Herring Girl

by Debbie Taylor

  Ian positions his recording device in front of her and switches it on. ‘Mary C, twenty-first of August. Talking about reincarnation. Right.’ He nods to her to continue. ‘So, is it always like that? Someone dies and the soul’s reincarnated immediately?’

  Mary shakes her head. ‘As I said before, it’s complicated. From documented cases it would seem that a soul may hang around, as it were, without a body, for as many as six years. Buddhists call this state bardo, by the way.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Well, much of the published data is from Asia and the Middle East, where prenatal and perinatal mortality can be extremely high.’

  ‘Which makes for rather a lot of false starts.’

  ‘Exactly. Some practitioners claim to have interviewed souls who recall dying in infancy. Some even claim to have made contact with souls who have been aborted or miscarried – but I think it’s highly unlikely that a foetus would be able to articulate his or her experiences in a form that could be understood by a subsequent incarnation. However, I do think it’s possible that a soul might have to inhabit quite a number of potential bodies before lodging in a viable one.’

  ‘I see what you mean.’

  ‘Things were pretty tough in nineteenth-century Britain too, especially in North Shields. Take my case for example.’

  ‘If only you’d let me.’

  She glares at him. ‘Yes, well, immediately prior to my current incarnation it seems I was someone called Peggy, a bright girl who worked in a canning factory, gutting herring and white fish – until she got pregnant following a brief but ill-advised liaison with an itinerant builder from Aberdeen. The man buggered off and her family disowned her—’

  ‘That seems a bit hard.’

  ‘Bearing an illegitimate child was considered deeply shameful in those days, even in poor communities.’

  ‘But it must have happened all the time.’

  ‘Indeed. And if he’d been a local boy, their respective families would probably have got together and forced him to marry her – and turned a blind eye when an infant appeared somewhat less than the requisite nine months later. As it was, he simply shouldered his bag and headed off into the night.’

  ‘Poor Peggy. What did she do?’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid her life took a somewhat different path from then on. She lost her job and took to cleaning houses and taking in washing – for a pittance, as you can imagine. And, as a “fallen woman”, she was subject to continual sexual harassment and several vicious sexual assaults from men who considered her fair game. So when one day a man offered her money for what I believe is still referred to as a “knee-trembler”, she took it.’

  Mary shakes her head briefly to banish the memory. ‘Later she used to say that if she was going to have her bum grabbed and her tits tweaked, she might as well get paid for it.’

  ‘What happened to the baby?’

  ‘Robert – Bobby she called him – was a timid little boy. Clingy, always under her feet – or so she thought. I’m afraid she was rather impatient with him. I often wonder whether he’s still alive. He didn’t have much of a start in life, living in one room with a prostitute for a mother. She’d send him to sit on the stairs when she had a customer, but he must have known what was going on.’ She can see the boy’s face: his sandy freckles, the cap pulled down low on his forehead, his nervous ingratiating smile.

  ‘What about her other kids? With no contraception, pregnancy must have been a bit of an occupational hazard.’

  ‘She aborted at least four babies that I know of, but there may have been more.’

  Ian whistles through his teeth. ‘Talk about false starts.’

  ‘I often wonder whether that’s why I ended up in one of the so-called “caring professions” – to correct a mothering deficit incurred during Peggy’s lifetime.’

  ‘You could have had children instead,’ Ian says pointedly, and a familiar little stab of anguish flashes through her.

  She sets her cup down, avoiding his eyes. ‘I suspect I make a better therapist than I would a mother,’ she comments dryly. ‘I was somewhat lacking the relevant role-model while I was growing up. My mother didn’t really know what to do with me unless I was ill.’

  ‘So Peggy died – when?’

  ‘Shortly before I was born in 1956. But I can’t see how—’

  ‘But before Peggy, you were a fisherman, right?’

  ‘It would seem so, yes,’ she says noncommittally. She doesn’t want to discuss this with Ian. She hasn’t thought through the implications of being identified as the predatory Tom Hall – if that’s who the T.H. on her tobacco tin refers to. She wants to mull it over on her own: look out the tapes of her original hypnosis sessions and try to find out a bit more about him first.

  ‘But he might have known Annie. He might have been one of the men on her dad’s boat.’

  ‘In principle, yes. But you can’t just—’

  ‘Come on, Mary. Humour me. We might be getting somewhere here.’

  ‘All right,’ she sighs. ‘I’ve never tried to check the exact date, but Peggy was probably born in the mid-1920s, so you’d be looking for a fisherman who died near that time, though as I said before, there could have been any number of “false starts”, as you put it, between the death of someone on the Osprey and the day Peggy was born.’

  ‘OK, point taken. But we could at least rule out anyone who was still alive when Peggy was born. That would narrow the field a bit, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she concedes.

  ‘So we’d start by going to the Births, Marriages and Deaths website. You’ve got that list of names, haven’t you?’ He chuckles. ‘I’ll bet you were Annie’s father, the fearsome skipper. What was his name? Henry. He’d have been about sixty-five when Peggy was born, right? So that would fit.’

  ‘Following that logic, any of the older men would fit,’ she points out.

  ‘I know – but I like the idea of you being skipper on a herring boat. It’s almost as far from your current incarnation as you could imagine.’

  ‘Unfortunately, any one of the younger men would fit equally well.’

  ‘Well obviously, assuming one of them died in his forties—’

  ‘If he died in his teens he could still fit,’ she interrupts impatiently. ‘Don’t you see? There could have been another intervening incarnation, who also died in his thirties. Or he could have died in his thirties, and the intervening incarnation could have died in his teens. The permutations are limitless! I’m sorry, Ian,’ she says crossly. ‘I can’t see any point in this.’

  ‘OK, OK. Keep your hair on.’

  Mary takes a deep breath. ‘Look, what I went through with my supervisor was a therapeutic training process, not an historical investigation. So she was concerned with exploring issues that were relevant to my personal development at the time, which happened to focus on Peggy’s short but tragic life. We touched on previous incarnations, too, of course – and it does seem likely that at least one was a fisherman, perhaps even two or more. But it was only in passing, and certainly not in enough detail to determine whether they included someone who served on the Osprey.’

  ‘Are you still in touch?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘With your old supervisor.’

  ‘We exchange Christmas cards and bump into one another at conferences occasionally,’ she says cautiously. ‘The last time I saw her was at that big Mapping the Mind shindig in Glasgow last year.’

  ‘I wonder if I should get her up here for a day or two.’

  ‘No! Absolutely not!’ It comes out much more vehemently than she intends.

  Ian raises his eyebrows. ‘Why not? Kill two birds with one stone. You get to fit a few more pieces into your psychic jigsaw and I get to find out if your fisherman was on that boat.’

  Damn. Now she’s piqued his interest, he’ll never let it go. ‘She’s an old lady, Ian.’

  ‘If she can schlep all the way up to Glasgow, North Shields should be a p
iece of piss. Where does she live? I’ll send a car to take her to her nearest airport, station, whatever, and meet her at this end. Door-to-door service. Room with a view at the Grand. It’ll be a nice little outing for her.’

  ‘I don’t want her here.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘I finished with regression therapy a long time ago. It was a painful and enlightening experience, and it did me a great deal of good, but it’s not something I want to repeat – particularly not with you filming me.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Aren’t you curious about your fisherman?’

  ‘I thought you were the one who wanted to be hypnotized.’

  ‘Does this woman even exist?’

  ‘The issue is closed, Ian.’

  He peers at her. ‘What are you scared of, Mary Charlton?’

  ‘I’m going outside for a Gitanes. If you’re serious about being regressed, I’ll do it when I get back.’

  ‌Chapter Thirty-Three

  …Excellent. Keep breathing slowly and deeply. Keep walking along that road. There’s a row of houses in front of you. Can you see them? Good. Each house has a front door, which opens onto a year of your life. Look for the one that opens onto 1898. Good. Now open that door and you’ll find yourself in a hallway with some more doors. Now walk through the one that will take you to the summer of 1898.

  1898

  They’re saying there’s never been a summer like it for the herring. The quay’s that crammed with craft, some of the crews are coming to blows over moorings. And the catches! Overflowing the holds, Henry says, so they’ve to bring the pound boards up on deck to contain them.

  And here’s me full to overflowing too, seems like, waddling about like a seal cow, puffing and panting up and down all the stairs of this town.

  I tell you, this heat doesn’t suit me one bit. So right now I’m plodding up the stairs to the loft, and poking my head out the window, trying to catch a breath of freshness. I’m hoping for a sniff of the cool sea, an updraught to dry the sweat off my face, and ruffle up the hair that’s glued to my forehead. But the air’s thick as pea soup, even this high, and all I can smell is rotten fish innards and the sour puffs of doused cooking fires.

  I don’t remember being this bad with our Emily. But it was winter when she came, so I’d have been out flither-picking, or sitting in with Mam baiting the long lines – not standing all hours in a loft like an oven, beating driftnets.

  I swear you could fry a flounder out on them roof tiles today. If Ricky were here, I’d get him to fan me with the Daily News – but he’s off at Mam’s with Em and the big lads. It’s that quiet without them, I can hear myself think for a change – which is not such a good thing now I’m coming up to my time; not when my legs are throbbing and I can’t catch my breath. I keep pondering on what the doctor said when Em came – but it’s too late now to worry about that.

  And when you see them all, all the bairns, the jump and the joy of them, how can you not want another? Even though your ankles are puffy as pigs’ bladders and your legs look like there’s blue porridge dripped down the back. Just a few more weeks and I’ll be back to myself, with another wee grunter sucking away.

  By, but I’m that tired it’s like a hunger; the sight of Annie and Flo’s mattresses, set out so neat and welcoming, fairly makes my mouth water. I could lie down and gobble up a dish of sleep easy as mashed taties and butter.

  Beating in a home loft’s a lonely business without the weans here to help. They’re right canny with their fingers, so there’s always a row of needles threaded. It’s a bind doing them myself: you lose your place on the net when you set it aside to thread up. So, now I’ve cut the lengths, and threaded them ready – enough for a good two hours’ beating – and I’m lumbering to my feet and unhooking the net and stretching it out. By, but I’m breathless again from just lifting down a skein of lint and unfolding it in the light. The Lord knows what I’ll be like in a few weeks when I’m due.

  This net’s not too bad; mainly spronks and crows’ feet. They could use it as it is, except Henry’s a stickler for his lints and would rather I spent an hour or three now, tidying up, than risk losing half a haul next week through a big tear. If I went blind, I swear my fingers would still be able to find their way around a fouled net, and light on the holes, and mend them, and tie them off neat. There’s been times when Henry’s climbed up to find me beating in the dark almost, when the light’s faded and I’ve been trying to finish a big rent before going for the lamp.

  I’ve finished this lint, but it could do with a cutching. So I’ve folded it and I’m bending down to hoy it up on the pulleys by the window – next thing I know I’m lying on the floor with the net beside me. I’ve fainted, I suppose, though I can’t remember falling. And I’m yawning, and the room seems dark, though the sun’s bright as ever.

  Oh, but it’s such a comfort to be off my feet. I could lie here cuddling the net for an hour, never mind that the boards are all crusty with fish scales and twists of creosote twine. But Henry’s had his bit sleep now, and needs waking. So I’d better see if I can stand up – and I can – and grab the handrail, and go carefully down the stairs to our room.

  I always take a moment to sit quiet on the edge of the bed and watch him sleep: my big fierce lad as only I ever see him, soft and loving as a fireside moggie. He likes to take his clothes off for his bit sleep – even if it’s only a few hours. He says it’s his way of knowing he’s home: even in his sleep, he can feel the blanket on his bare skin and tell he’s not on the boat. His forehead’s pale, where his cap’s been pulled on; and his neck, where he’s tied his wrapper; and his arms down to the wrists, where his gansey’s been.

  ‘Time to wake up, pet,’ I’m saying, leaning over. And he rolls towards me with his eyes shut, and reaches for my hand, and finds it straight away – like mending a crow’s foot in the dark.

  It’s evening now and I’m just finishing my round, and there’s a pound or so left, so I should try up Dockwray again. But I can’t face climbing back up to the top bank in this heat, and Mam’s place is nearby, so I think I’ll drop in on her and take the weight off instead.

  And there it is, the house I grew up in – and there’s our Ricky and Emily settling down on the front step with pots and crans, to scrape taties and shell peas for their nana. Oh, and just look at our Ricky helping Em with the cran in her lap, bless him, and popping the first pod to tip them into her little mouth!

  Now Emmy’s looking up, and she’s spotted me – so she’s trying to smile, but she’s a mouthful of peas, and that has to be the sweetest, funniest face in the world, all brimming with life and bonny dimples. And Ricky’s seen me too, and’s dropping his tatie knife and running to meet me. And here’s their nana popping out to see why they’ve left the pots; and I can feel my legs start to sag under me, just knowing she’s coming to help me off with the fish board, and bustle me into a chair with a cup of tea.

  They say you never really grow up till your mam passes on, for there’s always a part of you that wants tending, and a part of her that wants to do it. So here she is, peering over at me with a worried frown, and Ricky’s coughing again, so that’s never eased for weeks now; and Emmy’s clambering onto my lap – but there’s no lap because of the baby, so she’s sliding off, and whingeing, so I’m hugging her best I can, and reaching out for Ricky too. And Mam’s asking what’s the matter? And I’m saying, just tired, Mam, this heat’s getting to me. So she says, not long now, pet – meaning the Scots lasses and the nets as well as the baby coming – and promises soon as her lodgers have gone, she’ll be round our place to help out.

  So now I’m asking after our Jimmy and Frank, for I miss my big lads too and want to see them. And she says Frank’s along by the ferry landing with his didall net, catching the herring that fall off the crans as they’re hoisted ashore. And Jimmy’s gone off somewhere, he didn’t say where, without stopping for his tea. And the way Mam’s
telling it, I can see she’s not best pleased.

  ‘There’s something got into that lad,’ she says. ‘He’s out all hours, just rushes back for his oilies when the boat’s setting off. And this last Sunday morning I caught him sneaking in as I was raking out the grate – so he’s never been home all night.’

  ‘Is he sleeping on the boat?’ I’m asking.

  ‘Said he forgot the time. What sort of answer’s that?’

  He’s off his food too, Mam says, which is not like our Jimmy at all – he’s normally right in there with a spoon while you’re still cooking, tasting and blethering on, adding this and that. So now I’m worrying there’s something troubling him: a lass maybes, or a barny with one of the lads – though Henry’s never said there’s been strife on the boat. And I’m starting to fret, but what’s the use of that? When your bairns get older, you have to let them go and just pray they’ll keep safe.

  Next morning this bairn’s come pounding on the door to bring word that a lad’s been lost off the Osprey. Of course my first thought is it’s Henry or our Jimmy, and I’m off running down to the quayside, with my heart thundering fit to burst, thinking – well, I’m that beside myself I hardly know what to think.

  Then I see them, my precious lads – and not a mark on them – and I’m sobbing with shock and relief, the way you do, I’m that thankful to see them. And Jimmy comes over to explain that the Wellesley lad’s gone overboard in the night, and our Annie’s taking it hard.

  And there she is, crouching by a stack of crans, clutching a ditty tin, with tears pouring down her face. And I’m remembering how I felt just now, running onto the quayside, thinking one of my lads were drowned – then trying to imagine what Annie’s going through. For she was deep in love with that Sam, no doubt about that. I never saw a lass shine the way she’s been shining these past weeks, ever since they’ve been walking out.

  ‘Oh, Annie, pet,’ I’m saying. ‘I’m so sorry.’ And I try to raise her up, but she’s stiff as wood, whispering, ‘No, no,’ over and over.