Authors: Benita Brown
Tags: #Technology & Engineering, #Sagas, #Fisheries & Aquaculture, #Fiction
A Safe Harbour (12 page)
‘It’s for the best, Kate, believe me,’ her mother added. ‘It’ll be our little secret.’
‘That’s all very well,’ Kate said, ‘but the secret won’t keep, will it? What happens when I begin to show? What happens when the bairn is born?’
The two older women looked at each other and Kate thought her mother looked unhappier than ever. ‘Shall I tell her?’ Aunt Meg asked.
‘Aye, you’ll hev to.’
‘I’ll write to your Aunt Winifred,’ Meg said. ‘I’m pretty sure she’ll take you in. In fact she’ll be pleased to.’
‘Who is Aunt Winifred?’
‘My little sister. She’s a couple of years younger than your father.’
‘Why don’t I know her?’ Kate asked.
‘Because she ran away long before you were born.’
‘Ran away?’
‘Aye, and it was your father’s fault.’ Aunt Meg sighed. ‘When your grandfather was drowned along with our eldest brother, your father, although just a lad himself, became the man of the house and started laying down the law about what Winifred and me could do – our ma, too. Well, Ma just gave in to him and I did too, to keep the peace. But Winifred was just like you, Kate. She spoke up for herself and wouldn’t give in. Our poor mother had a lot to bear and I’m sure that’s why she followed our father to the grave only a year later. Then your father became worse than ever, a proper tyrant, so Winifred ran away.’
‘Where did she go?’
‘We didn’t know – not for years. And your father wouldn’t hev her name mentioned. But eventually I got a letter from her.’
‘She sent it to me,’ Kate’s mother said. ‘It was before your father and I were married so the letter was safe coming to my parents’ house.’
‘And I’ve been writing to her ever since,’ Aunt Meg continued. ‘Your da doesn’t know anything about it. Eeh, Kate you’re so like her. I know she’ll take you in.’
‘But that’s marvellous,’ Kate said.
‘Well, yes and no,’ said her mother.
‘What do you mean?’
‘It means it might be years before I see you again. You see, your Aunt Winifred lives in America.’
‘America?’ Kate stared at her aunt and her mother, unwilling to take in what this might mean.
‘Yes, pet, in a place called New York. And although I don’t want to lose you,’ Nan said, ‘I know that you’d be well looked after. Winifred has married well: she was working in a shoe factory and she caught the boss’s eye. Well, Winifred wouldn’t settle for anything less than a ring on her finger and, the last time I heard, she was helping him run the business. Designing fashionable boots for ladies, if you please.’
‘That’s right,’ Aunt Meg said. ‘Poor Winifred.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Kate was startled.
‘Well, it seems that try as they might her and Herbert just can’t have children. It’s a grief to them both, the last I heard. So, you see, I think she’ll be overjoyed to have you – you and the bairn. And divven’t fret, Kate, lass, you’ll be well looked after.’
‘But I’d be so far away!’ Kate felt the tears pricking at the back of her eyes.
‘Whisht now, don’t upset yourself,’ her aunt said. ‘It’s bad for the bairn. And it won’t be for a while yet, anyways. For the time being you and me will live here happily together. All right?’
‘I just don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.’
‘Of course, but I’m sure you’ll see it’ll be for the best,’ her mother said. ‘And Kate . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Meanwhile it’s best not to tell anyone about the baby.’
‘Who would I tell?’
‘I thought you might tell Jane. Then Jane might tell her mother . . .’
‘She wouldn’t. Not if I asked her not to.’
‘Perhaps not. But it’s better to be safe than sorry. And then there’s William.’ Her mother paused. ‘I know you confide in him sometimes. Well, I think it’s best to keep him in the dark about this.’
‘My brothers don’t know?’
‘No.’
‘Why do they think I’ve left home?’
‘I told them you’d angered your father once too often. It was easy for them to believe that.’ Nan gave a faint smile.
‘But why can’t you tell them? They wouldn’t condemn me!’
‘You can’t be sure of that. Lads are funny.’
‘Oh, aye,’ Meg said. ‘Lads are funny, all right. They do their best to sweet-talk a girl into giving in and then, if anything goes wrong, it’s all the lass’s fault.’
‘My brothers aren’t like that. They wouldn’t think less of me. In fact they’d stand up for me.’
‘That’s what I’m afeared of,’ her mother said. ‘Thomas sometimes acts without thinking first. If he stood up to your da – quarrelled with him because he’d thrown you out – it would be me that would get the worst of it.’
‘Aye, we’re back to my devil of a brother again,’ Meg said. ‘All roads lead to him. So, Kate hinny, just do as your ma tells you for the sake of a quiet life.’
Kate sighed. ‘I will.’
‘Good lass,’ Aunt Meg said. ‘And now your ma had better get along home and leave us to hev a bit supper before we gans to bed. We’ll be starting work tomorrow as soon as the boats come home.’
Jane stirred in her bed, frowning before she had even opened her eyes, and wondered what had woken her. It was early; too early, for now that she was Mrs Coulson’s personal maid she did not have to get up at first light like the other domestic servants. She raised her head from the pillows and looked around the room. There was nothing there to disturb her except that the curtains were blowing a little, and now that she concentrated she could hear rain spattering on the window. A moment later the window panes rattled as the wind gusted and Jane realized what it was that had roused her from her slumbers.
Reluctantly she pushed back the bedclothes and kneeled on the bed to reach up and close the window. She didn’t want the rain coming in and soaking the eiderdown. She pulled the lower half of the window down then reached up and secured the catch. Then she paused to gaze out over the garden. The view always delighted her. And the birdsong. She loved the sound; the sweet notes were so different from the harsh crying of the gulls at home in Cullercoats.
Once when William had brought her home she had shown him round the grounds of the house, sure that he would be impressed, and she had been dumbfounded when he had remarked that it looked like a public park. Then she had looked up at him and had understood from the admiration in his eyes that he had meant it as a compliment. So she’d told him that gardeners were employed all year round and that there was a large glasshouse where all sorts of exotic flowers were grown so that there was always something pretty for the table arrangements.
Now, as she gazed out over the rain-drenched lawns and the dripping trees, she marvelled as always that this house was so near the centre of Newcastle and yet there wasn’t another house to be glimpsed over the treetops. Even in winter when the branches were bare there was enough cover to hide the nearest roofs, although not the sight of smoke rising from the chimneys; that was always present.
But whatever time of year it was there was always something in bloom in the Coulsons’ garden, or a display of colourful leaves to cheer the eye. Now, in the first week of September, some of the leaves had started to change colour and the heavy rain had brought a few of them down. They would be swept up from the lawns before the family had even come down to breakfast, however, and if one of them should happen to glance out of a window, everything would be tidy and neatly ordered. Perhaps William had been right, after all, when he’d said the grounds reminded him of a park. But, if so, it was a very grand one.
In fact Mrs Coulson was planning what she called a water feature. Jane had asked her if she meant a fountain but her mistress had assured her it would be more original than that. A grotto would be created with rocks and a tumbling waterfall; wild flowers would be planted and everything made to look like a sylvan grove.
Jane let the curtains fall back into place and settled back amongst the bedclothes. This bed was so comfortable, unlike the maids’ beds in the attics where poor Dora, the tweeny, claimed she had a flock mattress so thin that the springs of the bed left angry patterns on her bum. Jane smiled when she remembered how Mrs Roberts the cook-housekeeper had scolded Dora for being so coarse as to use that word when there was a perfectly respectable one available: posterior. And she had pointed out that at least Dora had a bed, whereas Iris, the scullery maid, slept on a truckle under the kitchen table.
And I have this lovely room of my own, Jane thought. I don’t have to share. I have rugs instead of bare floorboards, an oil lamp instead of a candle in a saucer, and a fire in the hearth that Dora has to clean and keep burning for me. And I’m allowed a kettle so that I can make myself a cup of tea.
Jane pulled the bedclothes up to her chin and tried to make herself comfortable. Now that she was awake she could feel where some of the curling rags were digging into her head, and she put up a delicate finger to try to ease them away from her scalp a little without loosening the knots. How lucky Kate is to have hair that waves naturally, she thought. And whatever way she wears it, whether she puts it up, lets it fall free, or drags it back and ties it with a piece of ribbon like a schoolgirl, she looks beautiful.
Am I jealous? she wondered. No, of course not. Kate may be striking at first glance but her looks are too unusual to be really fashionable like . . . well, like me. Jane reached over to her bedside table and took up the letter she had received just the day before. She opened it and held it in the light that fell across her bed from the window.
Dear Jane (the letter began),
I’m sure your mother will have written and told you that I am living with my Aunt Meg. I have angered my father once too often and, for my mother’s sake, we thought it best that I should leave home. And now my father behaves as though I don’t exist. If he catches sight of me on the beach he seems to look right through me.
And I have to go to the beach for I’m learning how to be a fishwife, can you believe that? My aunt is teaching me how to sell fish from door to door.
Well, then, as a fisherman’s daughter, I thought I knew as much about fish as anyone would ever want to know but I was wrong. I go down to the beach with Aunt Meg in time for the auction and she’s teaching me what to buy. Once the fish is sorted the heads are cut off – I can just imagine your expression, Jane, but this, at least, is nothing new to me. I’ve helped my mother with this task ever since I was old enough to be trusted with a knife. My aunt has taught me how to pack my creel – yes, I have a creel of my own now – with the fish lying in different directions so that more can be packed in.
Oh, Jane, it’s so heavy that the rope seems to cut into my flesh! I’ve seen the marks on my aunt’s shoulders and upper arms when I help her to bed at night. How long will it be, I wonder, before I have marks like that? But at least the load gets lighter as the day goes on. My aunt has a regular round and she’s very popular with her customers. Sometimes we catch a lift with Mr Brunton to Wallsend, and sometimes to Whitley. One day a week we get the train to Gosforth Village and you can imagine how the other passengers on the train turn up their noses and edge away from us. I don’t blame them.
As soon as we get home I strip off and wash myself and every piece of clothing – every day. My aunt and I have at least three sets of everything, but, even so, I imagine that I will never completely get rid of the smell of fish.
By the way, those fish heads. They don’t go to waste. We parcel them up and sell them as pet food. And one of our best customers for this is that American, Mr Munro. You know, he’s the artist who lives in the cottage where the Adamson family used to live and have never sold. Well, it seems that not long after he moved in there he took pity on a stray cat and the next thing, it seems – or so he told me – is that the wily creature (his words) brought his friends home, and now Mr Munro has a bunch of hungry lodgers to feed.
One morning as Aunt Meg and I were setting off for Brunton’s wood yard to catch our lift, I saw Mr Munro sitting on a little stool facing the windows of his lodging and making a sketch. I was curious and I stopped and looked to see what he was drawing. It was one of the cats, a tabby, sitting inside on the sill next to a pot with a geranium and looking out of the open window through narrowed eyes as he warmed himself in the morning sun.
And do you know that cat looked so lifelike that I could imagine it suddenly yawning, stretching and jumping right out of the picture. Does that sound fanciful? Well, you must blame Mr Howard Munro. I think he must be an exceptionally good artist.
Well, Jane, I hope it won’t be too long before I see you again. I do miss you and our chats. I had to write because you haven’t been home for a week or two and I wondered what William had been telling you about me. Yes, I know that you and William are still seeing each other even though your mother and mine are being kept in the dark about it! William disappears every now and then. Always on a Sunday. My mother doesn’t suspect a thing but I worked it out, and I’m thrilled for you. But one of these days I’d like you to tell me when you are going to make up your mind and put my poor brother out of his misery.
Well, you weren’t expecting that, were you?
With love from your friend,
Kate.
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