The Fisher Lass

by Margaret Dickinson

  Robert heard Sammy make a funny noise in his throat and then the boy ran towards the door, pulled it open, leapt down the steps and flew down the driveway.

  Through clenched teeth, Robert spat, ‘You’re the bastard, Francis . . .’ With two strides he came close to his brother, drew back his arm and punched Francis on his chin. The man fell backwards, sprawling on the floor and as Robert left the house it was to the sounds of Louise running across the hall, crying, ‘Oh Francis, oh darling, what has he done to you?’

  Thirty-Three

  Though Robert climbed at once into his motor car and drove after him, he was unable to find Sammy. And once he reached the town, he knew his search was fruitless. He could be in any one of a dozen pubs. At last he turned towards Baldock Street and knocked upon Jeannie’s door.

  ‘He’s not here, is he?’ he asked, without explanation, when she opened it.

  ‘Who? Sammy?’ Jeannie said and then shook her head. ‘What happened?’

  Robert ran his hand through his hair and said, ‘Everything was fine, well, as fine as it could be in the circumstances, if you know what I mean?’

  Jeannie nodded and then, swiftly, he recounted the events. ‘He just ran out and by the time I’d thumped Francis on the jaw and gone after him, he’d just disappeared. Jeannie, I am sorry.’

  ‘You hit your brother?’ she asked, scarcely able to conceal her laughter.

  ‘Oh yes.’ He grinned at her. ‘We used to fight as kids. I suppose sometimes the feeling never goes away, not even when you’re grown up.’

  ‘Just like Joe and Sammy,’ she chuckled.

  Robert put on his hat. ‘Well, I’d better go, seeing as you’re obviously not going to invite me in.’

  Jeannie grimaced and said, ‘I can’t. I’m sorry. Nell is having a bad morning. I daren’t leave her.’

  ‘She’s ill?’ Robert frowned in concern.

  ‘Not physically. It’s her mind. She seems to live in a little world of her own these days. I daren’t leave her for a minute. If she wanders off, I’m searching the streets for her.’

  Robert nodded in sympathy. ‘I’ve just found out what that’s like.’

  ‘Och, dinna worry about Sammy. He’ll come rolling home, drunk as a lord, when he’s ready.’

  As he turned to go, she called after him, ‘I’m sorry about your father. It’s – it’s a difficult time for you.’

  He glanced back at her, taking the picture of her into his memory. ‘Thank you, Jeannie.’ Very softly, he added, ‘Goodbye, my dear.’

  Samuel Hayes-Gorton lived another week after meeting his grandson for the first, and only, time. The news of his death soon spread around the local community and the subject of his will was general speculation for days though only the family were, at first, aware of its detailed contents.

  He had not, as he had threatened, cut his middle son off with the proverbial shilling, but had left his company to his three sons, although Francis Hayes-Gorton had a 49 per cent share. He had, of course, made generous provision for his wife for her lifetime, but the codicil to the will, made only six days before his death and the day after his meeting with his grandson, altered the share of his two younger sons. Instead of the remaining 51 per cent being divided equally between Robert and Edwin, it was split into three parts of 17 per cent each to the two brothers and to ‘Samuel Lawrence, of Baldock Street, Havelock, being my eldest son’s natural son and, therefore, my grandson.’

  ‘This is outrageous!’ Francis jumped to his feet as the lawyer read out the will to the family gathered together after the funeral. ‘I shall contest it. He wasn’t of sound mind. This is your doing, Robert.’ He pointed his finger towards his brother, who sat calmly with a slight smile on his mouth. ‘I won’t have it. I won’t be outvoted by the two of you and some slut’s bastard who imagines he’s a claim on this family. I’ve never acknowledged him as mine and I never will. If he’s anybody’s, then he’s yours.’

  Again he jabbed his finger towards Robert, who said calmly, ‘Then in that case, he still has a right to his inheritance. He’s still Father’s grandson.’

  For a brief moment Francis’s handsome face twisted into ugliness. He picked up the chair he had been sitting on and hurled it against the wall, causing a picture to fall, shattering the glass. ‘You’ll pay for this, Robert. I’ll ruin you, I’ll . . .’

  ‘Francis, control yourself,’ came their mother’s imperious tones. ‘Robert had nothing to do with your father changing his will. He knew no more about it than you until this moment. If anyone’s to blame, then it is me. I witnessed the codicil and approved its terms. But the suggestion came from your father. It was what he wanted, and, I’ll have you know, he was in complete charge of his senses almost until the end. Physically, yes, he was very weak but his mind was clear and . . .’ her gaze upon her eldest son was unflinching as she added, ‘I would be prepared to stand up in court and say as much.’

  Now Edwin, who had not spoken, rose. ‘There will be no need for that, Mother. We shall resolve this between the three of us. The young man in question is not old enough yet, I believe, to take an active part on the Board anyway. His shares – if I understand the terms of the will correctly – are to be administered by Robert until young Samuel attains the age of twenty-one. Is that correct, Mr Paige?’

  The lawyer nodded.

  ‘I don’t care for all the legalities,’ Francis spat. ‘I won’t have any of it. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer on the matter.’

  With that parting shot, he strode from the room leaving his mother shaking her head sadly and murmuring, ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mother,’ Edwin said. ‘We all know Francis. He has a brilliant mind and has every right, not only as the eldest son but also because of his business acumen, to the major share of the company. But that doesn’t mean we’re going to let him ride roughshod over us. Does it, Robert?’

  Robert smiled. ‘Well, at the moment I’m reeling from hearing that I am still a part of the business. I thought I was to be – er – cut off.’

  Mrs Hayes-Gorton chuckled. ‘Your father thought he could bring you to heel by his threats.’ She leant forward across the polished surface of the mahogany dining table. ‘But I’ll tell you something now. He was secretly rather proud of you for having the courage to decide your own future. Even I knew he never meant to cut you off.’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you so, Robert old chap.’ Edwin, too, was smiling as he put his hand on Robert’s shoulder. ‘And Francis will come around too. Just give him time.’

  To that, Robert made no reply.

  The legal-looking letter arrived for Sammy long after he had returned to his ship. Jeannie put it on the mantelpiece, unopened, but often over the following weeks her glance would go to the long, white envelope wondering what lay inside it.

  But then other matters demanded her attention and she forgot all about the letter addressed to Mr Samuel Lawrence.

  Thirty-Four

  Lieutenant Robert Gorton stood on the bridge. They were nearing the end of a sweep and his eyes were sore, red-rimmed with tiredness from gazing out across the grey waters. They had completed four days at sea and were returning to Havelock for replenishment and a few brief hours ashore before coming out again to sweep the same area of sea again and again and again to clear a safe channel for the convoys.

  They were searching for acoustic mines now as well as the magnetic type.

  Would it never end? Robert asked himself. Almost four years already and still the war raged on. At least now, he thought, the Americans were in too. Surely with their might, the end could not be in doubt. Yet, when would it come? And how many more young men would lose their lives before it was all over?

  Robert blinked, trying to focus his attention once more upon the water. It was so cold that he couldn’t imagine ever feeling warm again. Not for the first time, did his thoughts turn to the trawler men who spent most of their lives at sea. And he had been one of the privileged few – an owner – who had sent
those men out here. Well, now he was one of them and no longer an owner of very much.

  Since the Gorton trawlers had been commandeered, half of that number had already been blown up by the very mines they were attempting to clear or had been attacked and destroyed by enemy fighter planes. Two had succumbed to U-boats.

  Now he and the men the Hayes-Gortons had once employed were – quite literally – in the same boat. Fighting not only a common foe, but the wind and the sea and the terrible cold.

  And what, he wondered, would there be for any of them who did manage to survive to go back to?

  Some fishing in the coastal waters still went on and if he knew his elder brother – his scheming, devious, yet clever brother – Francis would already have transferred his business interests to war work of some sort. But it would undoubtedly be an effort for the war that would be profitable for him too. Oh yes, thanks to Francis, there would be something for Robert to go back to. But for what?

  Here on this ship, a battered old trawler turned minesweeper it might be, he had earned the respect the men gave him. He had earned his place as ‘Jimmy the One’. Now, when they called him ‘sir’, it was more than because he was the son of their employer.

  Maybe, Robert thought, as he passed his hand over his tired eyes once more and squinted at the clouds above, raking the sky for the tell-tale signs of enemy aircraft, maybe, he mused, if he survived, he’d stay on in the Royal Navy.

  His brothers would run the company, or what was left of it. His wife would spend most of her time in London with her smart friends as she still did, despite the dangers.

  And Jeannie? His heart contracted at the thought of her. She would be waiting for her Tom to come home from the sea.

  Thinking of her, as he often allowed himself to do through the long cold hours, Robert promised himself that after the war, he’d see what he could do for Tom.

  During their time together aboard this ship, the man had never once let his animosity for his former employer show, had never let slip to the ship’s company just who and what Robert Gorton had been before the war. He had kept the pact they had made.

  When Robert and Tom had come face to face for the first time aboard the minesweeper, he had seen the surprise in the other man’s face, not only for the ironic twist of fate that out of all the ships on the ocean they should end up serving on the same one, but also when he first heard his superior officer addressed without the ‘Hayes’ to his name. And Robert had seen something else in the man’s eyes: a wariness that he himself was feeling too. Later, Robert had come to Tom’s radio operator’s room.

  He’d come straight to the point of his visit. ‘I suggest we leave any differences we have ashore, Lawrence, don’t you? And the circumstances of our backgrounds. It’s known I had some connection with trawlers before the war, as I’m sure that’s the case for you too. But no one knows exactly what. I prefer it that way.’

  There was a note of command in Robert’s voice. ‘Are we agreed?’ he prompted when Tom made no reply.

  When Tom had looked at him, he had seen the insolence in the man’s eyes, but all Tom had said was ‘Aye, aye,’ and had added, with the slightest hesitation, ‘Sir.’

  Robert stretched his face and blinked again, forcing himself to concentrate. It was one thing to let his thoughts wander when on watch, but not for one moment must he relax his vigil even though they were on their way home.

  They passed Spurn Head and entered the mouth of the Humber, anchoring until the high tide made their passage through the dock gates possible. With the outline of the buildings on the fishdock clearly visible against the skyline, the whole atmosphere aboard the ship seemed to relax.

  Robert watched Tom Lawrence walking along the deck, the slip of white paper he was holding fluttering in the breeze. The man seemed to be hesitating about what to do and now Robert saw him glance up and look directly at him. For a moment their glances met and held, then Tom moved forward and began to climb the ladder to the bridge.

  As the captain half-turned and held out his hand for the piece of paper, Tom saluted and said, ‘Message for Lieutenant Gorton, sir. Of a personal nature, sir.’

  The senior officer’s eyebrows rose and he glanced at Robert with a slight frown of disapproval on his forehead. At sea, such an occurrence was strictly against regulations, but here, almost home, even the skipper relaxed a little too. When he said nothing, Tom persisted, ‘With your permission, sir?’

  The sub-lieutenant due to take over the watch from Robert, had arrived on the bridge a few moments before Tom and so, released from his duties, Robert turned towards Tom and saw at once that in the man’s eyes now was a mixture of anxiety and sympathy.

  ‘Sir . . .’ Even his voice was hesitant. ‘I am very sorry, but I have some bad news for you.’

  Robert swallowed but said nothing. He was glad that Tom Lawrence could not read his thoughts, wild and irrational as they were. All he could think of at this moment was, it can’t be Jeannie else he would be the one receiving the bad news, not me.

  Tom was speaking again and Robert forced himself to listen. ‘It’s your – your wife, sir. She’s been killed in an air raid in London.’

  Poor Louise, poor little girl, was Robert’s first thought. The pretty, bright, pleasure-seeking child, who had not been able to resist London even when the Blitz had been at its height, was gone, her butterfly life crushed. He felt a deep sorrow, not so much because he loved her, for he did not and never had, not in the same way that he loved . . . No, no, he must not think of her, not now. Poor Louise, he thought again, she hadn’t deserved to die in that way and so young too.

  Tom Lawrence was still standing before him, making no move to leave him alone with his supposed grief. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but there’s something else. Your brother, Mr Francis . . .’

  Robert’s eyes bored into the other man’s, his voice harsh and abrupt. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He was killed too, sir. In – in the same air raid.’

  Now Robert turned away abruptly before Tom could read anything in his face. Robert knew that Tom Lawrence was editing the truth. He could have said, so easily, that they were together, maybe even in the same bed. For without being told, Robert knew, instinctively, that was the case. He had felt for some time, though he had no proof, that he was being cuckolded by his own brother.

  What a shame, he thought dispassionately, that Francis had not been the chosen one to unite the two companies by marrying Louise Hathersage.

  Then he realized and the sudden knowledge hit him like a forty-foot wave.

  He, Robert Gorton, was now not only the senior partner and head of the Gorton-Hathersage Trawler Company, but he was also Louise’s next of kin and consequently would inherit her shares too. It was an awesome responsibility.

  Now briefly, he turned back to face Tom. Quietly, he said, ‘Thank you for taking it upon yourself to be the one to tell me. It can’t have been easy for you.’

  Tom gave a quick nod, saluted and turned away. As Robert watched him go he thought, I wonder if he realizes just how very lucky he is to have Jeannie as his wife.

  ‘So, your fancy man is free now and head of a giant company.’

  Two days later on a brief shore leave, Tom faced Jeannie across the kitchen table, a sneer in his tone and bitter resentment in his eyes.

  Calmly Jeannie continued kneading the dough for the bread she was making, though deep inside she sighed. She glanced at him and, her mouth tight, said, ‘I’ve more things on my mind than listening to your jealous imagination running riot. What are you going to do about the boys running away to sea? Can’t you do anything to get them brought home?’

  Tom shrugged. ‘They’re eighteen in a few months. Hardly worth it now, anyway. I still haven’t worked out how they could have got away with it. Didn’t you ask him to pull a few strings to get them out?’ When Jeannie did not answer, he added, resentfully, ‘I bet it was Sammy’s fault. He’ll have shamed our Joe into going. Made him feel a coward if he didn’t.�
� Tom fell silent and Jeannie glanced at him, wondering, fleetingly, if that was what had made Tom volunteer for the Reserves. He wouldn’t have wanted to be branded a coward when all the other fishermen were joining up.

  ‘They went together,’ Jeannie said aloud. ‘I think it was mutual agreement.’

  Tom gave a snort of derision. ‘Huh, pull the other one, Jeannie. They don’t get on. You can’t tell me they’ve gone together. They were always fighting.’

  ‘Well, they have and now they’re fighting side by side instead of each other.’ Her fear for their safety lent a bitter sharpness to her tone. ‘War makes strange bedfellows of folk.’ She looked at him meaningfully now.

  Tom sat down in the chair by the fire. ‘It does that,’ he said heavily. Softly, he added, ‘It was me told him, y’know?’

  The time for pretence was over. There was no point in feigning ignorance for Jeannie knew full well who Tom was talking about.

  ‘About his wife and his brother?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He paused and then added, ‘First time I’ve ever felt sorry for him, y’know? Fancy being told that your wife’s been killed in bed with your brother.’

  Jeannie gasped. ‘You told him that?’

  ‘Not in so many words, but he knew. Oh he knew all right.’ He looked up at her then. ‘Jeannie, just tell me. Please. Is there anything going on between you and him?’

  Jeannie set the bowl of dough beside the warm fire to prove and knelt down on the hearthrug. Leaning her elbows on his knees she looked into his face and said, ‘Tom, there is nothing between us. Never has been and never will be. I was brought up a good, God-fearing Scottish lassie and the vows I made in the kirk to you I have kept and I always will.’

  There was silence for a moment. ‘Till death us do part, eh Jeannie?’

  Jeannie swallowed the lump in her throat for every day death was very close to both of them. She reached up and touched his cheek. ‘You’re a good husband, Tom Lawrence, and a good father, I’ll never say otherwise. But I just wish you’d stop imagining things that aren’t true.’