The Fisher Lass

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘And was he?’

  Flora shrugged. ‘I like to think they really loved each other.’

  ‘Did they elope?’ a voice asked and the listeners laughed.

  ‘To Gretna Green?’ someone else joked.

  ‘I dinna ken if they went to Gretna, but they did run away to be married.’ Now Flora held their attention once more. ‘They were awfu’ happy together in their wee terraced house near the docks. But she was an only child so when her father died, she and her husband inherited the trawler.’

  ‘I thought so,’ muttered a voice, more cynical than the rest, but Flora ignored the interruption.

  ‘Thomas Gorton skippered it himself for a while but then he bought another boat and another until he had a fleet of ten or so. They say he was a nice old man. A real fisherman through and through. Tough, but always fair. And he stayed all his life in the same house.’ She nodded briefly in the direction of the rows of terraced houses where the fisherfolk lived and where the Scottish girls found lodgings. ‘Old Thomas died about twenty years ago and his son, Samuel, took over the company.’ Flora paused for effect, knowing she had her listeners spellbound, so she began, as all good storytellers, to embellish the truth a little.

  ‘He was a different kettle of fish altogether.’ She smiled at her own pun.

  ‘And still is,’ muttered a voice thick with resentment.

  ‘He bought a posh house on the outskirts of the town and began to live the life of a laird. True, he carried on building up the company, but he cut the men’s basic wages and their share of the catch to buy more ships.’

  ‘Hathersage is worse, though,’ came the voice again. ‘He’s a tyrant.’

  Flora went on. ‘The Hayes-Gortons now own fifteen boats and about a hundred-and-eighty families depend on them for a living.’

  ‘Oh, good at arithmetic, isn’t she?’

  ‘Hathersage has got twenty boats.’

  ‘And don’t forget, if a catch is bad, or the price drops, the deckies barely earn a living wage.’

  ‘I’ve heard of men coming back from two or three weeks at sea and they owe the company money because they’ve already borrowed against their wages.’

  ‘Aye, and then the wages they expected don’t come, so they’re in debt,’ another voice complained bitterly.

  ‘How did it come to be Hayes-Gorton?’

  The remarks flew back and forth, but Flora only answered the last question. ‘Samuel married a girl fu’ of airs an’ graces. She insisted on adding her maiden name to Gorton and making it a double-barrelled surname.’

  There were groans of derision all round.

  ‘That’s not the young ones’ fault,’ Mary put in. ‘The three brothers. Is it, though?’

  Now the laughter was turned on Mary. ‘Sweet on them, are you, Mary? Which one do you fancy then?’

  Jeannie risked a brief glance back at their packer. The girl was blushing, but still she answered her tormenters. ‘They’re so good-looking. A’ three o’ them. I’d take me chance with any one o’ them.’

  ‘The younger two are fine, but the eldest . . .’ Flora shook her head. ‘His eyes . . .’ She held up a fish. ‘They’re as cold as this herring’s. And it’s dead.’

  Then slicing her knife through the flesh, she tore out the guts and held it up again. ‘And he’s as much “heart” as this has got now.’

  She tossed the fish behind her as if flinging the man away from her too.

  ‘You sound bitter about him, Flora?’ Jeannie said quietly.

  The girl glanced at her. Dropping her voice so that the conversation was now only between the three of them, herself, Mary and Jeannie, she said, ‘He’s nothing to me, if that’s what you’re thinking. Thank God. But two years ago, on my first trip down here, I worked alongside a girl called Rose. Bonnie wee thing she was, though not ever so quick at the gutting. Still, the men liked her and I reckon that’s why she kept her place. Well, she got in with Francis Hayes-Gorton. You’ll see him, in a day or so, strutting about the fish dock. He’ll mind to keep his fancy clothes away from the fish, but he’s eyeing up the girls. You’ll see,’ she said and nodded wisely. ‘But if you pay heed to me, you’ll keep away from him. Handsome he may be, but he’s as rotten as a barrel of fish left out in the sun.’

  ‘So it’s no’ him who’s getting married today then?’ Jeannie said, still feigning ignorance.

  ‘I’m coming to that,’ Flora said and raised her voice again to continue her tale. ‘Samuel Gorton married into money, some say – and I would agree with them – deliberately. And,’ she wagged her knife dramatically in the air to emphasize her point, ‘today, he’s making his second son, Robert, do just the same thing.’

  Now there was a chorus of disbelief.

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Who’s he marrying then?’

  At Flora’s side, Jeannie said, ‘Well, he’s the fool for allowing himself to be pushed into doing it.’

  Flora laughed wryly. ‘You dinna ken Samuel Hayes-Gorton, Jeannie. Nobody, but nobody, including his own sons . . .’ She paused and then added with emphasis, ‘Especially his own sons, dare to defy him.’

  Jeannie was silent, thinking of her own father. A big, gentle-hearted giant of a man, with a mane of fair hair with a tinge of red in it and a beard and moustache that covered most of his face. But not his eyes that twinkled and sparkled with mischief and merriment. Her mother’s death seven years earlier had threatened to devastate the big man, but he had put aside his own grief to support his eleven-year-old daughter in the loss of her mother.

  And now he, too, was gone. One day soon, Jeannie knew, she would have to come to terms with the awful truth. But not yet, not yet. Not until someone found a piece of the boat or . . .

  The voices around her were invading her private thoughts.

  ‘Who’s he married then?’

  ‘Why do you say Robert’s marrying for money?’ Mary put in. ‘He’s too nice to do that.’

  There was a chorus of laughter. ‘Och, Mary, you missed out there. You should have netted him. It could have been you in the church today all dressed in white with all of us making an archway of gutting knives.’ Gales of laughter echoed along the dockside.

  ‘Because,’ Flora said, enjoying creating the suspense, ‘he’s uniting the two biggest trawler companies on the east coast of England. Today, Robert Hayes-Gorton is marrying Louise Hathersage.’

  Five

  Herbert Hathersage rose to his feet in the long hall of his country mansion and glanced about him. The tables had been positioned so that the top table lay horizontally to the foot of the wide staircase, with three tables running the length of the hallway at right angles to the bridal party table.

  At first-floor level the staircase divided and ran in a gallery around the hall, the ceiling high above them in a skylight at third-floor level. At the far end of the gallery, musicians played pianissimo, a genteel background to the muted chatter of the guests.

  Catching the eye of the trio, Herbert nodded and the music stopped, but not until he had tapped the table with a spoon, did conversation cease and faces turn expectantly towards him.

  ‘Dear friends, may I welcome you all to our home on this happy occasion which unites not only two young people, but two families and . . .’ he paused for effect, ‘the two major trawling companies in this part of the British Isles. I’m sure I speak for Hayes-Gorton’s family,’ he gave a small bow towards Samuel and his wife, ‘when I express my delight at the union of our companies. In due time, it will be our mutual grandson at the helm of a great business empire . . .’ His voice droned on and Robert bowed his head and suppressed a visible shudder. Oh, what had he done? He hardly knew the girl at his side. They had spent no more than a few hours alone together during the whole of their supposed courtship.

  He didn’t like to think of himself as weak so how had he allowed himself to be carried along on the tide of his father’s enthusiasm for the match? He was not even twenty-one and Louise was only eighteen. Ther
e had been no reason to oppose the match, and yet . . .

  He became aware of his surroundings again. ‘. . . And so dear friends, I ask you to be upstanding and to drink a toast to the bride and groom.’

  There was a scraping of chairs on the marble floor and a murmuring like a breeze wafted around the hall. ‘The bride and groom . . . bride and groom.’

  And then it was Francis’s turn, as Robert’s best man. He made a few of the usual jokes, though Robert was relieved that he did not descend into crudity as he was wont to do in men-only company. Francis proposed the health of the four bridesmaids and then Robert found himself on his feet, and, to much laughter, heard himself say, ‘My wife and I . . .’ Dutifully he thanked everyone for coming, for their good wishes, paid tribute to his new in-laws and a lavish compliment to his bride, but inside his mind he was thinking, Yes, my wife and I. I am a married man. It’s done and now I must make it work. As he sat down to the polite applause, he turned towards the girl at his side. She really did look very pretty, he told himself, beneath the chiffon veil and its headdress of wax orange blossom. Now he noticed that she was wearing his wedding-day gift to her; a pearl necklace and drop earrings.

  Taking her hand in his, he raised it to his lips and she turned and smiled at him, her blue eyes sparkling, her nose wrinkling daintily.

  Yes, he really would try to make this marriage work, Robert promised silently, but first, there was just one thing he had to do.

  ‘Edwin.’ Robert gripped his younger brother’s arm. ‘I must talk to you. Come out on to the terrace. We shan’t be overheard out there. Louise is upstairs changing and we won’t be missed. I’ve got to talk to you.’

  His brother grinned. ‘What? Cold feet already? Or do you want a pep talk about the facts of life?’

  But Robert did not even smile in return. ‘Please, Edwin.’

  ‘Let me get a drink first then. One for you?’

  Robert shuddered. ‘No, thanks. I reckon I’ve had enough to last me a lifetime,’ he said with bitter irony.

  Edwin laughed. ‘Well, I’d not argue with that. Be with you in a minute.’ He pushed his way through the throng to where the solemn-faced butler stood with a tray of drinks while Robert skirted the mingling guests, submitting en route to handshakes and kisses and good wishes until he came to the front door, which was standing open to the bright sunlit day. He blinked as he stepped outside and then drew in deep breaths of fresh air. Nodding to the footman who stood sentinel at the side of the door he moved along the paved terrace and leant on the parapet looking out over the lawn stretching down to a lake and beyond that a copse of trees. Behind him towered the square Georgian house; the Hathersage mansion, as everyone called it.

  He was part of all this now, he told himself, but the thought gave him no joy. He groaned aloud and leant his elbows on the stonework.

  ‘Still got a hangover, old chap?’ came Edwin’s voice at his elbow.

  ‘A bit.’ He straightened up and turned to face his brother. ‘But it’s not that. I must know what happened last night. Francis keeps making snide remarks and I really don’t know what he’s talking about.’

  Edwin sighed. ‘I wish you wouldn’t worry about it, it’s—’

  ‘Edwin, I’ve got to know. I keep remembering flashes but not everything and it’s driving me mad.’

  His brother shrugged. ‘If you insist then.’ Briefly he recounted the events of the previous evening.

  ‘. . . Then suddenly there was this girl, like an avenging angel, fists flying and shouting at the top of her voice. It must have taken some courage, you know, to wade in amongst the lot of us. For all she knew she could have ended up being – well, you know – too.’

  ‘Raped, you mean?’ Robert’s voice was a hoarse whisper. ‘You mean I was party to a rape?’

  ‘Oh, you didn’t actually do anything,’ Edwin gave a wry laugh. ‘You weren’t capable.’

  ‘That’s not the point. This is terrible. What about that poor girl? And what if the police had come along?’

  ‘Oh, one did,’ Edwin said, as Robert groaned again. ‘But luckily it was PC Parsons and he just sent us on our way. Advised me to get you home, which, incidentally, I was trying to do anyway.’

  ‘And the girl?’ Robert persisted.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The one – the one . . .’ Robert gulped painfully. ‘I attacked.’

  ‘You didn’t attack anyone. It was all Francis’s doing. He’s a vicious sod when he’s had a drink.’

  ‘But what happened to her?’

  ‘Oh, the other girl – the one who came to her rescue – took her off. Home, I expect.’

  ‘Who was she? The – the other girl?’

  Edwin shrugged. ‘By her accent, one of the fisher lasses. Nobody who matters.’

  Nobody who matters. The phrase jangled around Robert’s battered mind. Oh she mattered all right. For it was that girl whom he could not forget. Whose accusation still rang loudly inside his head.

  ‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’

  He was, oh he was, he answered her silently.

  ‘The boats are leavin’. Shall we take our jilly piece and watch them go?’

  It was the time when the girls took a brief respite. Jeannie smiled at Grace who stood on the far side of the farlane, holding jam sandwiches – their ‘jilly pieces’ – wrapped in a cloth. Grace Lawrence might not be Scottish born but with Nell for her mother there was some of the breeding there, the words and phrases of Jeannie’s homeland.

  Jeannie nodded, unable for a moment to speak. Standing all morning amongst her own kin had made her feel homesick and heart-sore for the loss of her own folks.

  Linking arms, the two girls walked along the quay, eating as they went. Standing in the same spot where Jeannie had stood the previous night, they watched the ships easing their way out of the dock, heading for the open sea.

  ‘There they go,’ Grace murmured. ‘Safe home,’ she added like a prayer.

  ‘Which one is your father and brother on?’

  ‘Dad skippers the Gorton Sea Spray. But I can’t see it. Maybe they’ve gone already.’ She screwed up her eyes against the glare of the sunlight glittering on the water.

  As they walked back, Jeannie glanced about her. ‘Isn’t that your father? Talking to that woman?’ The figure of the stranger stood out in sharp contrast to the working fisher lasses. The woman wore a blue and white striped ankle-length dress made in a shiny fabric. Silk, Jeannie supposed, though she could not quite be sure from this distance. The woman’s hair was covered with a close-fitting cloche hat trimmed with two white feather pompons that rippled in the breeze. She wore white silk stockings and pointed shoes.

  ‘Where?’ Grace asked and, following the line of Jean-nie’s finger as she pointed, added, ‘So it is. And me mam’d go daft if she saw him talking to her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That,’ Grace said, nodding towards where the tall, broad figure of George Lawrence stood laughing down into the upturned face of the woman, ‘is Aggie Turnbull.’

  ‘Aggie . . .?’ Jeannie began and then she remembered. ‘Oh yes. The woman whose house you’d been to last night.’

  Grace nodded.

  ‘I ken your mother doesna like her?’

  Grace gave a snort of laughter. ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Why?’

  The girl smiled impishly. ‘Me mam ses she’s “Nae better than she should be”.’ Grace mimicked the Scottish accent perfectly, even though her own speech normally held no trace of it.

  Jeannie laughed, throwing her head back so that the scarf tied around her head slipped down letting her red hair fly loose in the wind. George Lawrence turned away from Aggie Turnbull and walked along the quay towards them.

  ‘My, my, that’s a pretty picture for a man to take to sea with him,’ came his cavernous chuckle.

  Self-consciously, Jeannie touched her hair and then tried to pull the scarf up over her head again.

  George put out his
huge hand and touched her curls. ‘Don’t cover it up, lass. It’s such pretty hair.’

  ‘You – you dinna mind, then?’

  George looked puzzled for a moment and then he laughed. ‘Oh, old Billy McBride and his superstitions, eh? Nell been telling you, has she?’

  Jeannie just smiled. She had known of the superstition from childhood.

  ‘Well now,’ George put his arms about both girls’ shoulders and steered them down the jetty towards where his own boat was moored. ‘I respect a man and his beliefs. We’ve got a few of our own, but red hair on a pretty girl isn’t one of them, not in these parts anyway. Now, come and see me off. It’s high time I was aboard.’

  They couldn’t stay until the boat nosed its way from the jetty towards the dock gates but they watched him climb the ladder and jump aboard the Sea Spray.

  As they turned away they saw Tom hurrying towards them.

  ‘I can’t stop,’ he said. ‘I should be aboard, but . . .’ He turned to Jeannie. ‘You’ll still be here when we get back?’

  ‘I dinna ken,’ Jeannie said quietly and her glance flickered beyond Tom’s shoulder across the grey water to the Havelock boats moving out into the mouth of the Humber and towards the sea until they became distant specks on the horizon.

  Tom, misreading her thoughts, said, ‘If you’re looking for the Scottish drifters, they were first out on the tide this morning. But they’ll be back. They’ll be using this port for a week or two yet, I reckon.’

  ‘Uh?’ She dragged her wandering thoughts back to the young man standing in front of her. ‘Och no, it’s no’ that. I mean, I wasna looking for the herring boats. At least,’ her voice dropped to a mere whisper, ‘not the ones that have just left.’

  She said no more and avoided meeting Tom’s eyes until his deep voice, the disappointment evident in its tone, asked gently, ‘What are you watching for then? Or is it someone you’re watching out for? Is that it, Jeannie?’