Herring Girl

by Debbie Taylor

  ‘Come up to the house,’ I say. But she doesn’t want to leave the quay, and I can understand that, for I’d be the same. To turn your back and walk away – well that’s admitting he’s really gone, isn’t it? So I sit down beside her on the cold cobbles with my legs throbbing under me, and put an arm around her, and wait till she’s ready to come home.

  By and by her head sags onto my shoulder and we watch the Harbourmaster arrive and take Henry aside for a word; then two police officers to talk to the crew. And all the while the capstan’s chugging away, winching off the crans; and luggers are mooring up and unloading, with the odd herrings dropping like silver rain into the bairns’ didall nets.

  Life goes on, that’s the terrible truth. A lad drowns, but there’s still a haul to get to market. That’s what’s so hard to take: that the boats can push apart to let the Osprey moor up, and the crews stop work for maybes half an hour out of respect for a lost lad, but then life goes on again like the cold waves closing over his head.

  ‌Chapter Thirty-Four

  1898

  When you’re a mother and your bairn’s ailing you feel it right along with them. So here’s my poor Annie up in the loft, and she can’t be still. She’s done a load of needles for me, and brewed another pot of tea, though she’s never touched her first cup yet, and she’s swept up again, though there’s nowt to sweep up.

  She keeps forgetting, that’s the trouble. So she’ll be busy cutting off the twine, and her mouth will go soft and her shoulders loosen – then it’ll come to her again, and her head will come up and her eyes will widen and stare at me, and see the pity on my face and know that it’s true. And then we’ll both be crying again – her for Sam’s sake, and me for hers.

  I’m sending her back to the smokehouse tomorrow, for she’s better keeping busy. She’s not the type to sit; that’s never been her way. But the light’s gone out of her, that’s the truth of it. She had the brightest eyes, our Annie; merry brown dancing eyes. Now they’re that dull, it’s as if the lass that looked out through them has drawn the curtains.

  I’m sitting in the kitchen and Flo’s back, and had her cocoa and gone to bed, and the Scots lasses have gone up too, but Annie’s still out.

  I sent her off for bacon, just for something to occupy her really, but Flo’s checked with the butcher and he’s never seen her. She’ll be walking – that’s where she’s been these last two nights. Says she’s too het up to sleep; says she’s trying to tire herself out. I can’t stop her and I can’t help her. All I can do is wait up till she comes home, and take her into the bed, and hold her while she sobs her heart out.

  It’s gone midnight and I’ve been to the door again, but all that’s out there is fog rolling down the stairs, and the clang of boats’ bells on the river. Two colliers crashed into each other in the fog last month and went down; the lifeboat was out night and day in the murk searching for survivors. They says there’s more lives lost at sea in one year than in a decade down the coal mines. But it’s in ones and twos that we lose them – a lad gone overboard, another crushed by a winch, an iced-up trawler capsized – and there’s nowt to see: no smoke, no explosion, no charred pithead. Just the cold sea going about its business.

  I must have nodded off, right here at the table with my head on my arms. It’s three o’clock and I feel a bit dizzy climbing the stairs to check Annie’s bed, but there’s still no sign. So now I’m lighting a lamp to go look for her.

  Henry says she was fighting to get on the Osprey that day, so I’m trying the quayside first. Because that’s where I’d go if he was lost: to the last place he was, to touch the mooring posts and crans, and think of him being there. The boats are all out, of course, but here’s the watchman asking what I’m doing this time of night, then saying he’s seen a dark-haired lass walking out in the direction of the trysting hill.

  So that’s where I’m headed now, leaving the lights of the harbour behind, with my eyes on the track and the chilly fog pressing in all round. I can hear the river, though I can’t see it, and bells clanging far out in the darkness like a tolling for dead souls.

  My feet are squelching in my clogs from the wet grass, and my skirt’s sodden and heavy at the hem. And here’s that bit dizziness again, and my legs are paining that much I’m wondering how I’ll ever walk home. I call out, ‘Annie! Annie pet, are you there?’ But there’s no reply; just the bells tolling, and the water’s slip-slap on the rocks below.

  Now all of a sudden I’m thinking, is that where she is? Has she filled her pockets with stones and gone in to the water to join her lost lad? And the thought’s like a jolt of lightning going through me, that makes me hurry over to the water’s edge, and call again, and scramble over the rocks, and call again, and again – ‘Annie! Annie pet, it’s your mam. Oh, Annie love, please answer. I’ve come to bring you home.’

  Then what’s this? Did I dream it? A little sound that’s half a sob, half a cry. And there she is, huddled in a wet hollow, shivering, with her hair dripping and tears on her face, and a heap of big stones in her lap.

  I let her sleep in this morning, then send her off to Scarp Landings, to the Heron place to check on Sam’s mother. Henry’s given them money, of course, and paid his respects, but word is the woman’s been bad since they found the lad’s body. So I was thinking – well, let his lass and his mam be bad together, like, and maybes comfort each other, and find a way through to the other side.

  But it’s gone eleven and she’s never come home. Flo’s off out with Tom and Henry’s in bed – he wanted to wait up, but it’s his one night for a proper sleep and he was stotting with tiredness. After last night, that’s how I’m feeling too. The legs are a bit easier now I’m sitting, but there’s a sort of fogginess you get inside when you’re dog-weary, that’s as thick as the fog outside – that’s never lifted for two days now – a sort of bluntness, that makes you slow and stupid.

  I’ve been darning, but I can’t stick with it. I keep thinking of Annie tending to that grieving family, and maybes too kind to leave, or wandering out on the hill in the mist collecting stones. It’s no good – I have to find her.

  By, but it’s miserable out: the stairs all greasy with damp, and fog muffling the lamplight. I’m going to the Heron place first, then if Annie’s left I’ll follow in her footsteps from there.

  It’s Saturday night, so going down the wet stairs to Bell Street’s like wading into a river of light and noise, with folk piling into the inns to escape the clammy cold, and yellow light spilling out, and tab smoke, and craik – and God knows what slime underfoot. It’ll take more than a blanket of fog to douse this lot, for they’re blazing with whisky and navy rum, half of them, and some are that red-eyed they can hardly see.

  I was planning to walk the Scarp lanes by myself, but seeing this lot’s made me wary, so I’m heading off to Mam’s to fetch our Jimmy. The lamp’s lit and she’s up, of course – what Shields wife goes to bed before midnight in the herring season? But Jimmy’s out – he came home for a quick bath and change of shiftenings, then donned his go-ashores and set off after tea.

  ‘At least he had his tea,’ I say with a sigh.

  ‘Ay, but that’s the best you can say.’

  ‘But he’s no trouble, is he?’

  And now it’s her turn to sigh, for Jim’s her first grandson and she loves him like a mother. ‘It’s not him that’s the trouble,’ she says. ‘It’s other folk I worry about.’

  We’ve to knock at a few houses before we find the Heron place. There’s a faint light under the door, and a young lass opens it a crack, and slips out and whispers, sorry, sorry, but Mam’s asleep, and it’s the first time since Sam was drowned, so she doesn’t want to disturb her.

  I’ve seen through the crack before she pulled the door to; at the candles round the coffin; at the mother slumped forward on the table.

  ‘Was Annie here?’ I whisper. And the lass says yes, but she left after tea, at eight, eight-thirty maybes, with the new kist. So I’m asking, ‘W
hat kist?’ and the lass says it was something Sam bought her, something to show they’re promised.

  ‘Was she going away?’ Mam asks, but the lass says, no, nowt like that; she just hoisted the kist on her head to take it home.

  ‘Maybe she’s gone off with the Scots lasses,’ says Mam as we leave. ‘The first crews started packing up this morning and it would be a fresh start for her.’

  ‘Without her boots and her oilies? Without saying a word?’

  But we climb the stairs to the top bank anyway, and walk along to Shields Station to check if she’s been there. The place is shut up and there’s no one on duty: just a tramp snoring under a bit canvas. So we go home to mine, and I check the loft, but Annie’s still not back – and Flo’s still out, though it’s a miserable night for canoodling.

  Henry says I’m being daft; she’d never kill herself. But he wasn’t there, was he? He never saw her bedraggled and keening, with a lapful of stones. He never held her while she sobbed herself to sleep, or saw her wake up in tears before she’s even remembered why she’s crying.

  We went back to the hill and searched every hollow, but she wasn’t there. Then when dawn came, and the fog lifted, we went again. And back to Shields Station, but no one remembered a lass with a green kist. I was fair nithered by then and I couldn’t stop shivering, so Henry made me go home, and lay down a spell while he went to the police station.

  So that was five days ago: five nights of sitting up waiting for her, five mornings when I’ve woken in this chair and she’s still not been home.

  I should never have sent her off to Mrs Heron. A bonny lass in that rough place, with a new kist in the fog – anyone could have taken a fancy to her. Or mistooken her for an uppity Scots gipper and thought to teach her a lesson. Soon as I saw her with them stones in her lap, I should never have let her out of my sight.

  Henry called up the crew and they searched all over, and asked around up and down all the lanes and stairs. It meant missing a day’s share, but they never said a word – that’s the kind of lads they are.

  He says the police never even wrote down her name. They were that run off their feet, what with drunks and brawlers, and folk that’s been robbed, and the cells still flooded from that storm. They said lasses go off all the time, and turn up again a week later none the worse; and maybes she was with a lad and forgot the time, or been shamed and gone away to sort herself out – which is something I never thought of, but when it gets to be this long, you start thinking anything, don’t you?

  I’ve been bad, so Flo’s been helping out. She says she’s stopping at ours long as I need her and I’ve not the heart to send her away – though I can’t help thinking if she’d spent less time chasing after that Tom Hall, and more time tending to our Annie – well, maybes she wouldn’t have taken Sam’s death quite so hard. And maybes that’s what Flo’s thinking too, for far as I can tell she’s never seen Tom these last few days and has been that quiet I’m wondering if she’s ailing.

  I’ve had to knock the round on the head: I daresn’t leave the house in case Annie comes home and needs me – though I’m not much use to anyone the state I’m in. My head aches all the time, and it’s been hurting me to breathe. Henry wants to go for the doctor, but what’s the point? He’ll only tell me to rest, but how can I? There’ll be time enough to rest when I’m lying in. There’ll be time enough to rest when our Annie’s home.

  Oh, Annie! I keep looking up and expecting her to be there: across the kitchen, where she’d be tending the fire, outside swilling down her oilies in the yard. I keep expecting her bright face to appear at the door, saying howay Mam and what’s for tea?

  They say a wife should never sweep the house the day her husband sets off on a voyage, or she’ll sweep him out of her life. So I’ve kept her things where she left them. There’s her knitting box on the dresser; her work scarf’s hanging behind the door; her boots are stood in the scullery waiting to be oiled.

  The season’s finished now and the town’s emptied of Scots lasses. The luggers have all set sail for Yarmouth and Grimsby, where the herring’s just started. And we’re left to sweep up the mattress straw from our lodging rooms, and the wet sawdust from our pubs, and count our shillings till next year.

  The bairns’ll be back tomorrow and needing their room, so I’ve tonight to get the place ready. Ellie’s crew packed up two days back, but I’ve not had the heart to do the room out till now. Tell the truth, I’ve not had the heart for anything much since Annie – well, since Annie what? Flitted off to Yarmouth with just the clothes on her back? Boarded a steam packet to London? But she’d write, that’s what I keep thinking. If she’s alive, and in her right mind, she’d find a way to send word.

  I keep circling back to them stones in her lap; that terrible dull look in her eyes.

  It’s hard clambering up the stairs with the bucket and broom and that; I’ve had to go up and down three times with different things. By the end I’m hanging on to the handrail gasping for breath, with my heart hammering and my head pounding. So anyway, now I’m shifting the bedsteads, to sweep under them, and—

  Oh dear Lord, no! Here’s a hot trickle down my leg, and it’s my waters going. So I’m sighing and thinking, well at least the bucket’s up here and the cloth, so I can mop up. But now here comes a birthing pain, like a fist twisting; and it’s a big un, so I think it can’t be long – it was that quick with Emily, she was out and washed and latched on before the doctor could get here.

  There’s that heap of brown paper I’ve unpinned from the walls, so I’m scrunching it into a sort of nest to catch the baby, but I’m having to squat down each time a pain hits us, so it’s slow going. Oh and here’s another one, and another fast after, so I get ahold of the bedstead. And I can feel the head – oh, oh, and here it comes, the hot slither of arms and legs, my little red spider!

  Oh come here and let me see you, wee daftie. No, don’t cry, Mammy’s here. There now, here now. And you’re a little man, oh precious poppet. Howay, let’s wipe your face. That’s right, now wait and I’ll get my blouse open. See, now, you came so fast I never even had a chance to change my shiftenins.

  And just look at this place, all dust balls and herring scales. What sort of room is this to bring a new lad into, eh? But I’ll clear it up later. Now, where’s my beating knife? First thing is to get the cord cut – there – and wait for the afterbirth, then we can get settled.

  Oh, but I’m so tired, let’s just rest here awhile on our paper nest, and you can have a bit suck and I’ll lean back against the bedstead and close my eyes.

  It’s getting dark – I must have dropped off. Or maybes I fainted? I can’t tell. The baby’s sleeping, and oh if only Mam was here to tend me, and help me into the bed and get rid of this minging paper. And wash my poor little mite, who’s as smeary as offal in a butcher’s window.

  I wonder if I can get up. Is the afterbirth out? Let’s have a feel, and – what’s this? Why’s everything so wet? My skirt’s wringing, and the floor’s flooded. Did I knock the bucket over? No, here it is. Maybes the baby’s messed on us, except my blouse is dry.

  Oh God no, is it blood? Please sweet Jesus, don’t let it be blood.

  I remember now, the doctor pressed my belly that last time with our Emily. He said it was to make the afterbirth come out. Howay, pet, Mammy’s got to put you down for a bit. There now, let’s take off my blouse to wrap round you. And kneel up over the paper – dear sweet Jesus, there’s so much blood! – and press down like he did, and again, like this and try not to think of the hot splashes that are spurting out each time. And again, and harder, and pray to God to save us.

  The baby’s sleeping, bless him. I must get this blood cleared up before the bairns get home – can’t have them coming in to find the place like a slaughterhouse. And Henry, he’ll be beside himself if he finds me in this state.

  I should call for help, but I’m so tired, and the room’s so dark now. I’m shivering, I can’t stop. Let’s just lie down next to
my little man for a while, and rest a bit, then I’ll call someone. There, just close my eyes…

  ‌Chapter Thirty-Five

  2007

  Ian’s lying on his back, eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. His chest is heaving; tears are streaming unheeded down the sides of his face and into his ears, his hair. Mary sits on the pouffe and mops his face gently with a clean hanky quelling an impulse to smooth his wet curls with her fingers.

  His hands are clenched by his sides in the effort to stop sobbing. She takes one and unfolds the tense fingers. It’s so familiar, this hand: the broad palm and stubby fingers: a worker’s hand. She turns it over, looks at the bitten nails, the skin around them gnawed and bloody; the freckles; the gold wedding ring – a new one, presumably; it wouldn’t be something one would recycle. And the tangle of raised veins, like a tree’s roots: those are new too. An ageing hand, like hers. How time passes. She presses the hanky into his palm and closes the fingers back around it.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says eventually, shaking it open and blowing his nose. ‘I didn’t realize I would be – I mean, for fuck’s sake Mary, I was fucking there…’

  ‘Don’t try to get up yet.’

  He wipes his eyes. ‘All that blood,’ he says brokenly. ‘The smell of it, like a butcher’s shop. You never think about that, do you? When you see it on telly. That it’s sticky, what it smells like. That we’re just fucking animals walking around on our hind legs.’

  ‘There was a problem with the placenta,’ she explains. ‘So she kept on bleeding.’

  ‘But the baby was OK, right?’ He looks at her, almost pleading. ‘I mean, he seemed OK when I – when she…’ He breaks off, shaken by a fresh storm of sobbing. ‘His wee pink monkey feet – God, he was so fucking tiny. I looked into his eyes, Mary.’