The Fisher Lass (2 page)

Ignoring raucous shouts from the men, she turned in the direction of the streets of back-to-back houses close to the docks where the fisherfolk lived. It was beginning to rain and, in the narrow
streets, darkness had already closed in. She regretted her foolishness in staying so long looking out to sea for a boat that she knew, in her heart of hearts, would never come home again. Yet the
compulsion was still strong. She could not believe, even yet, that the big, laughing man who had been her father – who
was
her father, she told herself fiercely – could be gone
for ever.

Now, with her arm about the sobbing girl, Jeannie hurried her along, patting her shoulder every so often and murmuring, ‘There, there, hen. You’re safe now.’ But inwardly she
was cursing her own stupidity for having lingered so long at the docks. It was getting late and, soaked to the skin and still trembling with anger, Jeannie doubted she would find a place to stay
for the night.

She glanced down at the thin little figure cowering against her and clinging to her arm. The girl only looked fourteen or fifteen. She ought to have more sense than to be wandering the streets
alone at this hour, Jeannie thought. What sort of family allowed such a young girl to be out alone?

‘This is where I live,’ the girl said. ‘Down here, second house in the row. Number four.’

‘I’ll see you to your door, then I must be away.’

‘Go the back way, down the alley,’ the girl said. ‘Me mam’ll have a fit if we knock at the front door.’

Your mam’ll have a fit anyway, Jeannie wanted to say, when she sees the state you’re in. She said nothing but rapped sharply on the back door of the girl’s home and, when it
was flung open, she found herself facing the tallest, broadest man she had ever seen. She had thought her father big, in every sense of the word, but this man would have dwarfed even Angus
Buchanan.

‘Grace.’ His voice was as cavernous as his frame. He reached out towards her with huge, calloused hands, taking her into his arms as she threw herself against him and burst into a
storm of weeping.

‘It wasn’t my fault, Dad,’ Grace was sobbing. ‘They – they attacked me. They – they thought I was – that I was . . .’

His mouth tightened and swift anger darkened his eyes as, over her head, his stern gaze met Jeannie’s. The man didn’t need to speak for her to read from his expression just what he
was thinking.

Lifting her chin defiantly, she said, ‘I ken your daughter is no’ what they thought and neither am I. But if that’s a’ the thanks I get for trying to help her, then
I’ll be on ma way.’

‘Wait!’ The word was like the crack of a sail in a force nine gale. ‘I’m sorry if I misjudged you, girl. Please come in. I want to know what happened.’

His arm still about Grace’s shoulders, he turned and led the way through the scullery and into the kitchen of the terraced house, leaving Jeannie to step inside and close the door behind
her.

A woman straightened up from bending over the range and looked towards them, her glance taking in, with a look of horror, the young girl’s dishevelled appearance. Now Grace pulled herself
from her father’s arms and flung herself towards the older woman, sobbing wildly, ‘Oh Mam, Mam.’

The woman did not at once take her into her embrace, but held her firmly by the shoulders at arm’s length. ‘Are you hurt, hen? Tell me at once, now?’

The girl shook her head. ‘No, no. Not the way you mean. Not – not that . . .’

Jeannie was staring at the girl’s mother. In the warm room after the cold of the wet night and added to the fact that she had not eaten all day, Jeannie’s legs felt suddenly weak.
She passed the back of her hand across her brow and the room swam before her.

‘George,’ she heard the woman’s voice say again. ‘George, yon lassie’s about to pass out. Catch hold of her . . .’

She felt as if she were waking up from sleep, but as she stirred and consciousness returned, Jeannie became aware that she was lying on a hard, horsehair sofa and that faces,
in shadow from the light behind them, were bending over her. She struggled to rise, but gentle hands pressed her back. ‘Lie still, hen. And drink this. Why, you’re soaked to the
skin.’ The woman’s motherly hands touched her shoulder.

Gratefully, Jeannie pulled herself up to a sitting position and took the proffered steaming cup of tea. Sipping it, the sudden warmth to her cold body made her shiver.

‘You’ll be catching a chill. Drink that and then we’ll get you out of those wet things.’

The woman turned now and addressed someone standing behind her. Looking beyond her, Jeannie saw a young man, his shoulders broad beneath his fisherman’s jersey, who was almost as tall as
the man who had opened the door to them. He even had the same colouring. Fair, springy hair and blue eyes, but without the beard that the older man had. He was obviously the son and so, Jeannie
realized, the girl’s brother.

Standing a little way back from the couch, the young man seemed uncertain what he should do or think. Every so often he glanced worriedly at the grim expression on his father’s face.

But it was the mother who took charge. Small, with a well-rounded, comforting sort of body and with grey hair pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, she was quick and decisive in
her movements. She wore round, steel-rimmed spectacles which constantly slipped down the bridge of her nose, so that for most of the time she seemed to be peering over the top of them. With a
gesture that was obviously a habit, she pushed them back up her nose with her ring finger.

‘George, fetch some blankets from upstairs.’

‘I’m not moving, Nell, until I’ve heard what happened.’ The father’s voice was deep and booming but for all that, the woman shooed him away with a flap of her hand.
‘Away with you,’ she ordered, adding sharply, ‘and do as I say.’

To Jeannie’s amusement, her husband turned away to do his wife’s bidding. When the older woman once again bent over her, her tone was gentle, all severity gone, and the concern in
her voice made tears spring to Jeannie’s eyes.

‘There, there, hen,’ she patted Jeannie’s hand. ‘You’re safe now. Both of you. Tom will see you home when you’re ready to go.’

‘I’ll not be seen walking the street with the likes of her, Ma, so . . .’

The woman straightened up again and said fiercely, ‘Away and fetch more wood for the fire, Tom.’

For a moment the young man’s face was mutinous, but then, with a glance towards his sister and a glower towards the stranger in their midst, he, too, turned to do as he was told.

As the back door slammed behind him, the woman winked at Jeannie. ‘He thinks himsel’ beyond being ordered about, but he’s still ma bairn and I’m no’ about to let
him forget it.’

Jeannie, revived by the warmth of the room, the tea and even more than that, by the warmth of the woman’s kindness, smiled.

‘What made you pass out, hen, because you look a strong lassie to me, not the fainting kind at all?’

Jeannie looked up at her and her smile widened to a grin. Now she was over the initial shock of hearing the woman speak, she could laugh about it.

As she opened her mouth and said, ‘It was hearing another voice from home . . .’ it was the older woman’s turn to draw in a sharp breath and stare down at her. Then she, too,
laughed and said, ‘You’re one of the fisher lasses, are you?’

They were the same words that one of the young men in the street had used, but there was a world of difference in the way it was said now. ‘Well, you’re very welcome in my home, hen,
and not only because you helped our lassie.’

She jerked her head towards where the young girl was huddled close to the range, still trying to pull her torn garments together to hide her shame and embarrassment. She was a pretty girl,
Jeannie saw now she had time to look at her properly, with a small nose, a sweet mouth and large, blue eyes that, at this moment, filled with easy tears. Her long, fair hair was coming loose from
its pins and her face, streaked with dirt, was unnaturally pale from the shock she had just suffered.

Answering the girl’s mother, Jeannie said softly, ‘Then you don’t think I’m a – a . . .’

‘A Scottish fisher-lass a whore? Never,’ the woman bridled indignantly. ‘Never in a million years. And Tom will get a piece of my mind for even thinking such a
thing.’

At that moment both men returned.

For the next half-hour, the kitchen of the small terraced house was a bustle of activity. The men were dispatched once more whilst the girls took off their wet, soiled clothes and wrapped
themselves in the blankets and Mrs Lawrence set a pan of thick broth on the range to heat.

A little later, Mr Lawrence demanded yet again to be told the truth of what had happened.

‘Ya should have told us straight away,’ he said to Grace, but his glance of reproach was towards his wife. ‘Then I could have gone out and found them.’ He said no more,
but he pounded one fist into the palm of his other hand and no one in the room was in any doubt as to what he would like to do to his daughter’s attackers.

‘Now, hen,’ Nell Lawrence was saying to her. ‘Tell us what happened?’

The girl gulped and, for a moment, hung her head. ‘I was just on me way home, Mam. They came out of the Fisherman’s Rest and – and – well – they were drunk and . .
.’

‘Are you sure they didna hurt you? They didna . . .’

Grace shook her head. ‘No, no, but – but they might have done if – if it hadn’t been for her.’ She looked across towards Jeannie who was now sitting up on one end
of the couch and gave a shudder. ‘I daren’t think what might have happened if you hadn’t come along when you did.’ She gave a ghost of a smile. ‘And I don’t even
know your name.’

‘Jeannie. Jeannie Buchanan.’

Now it was the turn of the two men to look surprised and then George Lawrence let out a guffaw of laughter that lightened the tension and, for a moment, had everyone in the room smiling.
‘There you are, Nell, one of your own. I didn’t notice it when I opened the door to you, lass. I was too teken up with Grace. Well, well, a Scottish lassie, eh? I’ll be
damned!’

‘And well you might be, George Lawrence, but . . .’ His wife wagged her finger in the direction of Tom. ‘But your son there certainly will be if he doesna apologize to this
lassie for thinking what he did.’

Tom shuffled his feet awkwardly. His swarthy face reddened and then there was a sudden sheepish grin. ‘I’m sorry, miss. No offence. I were just that mad – worried – about
our Grace.’

Jeannie smiled and nodded. ‘It’s all right.’

‘What I want to know is,’ Mrs Lawrence said turning back to her daughter, ‘what were you doing anywhere near the Fisherman’s?’

Again the girl hung her head and, at once, Jeannie knew that she should not have been there.

‘I was walking down Harbour Road.’

‘Why? What were you doing down there? That’s out of your way?’

‘I – I’d been to Aggie’s.’

‘Aggie Turnbull’s?’ Now the mother’s voice was raised in anger. ‘I’ve told you to keep away from there. I won’t have you going anywhere near
that
woman
.’

Then Jeannie saw that Mrs Lawrence was looking, not at her daughter, but directly at her husband.

‘You still haven’t told us who the men were,’ Tom was saying, emulating the older man’s outrage. ‘Cos if I know any of ’em, I’ll . . .’

‘No, no.’ The girl’s voice was shrill with terror. ‘No, you mustn’t do owt, Tom, please. Nor you, Dad.’

Her father was frowning at her. ‘Why? Why ever not?’

‘Because – because it was – they were out to celebrate – one of them, the one they were trying to – to make . . .’ She gulped.

Jeannie, feeling a stab of sympathy for the young girl, said quietly, ‘It was obviously a stag night. A group of young men were out on the town. One of them – Robert, I think I heard
him called – is getting married tomorrow . . .’ She glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece above the range and, smiling wryly, added, ‘Well, today now and . . .’

She became aware that the two men and the mother were exchanging glances, then George Lawrence leaned towards his daughter and demanded, ‘Robert – and getting married tomorrow? You
don’t mean it was Mr Robert Hayes-Gorton and his pals?’

The girl nodded miserably and her voice was no more than a whisper as she said, ‘Yes, Dad.’

In unison, the two men let out a long breath and George sat back in his chair. ‘Oh well, that’s it then, lad, there’s nowt more to be said or done.’

Grimly, Tom said, ‘No. Not now, there ain’t.’

Jeannie was mystified. ‘Nothing to be done? But surely, you’re no’ going to let them get away with it? I mean, what if . . .’ She hesitated as three pairs of eyes glanced
in her direction.

‘What? What is it?’ she asked.

Nell Lawrence said, ‘There’s nothing they can do, Jeannie. Not if they want to keep their livelihood. Mr Robert’s father is a trawler owner and he owns the ship my husband
skippers. He’s his employer.’ She sighed and added, her voice flat now with defeat, ‘And Tom’s too. He’s a deckie on another Gorton boat.’

In a sudden, jerky movement, Tom got up, thrusting his chair away so that it fell backwards on to the floor with a clatter. ‘It’s ya own fault, Grace,’ he said harshly, all
sympathy gone now. ‘You shouldn’t have been anywhere near the pub at that time of night. Or going to Aggie Turnbull’s. You brought it on yasen.’

He turned away and dragged open the back door, slamming it behind him as he left so that the pots on the shelf rattled.

Scarcely able to believe what she had just heard, Jeannie stared after him.

Robert Hayes-Gorton woke with the feeling of a cold wetness around his neck. It was still dark and the room was illuminated only by a pale light that filtered in through the
half open bedroom door from the landing. He raised his head but the room seemed to be spinning around him. Then he became aware of a vile smell and, putting his hand to his face, felt the sticky
thickness of vomit caked around his chin.

He groaned aloud. In the dim light he could see the dark stain over the pillow and the sheets. Gingerly he put his feet to the floor and levered himself upright, but the feeling of nausea so
overwhelmed him that he sat down again quickly and put his hands to his head. The vomit was all over his face, even in his hair, and the feel and the smell of it made him retch again. He grasped
the bedpost and hauled himself upright and staggered towards the bathroom adjoining his bedroom. He bumped into the door jamb and then lurched towards the bath, banging his knees against it. Then
he reached out and grasped the gold tap. Water poured into the bath but it was only lukewarm. Shivering he made himself climb into it and lay down, completely submerging his whole body. Then,
sitting up, he soaped himself vigorously, furious now that he had allowed himself to get into such a state the previous evening.