The Would-Be Wife

by Annie Wilkinson

  So why had he abandoned hope with Lynn, he wondered? Why had he let a bloody kid stand in his way? No, maybe not a bloody kid. Simon was a good kid and he loved his dad – but he would have had to get used to it, just like he’d had to get used to it, like many another kid had had to do, and if he’d stuck to his purpose, he might have swept her off her feet.

  Might have. But he hadn’t been a hundred per cent sure until the last minute that she wasn’t just using him to bring her husband to heel. He’d worried about it constantly, every time he’d left her to go back to sea, and he’d seen many another fishermen fret himself to death about what his girlfriend might be doing while he was away. He’d seen what it did to them. If he hadn’t finished it with Lynn, he’d have spent all his time at sea worrying about what she was up to while his back was turned. He’d never have been able to keep his mind on the job and that would have been no use either to him or to these men. Oh, sod it all, anyway. It was too late to worry about it.

  ‘The next sea, and we’ve had it. Another sea like that, and we’ve had our lot,’ the bosun repeated.

  Sheer adrenaline made Alec laugh. ‘Our chips and our lot, Jackie!’ he shouted, ‘Save your breath for chopping!’

  The next sea, and there might be a lot of widows and orphans, Alec thought, and if I’d married Lynn she’d have been among them. Maybe things are better as they are. All this hard work is useless. This pearl of a ship, she’ll let us all down in the end – just like a woman.

  He pushed the thought away. He couldn’t allow himself to think like that, not with other men relying on him. He did a gruelling, dangerous job, and although he couldn’t expect to be liked, he knew he was respected for it. He was a tough professional and where he led, they would follow – beyond the limits of their endurance at times. As long as he kept chopping, so would they. The rhythm and the effort of swinging the axe gradually dispelled the fear. It added to the music of the eddying wind, the pounding of the waves, and the ear-splitting noise of massive slabs of ice crashing onto the deck and into the sea as they battled to stay afloat.

  If they ever got out of this – no, when they got out of this, they still had to make a trip – or suffer the consequences. What they’d caught so far wouldn’t pay the ship’s fuel bill. Try going back in debt and telling the owners you couldn’t catch enough fish because the weather was bad! That would be the end of you. They’d tell you not to bother catching any more, and take their pick from the queue of men waiting to take your place. As far as the owners were concerned, there were no excuses. For them, there was one consideration and one alone – money.

  ‘It’ll end up in a Board of Trade inquiry, this,’ one of the deckhands said.

  ‘And what good’ll that do us?’ the frozen, fifteen-year-old galley boy asked.

  Nobody answered him.

  Chapter 38

  On the first Friday in February Lynn saw the headline on the board outside the newsagent’s: ‘Sprite Given Up – Official’ and underneath ‘Time Runs Out for Prospero’.

  The number of men who are lost at sea, and the only paper to show any concern about it is the Hull Mail, she thought, stepping into the shop to buy a copy. ‘Fishermen might as well not exist, for all the notice the national papers take of them,’ she remarked to the man behind the counter.

  He nodded towards a pile of national papers. ‘Well, they’ve taken some notice today,’ he said. ‘This is the day they were both supposed to have been back in Hull.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How are you getting on with your petition?’

  ‘All right. Quite a few pages of signatures,’ Lynn said, handing over her money.

  ‘Looks as if the government’s getting involved now. The Prime Minister’s told two senior politicians to arrange a meeting with the fishermen’s wives and some of the Hull MPs – and the union.’

  ‘Amazing, seeing hardly any fishermen bother to join a union. I don’t think I know of one,’ Lynn said, and left the shop to catch the bus, and go straight down to Margaret’s.

  ‘There was somebody to do with the Board of Trade spouting off in Parliament a day or two ago,’ Margaret said, when Lynn gave her the paper. ‘ “We shall certainly have an investigation the moment that, unhappily, we are forced to assume the vessel is lost”, he said. ‘You know the way they talk.’

  ‘Aye, as if they gave a fiddler’s fart,’ Lynn said, standing as near to the fire as she could, chilled to the bone after walking from Hull’s bus station.

  ‘Well, you don’t know that they don’t.’

  ‘Do me a favour,’ Lynn said. ‘They’re cut from the same cloth as the owners, aren’t they? They make the right noises, that’s all.’

  Margaret laughed. ‘You’re an absolute cynic, Lynn.’

  ‘I blame it on living with Graham,’ Lynn said.

  ‘Did you get many signatures?’

  Lynn handed her petition papers over. ‘Quite a few. There weren’t many refused.’

  ‘The union’s organised a meeting in one of the church halls, for all the fishermen’s wives. I’ll hand ’em in there,’ Margaret said, putting the papers carefully into the top drawer of a white-painted chest built into one of the alcoves next to the chimney breast. ‘Come with us. There’s going to be MPs and people from the telly, by all accounts.’

  ‘I’d love to, but I can’t. Graham’s invited a couple of the big cheeses at the company round, with their wives. We’re having a dinner party, if you please. I’ve borrowed a book from the library that tells you how to go about having a dinner party, seeing I’ve never even been to one. It doesn’t look too difficult. I’ve done most of the preparation already, but I’ll be up to my neck in housework and cooking when I get back – and I don’t think it’s only my house and my cooking that’s going to be under inspection. I’ll be under the magnifying glass myself, by the sound of it.’

  ‘Rather you than me, then. What are you feeding ’em on?’

  ‘I suggested a traditional pea and pie supper they could have in a bowl and eat with a spoon,’ Lynn said, with a grin, ‘and Graham flipped his lid, so I’m doing Beef Wellington – which is only a glorified pie, I suppose, but he’s expecting me to give ’em a lot more than peas to go with it.’

  Margaret raised her eyebrows. ‘Beef Wellington? It’s more than glorified pie – it’s undercut steak, isn’t it?’

  Lynn nodded. ‘We never go out, I have to account for every penny I spend, he pretends we can’t afford anything because of the mortgage, but he can afford to buy a dog from one of the bosses’ wives, and he can afford to join a golf club. He calls that “making good contacts”. It’s “provision for the future”, he says. Then he asks people who are a lot better off than us round and feeds ’em on fillet steak. And he’s got the wine to go with it.’

  ‘Sounds lovely. If I weren’t going to the meeting I’d come, and bring the lads.’

  ‘Don’t!’ Lynn grimaced. ‘It would take him a year to get over that. He’s only just got over the foul mood he was in about me coming down here with Simon the other day – after he’d slapped his veto on it.’

  ‘I could see he wasn’t very happy.’

  ‘To say the least, but it was worth it, and at least we got my dad’s leaky pipes mended. His house would have been ruined otherwise. At least he’ll have heating and running water when he gets back.’

  ‘And the plumber to pay,’ said Margaret. ‘I wonder if he really has stopped my mother’s allowance?’

  ‘I doubt it. I reckon he’s hoping she’ll be back, in spite of everything he says. Have you heard anything from her?’

  ‘No, and I’m getting a bit worried.’

  ‘So am I.’

  They heard a short rap on the door, and before Margaret had time to answer, Nina herself walked in.

  ‘Well! Speak of the devil!’ Lynn said.

  Margaret stared at her, speechless with surprise.

  ‘Well? Aren’t you pleased to see me?’ she demanded.

  Margare
t put all her disapproval into a look.

  ‘Oh, well, if I’m going to get the silent treatment I might as well go home,’ Nina said.

  ‘Where’s home, these days?’ asked Lynn.

  ‘It’s where it’s always been.’

  ‘What about Piers, then – or whoever you shoved off with?’

  ‘I’ve left him, obviously.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Nina, sounding more irritated than defensive. ‘Maybe I’ve been a trawlerman’s wife too long. I couldn’t do with him under my feet all the time, sticking his neb into everything. Have you seen your dad?’

  ‘’Course we have. He’d nowhere else to go, had he?’ Margaret said.

  ‘How did he take it?’

  Lynn gave a sardonic little laugh. ‘I don’t think it’s made him any fonder!’

  ‘There are two missing trawlers,’ Margaret said, ‘but don’t worry, nobody belonging to us on either of them.’

  ‘I know all about the two missing trawlers, thank you very much, and I already know there was nobody belonging to us aboard, ’cause I know what ships they’re on.’

  ‘Why did you do it, Mother?’ Lynn asked.

  ‘Because I thought it was what I wanted, out every night, living the high life. I thought he was what I wanted, and he was, for a bit. He was fun. He used to take me to these places your dad never took me to, like the Continental Restaurant on Princes Dock in the Old Town. He knew how to carry himself and he always knew what wine to order with the food.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of it. It’s one of these night-raking sort of places that are open when everywhere else is shut, where folk go to live the high life. Preferably with somebody else’s wife,’ Margaret jibed.

  ‘Cheeky madam!’ Nina said. ‘It’s a cosy little quayside restaurant, that’s all. You make it sound like a den of iniquity.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Margaret said.

  ‘No, you wouldn’t, because you’ve never been. Anyway, it was fun for a while, and then it got boring, so I’m back. So seriously, how did your dad take it?’ In spite of her levity, Nina looked worried.

  ‘Seriously?’ Margaret said. ‘He took it bad. You made a big mistake, leaving him that note. I think you’ll have your work cut out, bringing him round after that.’

  Chapter 39

  Simon and Lassie had been banished to Graham’s mother’s, and the house was as warm as if fuel bills had never been invented when their guests arrived. Graham led them into a living room gleaming with polish and complete with an impressive flower arrangement, to dispense pre-dinner drinks while Lynn ran upstairs with a mountain of coats, scarves and hats.

  ‘Beautiful wife, you have, Graham! Quite a looker,’ she heard Mr Senior saying as she went up, followed by Graham’s muffled reply, then the shriller tones of one of the women: ‘And how’s that little bitch I gave you, Graham?’

  Gave him? On the way back down Lynn smelled burning and dashed into the kitchen to check on the dinner. This is why people who do this sort of thing regularly have servants, she thought, fearing for the Beef Wellington.

  But the pastry was only singed a bit. She would have that part herself and nobody would be any the wiser. The halibut was nearly cooked. She rescued the Beef Wellington, gave the roast potatoes a good shake and went to join the guests for a few minutes, transforming herself from anxiety-ridden chef to calm and unflustered hostess in the few steps it took to reach the living room.

  Tallish, distinguished looking and still slim despite his advancing years, Mr Senior greeted her, looking directly into her eyes. ‘Ah, here’s Lynn. Lovely house you have, Lynn. Graham tells me he got it for a very fair price.’

  ‘Graham certainly knows how to get the best of a bargain,’ she acknowledged, ‘and with the stuff the sellers left behind when they embarked to Australia, and what his Auntie Ivy left behind when she embarked to the next world, we’ve got the place pretty well furnished. She couldn’t have timed it better, really, his Auntie Ivy. Oh, yes, he’s dead lucky, is Graham.’

  Mr Senior smiled. ‘Seriously, though,’ he said, ‘it’s a very important attribute, luck. Napoleon certainly thought so. When he was selecting men for important positions, he always chose the lucky ones.’

  ‘He’d certainly have picked Graham, then,’ she said.

  Mr Senior gave her a thoughtful look. ‘You may have realised that we think highly of him, in the company.’

  ‘There’s one person here who thinks even more highly of him than you do, Mr Senior,’ she quipped – thinking of Graham himself.

  He mistook her. ‘Naturally, you appreciate him. A wife knows her husband’s true worth better than anybody.’

  Lynn gave a solemn nod. ‘Never a truer word was spoken, Mr Senior. Excuse me, I’d better go and check the dinner. It’s the cook’s night off.’

  Graham led the guests into the dining room, to a table laid with the late Auntie Ivy’s gold-rimmed dinner service and Waterford crystal. A minute or two later Lynn wheeled in the fish course on Auntie Ivy’s mahogany tea trolley.

  Graham filled their glasses with white wine, while Mrs Orme, the dark-haired, thirtyish, dog-breeding wife of Mr Senior’s deputy cast surreptitious glances in his direction – but not so surreptitious that they escaped Lynn’s notice.

  The sight of the fish prompted a few words about fishermen and the missing trawlers, and some speculation about what might have happened to them.

  ‘That’s what all their wives and families want to know,’ Lynn said, ‘and they want to know why the distress signal from the Sprite two days after she sailed wasn’t reported, and why nobody reported that the life raft had been found, and why the radio operator refused to sail in her . . .’

  ‘It was reported that the life raft had been found!’ Mrs Orme said.

  ‘Nearly a fortnight afterwards,’ said Lynn.

  ‘The weather in the fishing grounds has been exceptionally bad, this year. The worst in living memory, I think. It’s only to be expected that there would be some losses. Deep-sea fishing’s always been a risky game,’ said Mr Orme, whose dark hair and saturnine features gave him the look of an undertaker. The dark-rimmed glasses he wore added to the impression.

  His comments failed to answer the points she’d made, Lynn noted. ‘Aren’t there such things as unnecessary risks?’ she inquired, with a tight little smile.

  ‘There are calculated risks,’ Mr Senior said, ‘and the men themselves make the calculation when they sign on. We should allow them to know their own business. This fish is beautifully cooked, Lynn.’

  Lynn thanked him for the compliment, and kept her caustic rejoinder to herself. After all, these people played golf with trawler owners and directors, the Gods of Creation as far as Hessle Road was concerned. Graham had probably had his bridge lessons from them. And she knew nothing about the Sprite from her own experience. All her information was second-hand, but stacked together it seemed to indicate that the Sprite was very far from sprightly – a ship that the owners might be glad to see the back of, in fact. She quietly took away the remains of the fish course and wheeled in the Beef Wellington, with all its trimmings and accompaniments. Her worries about the dinner had been groundless. It was on the table at last, and had turned out surprisingly well. Enormously relieved, Lynn sat down, poured herself a large glass of red wine, and began to relax.

  The conversation turned to the Seniors’ twenty-five-year-old only daughter, and her engagement to a man who was ‘utterly hopeless’.

  ‘He’s already had three jobs. He won’t settle to anything,’ Mr Senior said. ‘He takes a job, and he isn’t in it five minutes before he starts arguing with his employers, telling them how things ought to be done in their own firm, and then one thing leads to another until he walks out!’

  ‘Probably a Communist,’ Mr Orme commented.

  Mrs Senior was blonde, still very good-looking and obviously much younger than her husband. ‘He’s done it three times,’ she said. ‘He’s
never been sacked, he just ups and leaves – and before he’s got another job to go to! Gerald’s used his influence to get him a couple of positions, but it’s getting difficult to find anything else for him. He’s good at golf though, and tennis, and badminton, and skiing, and squash, and everything Lucy likes doing – but he seems to have very little interest in anything to do with work. I think our daughter’s expecting Gerald to find him a well-paid job in the company, preferably with no work attached.’

  ‘I draw the line at that,’ Mr Senior frowned. ‘I’ve helped him as much as you can help somebody like him, but I draw the line at having him meddling in the running of Four Winds Pharmaceuticals.’

  ‘Get him a start on an arctic trawler – they’ll take anyone on at this time of year, or so I’m told. He might take to the life. At least you’d have three weeks rest between landings – and possibly much longer, if you could whistle up a wind,’ Mr Orme suggested, with a smile like the plate on a coffin lid.

  Mr Senior gave a barking laugh, soon joined by everyone but Lynn. ‘Now there’s an idea,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t object to any boat he was on disappearing without trace!’

  ‘It might be too late for that if the fishermen’s wives have anything to do with it,’ said Lynn.

  ‘Ooh! You must be talking about the petition they’ve started,’ Mrs Senior said, with a flicker of genuine interest in her eyes. ‘I’ve heard about that.’

  Lynn nodded. ‘They’re having a meeting in Hessle Road tonight, in one of the church halls. They’ve got MPs and people from the General Workers’ Union and the press and all sorts of people going. I’d have gone myself, if I’d been free. I wish I’d thought to bring the petition; you could have signed it. Never mind,’ she said, suddenly inspired, ‘I’ve got some paper, I can soon write the heading and do the columns.’

  ‘Lynn’s father’s a chief engineer,’ Graham cut in, careful to remind the guests that his father-in-law was at least half-educated, more than a mere deckhand, and even if running with sweat and grease most of the time, was certainly not involved in menial, hand- and mind-numbing jobs like gutting fish for eighteen hours at a stretch.