Herring Girl

by Debbie Taylor

  He goes to hand the package to Skip, but the old bloke backs away. ‘Nay, Paul’s lad. You do it.’

  When he takes off the elastic band, it’s so rotten it snaps in his fingers.

  ‘That’s her pension book,’ says Skip.

  ‘And here’s the savings book. Wow! There’s thousands of pounds in here. Look!’

  He thrusts the book at old Skip, who takes it gingerly. ‘Six thousand four hundred and sixty three pounds,’ he reads the numbers slowly. ‘Bloody hell.’ He sits down on the chair and stares at the book.

  Ben leafs through the rest of the papers. ‘Here’s another fifty quid,’ he says, discovering a fifty-pound note folded inside a book of second-class stamps. There’s a battered little address book, with crackly brown Sellotape holding the cover on, and a notebook with a cardboard cover.

  ‘What you got there, lad?’

  ‘Some kind of notebook.’ He flips open the cover. ‘Wow! Look at this. I think it’s her diary. She’s dated all the pages.’

  He turns to the first entry: ‘“14 November 1993”,’ he reads out. ‘It just starts in the middle of the month, so she must’ve just gone on writing till she finished a notebook, then started a new one. “Lord, thank you for last night.” Who’s Lord? Oh, right, I get it. It’s like she’s writing to God. How weird.’

  ‘Ay, she was very godly, was Miss Turnbull.’

  ‘Sorry. Is it OK for me to read it?’

  ‘I doubt there’ll be owt to be ashamed of, knowing her.’

  ‘Here – you’d better have it.’

  ‘No, you’re all right. There comes a time for everything and I guess this is probably it.’

  ‘“The arm was a little easier today, thanks to your grace, so I slept better than I have for weeks. The lad is away, so I had a simple breakfast, just Hovis and a boiled egg.” Who’s the lad?’

  ‘That’s me. I was always “the lad” to her.’

  ‘I wonder where the others are.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘The other diaries.’ Without thinking, Ben kneels down and pulls a dusty plastic suitcase out from under the bed. Inside, when he pops the catches, it’s packed with cardboard shoe-boxes tied with string. Ben opens one, but he doesn’t need to. It’s obvious what’s inside.

  ‘Wow! Her whole life must be in here,’ he says, sitting back on his heels. Then, remembering why he’d come to Seymour Street in the first place, ‘I wonder if she knew Lord Jim.’

  Old Skip looks up. ‘Lord Jim from the Jungle? Oh ay, she knew him right enough. She used to do for him. He had the flat upstairs, see. Gave her a fair run-around, too.’

  Ben stares at him. ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Not to speak to, as such. Well, she wouldn’t let me speak to him, would she? He was a queer, see. And I think she were scared I’d be turned, like, just being in the same room. But everyone knew him.’ He chuckles. ‘I mean, you couldn’t miss him, could you? The size he was, togged out in them frocks and wigs and that.’

  ‘He was nice though, right?’

  ‘Oh ay. Do anything for you, they said. She couldn’t cope with it, though, him going with the lads. Only tried to get him along to see Father O’Brien, didn’t she?’ He chuckles again. ‘But he was having none of it. She took it hard when he passed, mind. She was up at his place all hours when he was poorly at the end. Then they fell out about something – I was off on the boat, so I don’t know the whole story.’ He nods at the shoe boxes. ‘It’ll all be in there somewhere most likely,’ he says.

  ‌Chapter Forty-Three

  2007

  Ben flips through the notebooks, looking for 1967. There are four – she’s written the dates down the cloth spines in blue biro. Still kneeling on the floor, he picks one up and opens it at random.

  31 May 1967

  A blowy day. The sheets had twisted themselves round the line, so will need ironing. I was worried for the lad and said a prayer for his safe return.

  Mr M. was still in bed when I went up and he’d left the bedroom door open, so I couldn’t help seeing in. Clothes strewn everywhere and that blonde wig draped over his bedside lamp. It’s always a shock to see him with his wig off and to remember that underneath all that make-up he’s just a fat old man with a few wisps of white hair. At least he was on his own!

  I gave the bathroom a proper do. Ran the sink full and rinsed the powder off all his perfumes and lotions and that. It gets everywhere, that stuff.

  At 10.30 I got out the hoover. It woke him up, but I couldn’t just leave it. That dark brown shows every bit of fluff, but at least there’s not that cat to worry about any more. He turned up in the kitchen in his nightie and told me off for “ruining his beauty sleep”.

  He said there was a brawl at the Jungle last night and they had to call in the police. Usually the bouncers can manage, but he said a gang of young tearaways from Sunderland came in at 2 looking for trouble.

  His legs looked worse, what I could see of them, and he couldn’t get his slippers on. He’s been using some ointment, but it doesn’t seem to be having much effect. He saw me looking and said he’ll have to go barefoot now, like a proper flower child, and paint his toenails and wear bangles round his ankles. What is he like?

  When I’d finished in the upstairs flat and had my lunch (the rest of the cream of mushroom), I offered up a decat of the rosary for him. Mrs Jessop says I should stop doing for him, but I think you have to keep the door open. You never know what drives people, and it’s never too late to repent. When I think back to what the lad’s mother had to put up with, and how she ended up, poor lass. Well, it’s easy to judge, isn’t it?

  The lad came in around six and I made us a nice cottage pie. He went out to the Mariner’s Arms afterwards, but was back before the news (thank you, Lord), and went straight off to bed.

  1 June 1967

  When I left to go up to Mr M.’s, the lad still hadn’t stirred, bless him. It was a hard trip, he said, with heavy seas, and they’d had to go further than usual looking for fish.

  Mr M. was having breakfast when I arrived. He had that waffle thing out and was trying different toppings for work. I tasted a few for him, but liked the simple lemon juice and caster sugar one best.

  He’s started taking some pills, to “rev up his system” he said, and help him get some of the weight off. One of the dancers gave them to him. They are supposed to stop you feeling hungry, but he still got through six of them waffles. They stop you sleeping too, he said, so he was up half the night.

  He came over a bit poorly when I was washing up. His heart was going nineteen to the dozen, he said, but he was right as rain by the time I left.

  I hate to think what’s in them pills, mind. I’m sure Dr Fraser wouldn’t approve. I don’t know what the police are playing at these days. Young folk seem to be able to get anything they want without a prescription, just by stopping someone in the street. Mr M. says there’s booths at the Jungle that are like a chemist’s shop some nights and the cleaner’s always fishing needles out of the toilets.

  He was drinking glasses and glasses of water, which is not like him.

  In the afternoon I went to play Scrabble with Mrs J., then popped in to the church to do the flowers. The water in the vases was green, so I scrubbed them out in the vestry. I looked on the rota to see who was on last week and it was Mrs Cooper, so what can you expect?

  The lad had brought a load of cod cheeks back, so we had fish pie for tea. He showed me a drawing he’d done of landing a catch, with the waves towering over the boat and the lads all togged up in their oilies. It gave me the willies to see it. When you queue up for a fish supper, you don’t think what them lads have to go through to get it, do you? It made me think about my Alfie and his boat going over.

  I never thought it at the time, but looking back it was probably for the best that we split up. I don’t know how I would have coped if we’d been married. So thank you, Lord, for sparing me that pain.

  2 June 1967

  Mr M. was i
n a right state when I arrived this morning, lying on the sofa in his nightie, gasping for breath with his hand on his chest. I thought he was having a heart attack, but he said it was just them pills. I wanted to dial 999, but he said don’t be daft, he’d be fine. So I made us both a cup of tea, then did the hoovering and scoured the oven with that new stuff. You have to spray on some pink foam and wait for it to dissolve all the muck. I decided if he wasn’t better by the time I cleaned it off, I’d call Dr Fraser.

  He’d got dressed by then, and put on his make-up, but he wasn’t right. So I went down to fetch my crochet and sat with him till the doctor arrived.

  He wanted to go in to work, but Dr F. said he should take it easy until them pills had worn off. They’re very dangerous, apparently, so Dr F. said it’s a good thing I called him. Anyway, he’s left a diet sheet and a load of prescriptions, so I popped straight out to the chemist before they closed and brought back a whole carrier bag full of stuff: cream for his legs, water pills, and two more pills I didn’t recognize the names of.

  The lad’s got an old bootlace and has tied his hair in a ponytail so he looks like a tinker. I don’t know what the world’s coming to…

  So the old bloke’s not well, thinks Ben. Hardly surprising, given how he ended up. Still, it’s really weird seeing it all from the old lady’s point of view. Ben flicks forward a few pages to see where this is going.

  15 June 1967

  The nurses asked me to take in some pyjamas, but all I could find were those baggy silk trousers he wears sometimes, which would just draw attention to the problem.

  I didn’t like to go through his things, but what could I do? I found a few cotton nighties that weren’t too frilly, and a couple of long smocky tops, so I took them in instead. I don’t think they understand at the hospital what he’s like.

  I popped into Markie’s on the way to get him some plain cotton panties, because none of his were suitable. All nylon and lace, most of them. I didn’t like to look too closely. It’s amazing what you can get in his size.

  He looked so pathetic lying there, with his wig off and his stubble growing back. Normally, you hardly notice his age. The fat sort of pads out the wrinkles, so with the make-up on, he could be anything from 50 to 150.

  They said he came round for a bit last night, but not enough to realize what’s happened.

  I was sitting by the bed saying the rosary when he woke up again. He had forgotten why he was there, so we had to explain. It took a while for it to sink in. I’ll never forget the look on his face, poor dab.

  I asked did he want me to fetch the priest, but he dried his eyes and said he’d rather I fetched a manicurist. Typical Mr M.! I’d brought in a load of cards from his flat, which got him worrying about visitors, so I went back later with his shaver and make-up and a couple of wigs, and a negligee thing he wanted to put over his nightie.

  The lad was away, so I had cheese on toast and half a tin of tomato soup.

  16 June 1967

  I gave Mr M.’s a quick going over. Even when a place is empty, there’s always dust. There were four more cards, so I took them in with me. Those two Scots lasses were in visiting when I arrived, so I nipped off for a cup of tea. It’s a disgrace the way some folk dress, and in the daytime too! I’m sure that red-haired one wasn’t wearing a bra.

  I came back later and it was only Noreen Russell there, so I came in. She’d brought him a huge box of Black Magic, which he’s not supposed to have because it’s the sugar that did for his legs in the first place. But it’s hopeless talking to him. He went through all the layers looking for the strawberry creams and ate them all. Then he started offering the box around. There were two big lads in green overalls wheeling a trolley down the corridor and he had them in eating up all his hard centres. I had a couple of montelimars.

  From the looks of it, he’s not changed at all. I did hope that the shock of losing his legs and coming so close to death would make him see life differently. But if anything he’s worse than ever, propped up on his pillows like Lady Muck, receiving visitors, surrounded by cards and flowers. It made me feel so cross, I had to leave.

  I popped in to St Cuthbert’s and lit a candle, then I did a whole Stations of the Cross. I offered it up for Your guidance, Lord, and it calmed me down. I thought about Your agony in the garden, and how Your apostles couldn’t stay awake, and about Simon of Cyrene, who carried Your cross for a while. It made me realize that what you have to do when someone is suffering is just stay with them and do whatever they ask. So it’s not what I want for Mr M. that matters, it’s what he needs of me.

  So I went back to the hospital and the nurse let me in, even though visiting time was over. They’d pulled the screens round his bed because he was crying. Poor dab, what a sight he was, sobbing away with his make-up streaked all down his cheeks. I got some of that Pond’s Cream and some tissues and cleaned him up, then sat with him until he fell asleep.

  3 July 1967

  I spent the morning in the upstairs flat having a bit of a dust round and moving the furniture ready for the wheelchair. I sorted through his towels and put a pile ready in the bathroom, and a couple of flannels. I’m not sure how he’s going to manage with washing and that, but I thought they might come in handy.

  At about eleven I had to sit down for a bit because it was starting to get to me. How on earth is he going to cope in this flat in a wheelchair? It takes two orderlies to get him on to the toilet in the hospital. I don’t know how I’ll manage him on my own. And what if he needs to get up in the night? Then there’s my rotas to do, and my visits. I can’t be with him all the time. And the lass will be back from boarding school next week, and I can’t let them down, so that’ll be me taken care of from 10 till 4. So that leaves poor old Mr M. on his own up here for six hours.

  After a bit I said a prayer and the Lord gave me the strength to pull myself together and go into town. I bought a tall Tupperware container for if he needs to go in the night, and a rubber sheet just in case. I thought about getting nappies, but they’d never go round him. But I did get a pack of nappy pins, to pin a bath towel round him if need be.

  I popped in to see Mrs J. and she told me about her aunt who was in a wheelchair, and what they had to do for her. It’s the stairs I worry about. He’s given me a blank cheque to cash, to cover me until he’s sorted, but it didn’t seem right so I left it in that silver teapot on the mantelpiece. Going round the shops buying them things made me want to cry.

  The lad’s still away, so I just had a tin of pilchards on toast.

  4 July 1967

  Davy rang my bell this morning, asking after Mr M. He thought it was today he was coming out, so looked in to see if he needed anything. I told him it was tomorrow, but I was just getting some rock buns out of the oven, so he stayed for a cup of tea.

  He says Mr Russell is holding Mr M.’s job open, but no one is really expecting him back at work, because he’ll never reach the counter now. They’ve got some bakery delivering cakes and that, and a new lass on the till, so they’re managing fine at the moment.

  He wants to ask Mr M. to teach him how to make his desserts, but I said he should wait a bit until we see how he is. He might not have the heart.

  Davy’s planning to start his own caff one day, so he wants to learn the trade. I asked why doesn’t he get a job in a decent place, like Binns in Newcastle, nice-looking lad like him, but he thinks he’ll pick up more at the Jungle. I can’t see it myself, but I suppose he knows what he’s doing.

  He’s coming round tomorrow to help me get Mr M. to bed, so that’s a blessing (thanks be to You, Lord Jesus). I couldn’t sleep last night worrying how I was going to manage.

  I took a bag of rock buns over to Mrs Cooper, for the Christian Aid coffee morning tomorrow. She’s said she’ll set everything up, as I’ll have to wait in for the ambulance. I said to be sure and buy enough milk, but I don’t think she was listening. I hate to think what sort of a mess she’ll make of it.

  5 July 1967
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br />   Thank You, Lord, for Your mercy in sending me that Davy. I feel like a weight’s been lifted off me, which it has in more ways than one! And it’s all thanks to You. Sitting here in my armchair writing this, I feel very blessed.

  Mr M. came home today, and he did try to be brave, poor dab. But it must have been so embarrassing needing them three big lads to get him up the stairs. I made them a cup of tea, and they polished off a whole plate of Battenberg. Mr M. was his old self when they were there, ‘being mother’ with the teapot as usual. But when they’d gone, he went quiet, which isn’t like him at all. I said will I wheel him round the flat, but he said no, he’d got to learn to do it himself.

  These flats aren’t made for wheelchairs, mind. But then I don’t know anywhere that is. He kept getting stuck in the doorways, then having to reverse and try again, because the chair only goes through if you face it straight on. There’s probably a knack to it.

  He managed going to the toilet on his own, by pushing up on the edge of the bath. But we got in a right old muddle trying to get him onto the sofa and I’m afraid I got a bit upset. Then Davy came round and sorted everything out. He’s not a big lad, but a man’s always stronger than a woman, so it made all the difference.

  He’s trying to save up, so he’s offered to look after Mr M. for a month or so until he’s settled. I was worried about the money, if Mr M.’s not working, but he says he’s got a little nest egg put away, so that’s all right.

  8 July 1967

  Dr C. telephoned this afternoon to ask would I fetch young Mary home from Newcastle station. She had been called out on an emergency, and the other doctor had his rounds to see to. I wonder why some people have children if they don’t have time to look after them. She insisted on paying double as it was two days before I was supposed to start and such short notice.