Herring Girl

by Debbie Taylor

  Anyway, spuggie Annie’s there too, isn’t she? And I remember thinking, that’s what she’ll be like when she’s married, all hugs and dimples like her mam. And then I got to thinking, if we were wed, she’d be like that with me, and I’d be part of her family stead of mine. I mean, it was daft really. I was only eleven, twelve, something like that. So she’d have been nine, ten still, flat as a pancake up top. But I asked her to marry me, didn’t I? I’ll never forget the look on her face: lit up like a hurricane lamp, she was that chuffed. She thought the sun shone out of my arse in them days.

  That’s why it’s such a shock to see her with another lad. See, at the back of my mind I always think she’s still promised to me.

  Anyway I’m with Flo now – that’s Annie’s friend – and we’ve been walking out a good few months. So I’ve been to her folks for tea and she’s been to mine, all that malarkey, and it’s trundling along tickety-boo. And I’ve been thinking: this’ll do you, Tom. Because the lads are all after Flo, aren’t they? They call her ‘the princess’ because she’s that far ahead of the others, with her looks and her book learning.

  By, but there’s nowt like a decent lass for driving a lad crazy. It’s like you’re playing cards, and you’re winning, undoing her buttons, pulling up her skirt, but the game stops before you’ve laid down your hand. Then next time, it’s a new deal, and a new hand and you’ve to start playing all over again.

  So anyway, here I am on Bell Street, rolling a tab and waiting for Flo. And I look up and here she is, strolling along with Annie. I mean, Flo’s always with Annie, isn’t she? Since they were weans they’ve been in each others’ pockets. But today something’s different, and it’s like I’m seeing Annie as a grown lass all of a sudden, instead of just Jimmy’s skinnamalink sister.

  You know when you’re tacking and come about? And there’s that muddle of loose halliards, and the boom swinging and the sail slack; then the wind catches again, and the sail bellies out and you tighten the halliards and that’s your boat tight, skimming along in a fresh direction? Well that’s what Annie’s like now. I mean, one minute she’s all sixes and sevens, bony and flat-chested, hair all anyhow, giggling, blethering away – next time I look she’s filled out, glossy as a mattieful, with her boobies bursting out of her blouse and that great mass of shining curls. And them wicked dimples and dark eyes! How come I never noticed her eyes before?

  So Flo’s linked in with me, like she always does, and Annie’s moved away to give us a bit time together. And I’m thinking, fuck me, there’s my little Annie all grown up.

  See, I can’t quite believe it. Here’s Flo hanging on to my arm, soft and sweet as you like. And suddenly here’s spuggie Annie in the picture. To tell the truth, it’s knocked me sideways.

  Two minutes later, she’s off blethering away with that Wellesley lad – Wellesley gutter-scrote, more like. Lives with the dregs down the Scarp, mam’s a bit of a push-over. Anyway, it seems he’s everywhere I turn these days. Fetched up as a nightman last winter when I was off with my chest and now the skipper’s taken him on permanent.

  He’s one of those polite lads. You know, quiet, careful what he says. So it’s all ay sir and right you are skipper. Makes me want to swear for the sake of it, just to add a bit spice to the air. Da says to let him alone and what’s wrong with wanting to make a good impression with the boss? But this new lad’s following him round like a puppy, hanging on his every word. And the skip’s lapping it up, isn’t he? He’s even got his chart book out, to show the lad what’s in it, how to fill it in and that. And there’s George Sheraton looking over his shoulder. Because he’s the mate, isn’t he? So what’s in the skipper’s book’s his business too.

  The skipper showed it me too, when I first started, and I tried to catch on. I couldn’t read his writing, that was the trouble. The charts were fine, I could follow them no bother. But that load of scribbles! I don’t see how anyone could read them.

  Folk say a decent don skipper’s book is worth its weight in gold. If it’s filled in right, it shows exactly where the fish are, different times of the year, different weathers, different tides; how to find them using what landmarks and that, and what’s on the bottom, rocks and wrecks, sand and shale. Da remembers when the skipper got it. They’re handed down, see, from skipper to skipper, and sometimes money changes hands, but usually it’s more like an inheritance. So when one skipper retires, he’ll pass his book on to his son, if he’s got one, or his mate. And it’s a big thing, like a king handing over his crown.

  There was a bit of a barny, because it was Da’s uncle who was skipper at the time, so Da thought he should get the book. But you could never trust my da with something like that. He’d get hammered the next Saturday and sell it for thrippence ha’penny. Third man in a three-man race, that’s my da for you. Big John Hall, third man. Pathetic.

  Now I’m down the Low Lights with a load of trawler lads, having a jar or two before going back on the boat. The sand’s sodden with beer slops and the air’s blue with bakkie smoke, so you can hardly see to the bar.

  They’re on about how all the big new custom-built trawlers are being brought by businessmen instead of skippers, because the skippers can’t afford them, and once they’ve taken their cut there’s damn all left for the crew. So the only way to get a decent share is for the crew to club together on a new steam trawler. And they’re asking am I interested, and I’m thinking, that’s not a bad idea.

  Then blow me, here’s the Wellesley lad breezing in, and Jimmy’s ordering him a half at the bar on the skipper’s strap. He’s come to try and get in with us, most likely – though he’ll not get far unless he stumps up for a round. Jim says the lad’s short of cash, but them’s new crotchboots he’s got on, so he can find it when he has to. Anyway, it turns out he knows some of the trawler lads from working as nightman, so they’re all howaying and trying to stand him a top-up, and he’s shaking his head but they’ll not take no for an answer.

  I’ve gone out the back alley for a piss, because it’s starting to get to me, him being in with them too. And there’s two lads out here, stuffing their dicks back in their kecks – but the trouble they’re having buttoning up and the way they scuttle off, you can tell they’ve not been pissing. Bleeding nonces. As if there’s not enough lasses to go round. Town’s fairly crawling with slags up for the season. And not just slags: Irish, gypsies, tramps. Even Da’s getting it free these days.

  Ought to truss them up, like they did down the boatyard last year to that other pair of nonces they caught at it: hang them from the purlins like pendulums and swing them into each other till their bones crack. Or kick them till they piss blood, like we did with that little nancy by the Priory. He’ll not be pumping anything for a while.

  So anyway, I do the old one-two-three-shake and come back out, and Wellesley’s sat down at our table, hasn’t he? Cool as you please, with a fresh half in front of him and Jimmy blethering away. So first it’s Annie, then Jimmy. Like I say, it’s starting to get to me.

  So I have to wedge in my chair, don’t I? And Jimmy’s giving it, ‘Budge up, budge up for Tom’, which makes me feel daft, like he’s doing me a favour, when everything was just fine before Wellesley decided to barge in.

  Anyway there’s a fresh pint there waiting for me, so I drink it straight off and bang the tankard down by Wellesley’s elbow, to make him jump. Then I get out my tin for a rollie, and do a few matches, with the lads watching, and it calms me down a bit. So now I’m lighting up, and sucking the smoke down. And that calms me too, what with the matches and the tab and that load of beer sloshing round in my belly.

  The craik’s about gippers and nurses, daft lads’ talk about which one’s the best bet. So I’m saying it’s six and two threes in the dark, for they both smell of herring, which cracks all the lads up – except Wellesley, sipping away at his half like he’s never even heard me.

  ‘What’s the matter, Wellesley?’ I say. ‘Never smelt a lassie’s minge?’ And he still doesn’t look
up. So I lean towards him and blow a cloud of tab smoke right in his face, so he can’t ignore it; but he just wafts it away with his hand like I’m a fly or something.

  So now I’m set on getting a rise out of him, aren’t I? And I’ve remembered that talk about his mam, how she was going with one of the ransackers a few year back. ‘So how come you’re out on the piss? Your mam entertaining again, is she?’

  And he gets up and says, cool as you like: ‘Sorry lads, got to go. Thanks for the drink.’ And walks out – just like that.

  After he’s gone, the lads go quiet, like he’s taken all the craik with him and left us staring at a mucky table loaded with empty glasses and brimming ashtrays. And two lads drink up and leave straight away. And another lad starts laying into me for rubbing Wellesley’s nose in it. ‘He’s got a lot on his plate, that lad,’ he says. ‘So he could do without your nonsense.’

  So now they’re all going on about him, aren’t they? How he’s having to look out for his mam all the time, blah blah blah. And how he caught her at it when he was maybes fourteen, fifteen, and downed a few bevvies to get up the courage; then went at this big bruiser with a knife, the lad who was doing her. Never got near enough to hurt him, mind, just waved it around a bit, then puked up on his shoes.

  And I feel like puking up myself, don’t I? Because the whole thing’s made me look like a mean bastard when all I was doing was trying to get a bit respect.

  Later Flo tells me Wellesley’s been going up the trysting hill with Annie, and that’s really gypped me off. Like he’s in my pub with the lads, he’s on my boat sucking up to my skipper, and now he’s walking out with my lass.

  Because I’ve started making a few moves on her, haven’t I? When Flo’s not around, I’ve seen her home a few times, had her in a bit clinch. Not that she’s easy, mind, and I wouldn’t expect it. How can she be, when I’m going with her best friend? So I’ve been biding my time, waiting till I’ve had enough of Flo. I mean, it seems daft to stop now, when I’m getting what I wanted.

  She’ll kick off when I say I’m with Annie, so I’d best keep out of gipping distance till she’s calmed down. And her da will spit feathers. But it’s not him I’ve to answer to on the boat, is it? It’s the skipper. And if I’m with Annie and she loves me, well, he can’t argue with that.

  ‌Chapter Fifty-Six

  1898

  It’s that gansey that’s finished me. See, I really thought Annie was knitting it for me. As a sign, see? To let me know she’s waiting for me to finish with Flo.

  Flo’s already done me one, of course. She started it as soon as I visited with her da about us walking out together. I’ll say one thing for Flo, she’s a dab hand with her needles. Takes after her mam, I expect. No wonder there’s so much lace and that round at theirs.

  So anyway, there’s me teasing Annie about this damn gansey one day, next thing I know here’s Wellesley on the boat wearing it! And the skipper grinning away like he’s known all along. And it’s like they’re laughing at me, him and Wellesley, though how could they know what’s been going on in my head? Still—

  And I can see it all slipping away: Annie, the boat, sitting round the Milburns’ table for Sunday dinner. There’s nowt I can do about it, see? Because he’s already there, isn’t he? Somehow when I’ve not been looking, he’s gone and wormed his way into my berth.

  So anyway, we’ve set out to the herring grounds, and all trip it’s eating away at me: how Wellesley’s grabbed what should be mine by rights, so when it’s time to turn in for the drift I’m so antsy I can’t sleep. And everything’s getting to me – the bugs biting, Da and Mickey snoring, the creaking of the timbers – till I feel like I’ve been buried alive in a bloody coffin and need to punch my way out before I go crazy.

  I keep wondering has he done her yet; I can’t get it out of my head. See, there’s a bit of me thinking, if he’s not gone the whole way, then it’s not too late. I can go round her place soon as we get back and tell her I’ve finished with Flo, and we can be together.

  But this picture keeps coming into my head, of him laying with her in one of them hollows on the trysting hill, or pressing up against her down some alley. All the while I’ve been supping tea in the Sheratons’ bloomin’ parlour, he’s been kissing my Annie’s mouth, putting his tongue in, undoing her buttons.

  I’m hard as fucking wood just thinking of it! Bastard! Now he’s even got me whacking off to his gropings!

  I’m that churned up, I don’t know whether to spit or spurt. So I clamber out of the berth and head up on deck.

  By, but it’s blowy up here, with a spray off the bow as the boat leans into the swell. Wellesley’s up reefing the mizzen so she won’t tip over so much, then unhooking the lamp to check the buffs. And for a minute he’s just any deckie going about his work – till he turns to put the lamp back, and his oily flaps open and I see that new gansey again. And it all comes flooding back, the shock of seeing him wearing it, and the skipper grinning away.

  ‘Howay, Wellesley,’ I say, coming over. ‘Canny gansey.’

  And he says, ‘Just in time, eh? That other one was on its last legs.’

  So I say, ‘What did you give her in return, then?’ Because I’ve got to know, haven’t I? It’s driving me nuts.

  ‘What?’ He turns to me, with a halliard trailing from his hand, like he can hardly believe what I’m saying.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. It is my business what you’ve been up to with my lass.’

  He laughs a bit at that, and goes back to tying the halliard. ‘If she’s your lass, why don’t you ask her yourself?’

  It really riles me, that he’s not taking me seriously. ‘So have you done her yet?’ I ask, flat out like that, and he straightens up to face me.

  ‘Look, can’t we stop this?’ he says, in the sort of tired voice you’d use with a whingeing bairn. ‘You’ve had it in for me the second I stepped on to this boat and I’m sick of it. If you’re after Annie, I’m sorry. But she’s with me now and that’s that.’

  And he sounds so sure and four-square, it’s got me rattled. ‘It’s not serious, though, is it? I mean, how long’s it been? Three, four weeks?’

  ‘We’re promised to each other. That’s serious enough for me.’

  And he’s turning away again, like that’s it done and dusted. Which makes me want to smash his bloody face in.

  ‘So have you had her yet?’ I say, giving him a bit shove to show I mean business. ‘Have you picked her cherry?’

  ‘I’m not talking about this any more.’

  ‘How does she like it? A bit rough and ready, I expect. She was always a bit of a one for wrestling with the lads.’

  He’s trimming the port lamp now, not looking at me.

  ‘Hey, Wellesley. I’m talking to you.’

  ‘Well I’ve finished talking to you,’ he says, and never even looks up.

  ‘I said, how does she like it?’

  And he’s just ignoring me, isn’t he? Hanging the lamp back up, then going past me over to the other side for the starboard lamp.

  So I grab him by the shoulder, and when he tries to shake me off, I slap him – a good hard one, round the head. And that’s felled him, hasn’t it? And I’m thinking, now he’s got to answer me. But he just picks himself up and carries on, like he’s just tripped over something.

  So I shove him harder, to make him stumble a bit, but he just grabs onto the boom and goes on with what he’s doing. So I shove him again from behind, thinking, that’ll teach you to turn your back on me, Wellesley. He’s so surprised, he never even shouts till he hits the water.

  Afterwards, it’s like when Mam died. This thing’s occurred that I can’t think about, so I light my matches and make my mind go blank and just get on with it. So by the time we’ve moored up and someone’s called the poliss, it’s like it never happened almost.

  I’ve told them the deck was
empty when I went up to take a piss, and they’ve just swallowed it, haven’t they? The skipper, the crew, the poliss. So there’s part of me thinks it’s true too. Except Jimmy’s come up to me after, and says he reckons he’s heard voices on deck. But that’s all right, because it’s Jimmy, isn’t it? He’ll never dare to dob me in. He knows fine what will happen to him if he does. Ever since I saw him coming out of that alley down by the Push and Pull – I mean, it was bloody obvious what he’d been up to with that big nonce. If he wasn’t the skipper’s lad, I’d have done him over weeks ago.

  So now it’s Wednesday, I think. I’ve been biding my time with Annie, thinking I’ll wait a bit till she’s got over it. Because she was in a right state on the quayside when the skipper told her about Wellesley going overboard.

  Tell the truth, it surprised me to see her like that. I mean, they’d only been walking out a few weeks. So anyway, that’s why I’m thinking I should take it easy.

  Meanwhile Flo’s driving me nuts being all lovey-dovey and making me go out walking with her, and look in shop windows at things she can’t afford. That was fine when we were courting and that, pussyfooting about. But now I can’t be bothered with it – can’t be bothered with her really, except when she’s on her back on the parlour rug with her skirt up.

  Anyway, I’ve given it a few days, and I’ve heard Annie’s got off work early because she’s had to go and identify the body. So I’m thinking, she’ll be needing a bit comfort after that, and I can tell her where things stand with me and Flo and maybes that’ll make her feel better.

  She’s at the kitchen table when I get there, in a patch of milky sunlight. Her scarf’s off and her hair’s coming out of it’s ribbon, and she’s just sat there, like someone’s propped her up in the chair and she’s never moved since. And that’s shaken me too, because it’s not like my Annie to sit still. And when I lift her up, to give her a bit cuddle and a feel, she’s like a dead weight in my arms, like she’s fainted or something – except when I check, her eyes are open and there’s tears pouring down her cheeks.