The Fisher Lass

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘No reason, son.’ Nell shrugged her shoulders and winked at Jeannie. ‘I just thought you might find something to keep you at home.’

  ‘Such as?’ he asked brusquely, picking up his knife and fork. He did not begin to eat but kept his questioning gaze upon his mother.

  Careful, Jeannie wanted to say, you’re going to give the game away yourself if you’re not careful, and she found she was holding her breath.

  ‘Well, I just thought . . .’ Nell was saying and then suddenly Jeannie realized what the older woman was thinking. The last time Tom had come home from the sea, instead of going to the pub that first evening, he had taken her, Jeannie, for a walk. She remembered how Grace had teased her about it and she had understood that it was not Tom’s usual behaviour.

  Now she laughed aloud, trying to save Tom from falling into the trap that his mother was unwittingly setting. ‘Och, I’ll no keep a man from his drink, Mrs Lawrence.’ She nodded towards Tom. ‘You go, Tom.’

  Tom looked at her and blinked and then, seeming suddenly to remember too, he gave her a quick, grateful smile.

  ‘Och well now,’ Nell was saying, ‘I’m no’ so sure I agree with you there, hen. It’s all very well, these traditions, but when they’ve wives and families. Now, you take their dad, he’s never gone out to the pub the minute he sets foot on land. The next day, well, maybe so, but he always liked to stay with his family . . .’ Nell prattled on, busying herself between the back scullery and the range but Jeannie felt a cold spasm of fear clutch her heart. It was an unfortunate choice of words on Nell’s part, in the past tense, and Jeannie prayed that they were not prophetic.

  But she was very much afraid that perhaps already the sea had indeed taken George Lawrence.

  Even with Tom gone from the house, the tension did not lessen. Not for Jeannie. She was aware all the time of Grace casting surreptitious, nervous glances at the clock above the fireplace. For a while Nell returned to her endless braiding against the wall, but by nine o’clock even she looked towards the clock and said, ‘Well, it doesna look as if your dad will be home tonight. Away to your bed now, hen.’ This to Grace, but her glance seemed to include Jeannie too.

  ‘Are – are you going to bed, Mam?’ To Jeannie’s ear, Grace’s voice seemed high-pitched with the anxiety she knew the girl was feeling.

  ‘No, no, I’ll sit by the fire a while longer, just in case.’

  Oh no, Jeannie thought. The waiting’s begun. Counting the hours, then the days and the weeks.

  Oh no, not again.

  She took a deep breath, rose from her chair and said as cheerfully as she could, ‘Shall I make us all some cocoa?’ And forcing a smile, she added, ‘Even I can manage that.’

  Minutes later as the three women sat sipping the hot liquid, the silence deepened between them until Grace sprang up from her chair, slopping the last of her cocoa over the side of the mug. ‘I’m going up,’ she said and Jeannie knew instinctively that the girl could not bear the suspense any longer, could not bear sitting there knowing that she was deceiving her mother and unable to shed the huge burden that was growing like a heavy weight in her chest.

  ‘All right, hen,’ Nell was saying calmly and lifting her face for her daughter’s dutiful goodnight kiss.

  As Grace left the room and they heard her footsteps mount the stairs, Jeannie too rose, but before she could move away, Nell’s hand touched her arm. Softly she said, ‘A moment, hen.’ She waited, holding her head on one side, listening until her daughter’s footsteps sounded in the room overhead.

  With her right index finger, Nell pushed her spectacles higher up her nose and looked straight at Jeannie. ‘I’m a wee bit concerned about George, but I don’t want Grace to worry. And Tom, maybe tonight the pub was the best place for him. He’ll think nothing of it, just that his father’s boat is late. And even if he does, well, the drink’ll dull his wits. But I know George. He always tries to beat the Hathersage boats back to Havelock. He should have been here on this morning’s tide along with Tom’s. Or at worst, tonight’s.’

  Jeannie said nothing but swallowed painfully, debating quickly within her mind whether or not she ought to tell Nell Lawrence what she knew. She felt caught in the middle now, between the family members each trying to keep their fears from the other.

  She leant across and patted Nell’s hand. ‘If you’ve heard nothing by the morning I’ll go to the offices mysel’ and find out.’

  ‘Thank you, Jeannie. I’d be grateful if you’d do that for me, hen. Very grateful.’

  Jeannie stood and then she too bent and kissed the woman’s cheek. A look of surprise crossed Nell’s face and for a moment her keen glance searched Jeannie’s face. She gave a slight nod of the head as if to indicate that she knew Jeannie understood what she was feeling only too well.

  ‘Away to your bed, hen.’

  As Jeannie opened the door leading to the stairs, she turned back once to look at the lonely figure sitting before the fire, gazing into its glowing depths, but every so often her glance would go to the clock on the mantelpiece. Without looking round, Nell said softly, ‘You know, I canna believe the sea has taken him. Not my George. When he was a young deckie, he was washed overboard, but the next wave washed him back on board again. Twice that happened to him. They always say . . .’ there was a catch in her voice now, ‘that if that happens, the sea doesna want them.’

  Jeannie could think of no reply and, quietly, she closed the door unable even to bring herself to say, ‘Goodnight.’

  Hours later, snuggled against her, Grace slept, but Jeannie found rest impossible. Through the long hours of the night, she waited, listening for the sound of Nell coming to bed or Tom returning home from the pub.

  But the house was silent. Just waiting . . .

  Twelve

  Breakfast at the Hathersage mansion five miles beyond the outskirts of Havelock was a tense affair, at least between the two men, Robert and his father-in-law.

  Louise, however, was in a frivolous mood, prattling endlessly about her plans for her nineteenth birthday the following week.

  ‘I had such a marvellous time in London last year staying with Madeleine. She took me to all the smart balls and social events. Can I go back again this year, Mummy?’

  Mrs Hathersage cast a coy glance at Robert. ‘It’s not up to us now, darling. You’re a married woman. You must ask your husband.’ But there was a sly insinuation in her tone that left Robert realizing that he really had no say in the matter.

  Louise gave her tinkling laugh and leant towards Robert seated next to her. ‘Can we go to London, Robert? For my birthday. We’d have such fun.’

  Robert opened his mouth to say that he could not leave at present because of the uncertainty about the Sea Spray, but before he could speak, Mr Hathersage’s voice came down the length of the table. ‘Of course you can go, my princess. It would do you good . . .’ He glanced at Robert as if suddenly remembering to include him and added quickly, ‘Both of you.’

  Louise clapped her hands in delight and cried, ‘Oh thank you, Daddy.’ She pushed back her chair and rushed to the end of the table to fling her arms about her father’s neck.

  How could they be thinking about such matters, Robert thought bitterly, when one of their trawlers may be lying at the bottom of the ocean with all hands? With a jerky, angry movement he stood up, turned and left the room, without dutifully kissing his wife’s cheek, nodding to his father-in-law or giving a polite bow of his head and murmuring ‘Mrs Hathersage’.

  ‘Well, really!’ he heard his mother-in-law say loudly as he marched across the hall towards the front door. ‘That young man really has a lot to learn as a husband.’

  And your daughter, Robert would liked to have said bitterly, has a lot to learn as a wife. As he drove down the wide sweeping driveway towards the wrought iron gates, Robert’s anger cooled a little. He drove his own motor car into Havelock each morning. He had no intention of keeping the same office hours as Mr Hathersage who was chauffeured into
his company offices at ten in the morning, took two hours for lunch and returned home to his mansion at three thirty each afternoon.

  He sighed as he pulled the motor to a halt outside the Gorton offices and sat a moment. Perhaps, for once, the Hathersages were right. Perhaps a little time away together in London would be good for both Louise and him. Away from the influence of her parents, maybe he could talk gently to her and they could take time to get to know each other. Maybe . . .

  As he walked towards the entrance to the building, other thoughts now pushed these plans aside. There were more urgent and important matters to be dealt with and as he ran lightly up the steps, Robert’s mind was full of foreboding about the news this day might bring.

  Jeannie awoke to the sound of frantic knocking on the back door. Slipping a shawl around her shoulders over her flannelette nightgown, she padded on bare feet down the stairs, through the kitchen and into the scullery in time to hear Nell’s voice raised indignantly.

  ‘And what right has the likes of you to come knocking on my door at this time of the morning? Or any morning, if it comes to that, Aggie Turnbull?’

  Jeannie gasped aloud. Aggie Turnbull? Here? It couldn’t be! But as she came to stand behind Nell and peer over her shoulder she could see at once that it was indeed the woman she had only before seen at a distance. Yet now she saw her close to, Aggie’s appearance was not what she had expected. For one thing she was older than Jeannie had believed her to be. She was hatless and her coat looked as if she had pulled it on in a great hurry. Her blonde hair was dishevelled and though she wore bright lipstick, it seemed to have been applied with a shaky hand. The outline around her perfectly shaped mouth was smudged. Her skin, though smooth, was blotchy and when Jeannie looked into the woman’s eyes, she saw why. Aggie’s clear blue eyes were brimming with tears.

  ‘Oh Nell. I’m sorry. I had to come. It’s not true, is it? For God’s sake tell me it’s not true. They’re saying – that George – that his boat is missing.’

  ‘My George is a fine skipper. He’ll no’ be losin’ his ship,’ Nell said, her mouth prim and tight. Was it Jeannie’s fancy or did Nell really emphasize the word ‘my’?

  ‘But it’s all round the docks . . .’

  ‘Well, I’ll no’ believe any tale you bring to ma door, Aggie Turnbull. Good-day.’ And Nell made as if to close the door.

  ‘Please, Nell.’ The woman clasped her hands together as if in prayer and Jeannie could see that her fingers were shaking. ‘For pity’s sake . . .’

  But Nell shut the door and leant her back against it. She closed her eyes and let out a deep groan. Jeannie stood watching her.

  ‘What was all that about?’ she asked.

  Nell opened her eyes, pushed her glasses up her nose with an irritated gesture. ‘Dinna ask, hen. Just dinna ask.’ But as Nell bustled away, Jeannie heard her mutter, ‘The impudent begger, coming to ma house . . .’

  ‘Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?’

  The bearded fisherman, standing before him, nodded gravely. Robert had come down to the fish dock to seek out the men from the other Gorton trawlers.

  ‘As sure as I can be, sir,’ the man was saying. ‘The storm was dreadful. So bad that our skipper stopped trawlin’. And it takes a fair blow to do that. Before dark, the Gorton Sea Spray was alongside us, well, you know, fishing ’aside us.’ He flung out his arm to the left as if indicating that the two vessels had been fishing parallel with each other. ‘Then in the morning, she’d gone.’

  ‘But maybe she’d moved. Maybe the storm had driven her away, out of your sight.’

  The man shrugged. ‘Possible, sir, I’ll not deny it. But . . .’ He hesitated and then shook his head. ‘Not very likely.’

  ‘Why?’

  The fisherman looked kindly at the well-dressed young man and explained patiently. Son of a trawler owner, he might be, but Robert had little experience at sea. ‘There were a lot of ships in the same area, sir. We’d found a good ground. And they,’ he paused as if for dramatic effect, ‘were all still there the following morning. All, except the Sea Spray.’

  Robert felt his heart sink. ‘I see,’ he said heavily. ‘Thank you for telling me what you know, but I still don’t know if it’s enough that we ought to – well – say the ship’s missing.’

  ‘There’s one other skipper you ought to talk to, sir.’ The man glanced around him, searching amongst the boats lining the quay. ‘He’s on a Hathersage ship, the North Sea Spirit. Hewson, they call him. There’s a tale going about that he picked up a body from the water. Could be . . .’ The man’s voice faded away, as if he too didn’t want to believe what might have happened.

  Robert swallowed hard. ‘But that still wouldn’t mean the ship had gone down. It might be that he got washed overboard in the storm.’ Robert was now like a drowning man clinging to the wreckage. And he knew it. And the skipper knew it too. Soberly, the man said, ‘Could be, sir, could be.’ But there was little hope in the wise old fisherman’s tone.

  It was Jeannie who opened the front door to find Robert Hayes-Gorton standing on the pavement outside. She knew at once, by the look on his face, that the news was bad.

  Pulling the door wider, she said curtly, ‘You’d better come in.’

  Nell, standing before the net on the wall, her fingers never still, called, ‘Who is it, hen?’

  Receiving no immediate answer she looked up as Jeannie ushered the man into the kitchen. Then Nell’s eyes widened, her glance flickering from one face to the other. And now, deep into her eyes, came the fear.

  Robert stood, an awkward figure in the cluttered room. He was taller than Jeannie had remembered and, closer now, she could see that his slim build belied a strength in his shoulders. He removed his hat and smoothed back his dark wavy hair. In his brown eyes Jeannie could see there was a haunted expression. Twisting his hat round and round in his hands, he said, ‘Mrs Lawrence . . .’

  His voice too, was deeper, though perhaps that was because of the difficult news he was trying to impart. Jeannie could sense, though she was reluctant to acknowledge it, that there was sympathy and genuine concern for these people in his tone.

  ‘Mrs Lawrence . . .’ His glance went briefly towards Tom who was rising from his seat by the fireplace. ‘I am so sorry to come with – with some bad news.’

  For a fleeting moment, Jeannie felt a flash of sympathy for the young man, but remembering again the night she had first encountered him, her pity died and she stood, jaw clenched, as he dragged out each painful word.

  Nell dropped the ball of sisal and the net flapped idly against the wall. She turned slowly to face Robert, her gaze now intent upon his face.

  ‘The Sea Spray has not – not returned. Of course, there’s still the chance that she’s late. That . . .’ He could add no further words, because he could think of none.

  Tom spoke now. ‘Have you asked around?’

  Robert turned his glance towards him, with a sense of relief. He could deal better with another man, a fisherman. ‘Yes, I’ve spoken to several of the other skippers from both our boats and those of the Hathersage company, and the last one, he – he had picked up a – a body from the sea and it was . . . I’m so sorry . . .’ Again his glance came back momentarily to Nell. ‘It was one of the crew from the Sea Spray.’

  For a moment there was silence in the room and then Tom gave a groan, sat down heavily in his chair and dropped his head into his hands, resting his elbows on his knees.

  With a slow, wooden movement, Nell turned back towards the wall and picked up the half-finished net. Her fingers grasped the braiding needle so tightly that her knuckles showed white. It was left to Jeannie, the comparative stranger in their midst, to say, forcing politeness into her tone, ‘Thank you for coming, sir. I’ll see you out . . .’ and led the way to the door into the street.

  Back on the pavement, he turned to face her. ‘If there’s anything I can do – anything, you will let me know?’

  She leant towards him, her eyes
flashing, no longer needing to hide her feelings. ‘Go. Just leave them alone. Havena you and yours done enough damage to this family?’

  He jerked backwards as if she had struck him physically. He stared at her for a moment and now she could see the tightening of his mouth and the anger in his eyes.

  He put on his hat, gave an exaggerated bow and said in a low, tight voice, ‘I’ll bid you “Good day”, Miss Buchanan.’ Then he turned and walked swiftly away.

  Turning back into the house, Jeannie closed the door, leant against it for a moment and gave a low groan. She shouldn’t have spoken to him like that. Not now, not at a time like this. He was the very person, probably the one and only person, who could help this family in their hour of need and now she had driven him away. She sighed heavily and moved back into the kitchen to find the two people there just as she had left them; Nell braiding the net and Tom sitting with his head in his hands making no move to comfort his mother nor to go out and try to find out more news for himself.

  Without stopping to think, Jeannie said as much. ‘Are you going down to the dock to see what you can find out?’ When there was no answer, no response of any kind from him, not even a movement, she said, more sharply, ‘Tom?’

  Slowly, like a man in a trance, Tom lifted his head and looked towards her, his eyes suspiciously wet. Jeannie gestured towards his mother. ‘Tom, hadna you better do something?’

  ‘What? What can I do?’

  ‘Well, go out and ask around. Get more news. Anything.’ She held her lower lip between her teeth, biting back the words, ‘anything instead of sitting there looking sorry for yoursel’’. ‘You should be thinking of others,’ she wanted to shout at him. ‘Of your mam and Grace, who doesna ken yet.’

  But all she said aloud was, ‘I’ll make a cup of tea,’ and went into the tiny scullery to busy herself.

  Minutes later she returned with a tin tray with three mugs on it. Nell was still braiding rapidly, her fingers steadier now and the net growing.