Herring Girl

by Debbie Taylor

  ‘OK, buddy?’ Dad asks and Ben nods. And he can feel this smile start up on his face, a really wide one, he can’t stop it, until his cheeks start to ache from stretching so wide, because they’re not used to it. And then he wants to cry for no reason at all, so he has to take some big gulps of his melon J2O until the smile and the tears go away.

  In fact, when Ben comes to think about it, almost everyone important in his life is sitting round this table – apart from his mam, who’s in New Zealand so obviously she couldn’t be here – and old Skip, who’s sitting over at the bar even though Ian’s saved a place for him between Laura and Ben, but he’s not really that important anyway.

  Then suddenly everyone’s talking all at once, so Ben can’t keep track any more of how Dad’s feeling about the Ian bloke taking over, or how drunk Nana’s getting, or whether Laura’s going to say something embarrassing, so he stops trying. And it’s like it was on the beach that time, when he just closed his eyes and looked at the sun all warm and red through his eyelids, and just sort of sank down away from all the jabber and felt safe.

  He’s ordered the chicken and mushroom risotto, because he fancies something creamy and babyish, and he eats it slowly with a fork, letting the grown-ups’ talk swirl around his head: Nana getting all excited about the big Netto they’re opening in Charlotte Street; Dad telling Ian that their flat used to be part of a brothel above the Jungle bar. Then Laura’s squealing and saying how she used to work at the Jungle forty years ago, at a bistro in the basement. ‘And there was this mega trannie in charge, Lord Jim they used to call him. Kaftans, false eyelashes, the lot.’ It was a really rough place, she’s saying, with so much beer swilling around the floor that one of the barmaid’s toes all went rotten and dropped off.

  Which totally snaps Ben out of it. ‘They never!’ he says. ‘What, all of them?’

  ‘Feet like flippers, cross my heart,’ laughs Laura. ‘Go and see for yourself if you don’t belief me. She married that Ronnie Russell, who got banged up for living off illegal earnings. Lives over on the Chirton Estate now. I’ll give you her number, if you like.’

  ‘You’re never talking about Noreen Russell, are you?’ goes Nana, and it’s obvious the vodka’s getting to her. ‘Noreen Collins as was? She was in my class at school.’

  ‘What was that thing you were saying the other day?’ asks Dad. ‘The six degrees or something.’

  ‘Six degrees of separation,’ says Ben.

  ‘Or, as Mary would have us believe, yet further evidence that we’ve all been brought here for a purpose,’ says Ian, waving at the waitress and doing a little pouring gesture with his hand to get her to give everyone a top-up. ‘What do you think, Mary? Could this be one of those reincarnation therapy groups you were talking about? I mean, you couldn’t imagine a more disparate set of characters, yet here we all are getting along like a house on fire.’ His voice is jokey, but the way he’s looking at the doc shows he’s at least half serious too.

  ‘You’re being deliberately provocative, I know,’ says the doc. ‘But you’re right: this is the kind of phenomenon I had in mind.’

  ‘Go on then, how does it work?’

  ‘I know it seems unlikely, but those who believe in reincarnation generally also believe that souls return in groups. And whenever serious controlled studies have been done, it does seem that a person tends to be reborn in the vicinity of a previous incarnation’s death – which would automatically tend to promote a sort of grouping.’ She reaches for her wine glass. ‘For what it’s worth, I have often wondered whether Laura and I have encountered one another before.’

  ‘We were both fishermen,’ says Laura. ‘But so were almost all the lads round here, so that’s nothing to go by.’

  ‘It’s not so much what we did in our past lives,’ says the doc. ‘It’s more to do with the strength of our mutual attraction, if I can use that term in its non-sexual sense. You could have called an ambulance when you came round that day, but you moved straight in to nurse me instead – even though we’d only met in a professional capacity. And I let you, which was even more surprising, given my hermit tendencies.’

  ‘And we’ve been friends ever since.’ Laura raises her glass and reaches down the table so they can clink, and they grin cheesily at each other, like typical soppy grown-ups when they’ve had a few.

  The doc sloshes another two fingers into her glass. ‘It has been suggested that souls who have interacted intensely – either positively or negatively – in a previous incarnation are able to recognize one another at an unconscious level when they meet again,’ she says.

  Ben can tell that Laura really likes that idea. ‘What, so if you get that feeling that you’ve met someone before, you probably have?’

  ‘Maybe your two fishermen were on the Osprey with Jimmy and Sam,’ suggests Ben. Then a new thought hits him and, ‘Wow!’ he goes, ‘Maybe you actually were Jimmy and Sam! Or Annie’s dad and that Tom, or one of those other men. How freaky would that be?’

  ‘Is that possible?’ asks Ian and the doc shrugs, but she’s got her little smile on.

  ‘Anything’s possible,’ she says.

  ‘OK,’ goes Ian. ‘I’ll ask a different question: Is it likely?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. There are lots of well-documented cases of two or more souls encountering one another repeatedly in different incarnations. But I’ve no idea whether any of us would be candidates for that kind of association.’

  ‘So how would you find out?’ He’s gone all serious suddenly.

  ‘Well,’ says the doc slowly, as though she’s having to think really hard, ‘I suppose I’d need to work with each person individually, documenting their past lives as fully as possible, going back to around 1880, just before Annie was born. Then I’d develop a sort of life-map for each incarnation, listing the places they lived and worked, who they loved and hated, who their children were and so on. Then see if there were any overlaps.’

  ‘Why not just ask them if they served on the Osprey in 1898?’ Ian asks.

  ‘Because that would be hypnotic suggestion and would contaminate the findings, and invite all kinds of criticism,’ says the doc. ‘In that sense, we probably already know far too much about what may or may not have happened at that time. One would have to approach it far more subtly if one were to stand any chance of eliciting reliable data.’

  ‘OK. That makes sense.’

  ‘That’s not to say it couldn’t be done,’ she says and she’s looking quite excited now, with red dots on her cheeks, though that might be from the wine, because there’s a bottle at each end of the table and Dad’s drinking beer, so she’s had nearly a whole bottle to herself down this end. ‘But as far as I know nothing like this has ever been tried before. However, if someone here has encountered Annie in a past life, it could provide some fascinating insights into what happened to her.’

  ‘Go on,’ goes Ian, staring at her. And everyone at the table has stopped talking and is listening in, as if the doc and Ian are a sort of magnet sucking in everyone’s attention.

  ‘It would probably be a completely wild goose chase. There’s no reason to suppose that any of us—’

  ‘Why not? You said it yourself – you’ve always wondered about you and Laura being friends. What about Ben and Laura for fuck’s sake? What are the odds against them getting together? And you and me on the Long Sands in 1967? Come on, Mary. Put your money where your mouth is. Do you believe in this stuff or don’t you?’

  ‘It’s not a question of belief. It’s a question of evidence, of methodology.’

  ‘So? You’re a clever girl. Devise a methodology.’

  ‘Well, one should probably trial it with one person,’ goes the doc slowly, like she’s thinking aloud. ‘Yes, that would be the way to do it. Start with a pilot study, to develop an interviewing technique, and see if the approach proved fruitful.’ She looks around, as though she’s coming out of a hypnosis session herself. ‘This is not the way I would normally work, you see.
Normally I start with the client’s agenda, and try to find a way of guiding them through a past life trauma. But in this case I would have to try to guide them to Annie’s trauma, which could prove more problematic.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ asks Ian.

  ‘Because the unconscious is only likely to be interested in its own past experiences. So I might have to nudge it a little to focus it elsewhere, which might be construed as—’

  ‘Bloody fascinating idea though,’ says Ian. ‘Let’s try it.’

  ‘What? No, no. I was talking speculatively. I have no idea whether it’s remotely feasible.’ But it’s obvious she wants to have a go.

  ‘So? What have we got to lose? I’ll film the sessions and if we get something I’ll work it into the documentary – if not, I’ll just erase the recording.’

  ‘The trouble is, Laura’s been helping with the research, so she’s already “contaminated” as it were.’

  ‘Thanks very much I’m sure,’ goes Laura.

  ‘What about me?’ asks Dad in a flash. ‘Ben’s told me odds and sods, but I was away when you were doing all that work in the library.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t mind being filmed?’ asks Ian.

  Dad’s pretending to think about it, but Ben can see he’s really keen. ‘No, no, you’re all right,’ he goes. ‘Anything to help the bairn.’

  ‘Great stuff. Mary?’ Ian looks the doc straight in the eyes; she’s blushing, sort of half drunk, half excited.

  ‘How about tomorrow morning?’ she says.

  ‌Chapter Twenty-Nine

  …Good, that’s excellent, Paul. Keep breathing deep and slow. Now start walking slowly down the corridor and come to a halt in front of one of the doors. Have you got one? Good. Now turn the handle and push it open. Where are you?

  1967

  Where am I? Quelle bona questioni and no flies.

  There’s a pole by the bed, with a bottle dangling, and a tube in the back of my hand – bloomin’ heck! Curtains all round. Well, they always said I’d wind up in hospital one day.

  By, but them curtains are naff. I know it’s the National Elf, but they might have made an effort.

  Mary Magdalena, my head’s like a cushion full of feathers and my throat’s killing me. Have I been upchucking, then? Is that why I’m here? Maybes I’ve overdone it with the Tia Maria.

  Right, let’s try turning the head. Who’s this then? Edith Lillian, the old trout, as I live and breathe. Sat by my bedside, bless her, with her hat on and her nose powdered, and her library book open on her knee.

  ‘Hello duckie,’ I croak, making her jump half out of her skin. Her book slaps onto the lino.

  ‘How do you feel, pet?’ she says.

  ‘Like I’ve swallowed a handful of nails, washed down with a tankard of Tia Maria, then vommed the whole lot up again.’

  ‘I’ve brought you a magazine and some apples.’

  ‘I suppose a Vogue’s too much to hope for?’ Knowing old vinegar tits it’ll be one of her Woman’s Weeklys. ‘Famed for its knitting’: I ask you – what a thing to be famed for.

  ‘The flowers are from Mrs Russell and them two Scots lasses on the top floor. There’s a load of cards too.’

  Now I’m swivelling my head and there’s this poky little cabinet fair bristling with gladdies and chrysanths. And cards! Scads of them, all jostled between the vases. You’d think it was my birthday, except for the throat rasping like an emery board.

  ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘They’ve had to operate, pet. But you’re fine. The surgeon says it went really well.’

  ‘Operate on what?’

  There’s a look comes over her when I say that, a sort of panicky look I’ve never seen on her before. ‘On your legs, Jimmy,’ she says, and she never calls me ‘Jimmy’. In all the years she’s being doing for me, it’s only ever been ‘Mr M.’

  ‘What’s wrong with my legs?’ I’m trying to move them, but they’re like lead. Mind you, they always are a right bugger to shift first thing, what with the swelling and that, so I’m not that surprised. So now I’m trying to wriggle my toes, and I think I can feel them go, but I can’t see past my belly to check. So I go to heave myself up on the pillows, which gets Edith Lillian in a right lather, because it’s tugging on that tube, isn’t it? And rocking the bottle on the pole, and giving me gyp into the bargain, where it’s poking into my hand.

  So now she’s helping me, but it’s like a twig trying to shift a boulder. And—

  Christ! Buggering shit! Fucking Nora! The pain! So much pain, I can’t even work out where it’s coming from. Except it’s like there’s a whole bloomin’ agony orchestra sawing out different types of pain all over my nethers. What the fuck have they done to me?

  I must have yelled, for she’s let go of me, hasn’t she? And rushed off somewhere, while I collapse back blowing like a harpooned whale. And after a bit the chorus of pain simmers down a tad and I see there’s another tube snaking out from under the covers – so that’s why my dick’s screaming blue murder. Which is a relief, in a way, because at least that seems to be working all right.

  Now here comes a chubby nursey and a brace of bona big omees in green overalls. And Nursey sticks a thermometer in my oyster and paddles at my wrist with her fingers for a pulse. Then she’s poking a needle into me and giving the omees a nod. So here they come, one each side of the bed, like I’ve died and gone to heaven, and lean into me, smelling of Brut, and worm an arm under each of my oxters to hoist me up on the pillows.

  I’m expecting the pain this time, but – Jesus and Mary Magdalena! – it takes the breath away just the same. So by the time I’m settled, the three of us are all panting like we’ve just gone three rounds in the back slums. And a part of me’s thinking, where’s a molly’s powder compact when she needs it? But another part’s staring down the bed and thinking, what the fuck is going on here?

  So here’s my belly, right? Mount Etna of the omee nation. Then there’s this metal cage they’ve put under the bedclothes – to stop the blankets weighing on my legs, I suppose – and there’s the yellow tube snaking out from underneath. But where’s my bloomin’ feet, for Mary’s sake? I’m wriggling my toes, but the bed’s flat as a pancake.

  ‘The doctor says the wounds are healing up nicely,’ says Edith Lillian.

  ‘What wounds?’ I’m saying. But suddenly, like a heave of sour custard, it’s all coming back to me and I’m thinking, Jesus and Mary Magdalena, where’s my bloomin’ legs? And I just stare at the blanket, the way it’s pulled tight and tucked in all round, and not a hump or ridge to be seen. And suddenly it’s like I’m panting but I can’t catch my breath, my heart’s going like the clappers—

  Try to breathe slowly, in and out, good. You’re doing really well. Now, can you go back a bit? Think back to what you were doing before you went to the hospital. Where are you?

  I’m at the Jungle, aren’t I? Where else would her Lordship be found on a Saturday night? Zjoushed up to the nines and getting ready for the eleven-o’clock rush.

  Davy’s buttering stotties like they’re going out of fashion, and I’ve got a couple trays of chips ready, and the fryers bubbling like billy-o with a fresh lot, and the roasts on the side, juicing up ready for carving, with all the sauces, gravy and apple and curry and that. All tickety-boo – for it’ll be full steam ahead once the doors open.

  I’ve been feeling a bit off all day, but you can’t miss a Saturday, can you? The left leg’s been giving me gyp all week. Now the right one’s joined in a cats’ chorus of itching and burning. The doctor’s said I should rest them, but how can you with a job like this? When you’re on your feet half the night?

  But tell the truth, I’d rather stand than sit – for I can’t bear the sight of them. Big as balloons, all the colours of the bloomin’ rainbow, covered with sores. To think I used to be such a bona skinnamalink.

  So anyway, Ronnie’s got the beefcake organized round the walls, and they’re a sight for sore eyes, I can tell you:
fresh from the gym, thighs big enough to split their kaffies. Don’t you just adore an omee in a tux? And DJ Billy’s setting up under the palm trees. The palms were Ronnie’s idea. To make the place look exotique. Naff, more like, if you ask me. But when did our Ron ever consult the Lord Jim on matters of your décor? I mean, crazy paving on the walls? Quelle horreur! So there’s palms and all sorts dotted round, rubber plants, cheese plants, vines trailing all over the shop with grapes dangling like purple udders – all plastic of course. Bamboo curtains, black ceiling, disco balls, strobe, UV, the whole bloomin’ enchilada.

  Ron got a red neon sign saying La Continental, but everyone calls it the Jungle – though that’s more to do with the clientele than the décor. Mowglis, schwartzers and chinkies, ayrabs, yids, pakis, rastas – you name it, they all swarm off the ships and pile down the Jungle basement of a Saturday night. Trade and no-trade, comme-ci comme-ça, like Noah’s bloomin’ ark. And that’s before I’ve even started on the lasses.

  Ronnie’s got a late licence, because the basement’s classed as a restaurant. So Noreen can keep her hussies pulling pints till two in the morning. Noreen’s queen of the basement bar, and Lord Jim here’s queen of the galley.

  Right, where was I?

  You were talking about your legs hurting, but I’d like you to try and go back a bit further, to when you were a young—

  You spend years creating the magnificent omee statue of the Lord Jim – and then your bloomin’ plinths go and let you down. Mind you, the doctor says it’s a miracle they’ve lasted so long. Eighty-seven years, man and queen. I can hardly believe it myself. He says a ship this size should have keeled over years ago. Only tried to get us to go on a diet, didn’t he? I mean, I ask you! Do the aristocracy diet? Let us eat cake is what I say. What’s a cup of tea without a McVities’ slider to dunk? A molly might as well drink water.

  The dessert counter was my idea. Ronnie pooh-poohed it at first, saying no one’s going to manjare a chocolate mousse at two in the morning. But my desserts bring in more moolah than all them stotties and pies put together. It’s the lasses; they love a sweet mouthful in the middle of the night, as the actress said to the right reverend.