Authors: Benita Brown
Tags: #Technology & Engineering, #Sagas, #Fisheries & Aquaculture, #Fiction
A Safe Harbour (5 page)
‘Get up,’ Jane said. ‘You’re soaking wet.’
Kate didn’t respond. Instead she turned away and looked out to sea, and then made that crazy scooping motion again.
‘For heaven’s sake, what are you doing?’ Jane could barely suppress her irritation – and fright. Had her friend lost her mind? Was she crazed with grief ? What should she do? Kate was taking no notice of her but she couldn’t just leave her there, kneeling in the water.
She took a step forward and, abandoning any thought of saving her own clothes from getting soaked, she took hold of Kate’s shoulders. Kate flinched and then looked up. Jane was shocked by the sheer misery etched in her friend’s face. But even more shocked by the tentative smile. What on earth was there to smile about?
‘What have you got there, Kate?’
In answer the other girl dropped her head and indicated what she had collected in the folds of her skirt. Jane frowned. Apples? Had Kate been gathering apples from the sea? That was crazy.
‘Jos sent them,’ Kate said. ‘He wanted me to have them. He must have opened the sack and sent them in on the tide.’
All at once it made sense. These were the apples that Jos and Barty had given their lives for. Jane stared down at them in despair. Barely ripe, some of them bruised, most of them clearly misshapen windfalls. Jane felt a sharp ache of grief gathering in her throat.
‘No, Kate,’ she said huskily. ‘Jos didn’t send them. You know that.’
‘Then how . . .’
‘The sack has come open of its own accord. The apples have floated free. Now, come along. You can’t sit here.’
Kate’s expression hardened. In spite of the glittering tears, Jane saw her eyes narrow. She knew that look of old, but she had had plenty of practice in dealing with her friend’s wilfulness.
‘Look, the men are returning.’ She leaned forward and pointed out to sea to where the cobles had begun the familiar race home. ‘The beach will be busy soon . . . the fish auction. You don’t want people to find you like this. They’ll laugh at you.’
‘Laugh at me?’ Kate sounded shocked but Jane felt no remorse for the lie. For of course no one would laugh. This close community would have only pity and compassion for this poor bereaved girl, but somehow she had to get Kate to get up out of the water. So she had appealed to her pride.
‘Yes, laugh. And you don’t want folk saying that Jos was better off drowned than married to a madwoman, do you?’ For a moment Jane thought she had gone too far. Kate’s face blanched and her green eyes grew huge with shock and pain. Heedless of her fine skirt Jane knelt down next to her friend and took hold of her shoulders. ‘Come along, Kate,’ she said gently. ‘You would want Jos to be proud of you, wouldn’t you?’
After a long moment Kate nodded and made an indistinct sound in her throat. Jane helped her to her feet but the other girl suddenly stopped and caught at her skirt in an attempt to save the apples.
‘No, Kate.’ Jane took hold of Kate’s hands and stopped her. ‘Let them go.’
She helped Kate shake her skirt until all the apples she had gathered fell into the sand-flecked foam and bobbed about with the sea-polished pebbles. Kate stared down at them and when a retreating wave began to take them back to sea she made a moaning noise.
‘Hush,’ Jane said softly. ‘Now come back with me.’
‘No-I can’t go home.’
‘It’s all right. You can come to my house. You can stay with me today.’
Suddenly a wave, more forceful than the rest, pulled back and seemed to drag the wet sand away from beneath their feet. Kate stumbled and Jane put her arms about her friend and held her tightly. Then she turned her round and began to lead her away from the shoreline. Never, in all the years they had known each other, had Kate allowed herself to be led by anyone other than Jos. But now, weary with grief, she submitted to Jane’s will. They walked up the gentle slope of the beach together hand in hand like the children they had once been.
‘My mother thinks you are neglecting yourself.’ Richard Adamson stood in the living room of the two-storeyed cottage his forebears had once lived in and glanced apologetically at his cousin, who was visiting from America.
Howard Munro, who was as tall as Richard himself, and whose careless way of dressing did not disguise the fact that his clothes were of first class quality, pushed a lock of fine brown hair back from his expressive face in a gesture which had become familiar. He smiled. ‘Why should she think that?’
‘Well . . .’ Richard gestured helplessly. He wished his mother had not sent him on this errand. Howard was a grown man with a generous allowance from his parents and quite capable of looking after himself. Surely it should concern no one if he chose to subsist on bread and cheese in his artist’s garret, as village gossip had it, rather than taking up Grace Adamson’s offer of dining with them. ‘Well, she promised your mother,’ he continued, ‘that not only would we let you have this cottage for the duration of your stay but she would also see that you ate regular meals and brought your laundry along to be taken care of at our house.’
Howard looked guiltily at the pile of rumpled linen bundled on the sofa, which also served as his bed. Then he pushed his hair back again and laughed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Sorry?’
‘You are a busy man, Richard. You have a fleet to command. You have better things to do than run around on errands like this.’
Now it was Richard’s turn to smile. ‘You make it sound grand . . . my fleet. They’re just trawlers.’
‘
Just
trawlers? No, not simple fishing boats, Richard. Your vessels are
steam
trawlers; your family are pioneers who have revolutionized the fishing industry and provided cheap fish in abundance. You’ve brought added prosperity to the river Tyne.’
Just
trawlers? No, not simple fishing boats, Richard. Your vessels are
steam
trawlers; your family are pioneers who have revolutionized the fishing industry and provided cheap fish in abundance. You’ve brought added prosperity to the river Tyne.’
Richard stirred uneasily.
‘What is it?’ Howard asked.
‘What you say is true. But in doing so we haven’t pleased everybody.’
‘Ah, yes. Not everybody likes change. Especially if it affects their livelihood. The local fishermen resent what you’re doing.’
‘They’ll have to adapt. They can’t stop progress.’
‘No. And now, not only am I taking up your valuable time, I’ve also angered you.’
‘No, not at all.’
‘It’s kind of you to say so. But how can I make amends?’
The American’s smile was so open and engaging that Richard relaxed. ‘By putting on your jacket and coming back with me.’
‘Now? So early?’
‘Yes, now – for a substantial breakfast, designed to tempt a starving artist.’
‘I’m hardly starving. I’m just naturally slim.’
‘You’ll have to convince my mother of that. Then, when I depart to go and command my fleet, you can stay and talk to my mother for a while and, perhaps, write a note to enclose in her letter to your mother. That way both our mothers will be satisfied.’
‘Very well. As long as you will honour your promise.’
‘Promise?’
‘To let me paint your portrait.’
‘Ah, you were serious, then.’
‘Of course.’
Richard smiled ruefully. ‘I’m no oil painting, as they say.’
‘On the contrary. Your features may not be classical, but those dark intense looks are compelling.’
‘Yes . . . well . . . you can paint the picture. But now . . .’
‘I’ll get my jacket.’
On the way from the simple fisher man’s cottage that had become Howard Munro’s studio to the large house in the imposing terrace where the Adamsons lived, the two men paused on the bank top and, leaning on the railing, looked out across the bay.
‘Look,’ Howard said, his voice expressing surprise.
‘At what?’
‘Out there . . . the fishing boats – the cobles.’
‘Well?’
‘The men went fishing.’
Richard smiled. ‘That’s what they do.’
‘But the drowning – just yesterday. You heard about it?’
‘Ah, yes.’
‘Don’t they care?’
‘Of course they do, men and women alike. But the men must fish and, very soon, the women will come down to the beach and help to land the boats and unload the catch. The buyers will arrive and the auction will begin. They can’t afford not to carry on as usual.’
Richard glanced at his cousin uneasily, waiting to be reminded that this was his fault, but Howard seemed to have lost interest in their conversation.
‘Marvellous,’ he said raptly. ‘Just marvellous.’
‘What?’ Richard asked. He tried to look at the scene with what he imagined was an artist’s eye. Perhaps his cousin was visualizing the composition of his next painting. ‘Do you mean the cobles? The – er – the red sails against the blue-grey sky and – er – the sea? Is that it?’
Howard smiled distractedly. ‘No, not the cobles, although they are quite an impressive sight, racing back to the harbour, cutting through the waves, the gulls streaming in behind them. Perhaps . . . yes, I will. But that wasn’t what I meant.’
‘What then?’
‘The girls.’
Richard turned his head to look at the group of women making their way down the slope that led to the beach, where they would wait for the cobles to come in. Howard saw the direction of his glance. ‘No, not them,’ he said. ‘I mean the two coming up towards us. Look, they’re hand in hand. She’s magnificent.’
‘What? Jane?’ Richard recognized the cobbler’s daughter. As a child, his forays to the village had been restricted, and he had not formed friendships with the fisherfolk’s children. But he had sometimes been trusted to take the family shoes to Mr Harrison for repair, and he had observed Jane since he was a boy and she a mere infant, toddling confidently in and out of her father’s workshop, knowing she would not be scolded. And what a beautiful child she had been with her pink and white complexion, her soft angel-fair curls and her dark-fringed blue eyes. Now she was a beautiful woman, he supposed, although he would not have referred to her as ‘magnificent’.
‘Is that her name? Jane?’ Howard asked. He frowned.
‘What is it?’
‘The name. It doesn’t suit her.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘That magnificent creature? Jane?’
‘Magnificent? Little Jane? Of course she’s very pretty, beautiful, even, but hardly
magnificent
.’
magnificent
.’
Howard was grinning. ‘No, Richard, I didn’t mean the pretty little thing in blue. I meant the other girl: that great tall fisherlass with the lion’s mane for hair. Even in those simple clothes she’s wonderful. Don’t you agree?’
Richard looked at the girl. Perhaps because of those simple clothes, the drab, heavy skirt, the short jacket and the shawl that all the village girls wore, he had not given her a second glance. Jane’s bright blue fashionable costume had taken his eye. But now that he did look at the fisherlass, looked at her properly, he saw that Howard was not exaggerating. She was magnificent.
Chapter Three
Both cortèges had left the church and were making for the burial ground on the headland overlooking the mouth of the river. Kate walked behind the first horse-drawn hearse with Jos’s family. That morning Matthew had come for her, saying that his mother wished it. The black-plumed horses wound their way along the village streets through a fine mist of rain. Every cottage they passed had the curtains drawn. The heavy clouds hung low over the village and ahead of them the stark outline of the ruined priory looked gaunt and unwelcoming. The moisture had seeped through Kate’s clothes to her skin. She could feel it running down the small of her back.
Kate had put on her best black skirt and jacket and pinned her hair back neatly. Her mother had lent her a black lace shawl to cover her head. She walked tall and tried to look dignified although she knew that her eyes were red-rimmed and the lids were swollen. When Matthew had called at the cottage that morning Kate had been weeping with rage as much as sorrow. Her father had announced that he would not be coming to the double funeral and nothing Kate could say would persuade him.
‘It’s well known I had no respect for the Lintons,’ Henry Lawson said. ‘I didn’t care for the lad when he was alive and I’d be a hypocrite if I went to pray at his graveside.’
‘What about Barty, then? Have you no respect for the Lisle family, either?’
‘Whisht, lass,’ her mother whispered fearfully. ‘Divven’t anger your da.’
But her father deigned to answer her, putting on his reasonable voice. ‘I feel sorry for George Lisle,’ he said, ‘and that’s the truth, but he should never have let his lad get so pally with Jos Linton. He should hev known that no good would come of it.’
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