The Girl with the Creel
Doris Davidson
This eBook edition published in 2015 by
Birlinn Ltd
West Newington House
10 Newington Road
Edinburgh
EH9 1QS
www.birlinn.co.uk
Copyright © Doris Davidson 2002
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.
eBook ISBN: 9780857906991
Version 1.0
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Contents
Part One: 1928–1938
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Part Two: 1939–1942
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Part Three: 1942–1944
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Also Available from Birlinn
For Isabel Harrison whose enthusiasm for the heritage of her home town inspired me to write this novel, with gratitude for the help she gave, especially for correcting me on various points.
My thanks to:
Doreen, who, as usual, read through my manuscript for typing and other errors. Sheila, Debra, Alan and Carol, for letting me bounce ideas off them, and for giving me some suggestions.
Isabel (again), Hugh and Margaret, for the help given me in the Buckie Heritage Cottage, which is run voluntarily.
All concerned in the Buckie Drifter, run by the Fishing Heritage Society.
Bertha and Bill, for taking Jimmy and me up the coast road, for going down into Pennan (home of ‘Local Hero’) and Gardenstown, and for finding the Heritage Cottage once we reached Buckie.
Jimmy himself, for driving me back there more than once.
Lillias and Ted, for telling us about the Heritage Cottage in the first place.
Last but by no means least, the lady (I very much regret not asking her name, but she lives in No. 19 the Yardie) who was hanging out clothes on the sea front when I asked if she could spare me a few minutes. Born and brought up in the Yardie (although not in No. 19), she and her husband spent a full twenty minutes with us, and she gave me a good description of life there in the thirties.
Apologies to the good folk of Buckie for not using their dialect in my novel.
PART ONE
1928–1938
Chapter One
Excitement pounded through Lizann Jappy as she took her new dress out of the cupboard. It was absolutely beautiful, the ribbons slotted through the holes at the neck in a slightly darker shade of pink, and a dainty pearl button to fasten it at the back. The tiny sleeves just capped her shoulders, and although it wasn’t fitted at the waist, the sash would pull it in to any size. Her father had never allowed her to go dancing before, and he had only agreed, after much pleading, on condition that her brother looked after her and saw her home. At sixteen and a half she didn’t fancy being chaperoned, and, slipping the taffeta creation over her head, she hoped that Mick would be too involved with his own affairs to watch what she was doing. She intended to dance with as many different boys as she possibly could; she was determined that she would find romance tonight!
Smoothing the ends of the sash over her right hip, she went downstairs slowly and came to a halt in the doorway of the kitchen. She had planned to make a grand entrance, but the other three members of her family were in a huddle over the fire and were totally unaware of her. Waiting to be noticed, she studied them critically. People often told her that she took after her mother and she could see it for herself now. They both had fair skins – surprising with such black hair and dark brown eyes – were small-boned and quite short. The only difference was that her mother bordered on the delicate, whereas she was wiry and had hardly had a day’s illness in her life.
Lizann compared the two men now. Mick, at twenty-one, bore a striking resemblance to their father, with bushy eyebrows and light brown hair that waved at the front. They, too, had brown eyes, but their years at sea had made their complexions ruddy and weatherbeaten, and, at just under six feet, their height camouflaged their breadth.
As if sensing her scrutiny, Willie Alec turned round. His admiring gasp let her know that the effort she had put into making herself look her best had been worth every minute, and Mick looked thunderstruck at her improved appearance. Her mother, who had bought her the dress last week in McKay’s, was smiling at their reactions and nodding her head.
Recovering from his astonishment, Willie Alec spoke first. ‘You’ll draw lads to you like a magnet looking like that, lass. You see now, Mick? You’ll have to make sure she doesn’t come to any ill.’
Mick had been objecting to being told to look after his young sister, but he could understand his father’s concern for her now. She was bound to be swamped with partners, and she was too young to know how to sort the chaff from the grain. She could easily be led astray by some sweet-talking rogue. ‘I’ll watch her like a hawk,’ he promised.
‘And mind you take her home,’ Willie Alec grunted.
The Jappys lived in a fishing hamlet called the Yardie, consisting of sixty-five variously-sized cottages tightly packed into an unbelievably small area. Perched on the Moray Firth, it was made up of a rectangle of dwellings with several tiny, pavement-edged closes (not wide enough to be called streets), each holding perhaps five or six domiciles, filling the interior. The main road north – to Elgin and Inverness – ran close past one of the long sides of the oblong, but it was quite obvious that the houses facing it had been there first. The opposite side ran parallel with the sea, facing what had once been a small harbour but which had silted up so often that it had fallen out of use and been dismantled.
A stranger chancing on the Yardie and interested enough to investigate beyond its façade would be forgiven for thinking, probably correctly, that the original inhabitants, those who had built their homes by the grey North Sea over a century ago, had wanted to keep completely apart from the communities on either side of them and had thus packed as many houses as possible on to their piece of land. Being men who earned their living from the sea, whose whole lives were bound by the sea, they had made no provision for gardens, only minuscule backyards where nets could be spread out to dry. Sadly for those who followed on, the Yardie had eventually been swallowed by the expanding port of Buckie – although it still seemed to present an aura, an identity, of its own.
As soon as they left their house, one of those bordering the road, Lizann said indignantly, ‘You don’t have to look after me, Mick, I’m not a bairn now.’
‘You don’t know anything about lads.
’
‘And I’ll never get a chance to learn if you keep spying on me,’ she declared hotly.
They walked the rest of the way without speaking – Lizann hoping he wouldn’t spoil her evening, and Mick wondering if Jenny Cowie would let him see her home when they’d have his sister with them. After delivering Lizann, of course, he and Jenny would be alone, but her house was hardly any distance along from his.
When they arrived at the Town Hall, Mick waited for Lizann to come out of the cloakroom, and was surprised when Peter Tait, his closest friend, showed up. Like Jenny, Peter lived in Main Street, Buckpool, originally another village in its own right but, practically rubbing shoulders with the Yardie, now integrated as the most westerly part of Buckie. He and Mick had been in the same class right through school, and Peter had been as often in the Jappys’ house as in his own until Mick started working seven years before – he was engineer on the Silver Star, the drifter on which his father was mate. Peter had carried on his education in order to become an apprentice draughtsman in Jones’s shipyard, but he still popped into the Yardie at least once every time Mick was ashore.
‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ Mick smiled. ‘I thought you weren’t all that keen on dancing.’
Peter pulled a face. ‘Neither I am, but I went to ask if you’d come out for a walk, and your mother told me you were here.’
‘I’d to take Lizann with me, worse luck.’ It occurred to Mick that his friend could share his burden. ‘Peter, I don’t want to tie you down,’ he said, hopefully, ‘but … um … would you mind giving her a dance or two?’
‘No bother.’
Lizann appearing at that moment, Peter’s expression changed to stunned amazement at the butterfly which had emerged from the chrysalis. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Mick grinned, and made a beeline for Jenny Cowie, the slender, chestnut-haired girl he had fancied for quite a while.
For the next twenty minutes or so, he did take a few looks to check on his sister, but when he saw that she was still being partnered by Peter, he relaxed to enjoy himself.
Proudly displaying the steps Mick had taught her over the past week, Lizann wondered why Peter didn’t dance with any other girls, and then guessed that he was too shy. He’d always treated her like a sister, so he would feel as easy with her as she felt with him, but she wished he’d give some of the other boys a chance to take her up.
Peter stood awkwardly beside her during the interval, and she hoped that he would look for another partner for the second half, yet she was quite glad when he led her on to the floor as the band struck up again. The waltz had scarcely begun when he murmured, ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being too personal, Lizann, but that dress makes your cheeks pinker, and your mouth …’ He stopped, colour suffusing his face, and swallowed before he went on, diffidently, ‘Your lips are like cherries.’
‘It’s lipstick,’ she laughed, ‘and if my mother knew I’d bought some, she’d have a fit. I put it on in the cloakroom.’
‘It suits you. You’re … very pretty tonight. I never noticed before.’
Something in his hazel eyes made her heart flutter, and when he added, ‘You’re the prettiest girl here,’ she didn’t know what to say. She was seeing him in a different light, too, and instead of the old familiar Peter, it was a tall, handsome, blond stranger who was holding her in his arms.
For the next hour, they were acutely conscious of each other, and she felt confused each time their eyes met. His hold was firmer than it had been earlier, as if he were afraid she would turn and run, which was the last thing she would have done. She didn’t know what was happening to her, but whatever it was, it felt good.
‘Can I walk you home?’ Peter asked suddenly, begging almost.
‘If … you want,’ she whispered, doubting if her quivering legs would carry her that far.
His grip on her tightened even more. ‘There’s always a mad rush at the end, so we’d best go now, before the last dance starts.’
‘I’ll have to tell Mick …’
‘Go and get your coat. I’ll tell him.’
In the empty cloakroom, she looked at herself in the mirror above the wash-hand basin. She had brushed her short springy hair so many times when she was getting ready that it seemed as though her face was framed by dozens of shiny black bubbles, and her dark eyes sparkled above her flushed cheeks. Her lipstick had worn off, but her lips weren’t as pale as they usually were. She did look different, not pretty exactly, but certainly more attractive. Was it only the effect of the new dress, or was it because Peter had paid her those compliments? Surely it wasn’t just being with him? She felt timid now at the thought of him taking her home. What if he tried to kiss her? After considering this, she decided that it might be quite nice … but he likely wouldn’t.
When she went into the passage again, Peter was waiting for her. ‘Mick says it’s fine by him.’
His voice sounded odd, trembly, making her suspect that he felt just as strange as she did, but he followed her out into the darkness of the November night. The cold air made her shiver, and he put his arm round her waist and pulled her close. They walked slowly for some distance before he muttered, ‘It’s funny. I’ve always thought of you as Mick’s wee sister, and now …’ His voice trailed off, and when he spoke again it appeared to be with difficulty. ‘Lizann, you don’t know what you’ve done to me.’
Not conscious of having done anything, she wished he would explain, but he said nothing more, and when they came to the small cluster of old houses that made up the Yardie, she said, ‘Goodnight, Peter, and thanks for seeing me home.’
His brief hesitation made her hope he was going to kiss her, but he dropped his arm. ‘Will you come out with me tomorrow night?’
‘Yes, if you like.’ She didn’t think her father would object; Peter had always been like one of the family.
‘I’ll come for you about seven, then. Goodnight, Lizann.’
When she went into the house, Willie Alec said, sharply, ‘Is Mick not with you?’
‘No, Peter Tait took me home.’
He frowned. ‘Mick likely had other fish to fry.’
‘She’d been safe wi’ Peter, though,’ Hannah smiled. ‘D’you want a cup o’ tea, Lizann, before you go to your bed?’
‘No thanks.’ Climbing the stairs, she reflected that all she wanted was peace to recall the wonderful evening.
Practically sure that Peter had wanted to kiss her goodnight but had been afraid to, Lizann wondered if Mick was kissing Jenny. He probably was, for he’d had eyes for nobody else. He obviously liked her, maybe loved her? Did she love Peter? This happy yet oddly disturbing churning inside her, was that love? And did he feel the same?
At breakfast, Mick teased her about Peter. ‘Anybody’d have thought it was the first time you’d met, the way you looked at each other.’
Willie Alec’s scowl made Hannah step in before he could say anything. ‘You’d likely been neglecting her, Mick, and Peter had danced wi’ her because nobody else asked her.’
Lizann’s heart cramped. Had he felt sorry for her? Was that all?
Mick dispelled her fears. ‘He didn’t give anybody else a chance, he stuck to her like glue.’
Hannah poured herself another cup of tea. ‘It’s a good thing somebody looked after her. Eat up now, or you’ll be late for the kirk.’
Winking at Lizann, Mick did as he was told. Despite pressure from the American evangelists who targeted the area at intervals, Willie Alec had staunchly clung to his own beliefs, and, although Mick had quite enjoyed the catchy tunes of the hymns sung at the few Gospel meetings he had attended on the quiet, and the modern approach to the teaching of the scriptures, he hadn’t been brave enough to go against his father and break away from the Church of Scotland. So he still went with Lizann to the morning services in the North Church in East Church Street, while their parents attended in the evening because Willie Alec preferred the shorter sermons.
‘I wish you hadn’t said that
about Peter,’ Lizann observed, as they walked along the road. ‘You wouldn’t have liked if I’d told them about you and Jenny Cowie.’
Her brother grinned. ‘It was just a bit of fun.’
‘I’m supposed to be going out with him tonight, and Father’ll likely not let me go now.’
Mick looked surprised. ‘Don’t tell me you and Peter … I never thought. I’m sorry, little sister, trust me to open my big mouth and put my foot in it. But you don’t need to say it’s him you’re going out with. Say it’s one of your chums. Father wouldn’t be any the wiser.’
‘I’m not telling him any lies.’
‘Well, I’ll stick up for you if he tries to stop you seeing Peter.’
‘Will you?’ Lizann sounded more optimistic. ‘Thanks, Mick. Um, are you to be going steady with Jenny Cowie?’
‘I hope so, but she doesn’t get out much. Her mother’s an invalid, and her father’s not fit to work, so she has to look after them. She can’t have a proper job, either, just taking in sewing for other folk.’
‘Oh, poor Jenny, and she’s such a nice girl.’
‘Aye, she is that.’
Entering the church, they walked sedately to their pew, for which Willie Alec paid half-a-crown per year and which was marked by a card reserving it for ‘William Alexander Jappy and Family’. The first two hymns were each followed by a prayer and then the Reverend Crawford gathered his loins to deliver his sermon. Coming to the end of a long ministry, he sometimes did not have the energy to prepare anything new, and as soon as he launched into his oft-repeated dissertation on the Ten Commandments – so oft, indeed, that his regular listeners could have prompted him if he stuck and many of the young fry cheekily mouthed along with him – Lizann settled back to think about Peter.
It took her some time to imagine him actually kissing her, and when she succeeded, it was so pleasurable that she opened her eyes guiltily in case something of it showed in her face. All eyes were turned towards the pulpit, however, some of them glassily unaware of what the preacher fondly imagined he was getting across to them with his thumps on the large Bible, some of them even closed in sleep. Relieved, she slid back into her daydream, and she was savouring a particularly tender kiss when the raising of the minister’s voice disrupted her well-being. ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s house,’ he roared, ‘thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife, nor his manservant, nor his maid-servant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor anything that is thy neighbour’s.’
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