She’s jumpy, like a daddy-long-legs clattering around a lamp, and I keep waiting for her to settle, till I see that she never will, and that this is her way, and it’s up to us to settle and let her clatter on around us. So I catch Sam’s eye, and smile, and try to feel myself at home.
There’s but two chairs, so I take one and Sam the other, while she clears tatie peelings off the table, worriting away all the while about what’s for tea – which is broken herrings fried with mashed taties, for what else would it be with a lad on the Osprey? But I can see she’s ashamed that it’s poor folks’ fare, so I say that’s what my mam’s cooking too, which is a lie, but calms her enough to ask my name again and listen to the answer this time.
Now here’s their older lass back from selling greens door to door. She’s getten them from South Shields, she says, for they’re cheaper there, even with the cost of the ferry. They’re chary of their mam, all the four bairns, like she’s a china teacup on the edge of the mantle that might tumble and smash any minute.
They’re right canny, mind. And the lass, Jessie, is sharp as a tack, and that close with her big brother I can see it’s her I need to sweeten as much as her mam; for if Sam’s the father of this house, that Jessie’s shaping up fine to be the mother, for all that she’s no more than twelve year old. So she’s clearing the pots and setting up a lamp for her mam to beat by, for the dusk comes down early in these narrow alleys – and it’s her that gives Sam the nod that it’s time to walk me home.
He’s canny quiet going back up the alley, so I ask why, and he says it’s because I’ve seen his place, and his mam, so I’ve seen everything about him, and he’s afeared I won’t want him any more. And I say I haven’t seen everything yet, for I’ve never seen his mattress, and how can a lass decide about a lad without seeing where he sleeps? Which is a brassy thing to say, but makes him laugh, and squeeze my hand, and see I’m the same loving Annie I ever was.
Oh, but if ever there’s a time for a kiss, this is it, for he’s needing one and I’m wanting to give it – but we can’t, for the doors are open all along the alley, with folk sitting out, or doing the pots in the last of the light, and lighting lamps, them that has them, or candles.
But now Sam’s tugging me by the hand, and hurrying me along, though I’m willing enough, and down another alley at the back of the sheds, to the very end, where the river’s lapping in the fading light, and there’s a cree that looks like a henhouse, or a place to keep nets. And he’s pulling open a door, which is no higher than his shoulder, and squatting down with a box of matches and a candle, and I see that here’s a bed of bricks and planks and a mattress inside, and crotchboots, and oilies on a hook and a bag for shiftenings, and a shelf with shoe brushes and a pack of candles and matches, all tidy, and an old blue bakkie tin – and two ditty boxes side by side, one dented and rusty and one newer.
What’s going through my mind? Why, tenderness; and pity, for the place is so mean; and sadness, for the drowned father who’s had that rusty old ditty box. But mostly a sort of trembling, looking at the bed and thinking of him lying there, under the blanket or on top of it, and wondering what he’s wearing to sleep in, and blushing at the wondering.
‘Annie?’ he’s whispering, worried like, for the Lord knows what’s showing on my face. And I know I should try to answer, but the words won’t come. All I can think to do is unbutton my blouse and take his hand and put it inside, on my heart.
Now somehow we’re sitting on the bed, for there’s nowhere else to be, and the sound of my heart’s filling the little place and making the candle flicker. And his arm’s going round me, and I’m leaning in, and we’re as we were that time on the trysting hill: just waiting, and tasting the waiting.
I can hear him breathing, light and quick; and the water slapping at the staithes beneath; and Jessie chiding the bairns, for their kitchen’s just the other side of the wall planks.
And by and by, we sit apart a bit, and he takes off his jacket and I take off my shawl, and we both of us take off our shoes – and lie down, facing, with our arms draped and our foreheads touching.
His breathing’s still light and quick, and mine too, like there’s no room for a proper breath so we must sip at the air. My skirt and pettie are bunched up under us, and his knee’s touching mine; there’s cool air on my throat where my blouse is unbuttoned. And oh, my skin is fairly crying out for the touch of his hand.
Is this what it’s like when you love a lad? This sipping of the air, this heart that fills your throat and won’t let you speak, this melting of the innards, like wax dripping from a candle, just from the touch of a forehead, of a knee? Just from the sense of the buzzing space between you?
Now we’re kissing and I must be making little sounds, for he’s shushing me – for if we can hear his mam wittering on, she must hear us too. So now we’re kissing again, and somehow our legs are entangling, so we’re pressing together, his thigh on my soft place and my hip on his hard one. And oh, it’s so sweet and so easy, this tangling, as though God made a lass and lad to dovetail like this when they lie together.
Now I know, all of a sudden, how babies are made, for here I am pressing with a rhythm against him, and he’s pressing back, and my mouth’s opening so shameless on his, and all I can think of is wanting him, like a dog, like a billy goat, inside me. For the sweetness seems muffled with all this clothing between us, so I find I’m pulling up his vest, and my cami, so I can feel his skin against me. Oh, but it’s such a mean bit of skin where we’re touching, I feel like crying out, and set to undoing my skirt and his kecks, and never mind what he thinks of me.
But now he’s finding my hands and stilling them, though his breathing’s as ragged as mine. And I feel ashamed, and whisper sorry and I love you and he whispers back, no, that’s not why he’s stopped me. It’s because he wants to do right by me, and not get a baby before he’s even spoken to my da. And I whisper that I want his baby and I don’t care about Da, for I’m that mad for the sweetness and can’t abide the waiting.
And that’s what we’re like, wanton one minute, sensible the next. So now we’re whispering about our future, here in Shields or on up to Yarmouth and beyond, and I’m saying I’m knitting a gansey for him, and he’s saying he’ll buy me a travelling kist, and that’ll be us promised.
So now he’s kissing me more quiet like, and tender, and helping me out of my blouse and cami, and just looking at me in the candlelight, with my hair tangled and my boobies showing. And kisses me there, on my booby, where I’ve never been kissed, until I’ve to clamp a hand over my mouth to smother my whimpers.
Chapter Twenty-Five
1898
It’s dark and I’ve just blown out the candle, and I’m wishing – oh, so wishing! – that I was on my own. But here’s Flo nudging at me when all I want is to roll on my side and pretend I’m entangling again. So I swallow a sigh and wriggle nearer and ask what’s the matter – for she’s my sister and if she’s a problem I need to know about it.
She ums and ahs for a bit, but eventually lets on what I suspected anyway, that Tom’s been pressing her to go all the way. So I’m asking, does she want to? And she’s saying his hands have been that busy she can’t see it will make much difference. But she’s worried if she does, he’ll not respect her any more – but if she doesn’t he’ll be off with another lass.
‘If he loves you, he’ll not press you,’ I say. But she says that’s why he’s pressing her: because he’s mad for her and can’t wait till they’re wed. So now I’m asking, has he proposed? And she’s saying no, for he’s wanting to get his own boat before he gets married. So I’m saying, sharpish like, that the way he’s going he’ll be getting a baby long before he’s getting a boat.
And now she’s sort of laughing, but not laughing, saying that if there is a baby, maybe he’ll stop looking at other lasses. And I’m saying that’s never stopped Charlie Waring, who has eight scrawny weans at home but is forever nipping off upstairs with one of them loose lasse
s down the Seven Stars. And she’s saying her Tom’s not like that, and I’m asking hasn’t she noticed it’s always the bad lads that have too many weans? Because they’re forever pressing their wives, and won’t take no for an answer – for I can’t believe poor Mrs Waring would choose to have all them brats about the place.
Now Flo’s gone quiet, and I’m sorry for my harsh words, and saying don’t mind me, and Tom must love her, for didn’t he bring her to tea with his folks? And she’s sighing, and saying, ‘Oh Annie’ and ‘I hope you’re right’, so I have to ask her again what’s the matter.
‘I couldn’t stop him,’ is what she’s blurting out now – and though I can’t see her face, her voice tells me there’s tears on it. ‘He said it was paining him to wait,’ she says, which I can easy believe, for a lad like Tom’d say anything to get a lass to agree.
‘Was it only the once?’ I’m asking, and she’s saying no, the first time was a Sunday in his folks’ parlour, with her terrified in case his nana should barge in. But now he expects to do it every time, so she’s worried about getting a baby.
So I’m asking, when was she last on her rags, and now she’s crying properly and telling how she’s kept going to the nettie, but there’s no sign and now she’s weeks past her time.
‘I’ve heard there’s things you can do to bring it on,’ I’m saying now, almost whispering, for it seems wicked even to mention it. And Flo’s whispering back, ‘I know,’ like she’s thought of it too – and her voice is so glum that I’m reaching under the blanket and taking her hand and telling her we’ll sort out whatever needs doing together. And she’s making me promise not to tell, and I’m saying of course not, swear to God.
Now by and by, so she doesn’t feel she’s alone, I’m letting slip about Sam, and making her promise to keep it quiet, because of Da; and she’s asking more, and I’m telling more, until we’re properly caught up, like sisters but better than blood sisters, with no secrets, like we used to be.
It’s the next day now and it’s eveningtime, and the sun’s doing it’s honey-spilling on the stairs. I’m on the bench outside with my knitting, and Da’s knocking out his pipe beside me, for it’s that small slice of the day when men and women can be together, with the beatsters and gippers back from their work, and the crews sitting a bit before setting off for the night fishing.
Now here comes Tom, all jaunty in a new cap, come to fetch off Flo for a stroll. And I’m looking at him, and thinking of him pressing her, and I want to shake him, to wake him up to what’s right there on his plate, this lovely sweet lass who might be having his baby.
Flo’s off having a wash, so he grabs a stool from inside and sits alongside us in our pool of honey light. And Da’s offering him bakkie, but he’s shaking his head – for it’s the older lads who buy the sticky dark stuff for their pipes; the younger lads smoke something drier and paler, that smells sharper and burns faster, that they roll into tabs. So that’s what Tom’s doing now, blethering away and pinching bakkie into a line on the lid of his tin; and here’s Mam standing in the doorway with a brew and a biscuit for him – for he’s like a son to her, always has been, in spite of his rough ways.
And though I could never love him now, I can see how tidy it would be if we were to marry, and our families knitted together, front and back of the same gansey. For he’s bantering on with Da about the Osprey, and smiling up at Mam as cheeky as when he was a wean, and her smiling back. And I know he loves being at our place, for his da’s been canny dour since his mam died, and likes his whisky. But the drink riles him, Da says, and makes him lash out, so it’s been hard on Tom and the bairns.
Thinking of what it’s like over at his place, what with missing his mam and his da stotting back from the pub, and his crabbit nana mythering on, makes me soften a bit towards him. So when he smiles, I have to smile back. So now he’s budging over on his stool to look at my knitting, and holding it against him – for I’ve finished the front and back now and am working on the gussets for the sleeves.
And he’s teasing me, saying it fits canny well, and don’t I want to measure him for the arms? And I’m blushing and pulling it away, saying it’s for Jimmy. But he won’t have it, and keeps on about me knitting it for him, saying he’s been needing a new gansey – as if he hasn’t just getten the one Flo’s been working on these last weeks. Which makes me cross all over again, for her sake, and sharp with him. So now he’s changing tack, and is on about me having a secret sweetheart, which gets me blushing again and saying no, and wondering has Flo said something? Though she never would, and anyway she’s never even seen Tom since I told her about Sam.
So now Da’s staring at me too, with a frown that flusters me even more – but here’s Flo come to save me at last, all pink cheeks and yellow tresses, with her hand tugging Tom to his feet and off away up the stairs to the High Town.
It’s a day or two later and the gansey’s finished! It’s gone eleven and I’ve cast off the last wrist, and pulled all the trailing threads to the inside, and woven them in so’s they can’t catch. And Mam’s ransacking it for me under the lamp, and finding a few or three ends I’ve missed; but’s mostly full of praise, saying she’s never seen me so diligent with a job, and going on about how I’m wasted as a gipper and should be beating instead. And I’m saying there’s more money in gipping, and she’s teasing that a beatster smells better at the end of the day – and I’m saying if your sweetheart’s a fisherman, he’d never smell the difference, for he’d be as steeped in herring oil as you are.
But now I’ve said too much and I’m blushing, and she’s laughing and folding the gansey, and telling me she’ll have a word with Da tomorrow if I like – to smooth the way – for it won’t do for Sam to be wearing the Milburn cables without the say-so of the Milburn skipper.
I should wait, of course, for Saturday to give it him. But I’m that proud of the work, and that yearning to see him, that next day I have to find him. So here I am hurrying down to Bell Street after tea with a brown paper package under my arm and a fruit loaf from Mam in a bag, for I’ve said about his mam, and the bairns, and she wants to give them something to cheer them.
So here’s the old cutch tank and the rusty clinker, and the wooden alley leading out over the water – and there’s Sam outside the last house, oiling his crotchboots. Part of me wants to run the last few yards, but another part just wants to stand and watch him, for when do I get the chance just to see him in his own life? So for once it’s the slow voice I heed, not the hasty one, and lean against a rain barrel, and just love him from a distance: pushing his hair off his face with the back of his hand, dipping a rag in the dish, rubbing the oil into the dull leather to make it gleam.
By and by he feels my eyes on him, the way you do sometimes, like a tap on the shoulder – and looks up, and sees me standing here. And is on his feet and running, and would have kissed me right there with folk staring, but settles for taking my parcels, and squeezing my hand and leading me back to his house. But now I’m baulking, for I need to explain why I’ve come and I’ll never manage at his place with his mam clattering about.
So I stop and say I’ve brought his gansey, but if he’s to wear it he’ll have to talk to Da first. So he asks, am I pressing him? And I say, yes, and stamp my foot, and tell him how tired I am of this secretness, and I want him to have tea at our place and be a proper sweetheart. I’m being fierce with him, I know, but it’s a loving kind of fierceness and I think maybes it’s the push-off he needs. For I know he’s not the kind who rocks the boat, for it’s been rocked too much already in his life.
So now I’m asking, gentle like, doesn’t he love me? And he’s saying, more than anything. And I’m saying, so what’s to be feared? And he’s saying he’s more afeared of vexing me than he is of facing up to my da – which has us both laughing, and looking love at each other, and so it’s settled.
Now here’s the difficultest thing I ever had to do, which is walking away from my laughing lad and not looking back. For th
ey say a lass must never wave goodbye to her sweetheart when he’s off to sea, in case she’s waving him off for ever. Nor sweep the house straight after he’s left, lest the waves sweep him overboard; nor wash his shiftenings, lest she washes him out of her life. And every ‘thou shalt not’ makes our lads’ leaving into a holier thing: our own Ten Commandments to sweeten God’s temper, and bring them back safe and sound.
Oh, but there’s such a brimming-up of happiness in me, to think he’ll be settling things with Da before they set out. So that when he’s back tomorrow – oh, dear Lord keep him safe! – we’ll be out in the open, and can link in, and smile at folk as knows us, and they’ll say, ‘Why, isn’t that Henry Milburn’s lass walking out with the Wellesley lad? Him that’s studying for his mate’s ticket? By, don’t they make a fine couple?’
I’m so liking this picture that I’m dawdling along Bell Street – with a daft grin on my face, I’ve no doubt – and folk are barging past with their crans and barrows, full of busy for the evening. Now here’s Tom leaning in the doorway of the bakkie shop, looking at me, though I’m that dozy with dreaming I’ve never even seen him till just now.
‘I’ll walk you home,’ says he, offering his arm so I can’t but take it, for it would seem rude to refuse.
He smells of bakkie, for he’s just nipped out a tab and stuck it behind his ear, and I’m thinking that’s a smell I never noticed with Sam. Maybes because he’s no money to spare for tabs – though most lads see bakkie as their due, as vital as bread and tea. See, my mind’s all taken up with Sam, so it takes a while before I hear what Tom’s on about, which is more daft gansey teasing, and is it finished yet and when can he come to fetch it.
Herring Girl Page 21