Herring Girl

by Debbie Taylor

  ‘Last time it was rather confusing and frightening,’ she says. ‘If you remember, you kept jumping from one memory to another and it was hard to work out what was happening.’

  ‘Maybe that’s because I was on the Stella,’ he suggests. ‘So I was probably a bit out of it.’

  ‘That’s possible, I suppose,’ she says doubtfully.

  ‘Well I’ve only had tea today, down the Mission.’

  It’s this last detail that sways her. He’s planned this, even to the extent of foregoing his precious Stella. Mary feels herself relenting.

  ‌Chapter Thirty-Seven

  …Can you see the corridor? Good. Remember you can use your sign at any point if you want to stop. Now walk very slowly along the corridor and look at the doors. Each one opens on to a different year in your life. Try to find one that opens on to a time when you were young, can you do that? It’s 1898, in the middle of the herring season, and the town’s full of people. Have you opened a door? Good. What can you see?

  1898

  The luggers are in, and the capstans are winching off the full crans, chugging away and belching puffs of blue smoke. And all along the quayside bairns are leaning out with their didall nets for the herring that’s dropping out of them.

  Very good. Stay in that time. Now think carefully, do you know a girl called Annie Milburn?

  Of course I know Annie! We’re always linking in and nattering away. But then everyone knows Annie – she’s always howaying and stopping for a blether, so she’s always hurrying, with her shawl loose and trailing. Spuggie, we used to call her, for she was skinny as a bird when she was wee. I was worried she’d be a fat straw in a skirt for ever, but she’s filling out canny now.

  I’m stopping at her place for the season and I’ve a notion to help with her looks, to see can we find her a sweetheart – I feel bad walking out with my Tom when she’s on her own.

  It’s our half day, and we’re washing our hair in the scullery at her place. But the water’s barely warm, for we’ve had to wait our turn behind the Scots lasses, and they’ve left suds all over the floor. Annie says don’t fuss, and let’s clear up after, but I want to mop up and make it nice before we start, and riddle the boiler, and hoy a bit extra coal on.

  She’s not as shy as me, and takes off her blouse no bother to bend over the basin. So I’m helping lift that great mass of curls she’s got, that’s full of fish scales and sawdust, and bundle it forwards and into the water. It wants to float, but we push it down so I can work in the soap. I shouldn’t look, I know, but the water’s splashing and making her cami stick to her, so her boobies are showing through, and it’s a shock to see them, all shameless somehow with the teats standing up—

  Now we’re off on the monkey run and I’m that antsy to meet Tom, and see him looking at me in that bold way he’s got – though I think maybes he’s too bold sometimes, like he’s a horse that wants to gallop and I’ve got the reins and I’m worried I won’t be able to keep him from going where he wants.

  It’s sunny, but the breeze is fierce, rocking the boats at their moorings and making the masts creak. The lads have their caps pulled well down, to keep them on, but we can’t fix our shawls and scarves so easy – and Annie looks like a gypsy with her scarf undone and curls flying all over. I’m trying to keep her nice, but she’s not helping, and keeps laughing at the old nanas trying to hold their skirts down, and the wind puffing them up like black balloons.

  There’s Tom’s now – outside the bakkie shop on Bell Street, leaning against the wall with a tab, and his eyes screwed up against the smoke. He’s seen us, but he’s not shifting; just watching us walk towards him, with our wild hair and flapping shawls, and grinning his cheeky grin. I’m starting to smile back when I see that it’s Annie he’s grinning at – and not just grinning neither. And I know that look, for it’s been on me often enough, and it jolts me to see him looking at Annie in that way.

  She’s never noticed, of course, but just takes herself off so we can link in. But I’m quiet after – a bit jarred, I suppose, to see his eyes lingering on Annie like that. I can’t think how that’s happened, how she’s got so bonny and I’ve never noticed.

  I’ve been home to fetch my shiftenings, and Mam’s said she’ll be checking with Mrs Milburn what time I’m coming in – as if I’m more likely to get up to mischief after ten, when my Tom’s a danger any time of the day!

  Da knows him from the boat, and has already had a word with Mam about him. And she’s had a word with me, though it’s the same word she has every day of the week, seems like. That it’s in a lad’s nature to try, blah, blah, blah, so it’s a lass’s duty to stop him, and that’s the only way to keep his respect. Why can’t she see that if he loves me, he won’t go off suddenly just because we’ve been all the way?

  Anyway, I’ve told her I’m invited to his folk for tea Saturday, so she’s backed off a bit, and says I can bring him for Sunday lunch if I like.

  It’s Da knowing him that’s the problem – even though he’s visited, all proper like, soon as I turned sixteen, to say we’re walking out. But Tom says there’s always rough talk about lasses on the boat, so Da will have heard him going on, and taken it the wrong way, even though it means nowt.

  Oh – so that’s it. Tom’s just got off me and it’s done.

  I thought there’d be more stages, a longer walk, like, before the end of the pier. Then suddenly my skirt and pettie’s rucked up and here’s my bare knees, all white and indecent. And Tom pumping away like a mongrel between them, with his nana’s statue of the Lord Jesus looking down from the mantle.

  Now here’s a knock on the door and his nana’s calling out, do we want some cocoa? And Tom’s calling back, thanks Nana, that’d be champion, and we’ll come through in a minute, buttoning his kecks as if butter wouldn’t melt. And I’m feeling all sticky and smeary and want to run to the scullery and have a wash, for I’m thinking it’ll be safer, maybes, if I swill it out, and—

  It’s splashed on my skirt. Oh sweet Jesus – how can there be so much?

  What if she notices? What if there’s a trail of slime I’ve missed on my skirt, and the lamp catches on the glisten? Has he left a mark where he was biting my neck? I pull my hair forwards just in case, and button my blouse, then look in the mirror.

  I look just the same as before – that’s the shocking thing. Not spoiled nor brassy nor anything. And I’m glad, and thinking that’s me promised, and he’ll be mad for me now – and never look at Annie Milburn again.

  You forget how soft a body is, then you see a girder falling, and a body folding the way no body should fold, then breaking open like a red egg.

  The siren’s gone off and they’ve lit the smokescreen, so we’re all running to the shelter, coughing and pulling on our masks. Mr Wilkinson’s unlocked the door himself, bless him, with little Billy handing out lamps and matches. And the lasses crowding in, with the bairns all het up, bundled in their blankets.

  Now here come the bombs, thuds you can feel in your chest, and we’re all crouched on our mattresses, trying to guess how far, and are they coming this way, and how soon, like Tom clomping down the hall all them years ago.

  Oh! Here’s a bang, loud as a fist whacking against my ear, and over there, where primus was, it’s just bricks and girders and the air thick with dust. And wires hanging, and broken planks, and glass crunching under my feet.

  Now what’s this? A roar above my head, the rattle of bottles, and something sliding. So I’m looking up and the boards are splintering and girders popping out the walls like ginger-beer corks. The whole factory’s collapsing, slowly, slowly, crumpling like newspaper, creaking and groaning and buckling.

  Ah! Something’s hit me on the side of the head, hard as a wooden ball at a coconut shy. I reach my hand up to my hairnet, and it’s a mash of hair and bone and hot blood. And I want to shout, but my voice is locked up, somehow, like in a dream when the sound won’t come out—

  Hello Flo? Flo? Calm down, now. Listen to
me for a moment. Now you’re going to leave this room, OK? Can you see a door behind you? Good girl. Now I want you to turn around slowly, and walk back though that door into the corridor. Have you done that? Good. You’re safe now. So let’s stay here a while, shall we? Breathe slowly, good.

  Now, when you’re ready, let’s walk back along the corridor. There’s another door there with the date 1898 on it. Can you see it? Can you see the handle? Good, now I want you to turn the handle and see what’s inside.

  I’m at Tom’s place, helping his nana set the table for tea. And I’m looking round, and thinking how I’ll change this room when we’re married, to make it more homely: set them plates out nice on the sideboard, maybes, and crochet a runner for the mantle.

  Mr Hall’s here this time, smoking his pipe, and he never puts it down once! Even with a guest at the table and a dish of fried liver in front of him – lucky Mam’s not here to see it. He’s needing the barber and I think he’s had a bevvy, for I can smell something and his cheeks are canny red. They say he’s a mean drunk, and used to wallop the bairns, but he seems tame enough to me, blethering away jolly as you like about the Klondyking, and how the big lads are raking it in.

  The door to the parlour’s closed, so I’m thinking maybes I shouldn’t let Tom do it again till we’re wed, because I’m more than a week past my time and starting to fret about falling pregnant. And the fretting’s got my innards in a twist, all of a sudden, so I can hardly look at the liver.

  Now we’re finished and I’m saying to Tom, let’s take a walk along the top bank. And his face is tripping him, for he’s wanting to go in the parlour, isn’t he? But I’d feel queer doing it with Mr Hall in the next room, even if we didn’t go all the way. It was bad enough with his nana there that time.

  ‘I’d have locked the door, daftie,’ says Tom later, linking in. And I say, that’s as maybe, but I’d still feel queer. So he says, let’s go to the hill then, and I say fine, but we’ll have to watch we don’t trip over Annie and her lad.

  And I feel his arm stiffening in mine and he says, sharp like, ‘What do you mean?’ So I say, ‘Nowt, I was only joking.’ But it’s too late; I’ve let it slip. So now he’s stopping and facing me, so folk are having to dodge round us in the lane.

  ‘Who’s she with?’ he asks. ‘Just some deckie,’ I say. So he says, ‘What deckie?’ and I say I promised not to tell, and why’s he so interested anyway? Is he jealous?

  And he laughs and says of course not, he’s just curious. But I know he’s lying, and there’s a qualmy feeling in my belly, that’s maybes a baby catching hold or maybes the shock of seeing how he is about Annie having a lad.

  So I blurt out that it’s that new lad on the boat, that Wellesley lad. And I’m thinking – oh, I don’t know what I’m thinking. To make mischief for Annie with her da. To make Tom leave off looking at her because she’s taken.

  Can you make a bad thing happen just by wishing it? There was I wishing Annie wasn’t so bonny – and now her Sam’s gone and drowned and she’s like a wooden doll, that sits stiff and quiet till she’s told to tie on her bindings for work, or swill her oilies, or rinse her smalls and pin them out to dry.

  It’s one of them foggy evenings, when we can’t see across the river, and our clothes are damp and our skin cold and clammy. I’ve been to Tom’s place for tea and he’s just walked me back, and come in for a cup of cocoa and a bit blether with Mrs Milburn.

  And I’ve been to the nettie again, and pressed my belly, in the hopes of bringing something on. And I was wishing Annie were here to talk to, then remembering she’s in no fit state to talk to about anything, so if there is a baby it’s Tom I’ve to talk to about it.

  I’m only half listening when Mrs Milburn says she’s sent Annie off on an errand. But suddenly Tom’s getting up and flicking his tab on the fire, and saying that’s reminded him he’s forgotten to padlock the hatch on the boat, and he’ll do it now. And he’s off out the door, just like that – not even stopping to finish his cocoa.

  So we’re left sitting, Mrs Milburn and me, staring at the closed door. And she gets out her darning and rests her feet on a stool. But I can’t settle. The way he’s rushed off has got me antsy, thinking he’s maybes gone looking for Annie, to walk her home safe. And a shudder’s gone through me at the thought that he’s wanting to start on with her instead of me – because she’s on her own again, isn’t she, now Sam’s passed? So I catch up my shawl and tell Mrs Milburn I’m going after him.

  The fog’s so thick, I can’t see him at first, and stand breathing the clammy air, looking all round – then I spot him, under a lamp post at the bottom of the stairs rolling a tab. So I hang back a bit, then when he’s struck his match and set off again, I follow him.

  He’s headed to the quayside, where the luggers are moored so close you couldn’t pass a piece of paper between them, and three, four deep, so you could walk halfway to South Shields without getting your feet wet. Not that you can see that far, just hear the rigging thrumming and dripping in the mist.

  Now he’s stopped and pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket and’s heaving on the warp of a boat and climbing aboard. It’s the Osprey – what other boat would it be? And I chide myself being such a daftie, for it seems all he’s doing is locking the hatch after all.

  So now I’m thinking I’ll climb on board too and surprise him, and we can have a bit cuddle in the fo’c’sle. And maybes then I’ll let on about the baby. For it’s been weeks now since I was due, so it’s time we got things settled and told our folks and set a date for the wedding.

  But what’s this? Here’s a brand new kist by the mooring post – what’s that doing here? So I’m guessing he must be meeting some brassy Scots lass on the boat, and that’s why he was in such a hurry. Sure enough, here he comes jumping onto the quayside, and hoists the kist on his shoulder and hoys it aboard.

  I’m feeling fair qualmy now, and shivering, with the shock of it I suppose. For wasn’t he sitting with me at his Da’s table less than an hour ago? So I’m drawing nearer, wanting and not wanting to hear what they’re about – except it’s obvious, isn’t it? For why else would a lass be alone with a lad on a boat on a foggy night?

  I can hear their voices now. And the qualmy feeling’s getting worse, for that’s a lass’s voice I’m hearing – though I can’t hear what she’s saying. And Tom’s laughing, teasing like; laughing like it’s the most natural thing in the world. So now I’m half crying and half retching at the same time, and thinking I’m going to throw up, so I find a heap of crans to hide behind.

  It’s splashed on my skirt. How can there be so much?

  See, he was laughing, like he did with me, like it was the most natural thing in the world. That’s what got to me.

  I can’t go home like this – Mrs Milburn’s bound to notice. Is there a pail somewhere? I need a pail, and a cloth, and water to rinse it out.

  I feel like screaming, but my voice is locked up, somehow, like in a dream when the sound won’t come—

  Flo? Can you hear me? It’s all right. Just breathe slowly, in and out, in and out. Good. Concentrate on your breathing. Now let’s go forward a bit. Look around you. What’s happening now?

  They say you should be careful what you wish for. So here’s the fiddle band’s playing and the old folk sitting round the wall, nodding and clapping away. Now Da’s leading me into the middle of the floor to start the dancing off, and he’s whisking me round so my skirt billows out, and all my new lace petties, like the dress of a princess. And I feel like crying, for this should be the best day of my life – but how can it be after what’s happened with Annie?

  The room’s rushing past, all smiles and clapping hands and roses and dahlias – all the pale colours, pink and yellow and white, for I couldn’t bear the look of them red roses and threw them out, which made Mam’s mouth go all small. So now I’m thinking how her mouth will be when I tell her about the baby, and she adds up the months. But she’ll not be able to say a word, will she? Fo
r I’ll be married.

  I’m looking round for Tom, for it’s him that should be dancing with me really, so folk can see us smiling together on our wedding day and never think there’s owt wrong.

  There he is, over by the barrel with his mates, filling up. I wish he’d look up and see me whirling round with my hair loose and my cheeks rosy, and love me again, and be like we were before, and forget about Annie.

  But it’s his da who butts in next, and breathes whisky on me, and is so blattered he can hardly dance at all. But I can’t refuse him, can I? For we’re related now. So I try to smile and be nice, as he lumbers around leaning on me. Maybes he’ll be different when I’m settled in at their place, keeping things nice. And folks’ll say, that lass has made all the difference to that rough family.

  Freddie Fenwick butts in next, and teases me saying he’s gutted that I’m taken now. So I tease back, though my heart’s not in it, saying there’s scores of lasses here who’d be happy to have him, and he’s saying but none’s half so bonny, and I’m saying don’t be daft—

  Now here’s Tom at last, and he’s shoving Fred a bit, saying ‘get your hands off my wife’, joking like. And I’m glad, for it’s him I want to be with – except he’s dragging me over to the door, laughing and making a big show of ‘having a word with the missus in private’, as though we’re off canoodling. But his hand’s that hard on my arm, and his fingers digging in, so I nearly cry out, and trip over my petties, and try to slow him down.

  Outside it’s chilly and rain’s spitting down. I’m looking up, thinking he’s wanting a kiss, but oh! He’s slapped me instead – a sharp blow to the side of my head, that fair breaks my neck with the force of it, ‘for behaving like a slut’.