The Fisher Lass (25 page)

Tom gave a grunt and his scowl deepened. ‘I’ve always had me doubts as to that anyway. I reckon it’s him – Robert. I’ve always thought it was him. It was him that
attacked her that time, weren’t it?’

No, no, no, she wanted to shout at him. I know the truth now, but you’d never listen, would you, Tom Lawrence? You’re so tied up with bitterness and hatred that you can’t bring
yourself to hear the truth. So twisted that you take it out on a young innocent lad for the circumstances of his birth. But the words, reeling around her mind, remained unspoken. She said nothing
but was glad that his train of thought had at least moved away from accusing her. But she was mistaken. ‘So you haven’t seen him lately?’

Her heart was thumping as she said casually, ‘I canna remember when I did last see him.’ She hated telling Tom a deliberate lie for she could remember very well exactly when she had
last seen Robert. The day she had told him not to visit Baldock Street again.

The back door crashed open and both Tom and Jeannie looked up, startled. Tom opened his mouth to bawl at Sammy who stood in the doorway but when he saw the boy’s face, even he, for once,
held his anger in check.

Jeannie rushed forward. ‘Oh whatever’s happened, son?’ Sammy’s face was covered in blood from a cut on his left eyebrow. His right eye was so swollen that it was
completely closed and blood and mucus oozed from his nose.

‘Is it true?’ He was breathing heavily through his mouth, pulling in great gasps of air. His injuries seemed not to concern him; there was something far more important on the
boy’s mind.

Jeannie leant down towards him and put out her hand towards his face. But he leant backwards away from her. ‘What is it, Sammy?’

‘Is it true?’ he said again, ‘that he’s . . .’ he flung out an arm towards Tom, ‘not me dad and you’re – you’re . . .’ the young
boy’s voice faltered a little, ‘not me real mam?’

‘Who’s been saying such things?’ Jeannie began angrily. ‘Just you tell me . . .’

But from the hearth came Tom’s voice. ‘Oh tell him the truth, Jeannie, and let’s be done with it. He’s old enough now to know.’ He turned away back to his
newspaper, dismissing the whole thing as being none of his concern.

Jeannie rounded on him. ‘You don’t care, do you? You don’t care that someone’s been opening their mouth and . . . Just wait till I get ma hands on whoever . . .’
She turned back again to look down at the boy who was staring up at her with his bright blue eyes. His fair curling hair was rumpled and speckled with dirt and blood. His knees were scraped and
there was a tear in the elbow of his jacket. ‘Who told you?’ she demanded.

‘Is it true?’ he said doggedly, yet again ignoring her question. His voice was calmer now but there was a quiet determination in his tone that demanded to be told the truth

Jeannie put her arm about his shoulders and urged him towards the kitchen sink. ‘Let me sort that cut and then we’ll sit down quietly and I’ll explain.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Tom exploded. ‘Just tell him. Tell him the truth. That he’s my sister’s bastard and that she was no better than a whore and that
we’re not quite sure who his father is. Mebbe it is one of the Hayes-Gorton brothers, but which one . . .’ He shot a venomous look at his wife. ‘Well, your guess is as good as
mine.’

Tom stood up from his chair, flung the paper to the floor and marched out of the back door. ‘I’m away to the Fisherman’s,’ he said, quite unnecessarily, and slammed the
door behind him leaving a stricken young boy and an angry woman staring at each other.

Sammy stood stoically silent whilst Jeannie bathed his cuts and bruises and then allowed her to lead him towards the fire. Still he said nothing as she sat down and pulled him close to her so
that he was standing beside her knee, their eyes on a level. She left her arms draped loosely around his waist. The boy made no protest but stood waiting patiently for her to explain.

First, Jeannie had a question of her own. ‘Who were you fighting with? Who was it who told you?’

His voice was scarcely above a whisper. ‘Joe.’

‘Joe!’ She was shocked. They had always squabbled and she knew that now they were older, they resorted to fisticuffs now and then. But she had still thought that it was just boyish
quarrelling between two brothers. She had not realized that feelings went much deeper than that. For they were not brothers, but cousins, and now, they both knew it.

She sighed. ‘Your father’s . . .’ she began and then stopped. Even this was not true. She began again. ‘Tom had a sister called Grace. She was your mother, but she died
giving birth to you and later the very same day, Joe was born.’

‘So you and Dad . . .’ there was the slightest hesitation over his reference to the man he had always believed to be his father, ‘are Joe’s Mam and Dad?’

Jeannie nodded. ‘Yes, but to me, you’ve aye been my son too. I suckled you as a bairn and I’ve never treated you any differently to Joe. I’ve always thought of you both
as my sons. My twin sons, really.’

He appeared to be thinking for a moment, then Sammy shook his head. ‘Yeah, I know you have. But . . .’ His blue eyes gazed earnestly into hers. ‘He hasn’t.’

Her arms tightened around him. ‘I know,’ she said softly. ‘And it’s never been fair. It wasn’t your fault you were born, but you’re the only one left for him
to take it out on.’

There was silence again. Jeannie didn’t need to ask how Joe had found out. People round here had long memories. Children overheard adults gossiping and so . . .

‘Joe said I ain’t got a dad,’ Sammy’s voice was small, barely audible even standing so close to her.

Jeannie almost smiled despite the emotion of the moment. ‘Of course you’ve got a dad. Everyone has. But – well – because your mam and dad weren’t married, he doesna
acknowledge you as his. See?’

The boy thought for a moment and then nodded. ‘I think so. But – but who is he? Do you know?’

‘Mr Francis Hayes-Gorton.’

‘The man who used to come here sometimes?’

Jeannie winced. Another piece of common knowledge that had obviously found its way to the boys’ ears as it had to Tom’s.

‘No, that’s his brother, Mr Robert. He’s aye shown an interest in you.’

‘But he doesn’t come now.’ The boy’s voice was accusing, suggesting that the man’s interest had waned.

Jeannie sighed. ‘No. But that wasna his fault. I had to stop him coming.’

‘Why?’

Her mouth was tight. ‘Same reason that’s caused today’s trouble, son. Bloody neighbours blethering.’

The boy blinked. Jeannie never swore and the fact that she did so now, underlined her bitterness.

Sammy was silent for a moment and then gently he pulled away from her embrace. ‘Thank you for telling me,’ he said, with an unusual adult courtesy. Then he turned and walked towards
the door, a defiant bearing in the set of his shoulders and a dignified carriage of his head that had not been there before. Sammy, Jeannie realized, had in the last hour, grown up. The shock he
had just received would not defeat him. It would be the making of him.

Robert stood at the long window of the drawing room and looked out upon the neat garden realizing that he was a lonely, unhappy man with little to look forward to in a desolate
future. Even his visits to Baldock Street had ceased long ago.

He thought back to the last time Jeannie had opened the door to him. It was the little boys’ fifth birthday and he had come loaded with presents. A new blazer for each of them for school,
a pencil case and a satchel. All well-meaning gifts, yet he had learnt, many years later, that they had never been used. His middle-class offerings would have set the children apart from their
peers, and Jeannie, swift to protect them, had waited to see if the boys themselves chose to use them. They never had.

But Robert remembered that day. If he closed his eyes he could still see her so clearly. Her unruly red hair twisted up onto the top of her head, her green eyes troubled and a dab of flour
smudging her nose. He had longed to reach out and brush it away with a tender, loving action. But as he had taken his leave, he had stood on the doorstep listening to her words that would
extinguish the only bright spot in his life.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Robert,’ she had said. Had it been fanciful imagination on his part, or had there been a tearful catch in her voice? ‘But I’ll have to ask you not to
come here any more. There’s been gossip.’ She had given an exasperated toss of her head towards the street outside her home. ‘You ken what they’re like . . .’

She had not needed to say more. He could guess the rest. And now, eight years later, standing alone in the empty house, he still remembered the moment with regret for his own reaction to her
words. To hide his disappointment, he had behaved like a pompous oaf, he told himself. He had raised his hat to her, given a stiff little bow, and said, ‘As you wish,’ then turned and
walked out of her life.

As she had watched him walk away, Jeannie had thought her heart would break. But she had had no choice. After Tom’s last time ashore, when he had made snide remarks about
Robert’s continuing visits, she had known that she would have to stop him coming to the house.

‘Aggie ses Mr Robert still comes here on a Thursday afternoon, even though the lads have started school now. And that’s the afternoon me mam goes out. That right?’

‘No, it isna,’ Jeannie had replied shortly. ‘And Aggie Turnbull’d do better to mind her own business.’

‘But he does come here?’ Tom had refused to let the matter drop.

‘He comes to see Sammy,’ Jeannie had said, trying to keep her voice level, though she was fast losing patience.

‘What, when he’s at school? Pull the other one, Jeannie. It’s you he comes to see.’ He jabbed a finger towards her. ‘Well, I aren’t havin’ it! He might
let his wife mek a cuckold out of him, but I aren’t. Not even if he is me boss.’

Jeannie swung round, her temper flaring now. ‘How dare you accuse me of any such thing!’ She advanced towards him, her own finger now wagging in his face, only inches away. ‘He
comes here to see the boy. Let’s face it, he’s the only man who does take any interest in the wee man. His father doesna and neither do you.’

For a moment Tom had looked ashamed. ‘I can’t help it if I can’t feel the same about him as I do about our Joe.’

‘Well, you could at least act it,’ she had snapped back, but even as she had said the words she had known it was useless. Tom would never change in his attitude towards Sammy, nor in
his jealousy over Robert Hayes-Gorton.

It was not until later, after she had spoken to Robert and told him not to visit any more, that Jeannie remembered Tom’s words again and wondered what he had meant about Robert being made
a cuckold. Well, she wasn’t going to be able to solve that little bit of gossip and besides, it wasn’t really any of her business.

She had thought her action would stop the chatter but no, even eight years after that day, it was still going on. And now wagging tongues had rocked young Sammy’s world.

Well, this was her business and there was something she could do. There was only one person to blame: Aggie Turnbull.

In the years since she had come to Havelock that woman had seemed to intrude upon Jeannie’s life in all sorts of ways; ways that she did not fully understand. Mention of the woman’s
name would upset Nell for the rest of the day and yet Tom had no compunction in talking freely about her.

It was time, Jeannie decided, that she had words with Aggie Turnbull herself.

When the door opened, Jeannie felt a smug satisfaction at the surprise on the woman’s face.

‘Well, well.’ Aggie smiled and held the door wider, tacitly inviting Jeannie inside. ‘Who’d have thought I’d ever see you on my doorstep again, Mrs Lawrence. Not
requiring my midwifery services again, are you?’

‘No,’ Jeannie said shortly, feeling the familiar stab of disappointment that there had been no more bairns for her and Tom. ‘But there is something you can do for
me.’

‘Do come into my drawing room.’ Aggie led the way and Jeannie found herself sitting down on a silk brocade covered sofa. Aggie sat down in a matching easy chair, crossed her slim,
white-stockinged legs and said, ‘Now, my dear, what can I possibly do for you?’

Jeannie stared at her. It was thirteen years since she had seen Aggie close to. Not since the night the two boys had been born when, she had to admit, she had been thankful for Aggie’s
help. Remembering, some of the anger that had carried her here faded.

She was still much as Jeannie remembered her except that now the cosmetics could not cover the passage of the intervening years. Beneath the blonde hair, the bright lipstick and the silk dress,
Aggie was growing old. She must be nearly as old as Nell, Jeannie thought, as Aggie serenely submitted herself to Jeannie’s scrutiny without a trace of embarrassment, a small smile on her
mouth.

Jeannie said bluntly, ‘I dinna like you blethering about me. It’s no’ true and every time Tom comes home, he still—’

‘Ah yes, Tom,’ Aggie said smoothly. ‘Poor Tom. Such a dear, but a little, what shall we say, weak, don’t you find?’

‘Weak?’ Jeannie was startled.

‘Mm. Isn’t that what you would call it? He goes to sea for one or two trips and then suddenly there’s some excuse for him to miss the next one and languish ashore for the
following three weeks. Then back to sea he’ll go, one or two trips and then . . .’ She leant forward. ‘Don’t tell me in all these years, you hadn’t
realized?’

Jeannie was silent, staring at the woman. Oh yes, of course she’d realized it. But to hear it from someone else’s mouth, particularly from the likes of Aggie Turnbull, shocked
her.

Aggie leant back amongst the brocade cushions and sighed, waving a slim, elegant hand in the air. ‘Of course, he’s not the man his father was. Now, there was a man.’

Jeannie levered herself to her feet. What on earth had possessed her to come here and why was she sitting here allowing this woman to talk about the Lawrence menfolk as if she knew them both
– intimately?

Well, if she did, then Jeannie had no wish to hear about it.