Authors: Margaret Dickinson
‘I’ll help you, if you like,’ Jeannie volunteered and Nell glanced at her again, this time with surprise in her eyes.
‘You know how to braid?’
Jeannie nodded and a lump came into her throat as she said hoarsely, ‘I had a very good teacher. The best. My father taught me.’
Aware that the girl was perhaps reliving painful memories, deliberately Nell pulled a comical face. ‘Is there anything you
canna
do, lass?’
Now Jeannie laughed as she moved towards the net to watch Nell’s quick fingers for a moment. ‘Plenty,’ she said and added wryly, ‘I’m no great shakes in the
kitchen. The man who takes me on’ll have to have a strong stomach.’
The two women laughed together and behind them even Grace smiled as she turned away, the one, by the sound of it, to cook the meal again that evening.
‘Tell me about your home, hen,’ Nell said softly. ‘Your mother and father and where you come from.’
They were sitting by the fire late one evening, just the two of them, waiting for Grace to come home.
‘We lived in a small fishing village on the Fife coast,’ Jeannie began and suddenly she could almost feel again the wind on her face as she had stood on the wall watching her
father’s boat becoming a mere speck on the horizon as he sailed away. A wave of homesickness for the whitewashed, gabled cottages that clustered around the harbour, the ever-open doors of
friendly neighbours in the tiny community where everybody knew everyone else, washed over her.
Faltering a little at first, Jeannie went on to tell Nell’s sympathetic ear about her childhood, the loss of her mother, but when she spoke of her father there was a catch in her voice.
‘My father’s sister took care of me when he was at sea but I used to live for his time ashore. He’d take me into Kirkcaldy and buy me clothes and presents or even to Edinburgh.
Och, he used to spoil me rotten. Once he took me on a real holiday to the Trossachs. D’you know, if I close my eyes . . .’ she did so to demonstrate, ‘I can still see the wet
rocks and hear the rushing water of the Falls.’
She sighed and opened her eyes bringing herself back to the tiny, cramped kitchen that was miles from her homeland. She forced a smile and said, ‘Mr Lawrence reminds me of him in so many
ways. He even looks a bit like him.’ She laughed. ‘He has a beard like him.’
‘Aye, he’s a good man is my George,’ Nell said dreamily as if she too were thinking back. ‘The first time I laid eyes on him, Jeannie, I knew he was the man for me. I
just never went home.’
‘Have you ever been back to Scotland? For a visit?’
Nell pressed her lips together and shook her head. ‘We couldna afford it, specially when the bairns came along. And now all ma family in Scotland are gone. There’s no point in going
home. I’ve been homesick many a time. But you see, hen, I loved George Lawrence. And he,’ she ended simply, ‘was here.’
‘But you still call Scotland “home”?’
The two women exchanged a glance. ‘Aye well,’ Nell said. ‘You never forget your roots, do you, hen?’ She paused a moment and then asked gently, as if already
half-guessing the answer, ‘And your father?’
Mutely, Jeannie shook her head and then the words came haltingly. ‘He – he didna come back from his last trip. He was with the fleet – the herring fleet. He has . . .’
She hesitated and then deliberately said, ‘Had – his own little steam drifter.’ She bit her lip and fell silent.
‘How long since his boat went missing?’ Nell’s soft, lilting voice was a balm to Jeannie’s tormented heart. The sound of home and yet far enough away to lend a remoteness
that in itself was a comfort.
‘It’s – it’s been four months now. I know it must sound foolish, but that’s why I came further south. I thought he might have put into another port for a wee while
for repairs and then maybe moved on, following the herring fleet, y’ken . . .? Her voice trailed away. Then Jeannie pulled in a deep breath and with a determined effort, she said, more
strongly, ‘But I know I ought to face the fact that he – he’s gone. If he’d been all right, I’d have heard by now. He wouldna have let me go this long without a word
from him.’
‘Aw lassie, I’m sorry.’ Nell had reached out and gripped the girl’s hand, but she probed no further.
The room was silent for a moment save for the ticking of the clock and the spitting of a log on the fire.
‘How long was it before you married Mr Lawrence? After you’d met him, I mean?’
‘Och well, I went on with the fisher lasses right down the coast to Yarmouth, but instead of going back home at the end of the season, I came back here and we were married on his next
shore leave.’ She smiled impishly at the memory. ‘There were a few too many local girls with their eye on George Lawrence for my liking.’ A slight shadow crossed her eyes as she
murmured, ‘One in particular . . .’ Then she cleared her throat and was smiling again, ‘And I couldna let him escape
my
net, now could I?’
As they laughed together, Nell glanced up at the clock and her expression sobered. ‘It’s time Grace was home. Surely she can’t be working as late as this again?’
‘Would you like me to go and look for her?’
‘No, no, Jeannie. I’ll wait up. You be away to your bed. Tomorrow’s a big day . . .’ Her face was wreathed in a happy smile again. ‘The men will be home
again.’
As Jeannie rose Nell reached up and patted her cheek affectionately. ‘Sleep well, hen.’
When George Lawrence stepped into the house, Nell came alive. The big man brought light and laughter into the little terraced house and even the ever-present net lay limply,
half-braided, against the wall whilst Nell bustled about after her husband. It wasn’t that she was miserable when he was at sea, but the moment he came home there was a sparkle in her eyes, a
smile on her lips and an extra spring to her step.
‘Get yar bonnets on, girls. I’ve been for me settlings . . .’ He spilled a bundle of notes and coins on to the table. ‘It was a good trip, so I’m taking you into
the town. You too, Jeannie.’ He reached out and gathered most of the notes together. ‘Here’s your housekeeping, Nell. And this . . .’ he picked up the remaining money,
‘is to spend.’
He took them to Main Street, Nell, Grace and Jeannie.
‘It’s lucky there were no herring boats in today, else you’d have missed this,’ Grace said, linking her arm through Jeannie’s, but her new-found friend’s
reply was a heavy sigh.
‘The shoals of fish are moving south. The girls will be going too soon.’
‘Shall you go?’
Jeannie shrugged. ‘I dinna ken.’ Then she smiled. ‘Let’s no’ think about it today. Let’s enjoy ourselves.’
‘Yes, let’s,’ Grace agreed.
And enjoy themselves they did. They had dinner in a fancy restaurant and George took them round the shops and insisted on buying each one of them a new winter coat.
‘Och no,’ Jeannie resisted. ‘I couldn’t possibly.’
‘Go on, hen.’ Nell nudged her and winked. ‘Our Tom’ll be home soon and I know he wants to take you out. You’d look lovely in that dark green coat with your pretty
hair.’
Jeannie felt a lump come into her throat.
Spending lavishly after a good trip, George Lawrence reminded Jeannie even more of her father. Thinking of him, she felt the familiar ache in her chest. The only difference was when he spoke,
for George’s Lincolnshire dialect was nothing like the brogue of Angus Buchanan. But for today, she could imagine she had her father back with her, so she lifted her chin, smiled and thanked
the big, generous man.
‘I told you, didn’t I?’ Flora said. ‘There he is.’
‘Who?’ Jeannie looked up, her gutting knife still for a few seconds.
‘Francis Hayes-Gorton.’ Mary nudged her from behind. ‘Look, over there. Oh, but he’s handsome. Just look at his fine clothes.’
Jeannie’s eyes narrowed as she studied the man. He was, as Flora had predicted, strolling about on the edge of the area where the girls worked, idly swinging his cane, his thumb hooked
into the pocket of his waistcoat.
‘I wouldna trust that one,’ Flora put in. ‘Now, if you’d told me that he was the one who had attacked Grace Lawrence, I’d have believed it.’ She shook her
head. ‘But, you know, I still canna believe it was the other one. Robert.’
‘He was there.’ Jeannie nodded her head towards Francis.
‘Was he trying to stop what was going on then?’ Flora probed.
‘Well . . .’ Jeannie hesitated. ‘I think it was him who was the ringleader but, to be truthful, I dinna ken. I just waded in. I didna wait to see who was doing what
exactly.’ She grinned ruefully. ‘Me and my temper.’
‘There,’ Flora said triumphantly. ‘I didna think it would be Mr Robert. I’ve always thought he was rather nice. Though I’m not,’ she added sharply and, with
her knife, indicated the girl behind them, ‘as smitten as Mary.’
Jeannie was thoughtful for a moment before she said, slowly, ‘There was one of them who tried to be, well, helpful.’ She gave a sniff of derision. ‘But only afterwards, when
I’d broken it up.’
‘Who was that?’
‘I’m not sure.’ She paused again, dredging back through the fleeting images and voices of that night. Then she asked, ‘Is there another brother?’
‘Yes, we told you. Edwin. He’s the youngest.’
Jeannie nodded. ‘I think it was him, then.’
‘I still dinna think it was their fault. Not any of ’em.’ Mary was still determined to defend all the brothers. ‘She led ’em on, if you ask me.’
Jeannie half-turned and opened her mouth to make a sharp retort in Grace’s defence when her attention was caught once more by Francis Hayes-Gorton. He was standing by the corner of a
building, talking to a girl. His head was tilted to one side and he was looking down at her, a sideways, slightly sardonic smile on his thin mouth. Then he reached out and touched the girl’s
cheek with his fingers.
Jeannie drew breath sharply and then clamped her mouth together to stop the words she had been about to utter.
‘There,’ came Mary’s triumphant voice from behind her. ‘What did I tell you? See that?’
The girl, looking up into Francis’s face and blushing prettily, was Grace Lawrence.
When the work was finished for the day, Jeannie went in search of Grace. As she moved amongst the throng of girls making their weary way home, she felt a touch on her arm and
turned to look down upon Billy McBride.
‘A word with you, lassie.’ His face was serious and for one moment Jeannie’s heart leapt in her breast. He had news. News of her father.
‘Jeannie, I’m sorry, but there’s not enough work to warrant taking you with us on to Yarmouth. The catches are dwindling already. They’ve not been what they used to be
for a few years now.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I reckon soon there won’t be any Scottish lasses coming this far south. And besides, the lass who’s usually with Flora and Mary
will be well enough to work when we get to Yarmouth and back to take her place in the team.’
Jeannie nodded and smiled. ‘It’s all right, Mr McBride, I . . .’
‘I could have a word with a few of the local employers, if you like, lassie. I know several of them. And you’re a good worker . . .’ He nodded and smiled, showing broken,
uneven teeth. ‘I’ve been watching you.’
It was a rare compliment, Jeannie thought, and her smile broadened of its own accord. Billy McBride was a hard taskmaster. That much she had seen. His recommendation would certainly be worth
having. She thought quickly. She had been about to say, before his interruption, that she would go home, back to Scotland. But now, with the promise of a job here, she held her tongue. At least,
for the present, it might be worthwhile staying in Have-lock. She was overcome by a sudden longing for home and her resolve almost weakened. But news, her head told her, if any came at all, was far
more likely to come here, to Havelock, for her father’s vessel had been following the boats southwards.
Quickly, she made her decision, she would stay here. She would write home to one of their neighbours to make sure there had been no news there, but she would stay in Havelock at least for a
while longer.
Her attention came back to the wiry little man and what he was saying. ‘. . . There’s the kippers. There’s work there for a while longer. Or the filleting, alongside
Nell’s lass. Maybe she could help you find employment.’
Ah yes, Jeannie thought, Nell’s lass indeed. Grace Lawrence. Now there was another problem. It wasn’t really any of her business, of course, but she meant to say something to the
girl. She could not begin to understand how Grace could even speak to Francis Hayes-Gorton after what had happened. It seemed to Jeannie that she was far more angry and resentful about the incident
than Grace. Wisdom told her that she should catch the first train back north of the border. And yet, she liked the Lawrence family. She felt drawn to Nell, who was one of her own, and to George.
And to Tom Lawrence too. One day he would grow into a fine man like his father.
Jeannie felt herself being lured into the mesh of this family, like a fish entangled in one of their nets. Instinct told her to go; she ought to leave, right now, and yet something held her
here.
It was more than just the vain hope that her father would one day come sailing into this safe haven. Now, it was more to do with the Lawrence family and, in particular, in saving Grace from her
own foolishness.
So when the other Scottish girls moved southwards following the herring fleet, Jeannie stayed in Havelock.
‘You’ll easily find work in the fish docks, hen,’ Nell had assured her. ‘And you’re welcome to stay here as long as you want.’
‘But you havena the room when the menfolk are home.’
Nell gave a snort of laughter. ‘And how long are they at home? You tell me, as if I didn’t know. Thirty to forty days
out of a whole year, so you’ll hardly be in the way, now would you?’
Jeannie laughed. ‘No, I suppose not, if you put it that way.’ Her eyes took on a faraway look, as she murmured. ‘I should like to stay here a while longer.’
So, when Tom Lawrence came home, Jeannie was still there and his expression, when he saw her, left Jeannie in no doubt as to his pleasure at seeing her again.