Authors: Benita Brown
Tags: #Technology & Engineering, #Sagas, #Fisheries & Aquaculture, #Fiction
A Safe Harbour (24 page)
‘Get out,’ Mr Munro said. ‘Now.’ Her father glared up with a mixture of rage and bafflement but he didn’t argue. He got to his feet, still clasping his stomach, and made for the door. ‘I shall report what happened tonight to the village constable,’ the American said. ‘If I hear you’ve come here again I’ll have you arrested for assault.’
Henry stumbled out of the cottage and it wasn’t long before the sound of violent retching could be heard. Mr Munro shut the door.
Kate was staring at him in astonishment. ‘How did you do that?’ she asked.
‘Long ago I realized I was never going to be the school boxing champion so I learned other ways to defend myself,’ he said with a laugh, but then he looked at her with concern. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, thanks to you. But how did you happen to be here?’
‘I was on my way home. I heard you shouting.’
‘You didn’t hear why my father was angry with me?’
‘No, and there’s no need to tell me. I’ve heard enough about him from local gossips to know that it doesn’t take much to anger him. But now I’m here there’s something you should know. May I sit down?’
‘Of course.’ Kate indicated the easy chair beside the fireplace but he shook his head and drew up a chair from the table.
‘No, you sit in comfort,’ he said.
Kate complied, wondering what he was going to tell her. He looked very grave.
‘I have been to Newcastle tonight,’ he began, ‘to a lecture at the Literary and Philosophical Society. And, Kate, I’m sorry to say the audience were paying less attention to the wood engravings of Thomas Bewick than to the rumours of the riot in Cullercoats today.’
‘It wasn’t a riot!’
‘No, I don’t think it was. But news, especially bad news, travels fast. And I’m afraid the newspapers have got wind of it. I imagine your brother will feature as the ringleader. I can only hope that he has learned his lesson.’
She stared at him bleakly. She didn’t imagine for a moment that Thomas had learned his lesson but she could hardly say so to Richard Adamson’s cousin.
‘I’m sorry to have had to tell you this,’ he said. ‘But at least now you are prepared. And remember, if you need a friend – if your father should come here again – you must tell me. I meant what I said about informing the constable. Do you think the warning will be sufficient?’
‘It may be. My father is a violent man but he has respect for the law. And I imagine he won’t want to risk being bettered by you again. It would hurt his pride.’
Kate became aware of the crackle of coals in the fire, the ticking of the clock on the mantelshelf and Mr Howard Munro sitting facing her across the hearth like an old friend. She marvelled that she could feel so at ease with him.
‘I suppose I had better go,’ he said reluctantly. ‘I imagine you get up early.’
‘Yes, I do. And thank you for what you did tonight, Mr Munro.’
He was about to rise but he hesitated and said, ‘Kate, will you do something for me?’
‘If I can.’
‘Then I would be very much obliged if you would start calling me Howard.’
‘Very well. I’ll try.’
They smiled at each other.
Kate rose as he did and walked with him to the door. There he turned and smiled. ‘And something else – have you decided whether you will sit for me?’
‘Sit?’
‘Pose. I still want to paint your portrait.’
‘Yes, I’ve decided I will.’
‘But that’s wonderful!’
Kate shut the door behind him and leaned against it for a moment. She wondered whether she’d done the right thing, but knew it was the least she could do for the man who just might have saved her life tonight.
After his mother had gone to bed Richard told the staff to do likewise, lowered the lamps in the first-floor sitting room, and sat by the fire with a glass of whisky and a cigar. Prince, his dog, sensing there was no one now to stop him, had padded upstairs and sneaked into the sitting room behind him and now lay on the hearthrug with his head resting on his paws, his eyes closed. The firelight shone on his smooth black coat.
Richard settled back and let his mind review the last few hours. The ladies had enjoyed the play and, despite her sensible nature, even Caroline had been moved to cry a little, while her mother and his had cheerfully sobbed into their numerous handkerchiefs throughout.
Caroline’s parents had taken a box. Not even the dress circle would do for the Travers family. They wished to be well away from the odours of pomades, cheap scent and something baser that drifted up from the stalls. They were already ensconced and partaking from a tray of dainty sandwiches and a jug of lemonade when Richard’s party entered. Richard settled his mother and Caroline into their seats and glanced curiously down into the auditorium, which seemed livelier than usual.
The house lights revealed a mass of excited people. The musicians in the orchestra pit, who were playing for all they were worth, might as well not have bothered to take up their instruments. Nobody could hear them. At first Richard thought the mood was engendered by the fact that the players they were about to see were an eminent troupe from London, but he soon understood that that was not the case.
It didn’t take him long to notice that people kept staring up at the box where he was sitting, some of them even pointing. ‘The sooner the play starts the better,’ Caroline’s father said. ‘Then everyone might settle down. They’re all talking about what happened, you know. Come here and sit by me.’ He was seated behind the ladies. ‘You and I will have to have a chat in the first interval. Would you like a drink? A proper drink, I mean.’
Richard declined but the man who it seemed would be quite happy to become his father-in-law insisted. ‘Well, I’m going to have one so you’d better join me. I’ll send for some whisky. You look as though you could do with it.’ He paused to pull at the bell rope on the back wall of the box. ‘Does that hurt?’ He indicated the dressing on Richard’s cheek.
‘No, not really.’
‘Not really? What kind of an answer is that?’
Fortunately they were interrupted by one of the theatre staff who took the order for the whisky and returned in next to no time.
Soon after that the orchestra had stopped playing, the lights had dimmed, the curtain had risen and the play had begun. Richard had not been able to concentrate. It seemed that what had happened outside his house today was proving as much of a melodrama as the unlikely tale of murder, mistaken identity, bigamy and adultery being enacted with gusto below.
During the intervals Jacob Travers had questioned him keenly about what had happened and, as Richard had known he would, expressed disapproval at Richard’s decision to be lenient. But Richard had managed to convince him that it was not through weakness. He was not backing down before the bullies; he wanted to resolve matters peacefully, even help the men if possible.
‘Help them?’ Caroline’s father had asked. ‘You think you can?’
‘Maybe.’
Jacob Travers had had to be content with that, although he left Richard in no doubt that, in his opinion, what had happened was dangerous and unlawful. And now, Richard thought, how was he going to sleep tonight? His cheek was hurting and his mind was in turmoil. Suddenly his cigar, one of his favourite Bouquet Imperials, held no appeal. He took it from his mouth, stared at it unseeingly, and tossed it in the fire. It sizzled for a moment and sent sparks flying. Prince raised his head, looked at him reproachfully and edged back a little.
‘Sorry, boy,’ Richard said.
The events of the day had shaken him. Not because of the fishermen’s protest. He had been expecting that. But he had not expected it to turn violent. And he had not expected that his emotions would become involved. In this village he had become the enemy. He knew that. And, until today, he had accepted it. He had been prepared to face the angry faces, the hatred even. It was the price he, and others like him, would have to pay for progress. But nothing could have prepared him for the way he had reacted to the look in Kate Lawson’s eyes. Did she hate him, too?
He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter but he knew it did. No matter that Caroline Travers was beautiful, accomplished and suitable in every way. Richard knew that Kate Lawson was the truer, the greater prize, and he doubted if there was any chance of winning her.
Jane looked with horror at the headlines of the morning paper on Mrs Coulson’s breakfast tray. She would have liked to sit down right here on the stairs and read it, but she couldn’t. Some instinct told her that it would be better if nobody in this house guessed how concerned she was about the happenings in her home village. After all, her father wasn’t a fisherman and she was supposed to have moved on, moved further up the social scale. The affairs of the villagers should not concern her.
Mrs Coulson was sitting up in bed, waiting for her breakfast. Jane poured her tea and left her with the tray while she got out the clothes her mistress would wear that day. Mrs Coulson never had much to eat in the morning. A cup of tea and a bread roll with honey was about as much as she could manage.
Soon she yawned and said sleepily, ‘Take the tray away, dear. I think I’ll rest for a while longer. Come back in an hour’s time.’
‘And the newspaper?’ Jane asked. It was lying unopened on the eiderdown.
Mrs Coulson waved a dismissive hand. ‘Take it away,’ she said. ‘I can’t be bothered with such gloomy events. Riots, indeed!’
After she had taken the tray down to the kitchen Jane went up to her room. She was free for an hour. She would read the newspaper. But she had hardly got past the headlines when she began to cry. Thomas Lawson was named as the chief perpetrator of the scandalous event.
She scanned the rest of the story as quickly as she could through her tears and by the time she had finished reading it she was a little comforted. William had not been mentioned. Jane sent up a fervent prayer of thanks. But she knew Thomas of old and she couldn’t believe that would be the end of it. She must move quickly and get William away from the village before anything else happened.
Two days after the incident outside his house Richard Adamson took delivery of another steam trawler. This latest addition to his fleet, the
Tyne Star
, built to higher specifications than any that had gone before, was now docked at the fish quay and Richard and his chief clerk, Len Dawson, were admiring it.
Tyne Star
, built to higher specifications than any that had gone before, was now docked at the fish quay and Richard and his chief clerk, Len Dawson, were admiring it.
‘There’s nothing like another boat to increase profits,’ Dawson said, ‘and the more of the fleet we convert from sail to steam, the better it will get for us.’
Richard nodded. It was true. His catches, particularly of herring, had increased to record levels. As Dawson said, profits were good and they were well ahead of the competition.
‘It’s not the Scotch boats you’re fretting about, is it, sir?’
‘Fretting?’
‘Well, if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re frowning when you should be smiling.’
‘No, Dawson. The Scottish lads are no match for us.’
A large fleet of Scottish trawlers followed the shoals of herring south to the Northumberland fishing grounds and Richard knew many of them were now being towed to and fro by steam tugs. But he was confident that his new trawlers could run rings round them.
‘Aye, well,’ Dawson said, ‘they’ll be in tomorrow morning sharp, so we’ll see the size of their catch soon enough.’
‘Yes,’ Richard said, ‘and when the crews come ashore, there’ll be more ale drunk along Clive Street than would float the
Tyne Star
.’ His attempt at jollity fell flat. He remembered that his chief clerk had signed the pledge and was a member of the Temperance League.
Tyne Star
.’ His attempt at jollity fell flat. He remembered that his chief clerk had signed the pledge and was a member of the Temperance League.
He wished he could take back his words but the good man shook his head and said, ‘No doubt, sir, and more’s the pity. I can’t respect a man, no matter how hard he works, who spends his money on drink before he puts food on the table for his wife and bairns.’
Richard was saved from having to reply by a warning bellow that rent the air. ‘Clear the way there!’ Dawson and he leapt aside as a horse and cart loaded high with barrels rumbled past over the cobbles. They watched as it pulled up a short distance away and the barrels were unloaded and stacked in long rows. As soon as the task was completed another cart arrived. The barrels were there ready for the herring.
The herring season was nearly over, but until then fish lasses from Scotland would join the local girls to gut and barrel the slippery silver fish. They would stand at long wooden troughs all day cutting and slitting, earning a few pence for each barrel they filled. It could take a week to ten days to fill the barrels with fish and salt and, when they’d finished at Shields, the Scots girls would follow the fleet, moving on by train to the next fishing port down the east coast.
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