The Fisher Lass

by Margaret Dickinson

  Standing a little way back from the couch, the young man seemed uncertain what he should do or think. Every so often he glanced worriedly at the grim expression on his father’s face.

  But it was the mother who took charge. Small, with a well-rounded, comforting sort of body and with grey hair pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, she was quick and decisive in her movements. She wore round, steel-rimmed spectacles which constantly slipped down the bridge of her nose, so that for most of the time she seemed to be peering over the top of them. With a gesture that was obviously a habit, she pushed them back up her nose with her ring finger.

  ‘George, fetch some blankets from upstairs.’

  ‘I’m not moving, Nell, until I’ve heard what happened.’ The father’s voice was deep and booming but for all that, the woman shooed him away with a flap of her hand. ‘Away with you,’ she ordered, adding sharply, ‘and do as I say.’

  To Jeannie’s amusement, her husband turned away to do his wife’s bidding. When the older woman once again bent over her, her tone was gentle, all severity gone, and the concern in her voice made tears spring to Jeannie’s eyes.

  ‘There, there, hen,’ she patted Jeannie’s hand. ‘You’re safe now. Both of you. Tom will see you home when you’re ready to go.’

  ‘I’ll not be seen walking the street with the likes of her, Ma, so . . .’

  The woman straightened up again and said fiercely, ‘Away and fetch more wood for the fire, Tom.’

  For a moment the young man’s face was mutinous, but then, with a glance towards his sister and a glower towards the stranger in their midst, he, too, turned to do as he was told.

  As the back door slammed behind him, the woman winked at Jeannie. ‘He thinks himsel’ beyond being ordered about, but he’s still ma bairn and I’m no’ about to let him forget it.’

  Jeannie, revived by the warmth of the room, the tea and even more than that, by the warmth of the woman’s kindness, smiled.

  ‘What made you pass out, hen, because you look a strong lassie to me, not the fainting kind at all?’

  Jeannie looked up at her and her smile widened to a grin. Now she was over the initial shock of hearing the woman speak, she could laugh about it.

  As she opened her mouth and said, ‘It was hearing another voice from home . . .’ it was the older woman’s turn to draw in a sharp breath and stare down at her. Then she, too, laughed and said, ‘You’re one of the fisher lasses, are you?’

  They were the same words that one of the young men in the street had used, but there was a world of difference in the way it was said now. ‘Well, you’re very welcome in my home, hen, and not only because you helped our lassie.’

  She jerked her head towards where the young girl was huddled close to the range, still trying to pull her torn garments together to hide her shame and embarrassment. She was a pretty girl, Jeannie saw now she had time to look at her properly, with a small nose, a sweet mouth and large, blue eyes that, at this moment, filled with easy tears. Her long, fair hair was coming loose from its pins and her face, streaked with dirt, was unnaturally pale from the shock she had just suffered.

  Answering the girl’s mother, Jeannie said softly, ‘Then you don’t think I’m a – a . . .’

  ‘A Scottish fisher-lass a whore? Never,’ the woman bridled indignantly. ‘Never in a million years. And Tom will get a piece of my mind for even thinking such a thing.’

  At that moment both men returned.

  For the next half-hour, the kitchen of the small terraced house was a bustle of activity. The men were dispatched once more whilst the girls took off their wet, soiled clothes and wrapped themselves in the blankets and Mrs Lawrence set a pan of thick broth on the range to heat.

  A little later, Mr Lawrence demanded yet again to be told the truth of what had happened.

  ‘Ya should have told us straight away,’ he said to Grace, but his glance of reproach was towards his wife. ‘Then I could have gone out and found them.’ He said no more, but he pounded one fist into the palm of his other hand and no one in the room was in any doubt as to what he would like to do to his daughter’s attackers.

  ‘Now, hen,’ Nell Lawrence was saying to her. ‘Tell us what happened?’

  The girl gulped and, for a moment, hung her head. ‘I was just on me way home, Mam. They came out of the Fisherman’s Rest and – and – well – they were drunk and . . .’

  ‘Are you sure they didna hurt you? They didna . . .’

  Grace shook her head. ‘No, no, but – but they might have done if – if it hadn’t been for her.’ She looked across towards Jeannie who was now sitting up on one end of the couch and gave a shudder. ‘I daren’t think what might have happened if you hadn’t come along when you did.’ She gave a ghost of a smile. ‘And I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘Jeannie. Jeannie Buchanan.’

  Now it was the turn of the two men to look surprised and then George Lawrence let out a guffaw of laughter that lightened the tension and, for a moment, had everyone in the room smiling. ‘There you are, Nell, one of your own. I didn’t notice it when I opened the door to you, lass. I was too teken up with Grace. Well, well, a Scottish lassie, eh? I’ll be damned!’

  ‘And well you might be, George Lawrence, but . . .’ His wife wagged her finger in the direction of Tom. ‘But your son there certainly will be if he doesna apologize to this lassie for thinking what he did.’

  Tom shuffled his feet awkwardly. His swarthy face reddened and then there was a sudden sheepish grin. ‘I’m sorry, miss. No offence. I were just that mad – worried – about our Grace.’

  Jeannie smiled and nodded. ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘What I want to know is,’ Mrs Lawrence said turning back to her daughter, ‘what were you doing anywhere near the Fisherman’s?’

  Again the girl hung her head and, at once, Jeannie knew that she should not have been there.

  ‘I was walking down Harbour Road.’

  ‘Why? What were you doing down there? That’s out of your way?’

  ‘I – I’d been to Aggie’s.’

  ‘Aggie Turnbull’s?’ Now the mother’s voice was raised in anger. ‘I’ve told you to keep away from there. I won’t have you going anywhere near that woman.’

  Then Jeannie saw that Mrs Lawrence was looking, not at her daughter, but directly at her husband.

  ‘You still haven’t told us who the men were,’ Tom was saying, emulating the older man’s outrage. ‘Cos if I know any of ’em, I’ll . . .’

  ‘No, no.’ The girl’s voice was shrill with terror. ‘No, you mustn’t do owt, Tom, please. Nor you, Dad.’

  Her father was frowning at her. ‘Why? Why ever not?’

  ‘Because – because it was – they were out to celebrate – one of them, the one they were trying to – to make . . .’ She gulped.

  Jeannie, feeling a stab of sympathy for the young girl, said quietly, ‘It was obviously a stag night. A group of young men were out on the town. One of them – Robert, I think I heard him called – is getting married tomorrow . . .’ She glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece above the range and, smiling wryly, added, ‘Well, today now and . . .’

  She became aware that the two men and the mother were exchanging glances, then George Lawrence leaned towards his daughter and demanded, ‘Robert – and getting married tomorrow? You don’t mean it was Mr Robert Hayes-Gorton and his pals?’

  The girl nodded miserably and her voice was no more than a whisper as she said, ‘Yes, Dad.’

  In unison, the two men let out a long breath and George sat back in his chair. ‘Oh well, that’s it then, lad, there’s nowt more to be said or done.’

  Grimly, Tom said, ‘No. Not now, there ain’t.’

  Jeannie was mystified. ‘Nothing to be done? But surely, you’re no’ going to let them get away with it? I mean, what if . . .’ She hesitated as three pairs of eyes glanced in her direction.

  ‘What? What is it?’ she asked.

  Nell La
wrence said, ‘There’s nothing they can do, Jeannie. Not if they want to keep their livelihood. Mr Robert’s father is a trawler owner and he owns the ship my husband skippers. He’s his employer.’ She sighed and added, her voice flat now with defeat, ‘And Tom’s too. He’s a deckie on another Gorton boat.’

  In a sudden, jerky movement, Tom got up, thrusting his chair away so that it fell backwards on to the floor with a clatter. ‘It’s ya own fault, Grace,’ he said harshly, all sympathy gone now. ‘You shouldn’t have been anywhere near the pub at that time of night. Or going to Aggie Turnbull’s. You brought it on yasen.’

  He turned away and dragged open the back door, slamming it behind him as he left so that the pots on the shelf rattled.

  Scarcely able to believe what she had just heard, Jeannie stared after him.

  Three

  Robert Hayes-Gorton woke with the feeling of a cold wetness around his neck. It was still dark and the room was illuminated only by a pale light that filtered in through the half open bedroom door from the landing. He raised his head but the room seemed to be spinning around him. Then he became aware of a vile smell and, putting his hand to his face, felt the sticky thickness of vomit caked around his chin.

  He groaned aloud. In the dim light he could see the dark stain over the pillow and the sheets. Gingerly he put his feet to the floor and levered himself upright, but the feeling of nausea so overwhelmed him that he sat down again quickly and put his hands to his head. The vomit was all over his face, even in his hair, and the feel and the smell of it made him retch again. He grasped the bedpost and hauled himself upright and staggered towards the bathroom adjoining his bedroom. He bumped into the door jamb and then lurched towards the bath, banging his knees against it. Then he reached out and grasped the gold tap. Water poured into the bath but it was only lukewarm. Shivering he made himself climb into it and lay down, completely submerging his whole body. Then, sitting up, he soaped himself vigorously, furious now that he had allowed himself to get into such a state the previous evening.

  ‘Bloody Francis,’ he muttered. ‘Some older brother he is.’

  He couldn’t remember drinking so much to get this drunk. But then, he couldn’t remember much about last night at all. Suddenly he was still, his hands, covered in lather, suspended in the action of soaping his hair. Last night! Oh Lord – he could remember. At least, there was something . . . A wave of shame swept over him and yet he couldn’t quite remember the actual reason for such a feeling. What was it that had happened last night that he couldn’t recall and yet his subconscious mind was telling him that it was something awful? Was it just because he’d got so drunk? No, it couldn’t be that. He’d been drunk before, though never as bad as this, he had to admit. No, there was something else. There was something shameful about the previous evening’s escapades.

  Slowly, he rubbed his hands over his hair, washing away the stench and massaging his aching head at the same time. Then carefully he stood up and stepped out of the bath, still a little unsteadily but feeling much better than when he had stepped into it. He dried himself vigorously until the roughness of the towel made his skin glow. Then dropping the towel to the floor he stepped back into the bedroom, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the smell coming from the bed. There was no way he was going to sleep there.

  The eiderdown had slipped to the floor from the end of the bed and, thankfully, was unmarked. Picking it up, he wrapped it around himself and went towards the couch set beneath the window. First he opened the top of the sash window and then lay down on the couch, settling himself for what was left of the night. He closed his eyes and tried to will sleep to claim him. In only a few hours he’d be standing at the altar waiting for Louise and if he looked half as bad as he felt at this moment, there’d be hell to pay. His mother would have something to say about all this, never mind his bride and her mother.

  His head still pounded, but the cooling draught from the window soothed his brow and he began to feel drowsy. But in the final moments before sleep overcame him, pictures flashed into his mind. Fleeting, disturbing images.

  Darkness, shouting and laughing and then a girl. She was bending over him, saying something. Shouting at him. Yes, that was it. She was shouting at him.

  ‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’

  ‘Tom’ll see you to your lodgings, hen,’ Mrs Lawrence said, levering herself up. ‘Your clothes’ll soon be dry, except your shawl, that is. I’ll put that in the tub for you and you can call for it another time. I’ll lend you one of mine.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Jeannie said, but she made no move to divest herself of the blanket nor to rise from the sofa. She glanced up. ‘There’s just one snag. I’ve no place to go. I was on my way to find lodgings when . . .’ she gave a slight gesture with her head towards Grace, ‘it happened.’

  ‘I see. Well, you can bide here for the night if you dinna mind sharing with Grace, that is. But we’d best be awa’ to our beds. It’s late and they’re . . .’ she gestured towards the two men, ‘awa’ on the morning tide.’

  ‘That’s kind of you, but . . .’

  ‘No “buts”,’ the woman said quickly. ‘We’re grateful for what you did. It’s the least we can do.’

  The small terraced house bulged when the two men were home at the same time. With only two bedrooms upstairs, the son slept downstairs on the couch.

  At five o’clock the following morning, Nell Lawrence tapped on the door of the bedroom where the two girls had shared the narrow bed. ‘The herring boats are in, Jeannie. Get up. You too, Grace.’

  Jeannie swung her legs to the floor and padded on bare feet to the window. Bending, she lifted the corner of the curtain and looked down into the street below. Already, the fisher-girls were emerging from the houses in ones and twos, tying the cotton rags around their fingers as they walked, laughing and calling to each other. Swiftly, Jeannie washed in the pink and white bowl and dressed. Carrying her heavy boots in one hand and her gutting knife and cotton bandages in the other, she went down the stairs to find a bowl of thick porridge awaiting her on the kitchen table.

  ‘There you are, hen, made the Scottish way.’

  ‘This is kind of you,’ Jeannie said, picking up her spoon with relish. ‘But I ought to be away down to the docks. The girls’ll be getting together and if I’m no’ there, I’ll be left out.’

  The herring girls worked in teams of three, two gutters and a packer. As one who had arrived a little later than the rest, Jeannie knew it was difficult to find work. She was an outsider, one who was not already part of a team.

  For many years now, the Scottish herring girls had travelled together down the east coast, even as far as Great Yarmouth, keeping pace with the fleet as it followed the shoals of herring, beginning in the Shetlands in the spring and early summer and then drifting southwards through summer, ending up off the English south-east coast by November. The fisher lasses were a close-knit band and each girl jealously guarded her place within a team and each team fought to stay together. They knew one another’s ways, each relying on the other’s skill; the packer on the gutters to work swiftly and cleanly, the gutters dependent upon the packer to lay layer upon layer of salted silver fish neatly and tightly in the barrels so as to pass the foreman’s strict standards. From the days of the luggers and their great flapping sails to the modern steam-driven drifters the fisher lasses had followed the herring fleet.

  ‘What job do you do then, lassie?’ Nell wanted to know, sitting down at the table opposite Jeannie and wrapping her hands around a mug of steaming tea.

  Jeannie shrugged and said, between mouthfuls, ‘I don’t mind, just so long as I find work. Gutting or packing. I’ve done both, though I like the gutting best.’

  Nell nodded. ‘Aye, the packing’s a back-breaking job. I was a gutter.’ She smiled. ‘Not tall enough to be a packer bending right down to reach into the bottom of the barrels.’

  Jeannie pulled a face and laughed with her. ‘Well, I canna make that excuse, Mrs Lawrence. Bu
t I dinna mind. I’ll take what comes.’ She did not add aloud, if anything does come. She would liked to have stayed chatting, to have asked Nell more about how she came to be living here in England, but reluctantly she rose and said, ‘I must be away. I’ve lodgings to find and . . .’

  ‘Ah, now about that, hen . . .’ Mrs Lawrence interrupted. ‘I had a word with George this morning and we’re agreed. You can stay here, if you like. Just whilst you’re with the fisher lasses. You’ll be moving on soon anyway and our menfolk’ll be awa’ now for a while. And even if you’re still here when they come back, well, you wouldna mind sharing the couple of nights they’re home with Grace, would you?’

  ‘It’s kind of you, Mrs Lawrence,’ Jeannie said again, but in her own mind she was doubtful about accepting the woman’s offer. As a fisher lass, she needed to be with the other herring girls. When the boats came in, she had to be there, ready to work at once as part of a team, even in the middle of the night. Being separated from the others might mean that she would not be fetched and might be left out. Aloud, she said, ‘I’ll be away to the docks to see if there’s work to be had.’

  As if reading her thoughts and understanding her dilemma, Nell Lawrence nodded. ‘Aye well, hen. See what happens. You’re welcome to come back here if you want.’ Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, ‘I’ll come with you, if you like? If Billy McBride is still one of the foremen, then . . .’ she winked broadly at Jeannie, ‘he’ll find you a job.’ Then, almost playfully, she wagged her forefinger, ‘But dinna tell my George I said so.’

  The herring boats had been sighted nearing the mouth of the Humber, the chugging of the coal-fired engines accompanied by the screeching of seagulls driven wild by the banquet of fish.

  The fisher lasses were gathering on the dockside, standing in small groups, binding each other’s fingers and chatting amiably together. Some had their hair drawn back into a bun on the back of their head; others, like Jeannie, covered their hair completely with a square of cloth. But they all wore oiled cotton skirts and aprons and short-sleeved, hand-knitted jerseys. A few had thick scarves wound around their necks against the cold wind that whistled in from the river and along the dock.