When I had time to dream I thought instead of Mr Stoker and wished he would come back, like a knight in shining armour, to rescue me from my troubles. He was a man, not a boy, and wielded more power than anyone I knew. Save Old Uncle Thaddeus, of course. But Mr Stoker’s concerns were not in Whitby, they were in London, where that new play he’d told me about was apparently doing well.
The spectacle of Henry Irving’s Faust, with its storms and apparitions, its sulphurous infernos and angelic visions, had apparently made headlines in the daily newspapers. Jack Louvain told me that there were even electric sword-fights, which neither he nor I could envisage, but we spent many an entertaining hour talking about the possibilities. For different reasons, perhaps, each of us had a passionate interest in the production and would have loved to see it, but not even Jack could afford the costs involved.
Nevertheless, he started paying me for the jobs I did around the studio, cleaning and tidying, and mounting and filing the endless sets of cartes-de-visite ready for the influx of visitors in the summer. To have the value of my work recognised did more to cheer me than anything else that winter. For the first time I felt I was doing something worthwhile, something respectable, something of which Uncle Thaddeus might not entirely disapprove.
Ten
In the dark days of February, even spring seemed a long way off. It was always a bad month, the lowest point of the year on the east coast, when snow and freezing cold gave way to easterly winds and downpours that continued for days on end. The wind-driven rain searched out chinks and gaps in leaking roofs and ill-fitting windows, everything was perpetually damp, and the touch of unwarmed clothes on any naked patch of skin was like the cold, clammy kiss of a shroud. We shivered with emptiness too. In all my life I have never been so hungry, nor so dependent on the state of the weather, on the boats going out and coming in, returning with their precious and perishable cargoes.
There were times, depending on the tides, when we were up at two and three in the morning, skaning half-frozen mussels from their shells, fingers stiff and swollen with chilblains, often cut and bleeding from the day before. Even so, if the weather was suitable for fishing, the work had to be done; and those who wanted to eat – as Magnus Firth delighted in reminding me – had to be prepared to bait the lines.
Mussels were the best for cod, but they were pricey, having been brought across country by train from Ireland and the west coast. We’d fetch them in bags from the station, skane them, soak them in water for a few hours to plump them up, then start baiting the lines, each line with more than two hundred lethal hooks. At least four lines were prepared for every trip, and I swear I remember the pain of every one. But the worst thing was if the boats did not go out: then the lines had to be stripped and cleaned again, for the bait soon went off.
I hated Magnus Firth and despised him too, but I was virtually as dependent upon him as his wife and children. More often than not I wished him dead, yet at the same time when he went out fishing I prayed for his safe return because I could not bear to think what would happen if he failed to come back. And there was the matter of Bella’s brothers, who deserved better than the fate I wished on their father.
We always made sure they ate before they went out in the boat, even if it was no more than oatcakes and fried potatoes, since it was not unknown for men to die from the cold out there on the open sea. Bella and I kept the children fed, and we were helped by contributions from Isa, who generally brought cooked meat and pies when she came home. Just occasionally Magnus would be out for a short time and come back flushed with some secret success. Then it was off to the nearest pub to booze all night. Mysteriously, when he came back, he still had money in his pockets. I learned not to ask questions about that.
Although much of the time that winter we were cold and hungry, the situation did have its advantages. When Magnus was fishing, he was busy for twelve and fourteen hours a day, too exhausted for anything other than sleep when he came home; and money was so short all round that Cousin Martha’s credit was limited, her gin strictly rationed by Bella. To keep occupied, she knitted endlessly, unravelling the best parts of old ganseys to make sea-boot socks and mufflers for the boys. She looked melancholy and haggard, but I liked her better for it.
For several weeks the intensity of common need kept the whole family pulling together, and for a while I was lulled into thinking that things were not so bad, my being there was making a difference, and that I was welcomed for my contributions.
We saw little of Isa but when she did come home her first words on spying me were invariably spiteful. Why was I still living with the Firths, she would demand, when I’d been trained for better things than skaning mussels and baiting long-lines? Watching me work, she would point out any one of a dozen inadequacies, making me feel clumsy and stupid for even trying. But she never offered to help and, with prudish disapproval, even managed to puncture the gallows humour shared by Bella and myself.
What almost brought us to blows, however, was my new, paid employment at the studio. Only a few hours a week, but I was proud of it, and she was jealous. I know now that she’d carried a torch for Jack Louvain for years, ever since he had persuaded her to sit for a portrait while she was still at school. The portrait was so flattering it was almost sinful, and people who knew the Firth twins were usually astonished to be told it was Isa. For some reason Jack Louvain preferred her to Bella, and I swear she came closer to simpering in his company than she ever did elsewhere. Obviously it galled her that I was often alone with him in the studio – something she no doubt dreamed about during her time off in Middlesbrough. She even managed to intimate that I was providing sexual favours in return for money.
Furious, I pushed my hands up close to her face. ‘Look – see what a mess they are! You think I’d put myself through this kind of agony if I was getting paid for selling my body? Or don’t you think my body’s worth more than a few shillings a week?’
~~~
Somehow we survived. We knew the worst quarter of the year was behind us when activity in the harbour intensified and ships began to leave. Every day a few more moved out under tow, and I began to watch for Jonathan Markway’s ship, the Lillian, wondering whither they were bound. I suppose I should have been glad he was going away; after all, he was still a reminder, and an uncomfortable one at that, of different and arguably better times. Instead, I scanned the harbour each morning with an increasing sense of anxiety, wondering whether I’d see him again before he left. And then, when I did see him, when he stopped by the stall to speak to me, I found I could barely answer for the pulse beating hard at my throat.
It was one of those crisp, bright mornings that lift everyone’s spirits. The sun was just above the cliff, dazzling off the water and making a picture of ships in the upper harbour. A train pulled in at the station, so Dock End and New Quay were suddenly alive with carts and carriages, the bustle prompting people to stop and buy. Bella and I were busily serving one customer after another, barely noticing individuals until the moment of speech. Then, in a sudden lull, Jonathan was there before me in his cap and reefer jacket, looking uncertain and apprehensive, and indefinably different. Taller perhaps, and a little thinner in the face; certainly paler than the last time we’d spoken, when he was so recently returned from sea.
After an exchange of civilities we were both tongue-tied. Bella asked whether he’d had a good leave, and he said not as good as he’d hoped; he was glad to be going back. At that I found my voice, and asked when and where he was going next.
‘We’ll be away in the next few days – Baltic most like, then the Mediterranean.’
‘Very nice,’ I managed inanely. ‘Is that where you went last time?’
He nodded. ‘There and the Black Sea. We had bad weather coming back, across the Bay of Biscay, that’s why we were so late coming home. Had to put into St Nazaire for repairs. We were lucky, though,’ he said with a deprecating grin, ‘there were times when I thought we weren’t going to make it at all!�
�
If he thought to impress me, it was the worst thing he could have said. I gritted my teeth and looked down, trying not to show the alarm I felt at the thought of wrecks and drownings. ‘Oh, I see, so that was it. I did wonder. Well, if you will go to sea for a living,’ I remarked, ‘what else can you expect?’
With that the conversation stopped dead, and we were both at a loss. I bent to my basket and added some more fish to the stall, busily rearranging the display while Bella served another customer.
‘It’s my life,’ he said at last, enigmatically; and whatever interpretation he wanted me to put on that, I had to respect it. If he’d challenged me, I might have said the same. But I managed to say I was sorry, didn’t mean it, and at that he unbent a little, volunteering something else: he was hoping to sit for his Mate’s ticket next time home.
‘So it won’t be long before I’m free.’
‘From what? The sea?’
‘From my apprenticeship,’ he said slowly, shaking his head as though he couldn’t believe such animosity from one who, once upon a time, had seemed to understand. And to tell the truth, nor could I. ‘I’ll have my own wages,’ he went on, ‘I’ll be my own man. Free to choose what I do next, and where I go.’ And who I see, was implied but not said.
For a moment longer I held his gaze. ‘Well, best of luck,’ I said challengingly. ‘Who knows where I’ll be by then?’
He looked up and down the quay, at all the women wrapped like bundles in layers of skirts and shawls against the cold. I thought I knew what he was thinking, but when he turned back to me, all he said was: ‘Somewhere a bit warmer, I hope.’
‘Oh, I’m sure,’ I said, forcing a laugh and waving a mittened hand. ‘This is only temporary, you know – next year it could be the Bay of Naples!’
We all laughed at that, even Bella, but there was something burning and serious in Jonathan’s dark eyes. ‘In that case, I shall have to keep looking for you, won’t I?’
Something in me was burning too, but before I could answer Bella nudged me and a customer intervened. While I was serving her Jonathan backed away. ‘Look – I’ve got to go – work to do. I’ll see you later, perhaps?’
I said yes, no doubt; but he didn’t come back that day, even though I hung around for a while and made a point of being at the stall early the next morning. I watched the activity aboard the remaining ships: an intensity of hammering and banging, a raising and lowering of new sails, of berths and moorings being changed while stores were loaded for the coming voyages. At flood of the tide the steam tugs were as active as water rats, and it was difficult to see through the smoke exactly which ships were moving where. I was afraid of losing sight of the Lillian, and every time the bridge opened I was on tenterhooks in case Jonathan was leaving without saying goodbye.
Between times I hovered near the bridge, hoping I might identify him aboard the brigantine, or he might notice me and remember. Bella could mock all she liked, but now that we’d spoken again I felt a need to make things right between us. I wanted him to think well of me, to carry with him a memory of friendship rather than disappointment and misunderstanding.
Just before sunset, as the last stalls were packing up and I was about to go home, he called out to me from the bridge. ‘At last,’ he said breathlessly as he hurried to my side, ‘I’m glad you’re still here! There’s been no chance to get away, and I haven’t got long now, worst luck. The owners finally made a decision, and we’re sailing tonight with the tide.’
He stopped for breath, relief and anxiety in his smile, while I was conscious of pleasure at seeing him, coupled with disappointment at his news. ‘Oh, I see. Well, it was good of you to come, but never mind. If you’ve got to get back...?’
‘Not just yet – a little while, half an hour or so.’
It was more than we might have had, and, since it didn’t seem to matter where we went, we walked along the railway as far as the old ford at Bog Hall, keeping the brigantine in sight as the tide came up. There was so much to say, yet it seemed we were both too aware of each other to speak; and when we did, it was only to blurt out simultaneous apologies. But in the end we got his mother and my Uncle Thaddeus out of the way, and managed to put aside any lingering sense of injury.
With the old Esk Inn behind us we stood on the stone quay and looked up and down the river, glassy now in the evening light, saying nothing of any moment, except for both of us wishing he might stay. I wanted to catch hold of time, stop the ship from sailing, keep Jonathan by my side, but the river was rising with the tide, masts above the muddy expanse of the Bell Shoal coming upright, and it was time for him to go.
He turned to me then in mute appeal, and I felt the breath catch in my throat as he removed his cap and leaned towards me. Cold lips touched mine, melting to warmth as one kiss became another and we clung together in dizzying, tremulous joy. As my shawl fell back he laid his smooth cool cheek against mine, wrapping his arms around me as though he would never let me go.
‘It’s been almost a year,’ he whispered, ‘and I’ve thought about you so much. I really hoped -’
Overwhelmed by a conflict of emotions, I stopped his lips with my fingers. ‘No, Jonathan, you mustn’t. I don’t want you to think about me at all. It’s not worth it.’
He protested at once, crushing my hand in his as he held it to his chest. ‘My mother was wrong in what she said and did – it wasn’t your fault, none of it was.’
‘No, but the rest of it is,’ I insisted, stepping back. ‘Where I’m living, what I’m doing – it’s all been a mistake, you don’t understand.’
‘Then put it right – move out. You don’t have to stay there.’
‘It’s not so easy, believe me. I want to leave, but I can’t, not yet.’ Even as I longed to seize the moment I feared the very things Jonathan represented: risk, loneliness, pain. I didn’t want him or anyone else to have that kind of hold over me – or to expect devotion until death in return.
I felt these things, yet without the words to express them I could only gaze at him intently while he struggled to read my meaning. Voices hailed us then, jocular and teasing, as a couple of railwaymen crossed the inn yard. The moment was broken. Aware of time pressing as dusk fell, we turned to retrace our steps with a sense of chilled urgency that had not been present before.
When we reached the bridge I felt a tug of emotion quite unlike any that had preceded it. Jonathan didn’t kiss me in that public place, but took my hand before we parted, gazing at me with such longing, I had to look away. ‘It’s going to be a long time. Will you write to me, Damsy?’
But that was too close to commitment, and besides, I couldn’t bear the idea of waiting for words from him, words that might never come. ‘No,’ I said awkwardly, aware that I was hurting him. ‘Don’t ask me that.’
He took a deep breath. ‘Will I see you then, when I get back?’
‘If I’m still here,’ I said, struggling for lightness, ‘I’m sure you will.’
He looked downcast, and I hated myself for it. ‘Well,’ he sighed, squeezing my fingers hard. ‘Whatever you do – wherever you go – leave word for me with someone. Bella or that photographer fellow you work for. Promise?’
So I promised, and he left me then. I watched him disappear into the dusk, hurrying home to collect his things before going aboard the Lillian. They would be heading north to the Tyne first, for a cargo of coal, and from there, most like, across to Sweden for timber. He’d assured me of the ship’s good qualities, of the fact that she was a fine seaboat even in a storm, and her master an excellent seaman. I was glad of that. I needed to believe he would be safe.
Two hours later, without a word to anyone else, I slipped out of the house and went back to St Ann’s Staith to await the opening of the bridge. Several ships were due to leave, and the brigantine was already under tow. She came through first, her figurehead gleaming, eager to be over the bar with sails unfurled, catching the offshore wind and away.
There were men on de
ck and in the rigging, but in the darkness it was hard to identify them. The mast light and red, port-side lantern cast little more than a glow as the ship swept silently past in the wake of her noisy, thrashing tug. I kept moving too, around and between the groups of people, trying to keep my eyes on individuals just a few yards away. I’d reached the pier before I spotted Jonathan coiling mooring-ropes on the stern. He looked up to scan the onlookers and for a moment his face was sharply illumined, deep-shadowed, intense, so close I could see the line between his brows and the grim set of his mouth. I stopped to call out to him, but he was unaware and the ship sailed on.
I had to run to catch up. I ran the length of the pier and was almost at the lighthouse before he saw me and his face lifted suddenly in a delighted grin. He raised his hand and I waved frantically, wishing him God speed, safe voyage, good trip, all the things women have been saying down the centuries to their departing menfolk. I watched and waved until the tug dropped her tow and the night wind filled the unfurling sails.
When she’d slipped away like a ghost into the night, I turned back towards town, wondering what was the matter with me, why on earth I was breaking my heart over a man going off to sea.
Eleven
Whenever I talked of leaving Whitby, of finding employment that would provide a more secure existence, Bella carried on alarmingly, accusing me of everything from snobbery to ingratitude. She even brought Jonathan into it, claiming I’d changed since seeing him again. I denied it, but being with him that afternoon had stirred up more than one kind of longing. I was restless and dissatisfied, and whether it was Jonathan or just spring fever, his words about moving on had struck a resounding note. It was echoed shortly afterwards, and more directly, by Jack Louvain.
As I posed for him one fine evening after Easter, he remarked quietly: ‘It must be nearly a year, Damaris, since I took those first photographs of you...’ Lightly, he adjusted my shoulder to the position he wanted, and turned my chin towards him, scrutinising me with those bright eyes of his. Frowning, he ran his fingers over the skin at my temple, then felt behind my ears and under my jaw.
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