by Val Wood
He was in a rowing boat on his own, rowing up and down the inlet and turning in circles whilst a couple of men looked on.
‘Tom,’ she called. ‘Ma says you’ve to come home.’
‘Aw, heck,’ he complained. ‘Why do I have to?’
‘Cos your ma says so,’ one of the men laughed. ‘Don’t you know you’ve allus to do what your ma says? Even when you’re grown. Go on, you can come another day.’
Tom rowed back to the shallows, taking a long time to do it, made the boat fast and climbed ashore. ‘You allus spoil my fun,’ he grumbled.
‘Not me; Ma said,’ Jeannie retaliated. ‘Besides, I’ve had to look all over Scarborough for you and I could’ve been at home.’
He muttered all the way until they reached the sands, where he saw his pals playing and raced ahead to join them. Jeannie set her lips and turned her back, heading for home, but in a minute he sped past her, reaching the doorstep before she did.
‘Now then, Ma,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Is there owt to eat? Dunno where our Jeannie is.’
‘Get inside, cheeky little beggar.’ Mary hid a rueful grin. ‘Come on, Jeannie. Supper’s ready.’
‘Why’d I have to come in?’ Tom spooned a mouthful of stew into his mouth. ‘It’s not dark.’
‘Because!’ his mother said. ‘Because I said so.’
‘But why?’ he whined.
Mary heaved a sigh. ‘Because there’s going to be a storm.’ She looked towards the window and remembered that it was on such a day as this, two years before, that a sudden squall had sprung up as darkness fell and her life had changed for ever. ‘I can feel it in my bones.’
CHAPTER TWO
JEANNIE THOUGHT HER mother was wrong. The morning dawned bright and clear although a stiff breeze was blowing; the ships which had been out overnight had come in safely and there had been a good catch, or so she heard as she went off to school. Tom didn’t walk with her and she thought he might be playing truant again.
Yesterday when she had visited her grandmother and given her Mr Wharton’s penny, the old lady had bid her sit down and talk. Jeannie had wriggled about on the cold doorstep and watched the nimble fingers of her father’s mother as she mended nets. Women whose husbands were fishermen brought them to her when they had an odd penny to spare, for there was no other who could mend so fast or as neatly as Aggie Marshall.
A coarse apron covered her black dress, and with her greying hair tied in a severe bun at the back of her neck she looked much older than her fifty-odd years. She’d perched straight-backed on a wooden chair and gazed at Jeannie. ‘Well,’ she had said. ‘What have you to tell me? What’s your brother up to? He nivver comes to see his old gran.’
Tom was more important than she was. Jeannie had garnered that knowledge from her grandmother a long time ago. He was a boy; he would grow into a man and earn a living to support them all, including Jeannie until such time as she would marry a seaman or fisherman who would keep her and any children that they had. Family was essential to keep women from poverty. Aggie had lost two sons and a husband to the sea, and although she had three daughters she relied more on Mary than on any of them. Two of her daughters had married out of the fishing trade and the other was a widow.
‘I’m going to learn to mend nets,’ Jeannie had told her, ‘and when I’m ten I’ll learn to gut. Ma’s going to learn me.’
Aggie nodded. ‘Good. And Tom? Is he still wasting time at school?’ She had no truck with education. She’d never had any, she often boasted, and it hadn’t stopped her from catching a seafaring husband.
‘Ma says he has to go. She says that our da would’ve wanted him to.’
Aggie snorted. ‘Aye, our Jack had all sorts of daft ideas and look where it got him. Bottom of the sea, that’s where.’
Jeannie had chewed on her lip. She’d heard this before from her grandmother, but she could never work out the connection between schooling or lack of it and her father’s death.
‘Your ma should let him go to the boatyards and learn about boat building till he’s old enough to go to sea. That’s all the edication he needs. He doesn’t need to know how to read or write to be able to catch fish.’
‘I like reading,’ Jeannie ventured.
Her grandmother raised her eyebrows. ‘And when do you think you’ll have time to do that when you’re grown and with a houseful of babbies? Go on, be off with you. Don’t be wasting my time with your idle chatter.’
She’d escaped thankfully, and now, as she sat in the classroom with her slate and chalk in front of her and the tip of her tongue protruding, she copied the words written on the blackboard.
‘Where’s your brother, Jeannie Marshall?’ the teacher asked. Jeannie went hot and then cold. ‘And don’t tell me he’s sick.’ Miss Jennings glared at her. ‘I saw him this morning down on the sands.’
‘I don’t know, miss.’ Her cheeks were aflame. ‘He left home before me. He said he didn’t want to be late.’
‘Then tell him he can look forward to the cane when he does come in. I’ll not tolerate truancy.’
‘Yes, Miss Jennings,’ she muttered and contemplated on the unfairness of getting into the teacher’s bad books just because of Tom.
Miss Jennings stood behind her to read what she had written. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘But what have you forgotten?’
Jeannie stared at her slate and then at the blackboard. The words were the same, she was sure of it, and she’d tried to write neatly in spite of the crumbly chalk.
‘The date, girl,’ Miss Jennings barked. ‘You’ve forgotten the date! Who else has forgotten the date?’
Several hands were reluctantly raised and they were told to write it three times so that they wouldn’t forget another time: 27 October 1880.
Jeannie asked her mother if she could go and see Mrs Wharton’s new baby. Mary hesitated for a moment and then said she could and that she would go with her. She finished making supper, washed her hands and face, brushed her hair and told Jeannie to do the same.
‘Where’s our Tom?’ she asked. ‘Has he been in school?’
Jeannie shrugged. ‘Haven’t seen him. Miss Jennings asked where he was and said he’d get the cane when she saw him.’
‘Did she?’ her mother said grimly. ‘We’ll see about that.’
They walked up the hill towards the cottage where the Wharton family lived. Jeannie hoped that they would see Ethan and was pleased when he opened the door to their knock.
‘Ma’s poorly,’ he said, when Mary asked if they could see his mother and the baby. ‘Parson’s been this morning as well as the doctor. Shall I ask if you can come in?’
‘Please,’ Mary said. ‘Ask if there’s anything I can do.’
Josh came to the door. ‘I’d ask you in, Mary, but …’
‘I’m sorry. Is she …’
He looked haggard and unkempt. ‘Babby’s all right, it’s Lizzie that isn’t. Parson’s been to church her – you know, cleanse her, in case— Daft idea I call it, but Lizzie insisted. It’s a boy,’ he added as an afterthought. He scratched his beard. ‘I should be going out but I daren’t leave her.’
‘Do you want me to stop with her? I don’t mind, but …’ She paused. If Lizzie was in danger he should stay at home.
He shook his head. ‘No, I’d best not. If owt happened – I’d …’
‘I know,’ she said sympathetically. He was a good man. ‘You’d always regret it. Let me know if there’s anything I can do. There’s a storm brewing,’ she added. ‘You’re best at home anyway.’
‘Our Mark’ll go and mebbe tek Ethan. And he’ll tek a couple of lads who know what they’re about. It’ll be a bit of a blow, but nowt much. He needn’t go out far beyond the harbour. There’s plenty of fish about.’
And that was the top and bottom of it, Mary thought as they stepped out down the hill again. If there was plenty of fish, the fishermen would sail. They couldn’t afford not to.
The wind continued to howl throughout the night and
as they lay in bed they heard the rattle of drainpipes and the crash of slates falling off the roofs of nearby cottages on to the road below. Then the rain began and lashed against the window and even Tom, always a heavy sleeper, woke up and slid between his mother and sister.
Mary prayed. Dear God, have mercy on those poor souls. For those in peril. She wept silent tears as she thought of her own husband, lost overboard in a gale not as violent as this one threatened to be.
‘Ma!’ Jeannie whispered. ‘Do you think Ethan has gone out with his brother?’
Mary hoped not. Ethan hadn’t the experience to battle with such forceful weather and his brother Mark was only nineteen, though he had been a fisherman since he was twelve. Men who owned their own vessels didn’t always take their sons with them, but apprenticed them to other ship owners. The loss of fathers and sons in one ship would be devastating to a family, leaving them destitute.
It was not yet dawn, but Mary heard the mutter of voices and the thud of scurrying feet down the steep steps of the passageway at the side of their cottage. Others too had been awakened by the storm and were heading down to the shore to watch and wait. Lifeboat men and the coastguard would be preparing for action in case of foundering ships. Most of the community of this bottom end of Scarborough had some connection with the sea; practically everyone would have a family member or a friend out at sea this night.
But it was not only local ships and men who were at risk; ships crossing the North Sea from Holland, Norway, Sweden, Scotland and the south of England too would be making for this safe harbour.
Tom got out of bed and began to dress. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ his mother asked.
‘I’m going to watch,’ he said, stepping into his breeches and buttoning up his shirt.
‘No you’re not. Get back into bed.’
‘Aw, Ma! I want to see the lifeboat launched.’
‘Get back in! You’re going nowhere.’ His mother’s voice was sharp. ‘You’ll be in the way and I know you’ll be up and down the shore getting under everybody’s feet. This is not a game, Tom. There are lives at risk.’
He heaved a sigh and unfastened his breeches but kept his shirt on and climbed back into the bottom of the bed. ‘I just wanted to watch.’
‘We’ll go as soon as it’s daybreak. Now go to sleep.’ And although the children did fall asleep again, Mary didn’t, but lay awake until a small patch of light showed through her window. She rose, and drawing the curtain back from their sleeping area she built up the fire, prepared gruel for Tom and Jeannie and swung the kettle over the flame.
She was sitting quietly with a cup of tea clasped in her hands when someone tapped on her door. When she opened it she found Ida, one of Josh Wharton’s daughters, standing there, holding another smaller child by the hand.
‘Da says can you come, please. He says to tell you that Ma’s gone and babby’s cryin’. He’s gone down to the shore.’
‘Did Mark sail last night?’ Mary took pity on the girl with her tear-stained face. She guessed she was about Jeannie’s age, and the little one about four or five.
The child nodded. ‘And our Ethan as well.’
Dear God, Mary breathed. Not both of them. ‘I’ll get the bairns up and come straight away,’ she told her. ‘Do you have a gran you can go to, or an aunt?’
‘We can go to Aunt Ginny, but Uncle Ned’s out in his boat as well so she’ll not want the bother of us.’
‘All right,’ Mary said. ‘Go home and I’ll be up there as fast as I can.’
She woke the children and hurried them through their washing and dressing and breakfast. She put Tom into his father’s sou’wester and raincoat, tucking up the too-long mackintosh and fastening it with a belt.
‘Now!’ She shook an admonishing finger at him. ‘You can go along Sandside. You are not to go anywhere near the slipway or pier or the lighthouse. Do you hear me?’
‘Yes, Ma.’ He looked up at her from beneath the brim.
‘Promise? I shall hear of it if you do and you’ll get a strapping that you’ll remember all your life.’
‘I promise, Ma. Honest!’
‘Go on then.’ She ushered him out of the door. ‘Jeannie, you’d better come with me. There might be errands to run.’
‘Where’s Mrs Wharton gone, Ma?’ Jeannie had caught Ida Wharton’s husky words.
‘To heaven if she’s been good,’ Mary said vaguely. ‘Put your boots on, and an extra shawl.’
Mary put on the clogs that she used when working on the herrings. They were heavy wooden things but they kept out any wet and wet it was when they stepped out of the door. She unfurled a black gamp. Two of the spokes were broken but it gave them a little shelter from the pelting rain as she held it close over their heads, though it flapped so much because of the howling wind that it was in danger of flying out of her hands or turning inside out.
‘How would she get there, Ma?’ Jeannie asked.
‘What?’
‘Mrs Wharton? How would she get to heaven?’
Mary sighed. ‘Erm – an angel would fetch her soul but leave her body behind.’
Jeannie fell silent. That’s what she’d thought, or what she’d been told, and she believed it. So there would have to be a funeral for the body. She clenched her teeth as they climbed the hill and the even steeper steps. I hope Ethan hasn’t drowned, because if he has there’ll be two funerals from one house. Then she reconsidered. Unless of course they didn’t find him. Her own father hadn’t had a funeral because he wasn’t found. I’ll cry if they don’t find Ethan, she thought as they neared the Whartons’ door. Because he’s my bestest friend. Which she knew was rather odd, because he hardly ever spoke to her, but even so he was, and she thought that he knew it too.
They were glad to be inside and out of the pouring rain, but there was no fire lit. This cottage had a separate bedroom and the door was firmly closed. Susan, who was about eleven, was holding the crying baby and rocking it in her arms. Mary took him from her.
‘What a little scrap,’ she murmured. ‘What a wee mite.’ She turned to the girl and asked her if there was any kindling, and Susan said there was and she would have made a fire if she hadn’t had to nurse the baby.
‘I think he needs feeding,’ she told Mary. ‘He’s only had water. Ma wasn’t able to feed him. Doctor said he’d try ’n’ find another nursing mother but he’s not been back.’
Mary knew of one young mother who had given birth about a week ago. ‘Make a fire,’ she told her, ‘and I’ll try to find somebody to nurse this babby.’
It was a risk, she knew, to take a newborn child out in this weather, but to wait for the doctor to come back was not a good option. There was a blanket on the back of the chair and she draped it over her shoulder and tucked the child under it, close to her body, leaving an air hole so that it didn’t suffocate. She told Jeannie to wait with Susan and that she would be back as soon as she could.
As she puffed her way further up the hill, she pondered on the big gap in age between this child and his brother Mark. Six bairns without a mother, or maybe fewer, she thought sadly, if the boat has foundered. Please God it hasn’t. To lose wife and sons together would be too much for Josh Wharton to bear.
She knocked on the door where she thought the young mother lived and recognized the older woman who answered. ‘Can your daughter give this child a feed?’ she asked. ‘His ma’s died and he’s fearful hungry. He’s been baptised,’ she added, knowing how superstitious some folk were, ‘and his ma was churched.’
She was invited in. Sitting in a chair by a good fire was a young woman of about eighteen, nursing a child. The house was well furnished, with polished Windsor chairs and a wooden table, and she guessed it belonged to the older woman.
‘If you could feed him for a day or two?’ she asked the girl. ‘I’ll try to arrange for him to have a bottle. His da’s down at the harbour; he’s got two sons out in a smack.’
Both women expressed sympathy, and the older woman
said, ‘Sally’s got plenty o’ milk. She’s been well fed. Her da said she had to have onny the best, even though he was not well pleased with her for having a child out of wedlock.’
‘Ma,’ the girl whined. ‘There’s no need to tell everybody.’
‘I expect everybody’ll find out anyway,’ Mary told her. ‘You can’t keep a bairn secret, not unless you lock it away, and you won’t want to do that. They’re a blessing when all’s said and done.’
Mary told them who the child was and where his father lived and sped off back down the hill. She was getting anxious now about her own son. Tom was a rascal, and although he had promised not to move from the sea front she knew that he would follow the crowd if there was any hint of excitement or drama.
There was a fire blazing in the hearth at the Whartons’ cottage and the children were sitting at the table eating bread and cheese. Susan had been well taught, Mary thought, and complimented her on her efficiency. She suggested they wait indoors until their father came back, gathered up Jeannie and headed once more down towards the sea where already a large noisy crowd was gathered along the foreshore. Adding to the din was the constant screech of the herring gulls flying overhead.
Mary pushed her way through to the front, dragging Jeannie by the hand. The waves were high, even in the harbour, and maybe twenty or so battered fishing boats and ships had made their way safely to port. But out of the harbour mouth and beyond there were many others, their sails full set, desperately battling gusting winds and rough seas to make their way in. She looked southwards beyond the harbour, along the Foreshore Road and towards the Spa. Several ships were in difficulties; one, a brig, was being washed by the massive waves flooding its deck, and as she watched its broken mast keeled over, dipping into the turbulent sea. A great shout went up as the lifeboat was launched to help the crew of another ship, a schooner, breaking up under the pressure of heavy seas.