The Last Wanderer

by Meg Henderson

  Ina could hardly believe that her placid brother, the playground arbiter, could have hatched such an outrageous plan, and she anxiously waited for a letter from Danny explaining all. It seemed that, after being rebuffed by Mr Carnegie when he asked for permission to court his daughter, Danny had kept in touch with Isobel by letters sent care of Davie, the boy who’d lived in an old boat at the harbour all those years ago, the boy who had been kept warm and fed by Danny. They had planned the whole thing in detail. Isobel had been given permission to travel to Glasgow to spend a holiday with relatives, something that pleased her father, who lived in fear of his offspring fraternising with the locals. The plan was that she would spend a few days in Aberdeen shopping, then travel on to her relatives in Glasgow. By the time the relatives had contacted Mr Carnegie to report that Isobel hadn’t arrived, she and Danny were man and wife and were on their way to Canada. Canada! Where else would Danny go? He was taking his bride to Nova Scotia, ‘Land of Trees’, where Uncle Andro’s descendants would do what they could for the young couple.

  Ina was delighted, but the family back home in Shetland were overcome with shame that a son of theirs could have done anything so devious. His name was not to be mentioned ever again and Mr Carnegie was so overcome by the thought of his daughter marrying into the rubbish he had tried to educate that he left Lerwick with his wife and son and never returned. Ina longed to hear every detail of the great adventure. They were both in their twenties, and Isobel had been all but imprisoned by her father all of her life, so Danny had liberated her and taken her off to a new life. They were now living with the other Polsons in Canada, so they really did exist, her father hadn’t just been telling stories, and the episode brightened Ina’s life as much as it shamed the rest of the family. Her sister, Ella, she recalled later, had neither supported nor criticised her younger brother over the exploit; she had kept her own counsel.

  Apart from the burst of excitement over Danny and Isobel’s elopement, Ina’s memories of those days were of being too tired on her day off every Sunday to do more than sleep and maybe go for a walk, or perhaps do her knitting. The lassies were too exhausted to even go to the local baths for a proper wash during the little time off they had, so they were resigned to smelling of fish. Occasionally they would go dancing, but the heat made the smell even stronger, though the lassies lived with it as a fact of life and hardly noticed it. And she remembered the fun, singing in the back of the lorry that collected them for work at 6 a.m. and took them back to their digs when the herring were finished, and not singing at work because they were too busy trying to fill barrels and enhance the money they would take home to their families. There were diversions too, like the time in 1930 when the Prince of Wales came to visit their yard after he had opened the new Haven Bridge. It just so happened that there were lots of herring, so the lassies had to keep working which was just as well because he swept through without talking to anyone, with the crowds of photographers snapping away and bumping into boxes of herring and making a mess as they chased after him. One gate had been specially decorated with flags for him to walk through, but he looked bleary-eyed, as though he’d been at the drink all night and just wanted to be away from the place, and as he walked through the wrong gate, the one that hadn’t been decorated, they all laughed, fish to be gutted or not.

  The one thing she always made time for was looking at the stars, and she had managed to save enough for a telescope. Not a big, expensive, real telescope, of course, but a small, folding plastic one; still, it brought the stars slightly closer. Spending money on something her mother would have considered a nonsense made her feel guilty, then her guilt made her feel angry, before she swung back to guilt again; but the thing was done. Her sister Ella would watch her going out on her own to gaze at the stars, her telescope concealed somewhere on her person and whisper to her, smiling, ‘There she goes, the lassie with the stars in her eyes.’ Ina would laugh to herself; if anyone had stars in their eyes it was Ella. Ella’s guilt money was spent on penny novelettes, little stories of love and romance between titled ladies of great virtue and dashing heroes with even grander titles. The ladies would eventually be seduced by the heroes, but it would always be described in poetic, flowery terms. Ella and the other lassies would take turns at buying the latest, and the little booklets would pass from one set of eager, fishy hands to the next, till the pages fell apart. It wasn’t an enthusiasm Ina shared, and when she said this she was made to read one, ‘to show her’, the others said, but it just seemed silly to Ina and she couldn’t understand her sister’s fascination for what she considered to be rubbish.

  Ella had married Ronnie when she was seventeen years old. It was how things were in small communities: they married young with the blessing of the kirk because, the ministers said with heavy, dark emphasis, marriage kept them out of trouble. Ina had never understood that, either, but everyone else seemed to. Once, when she was a child, she had heard a minister say this and had asked Dolina what he meant. Her mother had replied that she would understand when she was older, only she hadn’t, and she often wondered how old she would have to be before someone explained. Ella and Ronnie had no bairns, which was unusual, to be sure, but it happened; anyway, Ella was away from home for long spells at the herring and didn’t seem to mind. She never mentioned her husband during those months away, gave no indication that she missed him, and in fact seemed happier and freer than when she was at home, so Ina didn’t really understand her need for heady romance. Then she thought again of the other lassies who loved the penny novelettes and noted how many of them were married, and it struck her that the married ones indulged in fantasy more than those who were still single, and she wondered what that said about married life.

  At the weekends the pubs lining the riverside would be open and crowded with fishermen. Shetland was dry, so there were no public houses but, even if there had been, no woman would have dreamed of going in one. Away from the islands, though, Ina felt daring. One Saturday evening she and a crowd of other lassies were passing the White Lion at the top of St Peter’s Road in Yarmouth and one of the others had looked inside and commented, ‘The White Lion’s black tonight,’ meaning that it was full of dark-clothed fishermen. Ina stared in at the figures through the haze of cigarette and pipe fumes. The place was alive with people, male people, enjoying themselves. She was young; she wanted to do something, anything. On a whim she took another step just beyond safety and propriety, and to this day she could still see the shocked faces of her pals. Ella tried to catch Ina by the arm; the other girls stared after her, their eyes wide and their mouths saying a shocked ‘Oh!’ in unison. Ina had no idea what had possessed her, but once through the door she decided, ‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ and shook off Ella’s restraining hand. Once inside, though, she had even less idea what to do, and desperately scanned the faces till she recognised a fisherman she had seen about the place. Eddie something, that was all she knew about him for sure, and that he wasn’t a Yarmouth man, but a native of Skye and the engineer off the Ocean Wanderer, a boat from Acarsaid on the north west-coast of Scotland and one of the best known and respected boats in the industry. She knew he was from Skye because he had once made some saucy remark to them in Gaelic as he passed and Ina had angrily told him that they were Shetlanders, they didn’t understand his Irish language. It wasn’t the reaction Eddie expected from any of the lassies, because he was darkly handsome and he knew it, such a huge flirt that every new lassie had him pointed out to her as a hazard to keep an eye on. Neither was it the reaction the other lassies expected to Eddie, he had a charm they all found difficult to resist and whenever he was around there was a little thrill in the air, so Ina knew that they were now listening to every word.

  ‘It’s not Irish,’ Eddie replied in English. ‘I’m a Skye man and it’s Gaelic I was speaking. Are you ignorant or what?’

  ‘Huh,’ Ina said, her eyes still on gutting the fish that slipped through her fingers as quickly as anyone else’s by that time. �
�It’s you that’s the ignorant one, that’s where your filthy language came from, Ireland.’

  ‘My, but aren’t you a sweet wee thing,’ he said sarcastically. ‘I’ll be warning the Ocean Wanderer lads off coming this way, that’s for sure, they might die of too much sugar.’

  A muffled, excited giggle passed along the gutters working at the farlin.

  ‘And what,’ Ina said clearly, ‘makes you think we’d have anything to do with anyone off the Ocean Wanderer? Sure everybody knows your skipper is the blackest-hearted creature in the fleet, so his crew can’t be much better.’

  ‘I’ll grant you Sorley Mor isn’t a man for casual chit-chat,’ the big man replied, smiling at her. She heard the smile in his voice as he spoke and when she slyly stole a glance up at him she was furious to see his eyes full of amusement. ‘But I think I’d rather spend time talking to him than you, Miss Bitter.’

  ‘Then go,’ Ina said tartly. ‘Who is forcing you to stay?’

  As he sauntered off the lassies chatted about him.

  ‘He fancies his chances, that one,’ said a voice. ‘A real ladies’ man, he’ll never settle down, too many sweeties in the shop to try.’

  ‘You’re right,’ another lassie said. ‘It would take a brave lassie or a stupid one to take that one on.’

  But though the lassies were wary of Eddie and his undoubted charms, they always smiled when they saw him, even as they warned each other off him. Standing at the bar that night he looked at Ina, then at the bunch of dumbstruck lassies at the door, scared to cross the threshold in case the floor should open up and suck them under to who-knew-what fate. He grinned.

  All the Ocean Wanderer lads were there, even the skipper, Sorley Mor, and Ina saw Eddie drawing their attention to her. Well, she wasn’t going to turn tail and run back out. She’d never live it down if she did.

  ‘Can I get you something?’ Eddie asked Ina politely.

  Ina took a deep breath, trying to appear all assurance and ease, as though this was something she did every day of her life: stormed pubs, consorted with virtual strangers, while downing strong liquor.

  ‘I’ll have a port and lemon, thanks,’ she replied haughtily, and at the door the eyes of the others opened wider still and their hands flew to their throats to stifle their gasps. Ina had never had an alcoholic drink in her life, but she had heard the racier females talking about port and lemon. It was the only drink she knew by name that women drank. Other women, that was.

  Eddie looked as though he was about to laugh out loud. ‘You’re sure?’ he asked.

  ‘And why wouldn’t I be?’ Ina replied.

  Eddie placed the glass of dark stuff in her hand and looked at the door. ‘And you, ladies?’ he asked.

  All of the lassies turned and ran except Ella, who hesitated for a moment then walked in. ‘I’ll have the same, thanks,’ she said tartly, catching her younger sister’s nerve, her face flushed and her eyes dancing with excitement and fear.

  Ina took a sip. It was the worst taste she could remember. Even eating Mrs Brown’s fried salt herring would have been nicer, she was sure, but she knew this Eddie was watching her, ready to laugh; and for that matter so now were the other fishermen, their eyes full of amusement. There was nothing for it, she would have to drink it, so she threw the rest of the horrible stuff down in one desperate gulp that made her eyes water. Ella watched her and decided to do the same.

  Eddie looked around the bar, exchanging smiling glances with the other fishermen. ‘My, but I can see you ladies are seasoned drinkers,’ he said pleasantly. ‘How about a whisky this time?’

  Ina and Ella looked at each other. Ina would’ve taken it to prove she could, but Ella’s eyes were pleading with her to refuse, so reluctantly she did. ‘This is our sixth tonight,’ she lied, ‘better not overdo it. We don’t want sore heads in the morning …’ Then she hesitated before adding what she hoped was a worldly wise ‘… again.’

  ‘Well, I admire a woman who can take her drink yet knows when she’s had enough,’ Eddie told her, solemn-faced, and with that Ina and Ella left with as much composure as was possible for two Lerwick lassies who knew they would throw up as soon as they got outside and away from the amused glances of the fishermen. As the door closed behind them they could hear the men laughing, first loud then low, then loud again, as the door swung this way then that, but they were too intent on making it to safety to care. Then they laughed, too, hanging on to each other till they couldn’t laugh any more. After that came reality and fear, of course, that someone would tell Magnus and Dolina back in Lerwick, ensuring that a thrashing would await them however long they were away from home.

  ‘And Ronnie will give you a thrashing, too!’ Ina told her sister breathlessly. ‘Two beatings for one port and lemon that you couldn’t even keep down,’ she laughed. ‘Doesn’t seem fair, Ella!’

  And Ella had laughed back. Hadn’t she? She was so clear in Ina’s mind, the double of herself, as all the Polsons were of each other: reddish fair hair, grey eyes. She was more handsome than herself, Ina freely admitted, but no one could avoid coming to the conclusion that they were related. Two peas from the same pod, so alike that you would’ve assumed they were close enough to know each other inside out, that the two Lerwick sisters who spent so much time together would have had no secrets. But she was right, wasn’t she? Ella had laughed?

  How many times had she gone over that moment, frame by frame in the intervening years, trying to pick up some message and wondering how she could have missed it and what events that act of bravado had set in motion? What would have happened if they had walked in another direction and hadn’t passed the White Lion that night? Would things have worked out differently? It had been the same night the gypsy woman had told their fortunes. As they walked towards that fateful meeting at the White Lion, they were all giggling over what the old woman had said, but all Ina could think of was what she had been told. ‘You’ll marry someone you already know and live across the sea from your home. You’ll be content, but you could’ve done better, and you won’t have many bairns.’ She hadn’t paid any attention to what the gypsy had told Ella.

  3

  Everything depended on whether there were herring to catch: too much and you were exhausted, but at least you would have more barrel money to take home; too little and you had to find other jobs to tide you over. There was always filling up, of course, but when that was done you had to clean the offices or maybe work for a day with one of the kipperers, like Sutton’s. The curers needed a lot of herring: if there was only one or two cran it wasn’t worth the bother to the curers, but the kipperers would take them, and in those days there was no machinery, so the herring had to be gutted by hand.

  That’s how Ina met Aeneas. He was a manager with Sutton’s, a familiar sight about the place, buying up what the curers didn’t want. The other lassies laughed at him, he was such a serious wee man, neat and tidy in his checked three-piece suit, his collar and tie and his flat cap and – despite the dirty work he was involved in – highly polished brown shoes. No one could understand why he bothered; everyone else had working clothes and they didn’t care how mucky they got, but not Aeneas. They discussed how he could manage to keep the gloss on those shoes: did he have replacement pairs hidden about the place to change into several times a day? They were used to rough-and-ready sorts, like the fishermen they met from all over, the Scotch and the Irish gutters and packers who gave as good as they got.

  Aeneas Hamilton was pleasant enough, but he didn’t flirt with them; he only had time for business. An old man before his time, they said, though he was still in his early twenties. That was Ina’s first memory about him, that she felt a mild annoyance with the other lassies because they joked about him between themselves, offering odds on who could get him interested. It wasn’t that she was interested, she just didn’t see what was so wrong with a man who attended to business and, in truth, she found some of the banter a bit near the knuckle at times. Not that she understood much of it,
but she knew by the tones of the voices and the kind of laughter – and, even if she couldn’t understand precisely what was being said, she knew it was smut, and she didn’t much like that. If Aeneas wasn’t that way inclined, well, that was something in his favour, she thought, though she knew better than to say so to the others.

  Sometimes he used to ask if any of the girls wanted a few weeks’ work with Sutton’s if Bloomfield’s was slack, and they’d always accept because the alternative of cleaning offices was too much like the housewifery that they had all escaped from. There was kippering work on offer at the end of the season, too, and though the others only sometimes accepted, Ina and Ella always did. With the money they bought presents to take home along with their barrel money, making up for their guilt at spending on their separate passions. They would go down to Woolworth’s (there was a British Home Stores in its place these days), where everything was threepence or sixpence, or to Peacock’s Bazaar, long gone now, too, so she’d heard: it was a furniture shop now. At the warehouses down Howard Street you could buy a big jar of broken toffee or rock wholesale, and once she took a fancy to a pair of shoes in a shop window; looking back, it must’ve been during one of her rebelling-against-the-guilt phases when she was inclined to the odd reckless impulse. Why she had wanted shoes she couldn’t say, because all her life she had preferred her bare feet. When she was growing up in Lerwick the only way for bairns to have shoes was to get a note from the Parish Council instructing a shop to supply a pair at their expense, but it was rare for anyone to bother: everyone preferred baries. Now here she was spending five and elevenpence on these shoes, but the saleswoman refused to give her the one in the window and she had to wait another week to get it. Even so, she got both shoes, thanks to the extra work at Sutton’s, and she was always fast at picking things up even if she wasn’t clever, so she learned about kippering too, and it was Aeneas himself who taught her much to the amazement of the other workers.