by Linda Finlay
As her grandmother grunted, then reluctantly moved her chair, Merry smiled gratefully at her mother. Stifling a yawn, she eased off her wet boots and held her blistered feet out in front of the spluttering flames.
Closing her eyes, she listened to the hissing of damp wood. The fire barely gave out any warmth and not for the first time she wished her grandmother was like the other housewives, who’d had their chimneys walled up and their hearths made smaller so they could burn the newly imported coal. Her grandmother was adamant that things in her home should stay the same as when her husband was alive. Why pay for fuel when you could collect it from the nearby woods, was her philosophy.
‘Have you given any more thought to having your hearth changed, Grozen?’ she ventured. ‘Coal is so much easier to . . .’
‘Not if you have no money to pay for it, Merry,’ Grozen snapped. ‘That wood might be wet but at least we have a fire, which is more than can be said for some. Besides, you can’t bake bread on a coal fire so we’d have to pay to use the bakehouse.’
Knowing what her grandmother said was true, Merry closed her eyes again. The rhythmic clacking of the woman’s knitting pins reminded Merry she had a knit frock to finish herself before the agent made his next visit.
‘Cors, if Alfred had been lost at sea instead of just dropping dead on the beach, God rest his soul, we’d have been able to claim from the widows’ fund.’
Merry sat bolt upright: the widows’ fund, of course!
‘You could claim, though, couldn’t you, Mother?’ she asked.
Her mother shook her head and looked quickly away.
‘But why not?’ Merry persisted. ‘Father was a fisherman and you said he drowned.’
‘I said your father was a man of the sea and lost to me,’ her mother corrected.
‘Surely that’s the same thing?’
‘That’s enough, Merry. All your goin’ on’s giving me one of my heads,’ Grozen snapped. ‘Why don’t you make yourself useful and skein them blinkin’ snails instead of talking about things you don’t understand’
‘We Dyers have our pride and wouldn’t accept charity anyhow,’ her mother added, staring at Merry with her clear blue eyes.
Merry shrugged. She knew their situation was dire and had only been trying to help. How she hated this way of life, always waiting and hoping for work and wages. Trying to ignore her rumbling stomach, she closed her eyes again.
‘You really should tell the girl,’ she heard Grozen mutter.
‘I know, Mother,’ Karenza whispered. ‘I wish you wouldn’t go on at Merry, though. If it wasn’t for her forays on the seashore, we wouldn’t have anything to eat at all. She’s a good girl and knows the best places to go.’
‘ ’Tis no different from other families, and at least we have warmth . . .’
As the bickering continued, Merry feigned sleep. Three women cooped up in a tiny two-roomed cottage was a recipe for disaster. One day she would have a large house with a roaring coal fire, she vowed. She had no idea how she would achieve this but knew there must be more to life than fishing and knitting.
After their frugal meal, Merry picked up her pins and wool and, glad to escape the tense atmosphere, made her way down to the quay. Knowing their frocks turned out better when knitted outdoors in natural light, and a pleasing finish meant receiving top price, the women would gather in little groups around the harbour. Her mother, being more reserved, preferred to keep herself to herself and could usually be found perched on a stool working by the light from their open front door.
Merry heard the incessant sound of pins clicking before she reached the others. As usual they were sitting in the shelter of the pig house, knitting and nattering. Normally the mood was convivial but today she was greeted by long faces.
‘What’s up?’ she asked, squeezing in beside her friend.
‘Word is Agent Sharp’s retired and his son’s taken over,’ Jenna explained without looking up from her knitting.
‘What difference does that make?’
‘He’s only gone and increased our target.’
‘What! Why? We can barely make the old one as it is.’
‘That’s not all,’ Jenna wailed. ‘It seems we’ll have to accept half our wage in goods from the shop he’s opening up by Killie Mill.’
‘But that’s against the law now,’ Merry declared.
‘I know, but who’s got the money or clout to make a stand?’ Ailla pointed out.
‘Sharp junior’s booked a room at Mrs Grace’s lodging house so he can put everything in place,’ Jenna added.
‘What’s the new target?’ Merry asked.
‘Another two knit frocks each, every month.’
‘But that’s six each! When was this decided?’
‘Old Ned brought word back from Logh this morning. Apparently Sharp junior warned if we don’t produce the extra, payment will be adjusted or even withheld,’ Jenna groaned.
‘But we’re starving as it is,’ Merry pointed out.
Reflecting on their fate, they fell silent. Knowing every stitch counted, they continued working furiously. They’d all been knitting since they were big enough to hold the pins and manage the ribbed trails.
‘Will anyone be able to meet this new target?’ Ailla asked.
As one they shook their heads.
‘It’s impossible with everything else there is to do. I’ve tried but when my pins go faster, I either drop stitches or do a purl when I should be doing a plain,’ Jenna sighed. The others nodded. They might know their patterns inside out but numb fingers and worry could make them fumble.
‘Don’t know how we’ll pay the rent if we don’t get our full pay.’ There was a collective groan.
‘We could always resort to damping down,’ Kelys pointed out. ‘Me old mother used to do it when times was hard. Many’s the day she put her work through the mangle to stretch it. Used to make us children socks with the extra wool she amassed an’ all.’
‘It’d serve him right, the greedy geezer. Ned says he wears expensive suits and smokes fat cigars. And there’s us wearing ourselves out trying to earn a living.’
‘I’m fed up with being hungry and me shawl’s falling to bits,’ Maggie moaned.
‘Mine too,’ Tressa nodded.
‘Even the fish are late this year,’ Ailla wailed. ‘Not that the men could get the boats out in these easterlies.’
‘Jem said he doesn’t know how we’ll manage when the baby comes.’ Jenna rubbed her swollen belly and Merry patted her shoulder, wishing she had an answer.
The whole village was dependent on the little income they got from fishing and knitting. Whilst the men were at sea, the women made knit frocks and sold them to the visiting agent. When the pilchards were in the women supplemented this income by salting and packing the fish. These periods of frenzied activity when every available hand was needed were welcomed for nobody minded hard work. Empty bellies were another thing.
‘Isn’t there anyone else we could sell to?’ Merry asked.
‘You could take your frocks to old Ma Baker in Logh but you’d have to accept the entire payment in goods and you know that means you won’t get anywhere near the true value,’ Ailla muttered.
‘Or you could deal with the agent in Plymouth. ’Tis a long trek, but you can do the return journey in a day if you know the short cuts over the cliffs,’ Kelys said. ‘Cors, me old legs would never stand it nowadays.’
‘And does this agent pay cash?’ Merry asked.
‘He does, and I heard he offers a fair price too, especially for the fancies. Bet he’d be interested in yours with that elaborate shell pattern you work into ’em. ’Tis clever, that, and different too,’ Kelys answered.
As the others murmured in agreement, Merry shrugged. It was no big thing to her for she just saw these things in her head and tried them out.
‘What do you think? Must be worth a try, surely?’ she said, turning to Jenna.
‘I can hardly make it through the day as it i
s. Being so near my time I waddle rather than walk,’ she laughed. As the sound echoed around the harbour, Merry stared from her friend’s bump to the sparkle in her eye and couldn’t for the life of her understand how she should be happy tied to a man so young. With a baby to look after as well as her home, she’d have precious little time to herself. Merry shook her head. Although they’d been best friends since their first day at dame school, their outlooks were very different. Merry wanted more out of life before she settled down.
‘Of course, if you were to marry someone like Nicco, you’d never have to worry about money,’ Jenna whispered, as ever picking up on her friend’s thoughts. ‘He’s taken a real shine to you, Merry. What with him being set to take over the fish factory when his father retires, if you were to be nice to him, well . . .’ She winked outrageously and Merry shuddered. Nicco with his oily black hair and staring eyes gave her goose bumps.
‘Need to concentrate, Jenna,’ she muttered, not wishing to be drawn, for hadn’t her mother said much the same, only she’d put it more delicately, of course? The one good thing about the pilchards being late was that she didn’t have to encounter him. Knit two, purl six and twist the wool, she silently intoned as she began forming the little shells that had become the mark of her work. With fingers flying and their pins clacking, the little group were hushed as they pondered whether to try to meet the extra target or resort to damping down, as Kelys suggested. They all knew what the penalties were if they were to be caught fiddling.
A jab in her side jolted Merry from her thoughts.
‘Look who’s coming,’ Jenna whispered, jerking her head. As Merry followed her gaze, she saw the ebony-haired Nicco strutting up the hill towards them. Her heart sank. And she’d thought the day couldn’t get any worse.
‘Must go,’ she muttered, jumping to her feet and disappearing into the warren behind.
THE BEGINNING
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PENGUIN BOOKS
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First published 2015
Copyright © Linda Finlay, 2015
Extract from The Sea Shell Girl © Linda Finlay, 2016
Cover image © Gordon Crabb/Alison Eldred
The moral right of the author has been asserted
ISBN: 978-1-405-91898-5