time. I had to give it up and come ashore.’

  Josie looked around the kitchen desperately. ‘I wonder if Annie—’

  But Kitty shook her head. ‘You can’t ask that lass. She’s being sick in the mornings now anyway.’ And as Josie stared at her in dismay, ‘You do it.’

  ‘Me!’ Josie squeaked.

  ‘Why not?’ And Kitty pointed out: ‘You’ve been cooking for sailormen this past month or more and had no complaints.’

  ‘But I’ve never been to sea.’

  ‘It’s about your turn, then.’ And Kitty presented the closing argument: ‘There’s nobody else so you’ll have to do it.’

  So Josie packed a suitcase and was aboard the Macbeth when she slipped her moorings and tugs towed her upstream. Felicity Blakemore stood on the quay in a tailored costume
of white and a silk blouse, waving a gloved hand. The seamen and stevedores gaped at her, awed. But she was back in her motor car and on her way home when the tugs manoeuvred the Macbeth up to the coal staithes. There the little ship loaded coal in her bunkers to feed her fires, and in her hold as cargo. The coal poured out of the railway wagons and thundered down the chute to cascade into the hold. The Macbeth was enveloped in a cloud of coal dust. Josie, in her cramped little galley below the bridge, was unprepared for it. She had not shut the hatches and scuttles that let in the sea air and light so she and the galley were dusted black.

  As night fell the Macbeth steamed out of the Tyne, her old engines ticking over steadily. Tom Collingwood was on his bridge, happy at going to sea, but wondering again about the girl below. He still felt there was more to Mrs Miller than she pretended. The way she had intruded into the affairs of the house – and of this ship – was not only unladylike but unwomanly. Yet she was – womanly. Sometimes he was silent in her presence because he was tongue-tied. And he was glad of her competence now, was sure she would cope effortlessly.

  In the galley, Josie wiped away the tears that cut pale scars through the grime, smearing it. She supposed Tom was on his bridge and dreaming of the radiant Felicity. She started work again.

  17

  Josie worked into the night in the galley by the light from a swinging oil lamp. It smelt strongly and now she was glad of the open scuttles and the draught of cold salt air that came from the Macbeth’s jogging seven knots. First she washed her hands and face, then she cleaned the galley. Tom, on the bridge with Dougie Bickerstaffe at the wheel, saw her stagger from the galley to tip a bucket of dirty water over the side. Then she let the bucket down on a rope to fill it again – Kitty had told her about that, to Josie’s shock. She tottered back to the galley with it, weaving as the deck rocked under her. When the galley was clean she fastened the door on the inside, closed the dead-lights over the scuttles and, thus secure from interested eyes, she stripped to the skin and bathed in the bucket.

  It was close to midnight when she climbed the short ladder to the bridge, with her skirts flapping about her legs. She handed a precariously balanced mug of tea to Tom, now at the wheel. ‘Thank you.’ He held the spokes negligently with one hand, the tea in the other, and sipped at it. He had discarded his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his sweater because the little wheelhouse was right in front of the single funnel and warmed by it.

  The deck of the little coaster was empty and Josie said, ‘You’re all alone, I see.’

  ‘Don’t need anyone else.’ Then Tom explained, ‘Bucko will be up at midnight to take the watch.’ Bucko Daniels was the mate, thirty years old and sixteen of them spent at sea. Short and wiry, he was known as a hard man who would stand for no nonsense. Tom went on, ‘Dougie Bickerstaffe can take the wheel so long as Bucko or me are up here to keep an eye on things. I’ve seen Dougie steer and he’s all right. I’ll put some of the others on when I’ve seen them steer a course.’

  Josie looked around the wheelhouse and saw the brass-mouthed voice-pipes by the wheel. ‘What are those for?’

  ‘One to speak to the engine-room – if I have to. Most of the time I use the telegraph.’ It stood by the wheel. Different segments of its circular head were marked ‘Half ahead’, ‘Slow astern’, and so on. ‘You set the handle to the order you want to give and another in the engine-room copies it. The other voice-pipe is to my cabin.’

  Josie knew where his cabin was – next to hers. It had been a wild rush to pack, catch the train to the Tyne and lay in galley stores for the voyage. She had not given the matter thought before but now she realised she was the only woman aboard, and single and unchaperoned. She remembered that Tom had been stiffly concerned for her reputation when they first met, but he seemed to have forgotten about it now. She said nothing.

  Tom passed her the empty mug. ‘So you’ve settled in all right.’ He peered ahead, twirled the spokes of the wheel, then steadied on course again. ‘And had a rest? I don’t blame you.’

  A rest? Josie stood open-mouthed a moment then laughed softly. Tom glanced at her. ‘Have I said something funny?’

  She could not tell him she had laboured until she was weary. ‘Nothing. I’m just happy.’ That was true. And he was close and they were alone in the wheelhouse, with just the glow from the compass binnacle leaving them clothed in shadows.

  Josie said, ‘Goodnight.’

  Tired though she was, she lay awake until she heard the rumble of his voice above, greeting Bucko Daniels. Then she slept peacefully.

  Their destination was not, in fact, Aberdeen, but a fishing village some miles away. Tom steered the Macbeth into the little harbour in the late afternoon. Josie stood at the door of the galley, looking out at the little drifters and cobles lying at buoys or at anchor, the scatter of whitewashed cottages and the solitary public house with its weathered sign: the Fishermen’s Rest. Since the early morning Josie had cooked breakfast and lunch and was now preparing dinner. To her surprise and relief she had not been seasick, and she was humming softly now as she wiped her hands on her apron.

  Tom laid his ship neatly alongside the quay and men standing there, fishermen by their jerseys and sea boots, seized the lines the Macbeth’s crew threw to them and made her fast. The steady, muffled thump, thump! ceased beneath Josie’s feet as Tom worked the handles of the telegraph, signalling ‘Finished with engines’. In the silence the crying of the gulls seemed suddenly loud as they swooped and soared around the ship.

  Tom came down the short ladder from the bridge to the deck, frowning, eyes searching. Josie asked, ‘Is something wrong?’

  He muttered, puzzled, ‘I can’t see any coal yard. We’ve got to unload somewhere.’ The hands had turned to and run a gangway ashore. Tom walked down its slight slope – the tide was at the full and the Macbeth’s deck rode a foot or so higher than the quay. He talked with the fishermen, then strode back up the gangway, tight-lipped.

  He growled savagely, ‘I wondered if there was a catch in this business and now I’ve found it. They’ve been expecting us for the past week. The only ship that comes in here is the one bringing the coal. They say there’s no yard to unload it in. Now we’re here people will come in from miles around with their carts. We rig a derrick and use that to fill up the carts on the quay.’

  Josie said blankly, ‘Oh! Surely that isn’t usual?’

  Tom exploded. ‘You’re damned right it isn’t! But that’s how it’s done here. Some of them will be along today, some tomorrow, then the day after and the day after that – until we’ve discharged our cargo. Meanwhile we – and the ship – lie here losing money because it has always been done that way.’ Tom indicated the men on the quay with a jerk of his head. ‘So as far as they are concerned, it always will be.’

  Josie wailed, ‘But Simmie didn’t say—’

  ‘He didn’t know. He’s a seaman and not concerned with profitability. That’s the owners’ worry.’ Then Tom muttered, ‘I might as well see to the rigging of that derrick.’ He strode forward, calling the hands. Josie went back to her galley and her work, but no longer singing. Their brave little enterprise was going disastrously wrong.

  Some barrows and carts arrived from nearby cottages that evening. The crew of the Macbeth filled sacks with the coal from the hold and hoisted it ashore to the carts and barrows using the derrick, powered by a clattering steam winch. There was little dust from the coal under these conditions and Josie, wiser now, kept doors and scuttles closed and the dust out of her galley.

  The next morning, with breakfast cleared away, she changed into a good dress and ventured ashore. Strolling among the cottages, she exchanged smiles and greetings with the aproned women at their doors. The wife of the publican, a grey-haired woman in her forties, was sweeping the path at the front of the Fishermen’s Rest. The public house lay only feet from the edge of the quay, the ship and the coal. She paused in her task to chat. ‘I saw you at the door o’ the galley.’

 
‘Yes, I do the cooking,’ Josie answered.

  ‘Och, aye.’ The woman’s gaze drifted to Josie’s hands – she was carrying her gloves and bag – and noted the gold band on her finger. ‘That saves a bit o’ money.’ Josie realised the woman had assumed she was the wife of the ship’s captain. She did not – dared not – disillusion her, lest she was labelled a loose woman.

  The woman set her broom aside. ‘Come away in and have a cup o’ tea.’ She led the way down a path along the side of the pub and flanking a field of potatoes. They passed a man who came out of the back door of the pub, carrying a garden fork. He was short, broad, bearded and nodded to Josie, ‘Guid morning.’ And then to the woman, ‘I’m away for some tatties, Lizzie.’ He plodded on. As Josie followed Lizzie in at the back door she glanced over her shoulder and saw him starting to dig in the potato field.

  The back room of the Fishermen’s Rest was kitchen, sitting and dining room in one. A bright coal fire set the brass fire-irons in the hearth to glinting. A big table sat in the middle of the room with straight-backed chairs around it. There were two armchairs before the fire and a crockery-laden dresser against one wall. A basin full of eggs stood on the dresser and a side of bacon hung from a beam. When Lizzie poured the tea, she added milk from a brimming jug.

  Josie exclaimed, ‘Fresh milk!’ On the Macbeth she had to use condensed milk from a tin.

  Lizzie smiled. ‘Aye. Milk, butter, bacon, eggs, cabbages, leeks, neeps – all that sort o’ thing we get from the farmers around about. And cheap! The puir divils have a long road to get to market and a puir price at the end of it.’

  There was a pause, and Josie was conscious of the quiet; there was only the soft ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece and the distant voices of the men on the quay. She said, ‘This must be a peaceful place to live.’

  ‘It is that.’ But Lizzie’s face was gloomy. ‘Too quiet by far.’ And she explained, ‘We’re not wanting to make a fortune. We ran a pub in Glesca for twenty year and there was money enough – aye, and work enough. We took this place to ease off a bit but the only trade is what you see here’ – she waved her hand at the cottages around them – ‘and now and again a farmer coming in. We’re barely making a living and Davy’s got too much time on his hands. Y’understand,’ she said proudly, ‘we’re no’ short of a quid or two, but he’d be better off making a bit o’ money than spending it drinking his own stock.’ Then she smiled conspiratorially at Josie. ‘But that’s my Davy for you. What about your man? Do you keep him busy?’