The Fisher Lass

by Margaret Dickinson

  Jeannie leant down towards him and put out her hand towards his face. But he leant backwards away from her. ‘What is it, Sammy?’

  ‘Is it true?’ he said again, ‘that he’s . . .’ he flung out an arm towards Tom, ‘not me dad and you’re – you’re . . .’ the young boy’s voice faltered a little, ‘not me real mam?’

  ‘Who’s been saying such things?’ Jeannie began angrily. ‘Just you tell me . . .’

  But from the hearth came Tom’s voice. ‘Oh tell him the truth, Jeannie, and let’s be done with it. He’s old enough now to know.’ He turned away back to his newspaper, dismissing the whole thing as being none of his concern.

  Jeannie rounded on him. ‘You don’t care, do you? You don’t care that someone’s been opening their mouth and . . . Just wait till I get ma hands on whoever . . .’ She turned back again to look down at the boy who was staring up at her with his bright blue eyes. His fair curling hair was rumpled and speckled with dirt and blood. His knees were scraped and there was a tear in the elbow of his jacket. ‘Who told you?’ she demanded.

  ‘Is it true?’ he said doggedly, yet again ignoring her question. His voice was calmer now but there was a quiet determination in his tone that demanded to be told the truth

  Jeannie put her arm about his shoulders and urged him towards the kitchen sink. ‘Let me sort that cut and then we’ll sit down quietly and I’ll explain.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Tom exploded. ‘Just tell him. Tell him the truth. That he’s my sister’s bastard and that she was no better than a whore and that we’re not quite sure who his father is. Mebbe it is one of the Hayes-Gorton brothers, but which one . . .’ He shot a venomous look at his wife. ‘Well, your guess is as good as mine.’

  Tom stood up from his chair, flung the paper to the floor and marched out of the back door. ‘I’m away to the Fisherman’s,’ he said, quite unnecessarily, and slammed the door behind him leaving a stricken young boy and an angry woman staring at each other.

  Sammy stood stoically silent whilst Jeannie bathed his cuts and bruises and then allowed her to lead him towards the fire. Still he said nothing as she sat down and pulled him close to her so that he was standing beside her knee, their eyes on a level. She left her arms draped loosely around his waist. The boy made no protest but stood waiting patiently for her to explain.

  First, Jeannie had a question of her own. ‘Who were you fighting with? Who was it who told you?’

  His voice was scarcely above a whisper. ‘Joe.’

  ‘Joe!’ She was shocked. They had always squabbled and she knew that now they were older, they resorted to fisticuffs now and then. But she had still thought that it was just boyish quarrelling between two brothers. She had not realized that feelings went much deeper than that. For they were not brothers, but cousins, and now, they both knew it.

  She sighed. ‘Your father’s . . .’ she began and then stopped. Even this was not true. She began again. ‘Tom had a sister called Grace. She was your mother, but she died giving birth to you and later the very same day, Joe was born.’

  ‘So you and Dad . . .’ there was the slightest hesitation over his reference to the man he had always believed to be his father, ‘are Joe’s Mam and Dad?’

  Jeannie nodded. ‘Yes, but to me, you’ve aye been my son too. I suckled you as a bairn and I’ve never treated you any differently to Joe. I’ve always thought of you both as my sons. My twin sons, really.’

  He appeared to be thinking for a moment, then Sammy shook his head. ‘Yeah, I know you have. But . . .’ His blue eyes gazed earnestly into hers. ‘He hasn’t.’

  Her arms tightened around him. ‘I know,’ she said softly. ‘And it’s never been fair. It wasn’t your fault you were born, but you’re the only one left for him to take it out on.’

  There was silence again. Jeannie didn’t need to ask how Joe had found out. People round here had long memories. Children overheard adults gossiping and so . . .

  ‘Joe said I ain’t got a dad,’ Sammy’s voice was small, barely audible even standing so close to her.

  Jeannie almost smiled despite the emotion of the moment. ‘Of course you’ve got a dad. Everyone has. But – well – because your mam and dad weren’t married, he doesna acknowledge you as his. See?’

  The boy thought for a moment and then nodded. ‘I think so. But – but who is he? Do you know?’

  ‘Mr Francis Hayes-Gorton.’

  ‘The man who used to come here sometimes?’

  Jeannie winced. Another piece of common knowledge that had obviously found its way to the boys’ ears as it had to Tom’s.

  ‘No, that’s his brother, Mr Robert. He’s aye shown an interest in you.’

  ‘But he doesn’t come now.’ The boy’s voice was accusing, suggesting that the man’s interest had waned.

  Jeannie sighed. ‘No. But that wasna his fault. I had to stop him coming.’

  ‘Why?’

  Her mouth was tight. ‘Same reason that’s caused today’s trouble, son. Bloody neighbours blethering.’

  The boy blinked. Jeannie never swore and the fact that she did so now, underlined her bitterness.

  Sammy was silent for a moment and then gently he pulled away from her embrace. ‘Thank you for telling me,’ he said, with an unusual adult courtesy. Then he turned and walked towards the door, a defiant bearing in the set of his shoulders and a dignified carriage of his head that had not been there before. Sammy, Jeannie realized, had in the last hour, grown up. The shock he had just received would not defeat him. It would be the making of him.

  Twenty-Seven

  Robert stood at the long window of the drawing room and looked out upon the neat garden realizing that he was a lonely, unhappy man with little to look forward to in a desolate future. Even his visits to Baldock Street had ceased long ago.

  He thought back to the last time Jeannie had opened the door to him. It was the little boys’ fifth birthday and he had come loaded with presents. A new blazer for each of them for school, a pencil case and a satchel. All well-meaning gifts, yet he had learnt, many years later, that they had never been used. His middle-class offerings would have set the children apart from their peers, and Jeannie, swift to protect them, had waited to see if the boys themselves chose to use them. They never had.

  But Robert remembered that day. If he closed his eyes he could still see her so clearly. Her unruly red hair twisted up onto the top of her head, her green eyes troubled and a dab of flour smudging her nose. He had longed to reach out and brush it away with a tender, loving action. But as he had taken his leave, he had stood on the doorstep listening to her words that would extinguish the only bright spot in his life.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Robert,’ she had said. Had it been fanciful imagination on his part, or had there been a tearful catch in her voice? ‘But I’ll have to ask you not to come here any more. There’s been gossip.’ She had given an exasperated toss of her head towards the street outside her home. ‘You ken what they’re like . . .’

  She had not needed to say more. He could guess the rest. And now, eight years later, standing alone in the empty house, he still remembered the moment with regret for his own reaction to her words. To hide his disappointment, he had behaved like a pompous oaf, he told himself. He had raised his hat to her, given a stiff little bow, and said, ‘As you wish,’ then turned and walked out of her life.

  As she had watched him walk away, Jeannie had thought her heart would break. But she had had no choice. After Tom’s last time ashore, when he had made snide remarks about Robert’s continuing visits, she had known that she would have to stop him coming to the house.

  ‘Aggie ses Mr Robert still comes here on a Thursday afternoon, even though the lads have started school now. And that’s the afternoon me mam goes out. That right?’

  ‘No, it isna,’ Jeannie had replied shortly. ‘And Aggie Turnbull’d do better to mind her own business.’

  ‘But he does come here?’ Tom had refused to let the matter drop.

>   ‘He comes to see Sammy,’ Jeannie had said, trying to keep her voice level, though she was fast losing patience.

  ‘What, when he’s at school? Pull the other one, Jeannie. It’s you he comes to see.’ He jabbed a finger towards her. ‘Well, I aren’t havin’ it! He might let his wife mek a cuckold out of him, but I aren’t. Not even if he is me boss.’

  Jeannie swung round, her temper flaring now. ‘How dare you accuse me of any such thing!’ She advanced towards him, her own finger now wagging in his face, only inches away. ‘He comes here to see the boy. Let’s face it, he’s the only man who does take any interest in the wee man. His father doesna and neither do you.’

  For a moment Tom had looked ashamed. ‘I can’t help it if I can’t feel the same about him as I do about our Joe.’

  ‘Well, you could at least act it,’ she had snapped back, but even as she had said the words she had known it was useless. Tom would never change in his attitude towards Sammy, nor in his jealousy over Robert Hayes-Gorton.

  It was not until later, after she had spoken to Robert and told him not to visit any more, that Jeannie remembered Tom’s words again and wondered what he had meant about Robert being made a cuckold. Well, she wasn’t going to be able to solve that little bit of gossip and besides, it wasn’t really any of her business.

  She had thought her action would stop the chatter but no, even eight years after that day, it was still going on. And now wagging tongues had rocked young Sammy’s world.

  Well, this was her business and there was something she could do. There was only one person to blame: Aggie Turnbull.

  In the years since she had come to Havelock that woman had seemed to intrude upon Jeannie’s life in all sorts of ways; ways that she did not fully understand. Mention of the woman’s name would upset Nell for the rest of the day and yet Tom had no compunction in talking freely about her.

  It was time, Jeannie decided, that she had words with Aggie Turnbull herself.

  When the door opened, Jeannie felt a smug satisfaction at the surprise on the woman’s face.

  ‘Well, well.’ Aggie smiled and held the door wider, tacitly inviting Jeannie inside. ‘Who’d have thought I’d ever see you on my doorstep again, Mrs Lawrence. Not requiring my midwifery services again, are you?’

  ‘No,’ Jeannie said shortly, feeling the familiar stab of disappointment that there had been no more bairns for her and Tom. ‘But there is something you can do for me.’

  ‘Do come into my drawing room.’ Aggie led the way and Jeannie found herself sitting down on a silk brocade covered sofa. Aggie sat down in a matching easy chair, crossed her slim, white-stockinged legs and said, ‘Now, my dear, what can I possibly do for you?’

  Jeannie stared at her. It was thirteen years since she had seen Aggie close to. Not since the night the two boys had been born when, she had to admit, she had been thankful for Aggie’s help. Remembering, some of the anger that had carried her here faded.

  She was still much as Jeannie remembered her except that now the cosmetics could not cover the passage of the intervening years. Beneath the blonde hair, the bright lipstick and the silk dress, Aggie was growing old. She must be nearly as old as Nell, Jeannie thought, as Aggie serenely submitted herself to Jeannie’s scrutiny without a trace of embarrassment, a small smile on her mouth.

  Jeannie said bluntly, ‘I dinna like you blethering about me. It’s no’ true and every time Tom comes home, he still—’

  ‘Ah yes, Tom,’ Aggie said smoothly. ‘Poor Tom. Such a dear, but a little, what shall we say, weak, don’t you find?’

  ‘Weak?’ Jeannie was startled.

  ‘Mm. Isn’t that what you would call it? He goes to sea for one or two trips and then suddenly there’s some excuse for him to miss the next one and languish ashore for the following three weeks. Then back to sea he’ll go, one or two trips and then . . .’ She leant forward. ‘Don’t tell me in all these years, you hadn’t realized?’

  Jeannie was silent, staring at the woman. Oh yes, of course she’d realized it. But to hear it from someone else’s mouth, particularly from the likes of Aggie Turnbull, shocked her.

  Aggie leant back amongst the brocade cushions and sighed, waving a slim, elegant hand in the air. ‘Of course, he’s not the man his father was. Now, there was a man.’

  Jeannie levered herself to her feet. What on earth had possessed her to come here and why was she sitting here allowing this woman to talk about the Lawrence menfolk as if she knew them both – intimately?

  Well, if she did, then Jeannie had no wish to hear about it.

  ‘Going already?’ Aggie looked up, amusement in her eyes. ‘So soon?’ She stood up too and now her face was suddenly serious. ‘Jeannie, I know what everyone round here thinks about me and I expect you share their opinions. Well, some of it’s probably true, but a lot of it isn’t. One thing I will tell you, I do not spread gossip. Oh, I hear a lot. I know just about everything that goes on around here. But it wasn’t me who spread the rumours about Mr Robert Hayes-Gorton and his visits to see his nephew when Tom was at sea. Nor did I tell young Joe about young Sammy’s – er – origins.’

  Jeannie gasped and her eyes widened. So, Aggie knew even this.

  ‘Your gossip-monger, Jeannie, is closer to home. Someone in your own street whose lace curtains twitch every time someone sneezes.’

  ‘Who?’ Jeannie said, disbelieving.

  ‘Well now, I’d be gossiping too if I were to tell you, now wouldn’t I?

  ‘Och, dinna be so aggravating, Aggie Turnbull.’

  At this the woman threw back her head and laughed. ‘Oh Jeannie, I like you. I really like you. How I wish I had a friend like you.’

  As Jeannie opened her mouth to make a sharp retort, Aggie held up her hand. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said and, suddenly, Jeannie detected a note of wistfulness in her voice. ‘I know it can never be. Just, my dear,’ her tone was softer, gentler, ‘as there can never be anything between you and Mr Robert.’

  ‘There is nothing between us,’ Jeannie retorted hotly, her face fiery red.

  ‘I know, I know. But you’d both like there to be, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘No!’ The denial was like the crack of a sail, yet both women knew it to be false.

  ‘Why else,’ Aggie asked quietly, ‘would you bother to come here, to risk visiting a woman with my reputation, if there was absolutely nothing to feel the tiniest bit guilty about?’

  Jeannie blundered from the room and out of the house, knowing that she had made a dreadful mistake in coming. Aggie Turnbull was nothing like the woman she had imagined her to be. She was intelligent and sharp and she had neatly turned the tables upon Jeannie.

  Robert turned away from the window as he heard the rattle that heralded the arrival of the evening newspaper. Automatically, his mind still preoccupied, he walked across the tiled floor of the hall and pulled the paper from the jaws of the brass letterbox. He unfolded it and stood in the middle of the hall, staring down at the paper. The newsprint blurred before his eyes and then suddenly, it sharpened as he read the headline. A headline so dramatic that at once his thoughts were pulled back with a jolt from the events of eight years ago to the present.

  ‘HITLER MARCHES INTO CZECHOSLOVAKIA’.

  The answer to his boredom was staring up at him. With more energy and enthusiasm than he had felt for years, he flung the newspaper to the floor where it lay in a crumpled heap on the otherwise immaculate and sterile floor. Robert picked up his hat from the table and left the house, pulling the door closed behind him with the satisfied air of a decision made.

  Twenty-Eight

  ‘You are going to do what?’ Samuel Hayes-Gorton rose from his swivel chair and leant on his desk towards his son standing on the opposite side.

  ‘I said,’ Robert repeated calmly, ‘I am going to join the Royal Navy Volunteer Reserves.’

  ‘Edwin,’ the older man roared. ‘Get in here this instant.’

  A moment later the communicating door between two
offices opened and Edwin poked his head round it. ‘Hullo, old chap,’ he beamed at his brother. ‘Nice to see you back. Feeling better?’

  Robert felt the colour rising in his neck and felt guilty about the small lie he had told for his absence from the family business during the past week. ‘I’ve got the bost dreadful co’d,’ he had said into the telephone five days earlier, holding his nose as he did so. ‘I can’t bossibly come in.’ He remembered sniffing loudly and had even manufactured a sneeze.

  ‘Of course not, Mr Robert,’ Miss Jenkins, secretary to all the senior partners, had gushed. ‘I do hope you’ll soon be feeling better.’

  And now he was back with not so much as a red nose to lend credence to his pretence. ‘Fine. Didn’t last long, as it happens.’

  ‘Fine? Fine, he says?’ their father boomed. ‘The boy’s taken leave of his senses.’ He snorted derisively. ‘If he ever had any.’

  Edwin’s puzzled glance went from one to the other. Then Samuel Hayes-Gorton flung out his arm. ‘Only says he wants to join the Royal Navy. That’s all.’

  ‘The . . .?’ Edwin began and then said, ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Exactly!’ Samuel bellowed again. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘The Volunteer Reserves,’ Robert corrected. ‘And I shan’t be going away. There’ll just be training sessions once or twice a week, I expect.’

  It had all seemed so easy, that spur of the moment decision standing in the empty loneliness of his house – and he used the word ‘house’ deliberately for it never had been and never would be a home. Not without a woman who . . . He sighed again. Not without Jeannie there. And that was another reason. Maybe if he could find some direction for his energies, he might be able to stop thinking about her every waking moment.

  ‘Robert?’ Robert heard Edwin’s gentle voice interrupting his thoughts. ‘Why, old chap?’

  Robert lifted his shoulders. ‘I just need something positive to do with my life.’’

  ‘Something positive?’ their father roared again. ‘You don’t regard running the Gorton-Hathersage Trawler Company as something positive?’