‘I want to keep it!’ Simon protested, gazing into the puppy’s eager brown eyes. ‘I like it.’
‘We are keeping her. Never mind what your mother says.’
‘Good,’ Simon laughed, and poked his tongue out at Lynn.
She saw that she’d lost the argument. ‘Is it house trained?’
‘Not quite. And she’s a she.’
‘Well, you’ll be cleaning her crap up, then, until she is,’ she said. ‘Has she got a name?’
‘What shall we call her, Simon?’
‘Lassie!’
‘Right, Lassie it is, then. When’s your dad sailing?’
‘Monday – and you’ll be looking after the dog on your own tomorrow. I’ll be going to see him.’
‘You can’t. My mother’s invited us to dinner, remember? And if we get there late, the Yorkshire puddings will be ruined, and that’ll put her out for the week.’
So, we’ll let your mother’s Yorkshire puddings take precedence over my father’s ruined life, Lynn thought – but she couldn’t say it, since her father didn’t want ‘Graham’s team’ crowing about his domestic disaster. Nor could she ask Graham to take her to Boulevard in the car. Going by bus after lunch was hardly worth the effort, for the little time it would leave her to spend with him, and there was no guarantee he’d be in when she got there. There was no guarantee she wouldn’t get another ‘Cheerio, lass!’ even if he was.
She left Simon and Graham with the dog, and went into the hallway, to phone him. There was no answer, and if he’d been there he would certainly have answered, in case it was her mother. He might have gone to Margaret’s, but it was more likely he was still in some pub or other, drinking himself into oblivion – and there was nothing she could do about it.
She would have to leave it to Margaret, as usual. At least she only lived round the corner, and with all Jim’s relatives nearby there was always somebody who would watch the lads for her while she went.
Lynn’s thoughts drifted back to her parents later that night, after she and Graham had made friends again in bed. She hoped her father hadn’t taken that awful woman home – her mother would have a fit if she found out he’d had somebody like that in the house. But her mother was nobody to criticise anybody, now. What business was it of hers who he had in the house now she’d deserted him? And where on earth was she, with that Piers? Talk about gods with feet of clay! Lynn would never have believed it of either of them, forty-eight hours ago. It just goes to show, she thought, you never really know anybody, not even your own mother and father.
And fancy her dad telling her she should have stuck to Alec! He would never have said anything like that if he hadn’t been half Brahms and Liszt. Why hadn’t she said: I went back to Graham because I love him? Probably because that hadn’t been the first thought to jump into her mind. She ought to have told him straight out that she would have stuck with Alec, if Alec hadn’t given her the brush-off.
But that cut too deep even to think about. That ugly wound had to be kept hidden from everybody – from herself most of all. Yeah, I’ve buried that, she thought. I’ve buried it.
*
‘I’ve had just about enough of that dog,’ she complained a few days later, on finding another smelly little pile in the kitchen.
‘I’ll do it! I’ll clean it up,’ Simon volunteered, with the puppy prancing and capering around him.
‘No, you won’t. Don’t you go near it! Your dad’s the one who should be clearing this up,’ she said, delving in the cupboard under the sink for the thick rubber gloves and the toilet roll, and the bucket, cloth and bleach kept for the purpose.
But Graham, naturally, was never there to deal with these stomach-turning little accidents. Typically, he walked in when the job was done and everything had been sanitised.
He arrived home five minutes later, early for once, and no tea ready. He handed her the Hull Mail. ‘There’s a trawler gone missing,’ he said, and went to hang up his coat, with the puppy jumping and barking round his feet.
Lynn’s heart leaped into her mouth. Anthony, her dad, Jim . . . Alec! It might be any of them.
‘Not heard of for days. Search begins for Sprite’, the headline ran. She quickly scanned the column: ‘. . . sailed on 10 January . . . last seen off the Lofoten Islands on January 13 . . . a full-scale air and sea search has begun . . .’
Her dad was all right, anyway. He’d sailed on the fourteenth, only ten days ago. And Anthony was all right, he’d sailed just after the New Year, on the Silver Fox. But when had Jim sailed? She couldn’t remember. And what about Alec? Nobody seemed to have seen hide nor hair of him for ages. The Sprite, the Sprite, she thought, with creeping dread. Wasn’t that the ship that Alec had sailed on months ago? That ship that someone had deliberately damaged, rather than sail in her? The Lofoten Islands were an eighteen-hundred-mile round trip, as far as she could remember – surely it would take four days to get there, maybe five. Jim was probably all right, but she couldn’t be sure, and she couldn’t ring and find out, because Margaret had no telephone.
She went to phone Brenda, who had not only seen the paper but had heard dark rumours about the silent trawler. The word was that the sparks had refused to sail on her, so she’d left the dock with no radio operator. ‘Don’t worry about Anthony, he’s all right. He’s on the Silver Fox’. Brenda hesitated for a moment, and then said: ‘The Sprite’s the one that Alec was on about, that had to be towed back to Hull, because the spare hand took an axe to the steering gear.’
‘Do you know whether he was on it this trip?’ Lynn asked, careful not to mention his name, in case Graham was listening.
‘We’ve heard nothing from Alec for ages,’ Brenda said.
Lynn resisted the temptation to ask whether Orla knew anything about him, and concentrated on Jim. But Brenda had no idea which ship Jim was on, and she couldn’t go to Margaret’s and find out because she’d sprained her ankle falling on the ice, and was finding it painful to walk. ‘Ring your mother,’ she said, ‘and ask her to go.’
No help there, then, Lynn thought, as she put the phone down. ‘You’ll have to take me to our Margaret’s after tea,’ she told Graham. ‘I’ve got an awful feeling Jim might have been on that ship.’
‘I can’t. I’m going out.’
‘What, again? You can drop me off before you go, then. I’ll take Simon with me.’
‘Simon’s at school tomorrow, and what about Lassie? You can’t leave her in the house on her own.’
A week of scrubbing carpets and floors and rescuing chewed footwear convinced Lynn that he was right. She could not leave Lassie alone in the house. ‘Ring your mother, then,’ she said, ‘and ask her to have Simon and Lassie. She can take Simon to school tomorrow, if I have to stay over.’
‘I don’t want to go to Grandma’s,’ Simon said. ‘I want to come to Auntie Margaret’s, and play with the lads.’
‘Why should you have to stay over?’ Graham frowned. ‘Why should you go, in the first place? What can you do about it, even if Jim is on that ship?’
‘I can give our Margaret a bit of help and comfort, because if anything’s happened to Jim, she’ll be absolutely devastated. She’ll need me.’
‘Here, hand me that paper; let me have a look.’
She handed it over.
He quickly skimmed the article, then read aloud: ‘A director of the firm said: “The trawler’s silence is most likely owing to a radio failure. There is no immediate cause for concern.” So there you are – it’s a bit too soon to start panicking. What’s for tea? I’m starving.’
‘They don’t start a full-scale air and sea search for nothing, Graham.’
‘No, but you needn’t go charging off before you know anything’s wrong. And it’s not as if you’re her only relative. What’s wrong with your mother going? She’s on the spot. And what about all Jim’s sisters? He’s got dozens of them, as far as I can make out. Half of Hessle Road’s related to him. Let them deal with it. Go on, ring your moth
er now and tell her to call at Margaret’s, and let you know what’s going on.’
Never do anything yourself – tell somebody else to do it, and report back to you. How typically Graham, Lynn thought. No wonder this master of the art of delegation was a rising star in the company. He was evidently destined for great things. She walked into the hallway and went through the charade of ringing a house that she knew was empty. Graham followed. She held the receiver to his ear.
‘Well, there’s nobody there, is there?’ he said. ‘She’ll have seen the paper and gone straight to Margaret’s. There’s no need for you to go at all.’
Lynn went into the kitchen without another word and silently got on with the evening meal, her mind full of those school friends who had been orphaned after the sinking of the Jacinta and Diego, lost off Iceland’s North Cape with not a single survivor: forty men and boys claimed by the sea and lost to mothers, fathers, wives and children – everyone who loved them. She thought about Margaret and Jim’s four lads and tears filled her eyes. Thank God neither Anthony nor her father was on that ship. Thank God that Brenda had refused that awful wedding dress – and how could she, a trawlerman’s daughter, ever have thought it a good idea to give her such a thing?
But Jim and Alec – what about them? She hoped and prayed that neither of them were on the Sprite. She hoped that Graham and the owners were right, and it was just a radio failure. She hoped to God that the Sprite was sitting on top of a teeming ‘fish shop’ and that the silence was deliberate. If they were on to a good thing skippers sometimes cut communications altogether, rather than let rivals horn in on their happy hunting ground.
How long must it have been, she wondered, since that awful year when the Jacinta and Diego went down and half the kids she knew were suddenly fatherless? It was the year before she’d moved up to the high school so she must have been about eleven, which made it . . .
Thirteen years, almost to the day.
Chapter 33
‘He’s been on her, but he wasn’t on her this trip,’ Margaret said, the following evening after the boys were in bed. The two sisters were sitting in Margaret’s tiny living room with a bright fire blazing in the hearth, and the thick red curtains drawn against the icy night. ‘He said he’d never sail in her again if he could help it; she’s an awful old boat. She could never bring a decent catch home, because the winch hadn’t the power to pull the net in. And she was always flooding. They did more baling out than fishing. A sea not much bigger than a ripple on a mill-pond and she’d suddenly drop to starboard and nearly turn over. The lads called her the submarine, Jim said.’
Lynn stared into the fire, thinking of the only one not accounted for – Alec. And how stupid of her to worry herself sick about him, months after their little love affair was dead in the water. She was a respectable married woman again, so what business had she to be worrying about Alec McCauley? And the whole point of crossing trawlermen off her list of potential husbands had been to avoid this sort of torment. ‘And no radio contact for nearly two weeks, now,’ she said, half to herself.
‘That’s hardly surprising. They had a problem with transmitting when Jim was on her, not enough voltage, or something. Same problem as with the winch, I suppose – not enough power. The skipper told the owners, but I don’t think they did a lot about it, because the radio operator refused to sail in her this trip, if what I’ve heard is right.’
‘Well, that says it all, don’t it?’
Margaret grimaced in wry agreement. ‘Nobody had any confidence in her – apart from which you might as well have stopped at home for the money you made. They always had trouble getting crews for the Sprite.’
A horrid little shiver coursed down Lynn’s spine like a mild electric shock. She hunched her shoulders and shuddered. ‘Pity the men in her now,’ she said.
‘Scraped up from men’s hostels, or anywhere the ship’s runners can find them probably, men who’ve no idea what they’re letting themselves in for – and that desperate they’d take anything. A regular Christmas cracker crew, I reckon, and skippered by a youngster climbing his way up, or a bloke who’s had a few bad trips, on his way down the ranking. I don’t think anybody who really had a choice would go. It’s not that long ago that some maniac took an axe to the steering column. That was after they’d had to call into Grimsby for radar repairs – about five minutes after she’d sailed out of Hull, from what I heard.’
‘That was at the end of August. Alec McCauley was aboard,’ Lynn said. ‘But maybe that axe-man wasn’t such a maniac after all, Margaret. At least they all got back alive.’
‘They did, and she must have been out of action for a while after that. I’m so relieved Jim didn’t sail in her,’ said Margaret.
‘And me. I was just thinking about the Jacinta and Diego, and all those kids we knew . . .’
‘I know. Thanks for coming, Lynn,’ Margaret said, softly. ‘Jim’s all right, but it means a lot to know somebody cares enough to make sure – from my own family, not Jim’s, I mean.’
Lynn’s eyes widened. ‘Of course we care! I’d have come yesterday if it hadn’t been for Graham. “Let your mother go! She’s nearest!” he said. I didn’t want to tell him she’s hopped it, so I had to stay at home.’
‘I suppose he’ll have to know sometime.’
‘Not from me, he won’t. Have you heard anything from her?’
Margaret shook her head. ‘I wonder where she is? And how she is?’
‘She’ll be all right, knowing my mother,’ Lynn said. ‘She’d ditch him and come home if she wasn’t. Did my dad come for his tea on Sunday?’
‘No. I went there and helped him get all his gear ready to go back to sea. I think he was glad to see the back of home; it’s awful without her. How’ve you been getting on with Graham?’
‘We hardly ever see each other. He’s never in,’ Lynn shrugged. She hesitated, then with her eyes on Margaret’s swelling waistline, asked: ‘Are you expecting again, Margaret?’
Margaret nodded. ‘The doctor reckons I’m five months, but I’m nowhere near.’
‘Five months looks about right to me, and they’re not often wrong.’
‘Well, he’s wrong this time.’
‘You’ll need a bigger house.’
‘Not straight away. A baby doesn’t take much room,’ Margaret said. ‘Anyway, Graham must be in now, because you’re here.’
‘Aye, on a Monday night. There’s not much doing anywhere on a Monday night, is there? He’s started spending a lot of time at the golf club, doing some strenuous social climbing. We can barely make ends meet with the mortgage, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he joins soon, and then he’ll have to have all the gear – the clubs, the hat, the shoes, the whole wardrobe. I can see it coming. Oh, we’re really going up in the world, now, you know.’
‘He never does things by halves, does he, Graham?’ Margaret said. ‘Does he still see much of that Kevin Walsh he was so friendly with?’
‘Not since we moved,’ Lynn said.
‘I’m glad. I never liked him. I always thought he was a bad influence on Graham.’
‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’ Lynn burst into laughter, genuinely amused. ‘I think Kevin Walsh arrived a lot too late in the day to be a bad influence on Graham. The damage had already been done. His dad had that job sewn up before he ever met Kevin Walsh. But he’s left his old friends behind now he’s forging ahead in the company. He’s very popular, apparently. I’ve left my old friends behind as well now I’ve left work and moved house, but not by choice. I really miss Janet, now she’s not just round the corner. It’s such a trek to each other’s houses these days. She’s not keen on coming to see me because she can’t stand Graham, and I don’t often get to hers because of Simon, and not knowing when she’s working.’
‘You could phone her.’
‘I do, sometimes, but it’s not the same. And having to make arrangements is not the same as just popping in whenever you feel like it, and taking a chance on her being in, is it?’
‘No, it’s not,’ said Margaret, who had visitors ‘popping in’ all day long. ‘Our Anthony’s back tomorrow, God willing. He said he’d pop in with some fish.’
Chapter 34
An icy draught and a flurry of snowflakes blew in with Graham. He slammed the front door and looked up at Lynn, who was halfway down the staircase with Simon, bathed and in his pyjamas.
‘It sounds as if the owners have given up on the Sprite now the life raft’s been found,’ he said, ‘but they’re putting it out that they’re assuming nothing and they’re going on with the search. Pretty hopeless, though, I should think.’
At the sound of his voice, Lassie started barking, and scratching at the closed living-room door.
Lynn’s heart sank at the thought of those fishermen and their families. She walked slowly down the stairs, with Simon beside her. ‘The life raft’s been found? I’ve seen nothing in the paper.’
‘That’s because there’s been nothing. It’ll be in the next edition, I expect.’
‘How come you know, then?’
‘I get to know a lot of things, these days. I’m getting well in with the cognoscenti,’ Graham said. ‘One of our bosses plays golf with some of the owners and directors. Lucky your relations weren’t on it. Quite a good chap, Jim, I’ve always thought.’
‘Hmm, that’s a big word, though – cognoscenti,’ Lynn said, ushering Simon into the living room to comb his hair and let it dry before the fire.
‘Yeah, I got it from the company. It goes with the big salary,’ Graham said, following them with the dog dancing excitedly around his legs. He sat in the armchair by the fire, and caressed her, rubbing her ears while she kept jumping up and trying to lick his face. He gave the latest bulletin on the progress of the company and, seeming in an exceptionally jovial mood he finally asked: ‘What’s your news, then, Lynn?’
‘Our Anthony’s home,’ she said, retrieving the comb from the sideboard drawer. ‘He’s just rung me to say the weather up there’s the worst any of them have ever experienced in their lives – and after they’d battled their way back to Hull with a boatload of fish they had to unload it themselves because the bloody bobbers have gone on strike. And they buggered the winches before they went by taking umpteen of the fuses out of the fuse box, so by the time they’d got that working and the fish landed they’d wasted half of their first day ashore and nearly missed the market.’ She sat down and beckoned Simon towards her.
The Would-Be Wife Page 18