The Fisher Lass (15 page)

In answer to Nell’s question, Jeannie now said slowly, ‘Aye, he has.’

‘And?’ Nell prompted.

Jeannie sighed. ‘I like Tom. Of course I do. He’s a fine man and he’s so like his own father but – but I’ve known him such a short time and in rather . . .’
she allowed herself a small, rueful smile, ‘strange circumstances.’

‘I know, hen. But it’s the same for all fishermen’s sweethearts. And wives, if it comes to that. They’re away so much that each time they come home, it can be like
another honeymoon.’ Nell’s eyes misted over at her own memories and Jeannie was silent. ‘And that’s what makes it so difficult to accept what’s happened now. You get
so used to waiting for them to come home that you can’t believe that this time they’re not going to. That – that they’re never going to come home again.’

Wordlessly, Jeannie reached out to lay her hand on Nell’s arm. The silence lengthened between them; the only sounds the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the settling of a log in
the grate. For a moment, flames shot upwards, illuminating in its flickering light the pensive faces of the two women sitting close beside it.

‘Think about it, Jeannie,’ Nell said softly at last. ‘Tom loves you, I know. And he needs someone like you. Someone steadfast and loyal and strong. We all do,
Jeannie.’

Jeannie did think about it, long and hard. Though she loved her homeland and always would, there was really no one left for her to go back to in Scotland. Kind friends and
neighbours certainly, but no family. No kin of her own. No house, for that had been rented. Not even any furniture that was worth very much. There were a few bits and pieces of sentimental value
only to Jeannie to be packed and sent to her by carrier or rail. Mrs McTavish, who lived next door, would do that, Jeannie knew.

No, she decided, she wouldn’t even go back at all.

There was no one there now who wanted and needed her like the Lawrence family did.

‘It’s been hard not to have a proper funeral for him,’ Nell said, ‘but George wouldna have wanted us to spend our life greetin’ for him.
He’d have wanted us to enjoy Hogmanay the same as ever. What do you think we should do, Jeannie?’

More and more Nell was leaning on Jeannie, deferring to her for decisions, almost as if she were now the wife of the house and Nell herself already the dowager.

‘Whatever you would normally do.’

‘We used to have Christmas when they were both home. Even if it’s the middle of January, but we always keep Hogmanay. After all, you canna move that so easily, can you now?’
She thought for a moment. ‘We should get a dark man to first-foot for us. Do you know any dark-haired men, hen?’

Unbidden, the image of Robert Hayes-Gorton was in Jeannie’s mind. Now why, she thought, angry with herself, should she think of him? And then jumped, almost guiltily, as Nell said,
‘There’s that nice young man, Mr Robert. He’s got lovely dark wavy hair, hasn’t he?’

Jeannie glanced at her sharply. Was Nell Lawrence a mind-reader? Deliberately casual Jeannie said, ‘I can’t say I’d noticed, but I doubt the likes of him would first-foot for
us, do you?’

‘No,’ Nell said. ‘But he’s been very kind, coming to see us two or three times a week ever since George . . .’ Her voice trailed away but Jeannie was thinking, aye,
he has, but it’s more likely a guilty conscience. Then inwardly, she castigated herself. A young man of his position had no need to bother with a fisherman’s family, even if that
fisherman had been one of their company’s skippers. He had been good, but no doubt that would soon end. To her surprise and chagrin, the thought that she would not see Robert Hayes-Gorton so
often saddened her.

‘There must be a dark-haired neighbour, surely?’ she suggested, deliberately trying to steer the conversation, and her own unruly thoughts, away from Robert.

‘Aye well,’ Nell sighed, seeming to lose interest. ‘We’ll find someone.’

Christmas was quiet. With Tom away at sea and the very recent loss of the man of the house, the three women found the festive days very difficult. Once more, Grace disappeared on Christmas
Eve.

‘Let her go, Jeannie,’ Nell said tiredly. ‘There’s no merry-making in this house this year, now is there?’

‘She shouldna be merry-making so soon after . . .’ Jeannie began to say, but stopped when she saw the tears in Nell’s eyes.

‘She’s only young,’ Nell murmured.

‘But where’s she going? Do you know?’

‘She said she away to Jane’s. An old school friend who lives three streets away. She’ll be fine. And she’s asked if she can stay the night.’

‘And you’ve agreed?’ Jeannie was startled. ‘You mean, she’ll no’ be here in the morning? Christmas morning?’

Nell shrugged. ‘She’ll be home for Christmas dinner.’

Jeannie felt her mouth tighten. She could not help wondering if young Grace was being entirely truthful. It isna my business, she tried to tell herself. But it was. As long as she stayed here,
she was, like it or not, involved.

During the week between Christmas and New Year, Nell seemed more like her old self. She bustled about baking, cleaning and dusting the tiny house, neglecting even the ever-present net on the
wall. Every night when the two girls came home from work there was a tasty hot meal awaiting them. Although the outward signs were good, Jeannie began to be a little fearful that Nell had perhaps
slipped back into thinking that George was coming home for Hogmanay.

But when Tom’s ship docked on the morning tide on New Year’s Eve, Nell said, ‘Tom’s the man of the house now.’

‘Will he go first-footing to the neighbours?’ Jeannie laughed. ‘We’ll have to black his hair with boot polish.’

Nell’s sad expression lightened a little as she smiled and said, ‘Like they black the bridegroom’s feet at a Scottish wedding?’ Then she actually gave a little chuckle as
she said, ‘Well, if I’m not mistaken, we might be blacking his feet soon anyway. Oh Jeannie, hen . . .’ She reached out impulsively and caught hold of both Jeannie’s hands.
‘He’ll be wanting his answer this time. Please, Jeannie, do say yes.’

‘Oh Mrs Lawrence . . .’ Jeannie began, but at that moment the back door flew open and Tom was home.

On the morning of New Year’s Day 1925, Robert stood at the bedroom window and looked out across the smooth lawn. It was trying to snow; the sky, pearl grey, was laden
with it. Behind him, Louise still slept on in their bed. Their virgin bed, he thought bitterly. He turned his head and watched her for a few moments. She was even pretty when she was asleep. Her
lips curved in a gentle smile, her smooth blonde hair unruffled. Her skin, smooth and still shiny with cream, was flawless. How sad, he thought objectively, that such a lovely creature was so
spoiled, so selfish, so – he searched for the word and found it – so unloving. He turned back to look out of the window, watching the birds pecking at the lawn, digging with their beaks
to find a morsel, a worm, anything in this bleak, winter weather.

Dare he go? he asked himself for the hundredth time. Dare he take a bottle of whisky to the little terraced house in Baldock Street and ask them to ‘tak a wee dram’ with him? He
didn’t want to risk Jeannie’s wrath again. He had deliberately not gone at Christmas for several reasons. One being that he felt it would be an intrusion on their grief at such a time
and for another, he knew Tom to be at sea. He felt Hogmanay was different. All Scots celebrated the New Year with a fervour that the English sometimes found incomprehensible. But Robert thought he
understood it. It was a new beginning; a time to look forward and hope for better things. And the Lawrence family, if anyone did, deserved better things in the coming year.

And now, too, Tom was home. It would look better if he visited when Tom Lawrence was there.

He washed and dressed quietly in his dressing room and slipped away without waking Louise. She would no doubt sleep until lunch time. She had not arrived home until almost three o’clock.
He had feigned sleep and did not want a confrontation this morning.

He too planned a new beginning for a New Year.

The front door was opened to him by a surprised Nell. ‘Why, Mr Robert. How did you know?’

Robert frowned for a moment, puzzled. Was there something he should have heard? Had something else happened to this benighted family that he should know about? Oh no, it wasn’t Jeannie,
was it? Oh pray God nothing had happened to her.

‘Och no, I’m being silly,’ Nell went on. ‘How could you? Come away in.’

He stepped over the threshold straight into the best parlour, removing his hat and setting the unopened bottle on the table. Tom, Jeannie and Grace all rose from seats beside the fireplace and
looked at him in surprise. Under their scrutiny, he felt a blush creeping up his neck and deliberately he kept his glance away from Jeannie.

‘I just wanted to wish you – well – to hope that the New Year is better for you.’ He touched the bottle. ‘For you all, but . . .’ His gaze rested upon Nell.
‘Has something happened, I mean, what you said just now?’

Nell smiled. ‘Och no, sir. It was just that I’d said to Jeannie that we should ask you to first-foot for us. You being so dark.’ She gestured towards his brown hair. ‘And
then, when I opened the door and saw you standing there, well, I didna think what I was saying. But of course you couldn’t have known about my wee joke.’

Robert too smiled. ‘Oh I see.’ He glanced at the others, his gaze coming to rest – as he had known it would eventually from the moment he had stepped into the house –
upon Jeannie. ‘Well, I would have come,’ he said quietly, as if he were speaking to her alone, ‘if you had asked me.’

She was returning his gaze steadily and for a moment there was no one else in the room, no one else in the world for him except her.

Tom’s voice broke in harshly, breaking the spell. ‘We first-foot for each other around here. My mother had no right to even think of asking anyone else. What would folks think? And
besides, I’m sure,’ he added and there was a hint of sarcasm in his voice now, ‘that you had your own family celebrations . . .’ There was a calculated pause before Tom
added, ‘. . . sir.’

Robert looked at the young man, at the glowering face, the spots of angry colour against the tan of his skin and the blue eyes, icily polite yet unable to conceal resentment.

‘Of course. I wouldn’t dream of intruding,’ Robert said tightly. ‘I’ll bid you “good day”.’ He gave a little bow to them all and turned towards
the door. He replaced his hat carefully on his head and reached for the door knob. Then he hesitated and glanced back over his shoulder and looked now directly at Tom and only at Tom. ‘I
shall not be calling again, but if you need anything, just let me know.’

He raised an eyebrow and was rewarded by a quick, reluctant nod. He was gratified to see too that the young man’s colour had deepened.

Robert stepped out into the street and as he pulled the door to close it behind him, he heard Nell say, ‘There was no call to be so abrupt with him, Tom. He’s been good to this
family.’

‘Well, there’s no need,’ Tom fired back, his voice raised so that Robert could hear him plainly. ‘I’m the man in this family now. And I’ll work to keep it.
We’re not a charity case.’

‘Tom . . .’ Robert heard Jeannie begin, but at that he had to pull the door shut and walk away up the street.

‘Tom.’ Jeannie laid her hand on his arm and said quietly, ‘He was only trying to be kind.’

‘I thought you didn’t like him? Not after what he did.’

‘I don’t. But he has tried to be good to your mother. I watched him in the church that first Sunday after we heard about – about your father.’

Nell was shaking her head over the bottle of whisky. ‘How kind of him. How very thoughtful . . .’ But Tom’s frown deepened.

Jeannie put her hand through his arm. ‘Come, let’s go for a walk. I could do with some fresh air.’ She could feel the tension in the room rising and wanted to get him out for a
while. Nell wanted to cook the dinner today, had insisted on doing it all. ‘Just like I’ve always done.’ So Jeannie was not needed. Misreading her words, Tom’s face
brightened. ‘So could I, after that visit.’ He sniffed the air. ‘Phaw! What on earth had he got on? Perfume? Give me the stink of fish any day.’

‘You coming with us, Grace?’ Jeannie asked. ‘The fresh air will do you good.’

Grace was looking peaky, Jeannie thought, but the girl merely huddled closer to the fire. ‘No thanks. It looks like snow. I’ll give me mam a hand.’ She glanced at her brother
and Jeannie intercepted a wink.

‘Come on then, Jeannie,’ Tom said. ‘Get yar best bonnet on and let’s be off.’

They walked a long way, skirting the docks and taking the coast road towards Farleston, a seaside town that was spreading so rapidly, its borders now adjoined Havelock. Here the sandy shore was
a favourite place for holiday-makers and bathers.

Jeannie lifted her face to the breeze. Despite the cold and the threat of snow, she felt happier than she had done for many months. It was the start of another year and she was striding along in
her smart new coat that would for ever remind her of George Lawrence. She was wearing, for the first time, the close-fitting matching cloche hat that Nell, Tom and Grace had joined together to give
her as a Christmas gift.

Tom took her hand and pulled her arm through his as they walked. They didn’t speak much, for the wind whipped their breath away and smarted their cheeks. But reaching the seafront at
Farleston, Tom drew her into a sheltered spot and turned to face her.

‘Well, Jeannie Buchanan. I’m waiting for my answer.’

Feigning ignorance, Jeannie teased him. Widening her eyes, she said, ‘Answer, sir? And what answer might that be?’

‘D’ya want me to go down on one knee in the snow, woman?’

Jeannie threw back her head and laughed. ‘There’s no snow yet.’ But as if the heavens intended to defy her words, a delicate white snowflake drifted down and settled on her
nose. Gently, Tom flicked it away with his fingertip. ‘If you keep me waiting much longer,’ he said softly, ‘we’ll be buried in a snowdrift. So, please, Jeannie Buchanan,
will you marry me?’