The Fisher Lass

by Margaret Dickinson

  He leant down and gathered her into his arms, holding her tightly and burying his face in her hair. Hoarsely he said, ‘I’ll try, Jeannie, I promise I’ll try. But you’re everything to me. I love you so much, I just couldn’t bear it if . . .’

  ‘And I love you, Tom,’ she said and stroked his hair.

  She closed her eyes tightly and pressed her face against his shoulder and prayed silently, may God forgive me for this lie.

  Thirty-Five

  Another legal-looking letter arrived addressed to Mr Samuel Lawrence and joined the first behind the clock on the mantelpiece to await his next leave. And whilst speculation ran rife, no one, this time, seemed to have definite knowledge as to the contents of Mr Francis Hayes-Gorton’s will.

  ‘They’ll have to pay a lot of death duties, won’t they?’ went the gossip. ‘Two of ’em dying so close together like that.’

  ‘Dunno. Shouldn’t think the company’s worth all that much just now. More’n half the trawlers have been converted to minesweepers and fishing’s difficult even in the near-waters.’

  ‘Aye, ya could be right.’

  But the person who could have told them what was in Francis’s will, was far out at sea, serving on a destroyer. On his eighteenth birthday, Samuel Lawrence had no idea that he was now a major shareholder in the Gorton-Hathersage Trawler Company.

  Aboard the minesweeper, the alarm bell shrilled and the order ‘Action Stations’ was given. Immediately, they heard the whine of enemy aircraft overhead and Robert looked up to see six screaming down towards the ship. The seven guns on board were given leave to fire independently and the splatter of bullets arced skywards.

  Two bombs hurtled from the bellies of the planes swooping low across the deck. They splashed into the sea on the starboard side, sending a plume of water into the air. The ship rocked under the turbulence.

  Robert, standing beside the skipper, dispatched a rating to report any damage. The young lad was running along the deck when it took a direct hit. Helplessly, Robert watched as the blast blew the youngster off his feet and over the side of the ship. Several others were lying injured on the deck now, but the guns above the bridge swung to follow the path of the plane, the rapid fire never faltering.

  ‘Fire!’ The cry went up as flames erupted from the hole in the deck and, with growing horror, Robert realized that just below where the bomb had fallen was not only a crew room, but the radio operator’s room too.

  Jeannie’s husband could be dead or dying, but though Robert’s whole being cried out to scramble down the ladder and run in search of Tom, duty kept him on the bridge, calmly carrying out the orders of his commanding officer.

  The next few chaotic minutes seemed to take an eternity to live through until, with the ship burning fiercely and listing badly to port, the captain was forced to give the order to abandon ship.

  Only then, when it was an ‘every man for himself situation’, could Robert go in search of Tom. The heat almost defeated him, singed his hair and scorched his arms as he held them up to shield his face. But desperation drove him on. Jeannie, Jeannie, was all he could think. He must find Tom for Jeannie’s sake.

  He was slumped over his radio, his fingers still grasping the dials as if he had been trying to send a last urgent message. Robert hauled the inert figure on to his shoulder in an ungainly kind of fireman’s lift and, finding a strength he hadn’t known he possessed, staggered towards the hole in the side of the ship. Then he pushed Tom through it and followed him into the water below.

  For a moment, he thought Tom had sunk beneath the waves, but suddenly, there he was, bobbing up beside him. Robert grabbed at him and began to swim, dragging Tom away from the ship that looked as if it would go to the bottom at any second.

  At what he considered a reasonably safe distance, Robert trod water, holding Tom’s chin up. ‘Hold on, man,’ he kept saying. ‘Think of your family. Think of Jeannie. For God’s sake, hold on.’

  At last, with the help of some of the crew, Robert managed to have Tom hauled out of the water before willing hands pulled him into the life-raft too.

  They were in range of the coastal lifeboat, but it was four hours before they were found and picked up. Four hours in which Robert held Tom to him, trying to keep him warm, trying to keep him alive.

  As the lifeboat man climbed down into the life-raft to help the cold, oil-covered men aboard, one said, ‘Let him go, sir. He’s dead.’

  But Robert clung on to Tom’s still form, whispering hoarsely through cracked lips, ‘No, oh no. How will I tell her?’

  ‘Come along, sir. We’ll have to leave him.’

  ‘We must take him back. We must take his body . . .’

  ‘We can’t, sir. The lifeboat’s already overloaded. We must think of the living.’

  Robert’s reason, for a moment, had deserted him, but the calm, rational tones of the lifeboat man brought him to his senses.

  ‘You’re right, of course. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m thinking of.’

  Still with reluctance, Robert and the lifeboat man gently tipped Tom’s body into the waves. Robert crossed himself, bowed his head and muttered a short prayer.

  ‘Friend of yours, was he, sir?’ the man asked kindly.

  ‘Sort of,’ was all Robert could say, for all he could think of was, how am I to tell Jeannie?

  As Robert stood outside the door of the Lawrence home, part of him wanted so much to see her again and yet his heart quailed at the news he must bring her. He glanced briefly over his shoulder up and down the street and saw a lace curtain fall back into place.

  Within minutes, all the neighbours would be aware of his visit. He knew that. But this time, it was different. This time only he could be the bearer of this news, painful though it was.

  The door opened and she was standing before him and as he said swiftly, ‘May I come in . . .’ she pulled the door wider and gestured for him to step inside.

  Almost before she had closed the door, shutting out the inquisitive gaze of the neighbours, he turned to face her and said, ‘I’m sorry to come with bad news.’

  Her hand was still on the door knob and now she leant against the door, staring at him. ‘It’s Tom, isn’t it?’

  He nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. We were attacked by enemy aircraft and the ship took a direct hit just above where he worked. It caught fire and he was badly burnt even before I got to him. We began to take water fast and we had to abandon ship. I kept him with me, tried to keep his spirits up, but his injuries and then being so long in the water, well, I’m so sorry, Jeannie. He died in my arms.’

  She moved woodenly to sit in a chair and rest her arms on the table. Robert followed her. He did not sit down but went towards the range where he reached up for the tea caddy on the mantelpiece above, catching sight as he did so of the two unopened letters. He spooned tea into the pot and poured boiling water into it from the kettle which always stood on the hob. Then he took two cups and saucers down from the dresser and set them on the table.

  ‘Milk?’ he enquired gently and Jeannie gestured towards a pantry where the milk stood on a cold stone slab.

  Moments later he pushed a steaming cup of strong tea towards her and ordered gently, ‘Drink it.’

  Automatically, she obeyed him. He noticed, as she put the cup back on the saucer with a clatter, that her hands were trembling. ‘You – you tried to save him?’

  He said nothing, merely nodded.

  Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Thank you. Whatever you did, thank you.’

  He looked at her directly then, stared at her for a long moment before he said, ‘Anyone would have done the same.’

  She nodded, but hoarsely she whispered, ‘Oh yes, I know that. But only I know what it must have cost you.’

  He closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. ‘Oh Jeannie. I would do anything to spare you pain. I would even – even have sacrificed my own life if it would have brought back the man you love.’

  She could not tell him, she could
not say the words, for it would have felt so wrong, would have been wicked at this moment. But never before had she loved him quite as much as she did now, sitting opposite him, watching the lines of sadness etched deeply upon his face knowing that he had fought with a desperate bravery to save Tom, risking his own life, not so much for the man himself, but to bring her husband back to her.

  How very much at this moment she loved Robert Gorton. But her mouth remained closed and the words unspoken.

  The boys were given compassionate leave and they stood either side of Jeannie and Nell during the memorial service in the church where she had married Tom and where too, years before, Nell had married George. Jeannie mourned her husband deeply and sincerely. He had been a good man and she had loved him, perhaps in the way that one loves a brother or a good friend, but not, she knew now, as a lover with a searing, consuming passion. She had never felt the trembling of her knees nor the pounding of her heart nor the sudden dryness in her throat for Tom as she felt when she saw Robert.

  He was standing behind her now. A little way back from the family mourners, keeping a respectful distance. As they came out of the church and into the grey November day, Jeannie made as if to move towards him, but Joe, his arm firmly through hers, steered her towards the curving pathway leading to the gate.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ Sammy, on her other side, muttered.

  ‘He has a right to be here,’ Jeannie said. ‘He tried to save your father and he was his employer. He’s just come to pay his respects. And another thing. That medal they’ve awarded Tom, well, who do you think put in the recommendation, eh?’

  Joe, from his lanky height, looked down at her. ‘Well, it wouldn’t be him. If you believe that, Mam, then you’ve not the sense you were born with.’

  ‘Joe!’ She looked up at him and despite herself, angry tears filled her eyes.

  ‘Don’t talk to Mam like that,’ Sammy put in. He was still smaller than Joe and always would be, but he had taken up boxing and now iron muscles rippled beneath his uniform. Jeannie had the feeling that in the future Joe would not be so ready to pick a fight with his cousin and wondered if that was the very reason that Sammy had taken up the sport.

  But Joe was not awed by Sammy’s new-found strength. ‘I’ll talk to my mam any way I want, thank you very much.’

  Suddenly Jeannie was angry with the pair of them. ‘Don’t start. Not here. Not now. Look to your Gran, both of you.’ She glanced at them, leaving neither in any doubt as to her feelings as she said pointedly, ‘She is grandmother to you both, after all.’

  Then she pulled her arm from Joe’s, turned deliberately around and marched back towards Robert. Defiantly, she held out her hand towards him and said clearly, ‘I want to thank you for all you did to try to save my husband. Please excuse my boys. They are too distressed today to know their duty.’

  Then before giving him chance to reply Jeannie turned away again, back towards her family. She took hold of Nell’s arm and said kindly, but firmly, ‘Come, Gran, it’s time we were away home.’

  As they left the churchyard, she did not look back towards Robert, but beneath the trees near the wall she suddenly spotted another figure, dressed from head to toe in black, a veil over her face.

  Aggie Turnbull.

  Thirty-Six

  ‘So, are you going to open your letters, then?’

  Sammy scowled towards the mantelpiece. ‘There’ll be nowt I want to read in them,’ he muttered.

  ‘Aw, go on, Sam. At least see what they say,’ Joe encouraged, but Sammy’s scowl only deepened.

  ‘Oh well, in that case . . .’ Jeannie said, stepping towards the hearth and reaching up for the two envelopes. ‘I left them for you because they’re addressed to you and even though you are still underage legally and I have every right, I thought . . .’ She held the letters in her hands now, turned one over and made as if to open it. ‘Seeing as you’re doing a man’s work now, you’d a right to handle your own affairs. Seems I was wrong.’

  As she slid her finger under the flap to tear it open, Sammy lunged forward and snatched the letters from her hands. ‘I’ll open them mesen when I’m good an’ ready.’

  Jeannie shrugged. ‘Well, they’ve been sat there for weeks now. You’d best get on with it.’

  Glowering, Sammy slit open the envelopes and unfolded the letters, smoothing them out on the table. Then, reading the dates, he picked up the first one. Jeannie and Joe watched the expression on his face alter as he read. First there was surprise and disbelief, then a brief delight. Then as he scanned the second letter, his face grew red with anger. Suddenly, he picked up both letters and tore them into shreds.

  ‘Wait a minute . . .’ Jeannie reached out. ‘Whatever are you doing?’

  ‘I want none of it,’ Sammy muttered through clenched teeth. ‘I want nowt to do with any of them. You’re me family. Not them. I don’t want to be a – a Hayes-Gorton.’

  He stepped towards the range as if to throw the pieces of paper on to the fire, but Joe barred his way. ‘Oh no, you don’t. Not till you’ve told us properly what’s in them letters.’

  They began to struggle, gripping each other’s shoulders, wrestling to gain supremacy, whilst the fragments of the paper fluttered to the floor.

  ‘Stop it, both of you, else I’ll bang your heads together . . .’ And when they didn’t stop at her bidding, Jeannie did just that, their two skulls coming together with a crack.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘What did ya do that for, Mam?’ Joe said ruefully, rubbing his head.

  ‘If you behave like bairns, then I’ll treat you like bairns. Now then, son . . .’ She turned to Sammy. ‘You just sit down at that table and piece those letters together and tell us what’s in them that’s made you so angry.’

  Grudgingly, Sammy picked up the scraps of paper and began, like tackling a jigsaw puzzle, to sort out the pieces.

  ‘The first letter said that old man Hayes-Gorton . . .’ he still refused, Jeannie noticed, to refer to Samuel as his grandfather ‘left me 17 per cent of the shares in the Gorton-Hathersage Trawler Company.’

  Joe whistled. ‘Blimey, Sam, you’re rich.’

  Sammy’s mouth tightened. ‘Huh, that’s not all. The second letter, would you believe, ses that Francis Hayes-Gorton left the whole of his fortune divided equally between Louise Hayes-Gorton and his natural son . . .’ Jeannie saw Sammy raise his eyes and look straight at her. ‘Samuel Lawrence.’

  Now Jeannie felt her legs give way beneath her and she sat down heavily on a chair, resting her arms on the table. ‘He acknowledged you? After all this time of denying your existence, he actually says that – that you’re his son?’

  ‘Seems like it.’ Sammy was still tight-lipped.

  ‘Why did he leave the other half to her?’ Joe put in, puzzled. ‘She’s Mr Robert’s wife, ain’t she?’

  Jeannie saw Sammy look up at Joe. Now there was a smirk on his face. ‘Bit of gossip that’s missed those flapping ears of yours, our Joe? Mr Francis and Mr Robert’s wife were . . .’ He glanced swiftly at Jeannie. ‘Well, y’know.’

  Joe blinked for a moment or two and then his face cleared. ‘Oh, I get yer. My God! Were they really?’ He thought for a moment and then with a sly glance towards his mother said, ‘Well, suppose you can’t blame her if her husband went visiting elsewhere . . .’

  It did not go unnoticed by Jeannie, but for once she chose to let the innuendo pass.

  ‘So, Sammy,’ she said instead, ‘you’re a man of means now, are you?’

  He stood up, shoving all the pieces of paper into a heap again, though this time he made no effort to burn them. ‘No, I aren’t. I don’t want none of it. You hear me? Not one penny.’

  He left the room and they heard the back-door slam.

  ‘Silly bugger!’ Joe muttered. For once Jeannie did not reprimand him.

  Robert came to see her later the same afternoon, knocking on the door and standing hesitantly outside on the street, until she persuaded him to ste
p across the threshold. She ushered him into the front parlour and invited him to sit down. He declined and instead stood awkwardly in the centre of the room twirling his cap between restless fingers.

  ‘I’m not going back to sea yet. I have what they call survivors’ leave.’ He paused and she guessed that he was feeling guilty because he was a survivor and Tom was not. He cleared his throat and went on. ‘I just came to see if there was anything I could do. If there was anything you need.’

  ‘We’re fine. At least,’ Jeannie smiled sadly, ‘as fine as we can be.’

  ‘I know. It must be very hard for you, especially with the boys away too. Very hard. And the old lady?’

  His words were like a jolt. Old lady! Was that how he thought of Nell Lawrence? Perhaps it was how everyone thought of her now? Well, she supposed with a shock, Nell was old now and she probably looked older than her years anyway.

  Jeannie sighed and shrugged. ‘I’m not even sure she understands what’s happened. That Tom has gone.’

  Robert nodded and said again, ‘It must be very difficult for you.’

  There was an awkward silence between them and a tension too. Jeannie felt it and knew he must feel it also. She had the overwhelming desire to fling herself into his arms, knowing that he would hold her and comfort her and take care of her.

  But she could not. He would be going back to sea. He was leaving and there was always the possibility that he would not return. In that moment, she knew that she had to tell him. She could not let him leave her not knowing how she felt about him.

  ‘Please, won’t you sit down a moment.’

  ‘I must go, I . . .’ Then she saw him hesitate and knew that there was something in her face that made him move to a chair and perch uncomfortably on the edge of it. She sat down opposite him and clasped her hands so tightly in front of her that her knuckles were white.