Herring Girl

by Debbie Taylor

  ‘No, pet. I’ve seen lads go overboard and float, and I’ve seen them go overboard and sink, and I’m telling you no one could float in that sea.’

  ‘Why aren’t you still out there looking for him? He’ll be freezing out there—’

  ‘We did look, for hours. And the other crews. But it’s no good, pet, he’s gone.’

  Now he’s straightening up, and taking off his cap, and the other lads are all turning and taking their caps off too – for here’s Sam’s mam coming, half running, with her eyes wild and her shawl untied and trailing on the ground.

  But there’s that much fury welling up inside me at the sight of her that I can’t stand up to greet her. For she’s had him for years, years – when all I ever had was a few wee slivers of his time, and could have had so much more if she’d been less of a burden. It’s my time with him that she’s stolen, time that’s mine by rights. I thought there’d be so much of it, days and days, our whole lifetimes stretching out, my hand warm in his pocket—

  It’s been rough weather these past days, with a wind that’s got the windows clattering and smoke belching down into the kitchen from the lum. The river’s full of flotsam and a stinking brown rug’s spread over the harbour water, with branches matted with strips of sacking, and rotting cran spronks and barrel staves, and poisoned rats and drowned puppies, and gulls squabbling and flies buzzing in a mucky black cloud.

  And all along the Scarp when the water’s low, and on the beaches and rocks beyond the salt works, tramps and travellers are sorting through the minging rubbish, for stuff they can sell, or burn, or eat – God preserve them.

  Flo wrinkles her nose to see them, but I’m thinking: how would it be to stop being a nice lass and just live as a wild thing? All I’d need is a blanket and a gipping knife, and I could live on flither from the Black Middens and curl up in a wyn hollow and make believe Sam’s with me. I’d not need to talk to folk, nor see them looking at me, nor worry am I crying again? See, I can’t tell any more if my eyes are wet or dry, for they brim over without warning; and it might be the smoke tearing them, or the grieving, or maybes they’ve been weeping so long they don’t know how to stop.

  I’m at the farlane now, and gipping, and there’s nowt to do but catch up a herring and hold it, cut and flip out the innards and toss it into the cran. I’m like a wooden shuttle that rattles to and fro on the loom and feels nowt. They leave me alone mostly, the other lasses, and talk over and around me; my lips are stiff and can’t form words anymore, so it’s like I’m down in the farlane with the herring, cold and dumb as they are.

  They’re speaking of the strike that’s planned for next week, about the rate of pay for the night barrels, and how the Scots lasses are wanting support from Shields gippers, to stop the coopers taking on local lasses in place of the strikers. And someone’s saying how two of the Scots lasses got beat up yesterday, as a lesson to the others to simmer down.

  And I’m thinking, I can’t care anymore what’s happening with the Scots lasses, or Flo’s baby, whether it’s staying or not, because all I can manage is to keep my wooden hands going, and the air going in and out of my chest, and my eyes dry enough to see through.

  But now the blethering’s quieted and the lasses have slowed their gipping, and some have stopped, so I rest my knife and look up – and there’s a policeman talking to Mrs Gibson. And she’s coming over, and telling me to fold my knife and wash up, for the constable’s wanting a word.

  He’s brought me to a place they call Dead Men’s Dene: a miserable sour beach up the coast from South Shields, one of a stretch of miserable sour beaches, where the sea dumps its rubbish after a storm. A clutch of poor folk have set up shelters by the road, made of bits of timber and patched sail canvas and tatie sacks; and live by gleaning, I suppose, for there’s fields all about, and ransacking the reeking flotsam thrown up by the tides.

  The wind’s bellying the shelters, and whipping up the sand. It stings my cheeks as we take the steps down to the soft sand, and plod through it to the high-water mark, where there’s a line of flotsam deep as my knees, and dogs burrowing and scabby weans digging in with their hands.

  I’ve been told why I’m here, and there’s a part of me that’s taken it on board. And it’s that part that’s walking along beside this ridge of stinking tangles to where another constable’s waiting, with a whispering cluster of folk, by a tarpaulin weighted with driftwood and rocks.

  But there’s another part of me that’s stayed rooted to the road above, and cannot go a step further, and is watching a thin lass in a black scarf fall to her knees as the tarpaulin’s lifted, and she sees the new gansey crusted with salt, and nods yes, that’s the gansey she’s knitted for her lad.

  And she’s making this high mewing sound, this poor lass, like a seagull crying for its mate, thinking of the day she gave it him, the loving look in his eyes that said they were promised. She never saw him wear it. She never looked back to say goodbye.

  Now I’m kneeling, and reaching out a hand to tend his hair, which is matted with sand, and the sand fleas are jumping, and the constable’s touching my shoulder, saying, ‘Come away now, pet. Don’t upset yourself. The face is a bit of a mess.’ But it’s too late, and I’ve seen them, the places where the sea lice have started, and been driven off by the waves, and started again, and the gulls – and who can blame them, for wasn’t he just the sweetest lad as ever lived?

  Oh, and here’s his feet, white and clean, with the toenails cut nice, like he’s just stepped out of the bath on a Saturday night.

  ‘Some tinker’s stolen his boots,’ says the constable, and I’m thinking, how strange a lad’s feet are, so bony and long, like they’re off a creature that’s hardly human.

  The constable’s brought me home, and I’m remembering I’ve left my oily down the smokehouse, and worrying will Flo bring it back or should I go fetch it? Except I’m not sure I can walk down those stairs, or any stairs, ever again, for fear of what might be waiting for me at the bottom.

  The house is empty and the fire’s out, so I poke it a bit but haven’t the heart to riddle it properly, and wander into the yard, where I’ve hung out my smalls, and feel if they’re dry, but can’t make my arms lift to gather them in. So I sit at the table and listen to the clock tick, and look at flies landing on a few spilt sugar grains, and rubbing their hands. And let them land on my bare arm, and scuttle over it, and probe at my skin with their black tongues, and feel the dry and wet of them scuttling and tasting me, and think of the flies landing on my sweetheart on that heap of minging flotsam.

  When does a soul leave a body? At the moment of death? Or does it stay for three days, as Jesus’ did, till the funeral’s done and the body buried? And what if the funeral’s delayed, and the body can’t be found, what then? Does it stay tossing and turning on the cold sea bed?

  My eyes are leaking again, and dripping on the table, and that mewing sound’s coming from of my mouth, that seems the only sound I can make, or will ever make.

  Now what’s this? Someone’s knocking at the door, and turning the handle – and here’s Tom in the kitchen, taking his cap off and pulling up a chair opposite. And I’m wondering, why’s he here? Has he a message from Da? And for a mad moment I think he’s come to tell me it was some other lad went overboard. Then I’m remembering, oh sweet Jesus, Sam’s drowned – and wondering when will this knowing lie still in my heart, and not be forgotten, and remembered, with the shock of that remembering, over and over again?

  So I’m wiping my eyes on my shawl, which is already dark with tears, and saying sorry the fire’s out so I can’t get a brew on, and he’s saying he just wants to find out how I am. And I say, you can see how I am, and laugh a bit, for I must be a pitiful sight, with my raw eyes and wild hair. And he says, you’ve always looked beautiful to me, which is a lie, for he hardly noticed me before this summer. But I’m too weary to say so, and too teary to send him away, or ask after Flo, and just sigh and sit quiet and wait for him to finish what he
’s come for.

  He’s gone to the window now to look out at the back yard, where my bit washing is, and I know I should jump up to draw the curtains, but I can’t make my legs move, nor can I care what he’s seeing. And by and by he sits down again, and says it wasn’t till he saw me with Sam that he realized what he felt about me, and how he’s never loved Flo that way, and he’ll end it with her the minute I say.

  He’s waiting for me to speak, but all I can do is stare at him, at the gansey Flo’s knitted him and the silk wrapper she’s bought him tied round his throat; at the handsome brown face and the smiling white teeth. And by and by, he stops smiling, and picks up his cap, and straightens his gipping knife in the binding, and says, ‘I just wanted to tell you how things stand.’

  Then, when I’ve still not answered, he scrapes his chair back and takes my hands in his, and tugs me round to face him, and says, ‘Oh, Annie,’ and pulls me up and into his arms.

  And a part of me wants to shove him away, but another part is so weary with weeping, and trying not to weep, and just living one minute after the next, that I can’t find the strength, and just stand there like a raggy-doll, with my eyes shut and my arms by my side, and wait for him to let me go.

  But he’s not noticing, or not caring, and is nuzzling into my neck, like a kitten burrowing for the teat, and grasping my bum through my skirt.

  Then it’s like it was on the beach, and I’m stood by the mantle watching this big lad fumbling at the buttons of this sad lass’s blouse, and pressing his hard thing against her thigh. Now he’s got her blouse open and her cami undone, and one broad hand’s on her booby, kneading it like bread, and the other’s rubbing at the front of her skirt.

  And she’s just standing there, limp as boiled cabbage, with her head turned away so’s he can’t kiss her, and her face wet with tears and her arms just hanging. And by and by he leaves off grabbing and licking and calms himself and says sorry, and you’re upset, and there’s no hurry; and takes his cap and leaves.

  ‌Chapter Fifty

  2007

  Looking at Ben lying there after the session, it strikes Mary that he looks thinner, or perhaps taller; etiolated, she thinks the term is, like a plant that’s been grown in the dark. She wonders if he’s been eating properly; she rather fears he may have been depressed.

  ‘As that’s the first session we’ve had for a while, I thought maybe we’d end it there,’ she says. His blonde fringe has flopped down over one eye; her hand itches to smooth it back from his forehead and rest there, as it’s done in the past, letting his young heat seep into her cold palm.

  ‘I could have taken it a bit further,’ she explains, ‘but I thought we should save any possible revelations for when Ian’s here with his equipment.’

  ‘I’m starving!’ Ben announces suddenly, sitting up and shrugging off her Indian blanket. ‘Shall I run down the Mission for some of them bacon baps?’

  She smiles: nothing wrong with his appetite then. Handing him some coins, she’s glad he’s simply assumed they’d eat together. After all that’s happened with his father, she would have hesitated to propose such a thing herself. However, the idea of losing him again – she’s intrigued to find that this is how she’s phrasing it in her mind, ‘losing him again’ – fills her with unaccustomed dismay. Something about this case, about this boy, has dissolved her armour and left her vulnerable as a hermit crab without its shell. This business with Ian, for example. Telling him about the abortion – letting him kiss her, for God’s sake. What was she thinking? When every instinct should have warned her he couldn’t be trusted.

  But that’s what happens when you let yourself unbend a little, love a little. Some people reward you with a wide grin and a bacon bap – and others by scheming behind your back. The choice couldn’t be starker: open your door and risk a kick in the teeth, or stay safely locked in your tower for ever.

  Smiling wryly, she goes outside for a cigarette. It’s sunny and clear; the bench slats are hot against her back and there’s a smell of chips wafting up from the Seamen’s Mission. She exhales and closes her eyes briefly, picturing Ben squirting ketchup from the plastic tomato on the counter, then carefully re-wrapping the baps and trudging back up High Beacon Stairs. Resting her cigarette on the rim of the geranium pot, Mary peels off her gloves and flexes her fingers in the sun; then tilts her face upwards slightly so she can feel its rays on her throat. Is this what happiness feels like, she wonders? Warm hands and a boy you’re fond of bringing you something to eat? And is it worth the risk of letting someone like Ian undermine her entire career? She closes her eyes again, surprised to find them stinging with tears. Because she realizes that the answer is ‘yes’.

  A moment later Ben appears, breathless and pink-cheeked. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he says, laying a puffy, red-smeared paper bag in her lap. ‘Do you think Tom killed Annie? Because he thought she was going to just fall into his arms, didn’t he? He never expected her to say no.’

  Mary sits up and marshals her thoughts back to the issue at hand. ‘He does appear to be rather an arrogant character, doesn’t he? But that doesn’t mean he’s capable of murder. And it’s still entirely possible that she simply left town when those herring girls moved on, in an attempt to put Sam’s death behind her.’

  ‘And left her mam and da, and Jimmy and the bairns?’

  ‘I just don’t want you to jump to any hasty conclusions about Tom. The unconscious can’t always tell the difference between a dream and reality. If you offer it an idea, it has a tendency to take it at face value.’

  ‘So you’re worried that if I start thinking of Tom as a murderer then I’ll start making up memories to fit in with that idea.’

  ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself.’ She smiles grimly.

  ‘And then people will start to criticize you, right? And say there’s no such thing as reincarnation.’

  Mary sighs. ‘There will always be people who say there’s no such thing as reincarnation, Ben. It just doesn’t fit in with our society’s view of the world. Let’s just say that I’d rather not furnish them with any additional ammunition.’

  They’re quiet for a bit, munching away, then something strikes her. ‘Do you remember that time Jimmy and Annie were sitting together on the beach? Do you think he was trying to tell her something?’

  ‘About being gay, you mean? I don’t know. She wasn’t really paying much attention, was she?’ He bites into his bap again and a splat of ketchup drops onto his jeans. He wipes it up with a finger. ‘I keep thinking of how Jimmy grew up into Lord Jim. I mean he used to be so skinny and sort of twitchy, always trying to keep in the background.’

  ‘What you find with many gay men is that they leave home at an early age to explore their sexuality in private, as it were. Jimmy’s transformation probably took place when he was in the merchant navy, where social norms were somewhat more lenient.’

  ‘I think he was probably happier as Lord Jim, don’t you? Before he got amputated, I mean. At least he was being true to himself.’

  ‘He certainly seems to have found the ideal niche at the Jungle.’

  ‘Then me and Dad ended up living on the top floor of the same building – I mean, how cool is that?’

  ‘Has your father ever spoken about how that happened? Was he drawn to the place in some way do you know?’

  ‘He says it was Mam’s idea. She liked the idea of a penthouse.’

  ‘I’ve often wondered how it is I ended up in this old building. It’s far too big for one person and it’s a devil to heat because the walls soak up moisture like a sponge. And you might have noticed that it’s far closer to the sea than I’m comfortable with.’ A wry smile.

  ‘Do you think you lived here before, then? When you were one of them fishermen?’

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose. After 1808, when the building was taken out of commission as a lighthouse, it was used to house the families of men lost at sea. But the tower section, with my room in it, was constructed in 1727, wh
ich broadens the possibilities quite significantly.’ She bites into her bap and chews on a salty red mouthful. ‘It was an odd feeling, though. As soon as I walked in through the door, I felt at home. I even knew which bedroom was mine.’

  ‘I felt like that at old Skip’s place. Like, I really wanted to go into Miss Turnbull’s half of the flat. Then when I got there I just wanted to sit in her chair and look out the window. And I found her Post Office book straight away, pretty much. I just had this hunch that it would be in her knitting bag and that the diaries would be under the bed.’

  ‘That’s how I’m so certain I never went there as a child. I had absolutely no sense of familiarity whatsoever. Though I am concerned that I might have read her diaries at some point – perhaps dipped into her handbag when she was otherwise occupied. Though it would have been entirely out of character and, again, I have absolutely no recollection of having done so.’

  ‘If you never went to the flat, you couldn’t have read the diaries.’ He seems very sure about this.

  ‘How do you work that out?’

  ‘Because she kept the up-to-date one at the bottom of her knitting bag.’

  ‘Perhaps she brought her knitting bag to my house one day.’

  ‘No – it’s really big and heavy. Didn’t you see it? Plus it was the place she kept all her valuables, so she wouldn’t just carry it around with her, would she?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Mary says, deliberately noncommittal; but something small and tense, like a fist, deep inside her chest, relaxes and opens when she considers what Ben’s just said.

  She takes a deep breath and blows it out again slowly, feeling her ribs open and her shoulders sag with relief. Until this moment she hadn’t realized quite how much that small possibility had been gnawing away at the back of her mind – that she’d read the diaries as a child and had somehow constructed this whole mystery out of her own imagination. Now it’s resolved, she’s able to focus more closely on what Ben’s just revealed about feeling so at home in Miss Turnbull’s rooms.