The Would-Be Wife

by Annie Wilkinson

  The smile had disappeared from Mr Senior’s face. ‘I’m afraid I don’t approve of women meddling in men’s business,’ he said. ‘If the trawlermen have any complaints, they should speak up for themselves.’

  His wife looked as if she might have disagreed had she dared, but if there’d ever been a spark of opposition there it had long since been stamped out, Lynn decided. After a few short months of total dependency she could easily see how that could happen.

  It had not yet happened to her, however. ‘Well, the trouble with that is they’re never ashore long enough,’ she said, ‘and if they did it individually, they’d be sent on walkabout. So the wives are doing it. Other countries try to keep their fishermen safe. They have laws about safety standards aboard ships, so why not us?’

  ‘You can’t make it safe,’ Graham said, with a weather eye on Mr Senior. ‘It’s a sheer impossibility. Businesses never get anywhere if people worry too much about safety.’

  ‘So if they send all the trawlers to sea with dodgy radar and without radio operators or the sort of elementary safety gear other countries have by law, they’ll make more profit, I suppose,’ Lynn rasped. ‘But is that all that counts? Don’t men’s lives count for anything?’

  ‘You can’t achieve anything without risk, and the men are well aware what the risks are when they sign on. Without risk, we’d have no fish, we’d have no coal, nothing would be built!’ Graham said, undeterred.

  He was rewarded by a smile and an encouraging nod from Mr Senior, and sat triumphantly back to bask in the sunshine of his boss’s total approval.

  Lynn disliked him then. He risks nothing, she thought. He spends his life nice and safe and comfortable in his office and his car, and on the golf course and in the club house, risking nothing – and in his safe and comfortable dining room he prates about the impossibility of achieving anything without risk.

  ‘Well, I think: good for the wives!’ Mrs Senior muttered, sotto voce.

  ‘Speaking of nothing being built, it’s been a disaster for the building trade, all this safety legislation,’ Mr Orme frowned. ‘My brother-in-law’s in the Federation of Building Trades Employers, and he says the contractors reported nigh on fifty thousand accidents on their sites last year. Men take time off for the most trivial injuries nowadays. If it needs a strip of Elastoplast it needs a week or two off work, as well. The mind boggles at the amount of time wasted in administration over petty little accidents – and he says the amount of lost production is absolutely staggering.’

  Lynn was silent. It was evident to her that these people had not the slightest concern for the fate of men like her father, her brother, her brother-in-law – and Alec. Graham filled everyone’s glass but hers, and pointedly said: ‘Hadn’t you better check on the pudding, my love?’

  ‘Excuse me.’ Lynn gave them a polite smile and disappeared into the kitchen, soon followed by Graham.

  ‘I think you’d better lay off the wine now, Lynn.’

  She gave him a mildly sarcastic smile. ‘What for? I’m just beginning to enjoy myself.’

  ‘Because with you, the more the booze goes in, the more Hessle Road comes out.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Hessle Road?’

  ‘Oh, nothing at all, except it’s of no interest to these people, and they’re the ones we need to be cultivating. So let’s leave Hessle Road where it belongs, just now.’

  ‘Cultivating? Greasing round their backsides, you mean. Cultivating’s what you do to plants.’

  ‘It’s what you do with people, as well, if you want to get anywhere in life, so just leave the fish docks and what’s happening in Hessle Road alone, all right?’ He fixed her with a warning stare and returned to their guests – doubtless to ‘cultivate’ them for all he was worth.

  Lynn determinedly extracted a clean sheet of foolscap paper from her folder of midwifery notes and headed it ‘Petition for Fishermen’s Safety’. Underneath she ruled the three columns she’d seen on the original petition and headed them Name, Address, and Occupation. Then she whipped the cream, carefully turned out the apple charlotte and returned to her guests, to dole out pudding and hear talk of bad weather conditions and how none of it could be helped, while she could think of nothing but the men lying at the bottom of the Arctic ocean and the harrowed faces of their friends and relatives on Hessle Road. But that was of no interest to their guests, according to Graham.

  Mr Senior wanted to catch the news, so when the hour arrived they switched on the television set – and saw a little group of fishermen’s wives on the docks doing their utmost to stop trawlers going to sea without radio operators. Lynn’s breath quickened and her pulse rate rose at the sight of them being manhandled by police, and she gave a superstitious little shudder at the sight of women on the dock as the ships were sailing and the thought of the bad luck that might bring. One of the ships did sail without a radio operator, and the women were held back, shouting and screaming while the ship went through the lock gates. Another should have sailed, but the crew refused, calling down to the women and demanding that union officials check that the lifejackets carried were up to par. Graham, the Ormes and Mr Senior watched with almost palpable disapproval.

  ‘You can guess what that big woman’s language must be like by the way they’ve cut the sound,’ Mrs Orme sneered.

  Lynn felt the heat rise to her face. She went to fetch her paper, her limbs near to trembling. ‘That big woman’ had a presence about her, a sort of majesty despite her tussles with the police, and if she and the others could stand on the freezing dock in the early hours of the morning and take that sort of treatment, then Lynn had to do something as well. She should have been on that dock among those screaming, shouting women, instead of here, listening to these people, who knew little and cared less about what the fishermen had to put up with.

  As the guests left, she quietly asked them to sign the petition. Mr Senior and the Ormes flatly refused. Women should not be encouraged to take matters in their own hands in this way, and besides, they had friends and acquaintances who stood to be ruined by the expense that some of these quite unnecessary safety measures might entail. It was a thousand pities but the problem lay with the exceptionally bad weather, and not the trawler companies.

  ‘Not even if they deliberately send men to the Arctic in a notoriously unstable boat like the Sprite – in January?’ she challenged.

  Mr Senior stiffened. ‘The men themselves have the final choice,’ he said. Mrs Orme’s large dark eyes gazed sadly into Graham’s, conveying an ocean of understanding and sympathy.

  Mrs Senior was the last out. She glanced at her husband, took the pen and signed, and handed the petition back to Lynn with a tiny complicit smile. There’s hope for you yet, Lynn thought – at least you’re human.

  Graham rounded on her when they were all gone and the door was closed behind them. ‘Oh, God! My God! Why did you have to do that? And what you said to him! Are you out of your mind? You just don’t know when to give it a rest, do you? And after everything I said!’ He snatched the petition from Lynn’s hands and tore it to shreds, then scattered the pieces on the carpet and stormed off upstairs.

  Lynn swept them up, and cleared the table. There were no leftovers. Not a thing, and she had cooked what she’d imagined was far too much food in anticipation of sharing the leftovers with Simon. They would have made a nice change from chips and egg and beans on toast. With her mind continually distracted by thoughts of those protesting women on the dock and the reaction of Graham’s bosses, she washed pots and cleaned and tidied everything up to give her lord and master time to get over the worst of his tantrum, and then went upstairs to join him.

  She was amazed to see that his face was blotchy and swollen. He looked so wounded she felt terrible, even worse than before. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I really am. I never realised it would upset you so much.’

  He turned his reddened, watery eyes on her. ‘My mother was right! She warned me: “You can take her out of Hessle Road – bu
t you’ll never be able to take Hessle Road out of her. Never in a million years. You mark my words, Graham!” ’

  Chapter 40

  On the Monday morning, after a weekend spent in sackcloth and ashes doing penance for giving her unwanted opinions to the company bigwigs, Lynn took Simon to school and went down to Margaret’s, burning to know what had happened at the meeting.

  ‘We’ve had a terrible upsetment,’ Margaret greeted her. ‘The Prospero should have come home on Friday, and instead the man from the Fisherman’s Mission came round and told one of Jim’s cousins that there’s no hope at all for her husband. Then the reporter from the Hull Mail called to see her, and she got up to delve in the sideboard to get the photo of her husband for him – and she just went to pieces. He had to run out to get one of the neighbours. She’s not fit to look after the bairns, she’s in such a state. Jim’s sisters have had to share ’em out between ’em.’

  ‘The man from the Hull Mail would have done better to leave her alone,’ Lynn said.

  ‘No, she wanted him to go. She wanted them to put his picture in the paper, with all the others. They all do, all the wives – you know that from last time. It’s like paying your respects.’

  ‘I suppose. You didn’t go to the meeting they were having, then – with the union people, and everybody,’ Lynn surmised.

  ‘Oh, yeah, I went, all right. I thought: it’s more important than ever, now.’

  ‘What was it like?’

  ‘One of these musty old church halls, all peeling green paint and bare light bulbs – and cold! But we had a real good meeting. Hundreds of people turned up; you could hardly move for prams. I left Jim’s mother sitting in the house with my bairns, but I suppose some folk can’t get baby-sitters. But why people have to bring their dogs to things like that, I’ll never know . . .’

  ‘Yes, but what happened?’ Lynn asked impatiently.

  ‘Well there were some union men and politicians spouting off, and some little shit-stirrer from the University wanting to start a Communist revolution – he wasn’t very popular – and then us wives. We were brilliant!’

  ‘We? Who’s “we”?’

  ‘I mean the woman who started the petition most of all; she’s marvellous, Lynn. If anybody can get the changes we need, she’ll do it, through sheer force of personality. Everybody’s got faith in her. But I got up as well – little me! And I told them everything Jim had told me, and then another lass got up – she’d thought of loads of ways of making the trawlers safer, and then one of the skippers’ wives, and to cut a long story short, the Prime Minister wants some of us to go to the House of Commons tomorrow, to talk to some of the ministers – and I’m one of the ones going! But only if I can get somebody to look after the bairns.’

  ‘Can’t Jim’s mother do it?’

  ‘She’s too old. She’s all right to sit with them when they’re already in bed, but she’s too old to manage four of them, chasing around, giving her lip. And Jim’s sisters are—’

  ‘Looking after the bairns whose mother’s in hospital. Well, they’re out of the running, then,’ Lynn said. ‘What about my mother?’

  ‘I thought about asking her, but my dad’s home today, and he’ll still be at home when we go. I thought they’d better be left alone for a bit.’ Margaret hesitated, looking at Lynn with pleading in her eyes. ‘I really want to go, Lynn, and it’ll only be for one night. It matters more than ever, now. And Jim’s still at sea . . .’

  Lynn understood. What they both left unsaid was: these things come in threes . . .

  ‘Well, I’ll do it, then. I’ll have them. No problem,’ she said. After all, Margaret had done so much for her over the years there was no way she could have refused. She didn’t want to refuse; but her heart sank at the thought of telling Graham.

  Her father would be home by now, and Lynn had just time to make a quick visit to her parents before going for the bus back to Cottingham. Her mother answered the door sporting bruises on her face.

  ‘What’s happened to you?’ Lynn asked, following her into the living room. Nina nodded towards Lynn’s father, sitting grim-faced in his armchair.

  ‘She’s had a thump, and she might get a few more before she’s finished,’ he said, obviously in no mood to make any apologies.

  Lynn stayed for two very awkward minutes, trying to keep her eyes off the bruises and trying to dispel the heavy silence by making a few remarks about the wives’ campaign, which did nothing to appease her father. ‘You women should keep your bloody noses out of men’s affairs,’ he told her.

  Her mother said almost nothing. Lynn left then, upset and shocked to the core. That bruising on her mother’s face! It was the first time she’d ever seen such a thing in her own family, and her father’s attitude to the safety campaign was no different to Graham’s bosses’. This was more typical of the rougher end of ’Road, ’Road as seen through the eyes of people like Connie and Gordon, and an aspect of Hessle Road that Lynn herself wouldn’t have cared to defend. Margaret had been much wiser in deciding to stay away from her parents for a while.

  Poor Mother, she thought, certain that Nina had been infatuated not so much with Piers as with having a life of her own and being the centre of somebody’s attention. After years of having no identity other than as someone’s wife, or someone’s mother, it must have been hard to resist.

  *

  The phone was ringing when she got back home after picking Simon up from school.

  ‘I’ve been trying to ring you for ages,’ Janet said, ‘ever since we heard about the Sprite and the Prospero, but you’re never in. I hope your dad and your brother are all right.’

  The mere sound of her voice gave Lynn’s spirits a lift. ‘Well, neither of them are at the bottom of the sea, thank God, but I’ve had a bloody awful day, Janet.’

  ‘Any chance of you getting out, tonight? We could go to a pub and have a natter.’

  ‘None. Our Margaret’s on the train to London tomorrow, to talk to some Cabinet Ministers. I’ll have to get Graham to take me to pick her lads up after tea. I’m looking after them until she gets back.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Yeah – she’s one of the headscarf revolutionaries,’ Lynn said, and burst into laughter at hearing herself repeat that nonsensical title that the papers had given to a group of ordinary housewives. ‘Can you imagine anybody less like a revolutionary than our Margaret? Just ’cause they’re asking for a few basic safety measures.’

  ‘While wearing headscarves,’ Janet laughed.

  They ‘nattered’ through the whole of the children’s programme, and Lynn replaced the receiver feeling much better.

  She gave Graham the glad tidings about Margaret’s visit to London soon as he walked in. ‘Having the boys while she goes is the least I can do, and I’m doing it,’ she said. ‘And before you suggest anybody else has them – there is nobody. Everybody that could have helped is dealing with their own problems, so I’m their auntie, and they’re coming here.’ So stuff you, Graham, she thought.

  ‘Pity your mother’s otherwise engaged,’ he grumbled.

  ‘That’s one way to describe it,’ Lynn said.

  ‘She picks a good time to clear off, I must say. Well, I suggest you go and stay at Margaret’s and look after them there, and make sure they get to school on time. Simon can stop at my mother’s until you get back. He can go to school from there.’

  I suggest, he’d said – meaning: do it! He’ll be in the boardroom before long, Lynn thought. ‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘That’s not a bad idea, Graham.’

  Chapter 41

  Alec stood on the bridge of the Grimsby Chieftain and prayed. He prayed harder than he’d ever prayed since he was a seven-year-old child, knowing himself powerless, completely at the mercy of something he could not control. With the gale had come an intense chill, and ice that built up on every part of the ship faster than they could crack it off, making the trawler unstable as it rose and fell and pitched and tossed in waves whipped
up to mountains by the howling wind.

  They had fished on and on, long after the time they should have abandoned it, hoping the weather would improve. Instead it got worse – and worse. The man in the middle, the meat in the sandwich, torn between loyalty to the skipper and loyalty to the men, Alec had told the skipper it was too dangerous to carry on fishing and had been jeered at for his pains, told he should get a job on shore; he was too easily scared to make a skipper. But although he would never have admitted it the skipper himself was scared, doubly scared, and probably more terrified of getting on the wrong side of the gaffers by failing to make a trip than he was of going down with the ship, and taking every man on board down with him. Three times Alec had protested, and had three times been overruled. Then as the gale rose to force eight the skipper lost his nerve. At last he realised they might not live to catch any fish, let alone spend any money. It would be useless to attempt fishing for at least another twenty-four hours or more in any case, so he’d ordered the trawl stowed below, and had gone to his cabin to snatch a short sleep, leaving the men to dig solid snow off the deck and wait for daylight before attempting the upper works again.

  ‘A short sleep and another few swigs at his bottle,’ the third hand commented, when he’d gone. ‘You could get pissed just standing next to him.’

  Alec had been well aware of the alcohol fumes on the skipper’s breath, but made no comment other than a noncommittal: ‘Mmm.’

  A leaden dawn broke in the Icelandic sky, and a voice Alec recognised came crackling over the radio – of the skipper of the Miranda, whom he’d once sailed under in Hull. The Miranda was about a mile away, and in a worse condition than the Chieftain. She was listing to starboard with thick ice covering her fo’c’s’le, upper deck, rails, rigging – and radar. So the radar was out of action, and the mate and the bosun were out in the blizzard trying to crack ice off the scanner. As soon as they got that working they were making for Isafjord on the north-west coast of Iceland, to get in the lee of the wind.