The Fisher Lass (12 page)

‘Why?’

The fisherman looked kindly at the well-dressed young man and explained patiently. Son of a trawler owner, he might be, but Robert had little experience at sea. ‘There were a lot of ships
in the same area, sir. We’d found a good ground. And they,’ he paused as if for dramatic effect, ‘were all still there the following morning. All, except the
Sea
Spray
.’

Robert felt his heart sink. ‘I see,’ he said heavily. ‘Thank you for telling me what you know, but I still don’t know if it’s enough that we ought to – well
– say the ship’s missing.’

‘There’s one other skipper you ought to talk to, sir.’ The man glanced around him, searching amongst the boats lining the quay. ‘He’s on a Hathersage ship, the
North Sea Spirit
. Hewson, they call him. There’s a tale going about that he picked up a body from the water. Could be . . .’ The man’s voice faded away, as if he too
didn’t want to believe what might have happened.

Robert swallowed hard. ‘But that still wouldn’t mean the ship had gone down. It might be that he got washed overboard in the storm.’ Robert was now like a drowning man clinging
to the wreckage. And he knew it. And the skipper knew it too. Soberly, the man said, ‘Could be, sir, could be.’ But there was little hope in the wise old fisherman’s tone.

It was Jeannie who opened the front door to find Robert Hayes-Gorton standing on the pavement outside. She knew at once, by the look on his face, that the news was bad.

Pulling the door wider, she said curtly, ‘You’d better come in.’

Nell, standing before the net on the wall, her fingers never still, called, ‘Who is it, hen?’

Receiving no immediate answer she looked up as Jeannie ushered the man into the kitchen. Then Nell’s eyes widened, her glance flickering from one face to the other. And now, deep into her
eyes, came the fear.

Robert stood, an awkward figure in the cluttered room. He was taller than Jeannie had remembered and, closer now, she could see that his slim build belied a strength in his shoulders. He removed
his hat and smoothed back his dark wavy hair. In his brown eyes Jeannie could see there was a haunted expression. Twisting his hat round and round in his hands, he said, ‘Mrs Lawrence . .
.’

His voice too, was deeper, though perhaps that was because of the difficult news he was trying to impart. Jeannie could sense, though she was reluctant to acknowledge it, that there was sympathy
and genuine concern for these people in his tone.

‘Mrs Lawrence . . .’ His glance went briefly towards Tom who was rising from his seat by the fireplace. ‘I am so sorry to come with – with some bad news.’

For a fleeting moment, Jeannie felt a flash of sympathy for the young man, but remembering again the night she had first encountered him, her pity died and she stood, jaw clenched, as he dragged
out each painful word.

Nell dropped the ball of sisal and the net flapped idly against the wall. She turned slowly to face Robert, her gaze now intent upon his face.

‘The
Sea Spray
has not – not returned. Of course, there’s still the chance that she’s late. That . . .’ He could add no further words, because he could think
of none.

Tom spoke now. ‘Have you asked around?’

Robert turned his glance towards him, with a sense of relief. He could deal better with another man, a fisherman. ‘Yes, I’ve spoken to several of the other skippers from both our
boats and those of the Hathersage company, and the last one, he – he had picked up a – a body from the sea and it was . . . I’m so sorry . . .’ Again his glance came back
momentarily to Nell. ‘It was one of the crew from the
Sea Spray
.’

For a moment there was silence in the room and then Tom gave a groan, sat down heavily in his chair and dropped his head into his hands, resting his elbows on his knees.

With a slow, wooden movement, Nell turned back towards the wall and picked up the half-finished net. Her fingers grasped the braiding needle so tightly that her knuckles showed white. It was
left to Jeannie, the comparative stranger in their midst, to say, forcing politeness into her tone, ‘Thank you for coming, sir. I’ll see you out . . .’ and led the way to the door
into the street.

Back on the pavement, he turned to face her. ‘If there’s anything I can do – anything, you will let me know?’

She leant towards him, her eyes flashing, no longer needing to hide her feelings. ‘Go. Just leave them alone. Havena you and yours done enough damage to this family?’

He jerked backwards as if she had struck him physically. He stared at her for a moment and now she could see the tightening of his mouth and the anger in his eyes.

He put on his hat, gave an exaggerated bow and said in a low, tight voice, ‘I’ll bid you “Good day”, Miss Buchanan.’ Then he turned and walked swiftly away.

Turning back into the house, Jeannie closed the door, leant against it for a moment and gave a low groan. She shouldn’t have spoken to him like that. Not now, not at a time like this. He
was the very person, probably the one and only person, who could help this family in their hour of need and now she had driven him away. She sighed heavily and moved back into the kitchen to find
the two people there just as she had left them; Nell braiding the net and Tom sitting with his head in his hands making no move to comfort his mother nor to go out and try to find out more news for
himself.

Without stopping to think, Jeannie said as much. ‘Are you going down to the dock to see what you can find out?’ When there was no answer, no response of any kind from him, not even a
movement, she said, more sharply, ‘Tom?’

Slowly, like a man in a trance, Tom lifted his head and looked towards her, his eyes suspiciously wet. Jeannie gestured towards his mother. ‘Tom, hadna you better do something?’

‘What? What can I do?’

‘Well, go out and ask around. Get more news. Anything.’ She held her lower lip between her teeth, biting back the words, ‘anything instead of sitting there looking sorry for
yoursel’’. ‘You should be thinking of others,’ she wanted to shout at him. ‘Of your mam and Grace, who doesna ken yet.’

But all she said aloud was, ‘I’ll make a cup of tea,’ and went into the tiny scullery to busy herself.

Minutes later she returned with a tin tray with three mugs on it. Nell was still braiding rapidly, her fingers steadier now and the net growing.

‘Come on, let me finish that for you.’ Jeannie tried to coax Nell away from the net. ‘Sit by the fire and drink your tea.’

But Nell’s fingers held fast on to the sisal like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline.

‘Leave her be,’ Tom said quietly. ‘She’s better keeping ’ersen busy.’

Jeannie moved away from Nell towards Tom to say softly, ‘But she doesna seem to have taken the news in.’

He gave a shrug. ‘It’s just her way of coping, that’s all. She’s strong . . .’ He glanced up at her. ‘You women are a lot stronger than us men when it comes
to coping with tragedy, you know.’

‘Och now, I don’t believe that for a minute.’ It seemed ironic that she should be plunged into the midst of another family’s tragedy. Perhaps, she thought, in staying to
help them, she could come to terms with her own loss too.

As if reading her thoughts, Tom looked up at her and said softly, ‘Jeannie, will you stay with us a while longer. Please?’

Jeannie did not answer at once but looked across the room at Nell, seeing the bent head and the busy fingers threading and twisting and knotting as if her life depended upon it.

Slowly, she nodded her head. ‘Aye, Tom, I’ll stay.’

He reached up and grasped her hand tightly, hanging on to it. ‘Thank you,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I knew you would.’

Embarrassed by his display of emotion, she handed him a mug of tea and said brusquely, though not unkindly, ‘Here, drink this and then go and see some of your mates. Maybe they’ve
heard more.’

‘He’s gone,’ Tom said brokenly, reaching out for the tea with a trembling hand. ‘He’s gone. I know he has. Oh how am I going to tell Grace?’

But Tom did not have to tell Grace anything for though he and Jeannie sat beside the fire far into the night and Nell refused to come away from her work at the wall, Grace did not come home.

And still, Nell’s fingers twisted and knotted and the net grew longer.

Robert strode along the dock towards the company’s offices. How dare that slip of a girl speak to him like that, he raged inwardly. Well, that was it, he wouldn’t
help that blasted family any more. He’d apologized for that other incident and, shameful though it had been, the young girl had not been hurt. Shocked and frightened, yes, but not physically
harmed.

But even as he thought about that night again, guilt twisted at his stomach and his anger died. Sighing inwardly as he ran up the steps and into the building, he knew that despite
Jeannie’s rudeness, he would still do what he could to help the Lawrence family and that he would go on doing so.

One day, he promised himself, I’ll make that red-haired firebrand smile at me.

As he opened the door to Edwin’s office, his father came towards him. ‘And where the hell have you been? Spreading the news, I suppose, to all and sundry.’ He stepped closer to
his son and thrust his face so close that Robert could smell the whisky on his breath. Eleven thirty in the morning and already he could smell it.

‘Do you know what you’re doing, boy? Losing us money, that’s what. Half the crews won’t turn up to sail tomorrow night, or if they do, they’ll go on Hathersage
boats. Just because you’ve married into the Hathersage family, don’t forget your loyalty to this one.’

Robert stood unflinching as the older man’s spittle rained upon his face. Three weeks away from his twenty-first birthday, it came to him now as he stood facing the blustering man that it
was time he, Robert Hayes-Gorton, grew up. Time he took on the mantle of maturity, time he started acting like a man. And it was time too that he started to earn the respect of others. He was under
this man’s thumb, they all were, the whole family, even, to some degree, Francis. It was high time someone stood up to Samuel Hayes-Gorton.

How he wished with all his heart, that he had done this weeks, months ago. Then he would not be tied in marriage to a woman he did not love, nor she to him.

Thinking of his child-bride, he said with a calmness he was not feeling inside, lacing his words with sarcasm, ‘I thought we were supposed to be in partnership with the Hathersage family
since you so conveniently arranged a marriage between the two companies.’

‘Arranged? Arranged? What are you talking about, boy?’

‘Oh come on, Father. You know very well what I mean. You and old man Hathersage have planned a union between the companies for years and how better than by marriage.’

He was feeling slightly sick now, not only listening to the callous manner in which his father thought nothing of the loss of a ship and all its crew, save what it would mean to his company in
lost revenue, but also realizing just to what depths he and his like would stoop. The two men, Hathersage and his father, had had no compunction in sacrificing the happiness of their own children
for the sake of business.

From behind them, as if trying to break up the scene that promised to grow ugly, Edwin’s mild voice said, ‘I have to say, Father, it seems definite now that the boat is lost. I think
it behoves us to be open about the matter.’

Hayes-Gorton swung round, pointing his finger at his younger son. ‘Don’t you start. You just do as you’re told . . .’

Slowly, Edwin rose from his chair behind the desk, leather topped and scratched with years of wear. ‘I will do,’ the young man said slowly, ‘what I think is right. The same . .
.’ now every word was deliberate, ‘as my brother obviously intends to do.’

For a moment, their father, standing between them, appeared stunned. Then he let out a loud bark of laughter, but there was no humour in it. ‘Oho, the cubs are turning on the old fox, eh?
Well, you’re not too old for a whipping and this fox is not too old to give you one . . .’ His glance went from one to the other. ‘Either of you.’ A malicious gleam came
into his eyes. ‘I can change my will, you know. Leave everything to Francis. If you’re not careful, I’ll cut the pair of you off without a penny. And you’ll find yourself
without a job too.’ He glanced from first one to the other and back again watching what effect his words were having.

The two brothers exchanged a glance and Robert felt a warm glow spread through him as he read the support in Edwin’s eyes.

‘If that is what you want,’ he said, ‘so be it . . .’ There was the slightest of pauses before he added, ‘sir’.

There was silence and then with a swift unexpected movement Samuel Hayes-Gorton raised the ebony cane he carried and brought it down with a resounding crack upon the surface of the desk. His
sons flinched but did not move.

‘Damn and blast the pair of you then,’ the older man thundered. ‘It’s your own inheritance you’re throwing away.’ He paused and then barked,
‘Where’s Francis? Francis will handle this properly.’

Again the two younger brothers exchanged a glance and Robert said quietly, ‘Try Aggie Turnbull’s, Father.’

For a moment he thought he had gone too far, for Samuel’s face grew bright purple and the veins on his forehead stood out.

‘Damn you, boy,’ he muttered, ‘damn you to hell and back.’ Then he strode to the door, wrenched it open, was through it and slamming it behind him so that the frame
rattled leaving the two brothers staring at each other.

‘Actually, he is right, you know,’ Edwin said, leaning back in his chair. ‘I don’t agree with his attitude, mind you, but he is right when he says we might be short of
crews tomorrow night.’

‘Well, I don’t go along with that. I’ll grant you some of the young lads may use it as an excuse to stay ashore and miss a trip, but the older fishermen – well, sadly
they’re all too used to it.’

Edwin stood up. ‘You’re right, of course, but I’ll have a quiet word with our ship’s runner.’ He tapped the side of his nose and winked at his brother.
‘Jackson’s just the man to round up the youngsters.’