A Safe Harbour, page 18
‘No, Dawson. The Scottish lads are no match for us.’
A large fleet of Scottish trawlers followed the shoals of herring south to the Northumberland fishing grounds and Richard knew many of them were now being towed to and fro by steam tugs. But he was confident that his new trawlers could run rings round them.
‘Aye, well,’ Dawson said, ‘they’ll be in tomorrow morning sharp, so we’ll see the size of their catch soon enough.’
‘Yes,’ Richard said, ‘and when the crews come ashore, there’ll be more ale drunk along Clive Street than would float the Tyne Star.’ His attempt at jollity fell flat. He remembered that his chief clerk had signed the pledge and was a member of the Temperance League.
He wished he could take back his words but the good man shook his head and said, ‘No doubt, sir, and more’s the pity. I can’t respect a man, no matter how hard he works, who spends his money on drink before he puts food on the table for his wife and bairns.’
Richard was saved from having to reply by a warning bellow that rent the air. ‘Clear the way there!’ Dawson and he leapt aside as a horse and cart loaded high with barrels rumbled past over the cobbles. They watched as it pulled up a short distance away and the barrels were unloaded and stacked in long rows. As soon as the task was completed another cart arrived. The barrels were there ready for the herring.
The herring season was nearly over, but until then fish lasses from Scotland would join the local girls to gut and barrel the slippery silver fish. They would stand at long wooden troughs all day cutting and slitting, earning a few pence for each barrel they filled. It could take a week to ten days to fill the barrels with fish and salt and, when they’d finished at Shields, the Scots girls would follow the fleet, moving on by train to the next fishing port down the east coast.
Richard, whose mother had been a teacher in a school for young ladies in Newcastle, knew very well that women in previous generations of his father’s family had been fish lasses, either working on the quayside or selling fish from door to door like . . . like Kate. His expression grew gloomy again.
‘Is that cheek hurting, sir?’ Dawson was looking at him with concern.
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘Well, forgive me for saying so, but you haven’t been yourself today and I wondered if the wound was bothering you.’
‘No.’ Richard fingered the dressing on his cheek. ‘It’s fine, I assure you. And now I suppose you’d better get back to your ledgers, Dawson. I won’t be long. To tell you the truth, my head is aching so I think I’ll walk a little.’
‘I thought there was something, sir. Why don’t you walk down to the river mouth? The sea breeze will do you good.’
As soon as Dawson had left him Richard allowed his mood of melancholy to return. He knew he should be jubilant today. The Tyne Star was a magnificent vessel, built to his own specifications. Furthermore, he loved the work he was engaged in. He had more than doubled the turnover since he had taken over the company on his father’s death five years before.
And his hard work had not just benefited himself. Each trawler needed a crew of ten to fifteen men, and he made sure that everyone who worked for him was paid well and treated fairly. In addition, his growing business meant he had to employ people such as Dawson and the young clerks in the office. Then, indirectly, the other quayside workers prospered – the carters, the labourers and the coopers – and the money they earned spread through the town. No, he didn’t think he had done anything to be ashamed of.
Richard walked along the quay, past the warehouses and ships’ chandlers, away from the crowds and the bustle. Eventually, he passed the last of the moorings and came to Sand End. This river beach was where children played. It was here, also, that women came to wave goodbye to their husbands and sweethearts sailing from the Tyne. The crews would shout last messages and hope, if the wind was right, they would be heard on Sand End. If they were sailing to foreign ports it might be two years or more before they would see their families again.
The sand at the river’s edge was dry and fine and a passing boat sent rippling waves up on to the shore. But Richard was oblivious of his surroundings. There was a gentle breeze blowing upriver. It carried with it the tang of the sea – the same tang that was always present at home in Cullercoats.
He had grown up there and some things never changed. The sound of the waves on the shore, the cries of the gulls, the sun sparkling on the sand and in the rock pools in the summer, the fog that rolled in without warning and the howling winter gales. For as long as the village existed these things would be constant.
What was changing was a way of life, and he knew that he was, to some extent, responsible. The whole nature of fishing had changed with the coming of the steam trawlers, and no matter how many stones they threw at his windows there was no going back. The nation had to be fed. Fishing under sail was slow and inefficient and soon all the boats, not just his, would be steam-powered.
Richard picked up a flat stone and skimmed it across the water. He watched it bounce four times off the surface and then sink. If I dropped dead tomorrow, he thought, it would not make a scrap of difference. Someone else would take my place and continue what I have started. Progress, if that’s what it is, will continue in the fishing industry. Much as he sympathized with the men in the village, he could not turn the tide for them. They would have to look to the future and he would help them if he could.
When he turned to go back to his office on the quayside he felt no better than when he had started out. He had a premonition that heartache and strife lay ahead. He prayed that his fear was unfounded.
Chapter Eleven
October
Surely the twenty minutes would be up soon? Kate’s neck was beginning to ache and her shoulders, too. She was standing facing the window in the room Howard called his ‘studio’ but she was not looking directly into the light. ‘That would make you squint,’ Howard had explained. The first time she came he had asked her to bring her creel and her basket but he had soon decided not to use them, thank goodness. It was bad enough simply having to stand still all this time without having to hold on to anything.
Kate had worn her working clothes as the artist had requested and let her hair hang loose. When he had explained that the finished painting would show her standing on the cliff top she had laughed and told him it had better not be a windy day.
‘I don’t understand,’ he’d said. ‘You’ll be here in my studio.’
‘I mean in the painting. Look – in that painting over there, you’ve got the wind whipping the waves up and tossing the gulls across the sky, haven’t you? Well, that’s just what would happen to my hair if I didn’t tie it back.’
Howard – as she had learned to call him – had smiled. ‘Clever Kate. No, it won’t be a windy day in this painting, although the sky will be what I call troubled. You will be standing on the cliff top gazing out to sea.’
‘Why?’ she’d asked. ‘You must give me a reason why I’m standing there and tell me what I’m looking for, otherwise I won’t know what expression to have on my face.’
Howard had raised his eyebrows. ‘I can see I’m going to enjoy working with you enormously.’ And then he had hesitated and looked at her uncertainly.
‘Well?’ Kate had asked. ‘The reason?’
He had taken her hand and led her towards the window. ‘This is the cliff top. You’re standing here, looking out to sea, waiting . . . waiting anxiously for the boat to come home.’
‘Whose boat?’
There was a pause before he replied, ‘Your sweetheart’s boat – I’m sorry, Kate!’
‘No, it’s all right. It hurts, of course. But it’s not as raw as it was. If that’s what you want, I’ll do it. But you’d better tell me what I should do with my hands.’
‘Here.’ Howard had draped her shawl around her shoulders. ‘Bring your hands up to clasp the folds of your shawl as if you are keeping it close to your body.’
‘Not because of the wind on the cliff top, I hope?’ Kate had teased.
Howard had laughed. ‘No, there’s no wind – well, perhaps a slight breeze to lift that marvellous hair of yours – but I want you to hold your shawl like that simply because it looks good. But you must stand very straight and proud—’
‘Otherwise I’ll look like a hunched old woman?’
‘That’s right.’
And again he had given her that appraising look that turned into a smile of approval.
And so she had stood here at the window, imagining it was the cliff top, and gazed out as if she was willing Jos to come sailing back to her. Howard had explained that she must stand slightly sideways so that he could position the easel to get a full view of her face. That was why her neck and shoulders were aching.
It was with relief that she heard Howard say, ‘Betsy, would you go down and make a pot of tea for us, please?’
Kate lifted her shoulders up and down to ease them and then dropped her head to loosen the muscles in her neck. She was aware of Howard wiping his hands on a piece of rag, and then he came forward and took hold of her hands.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Your hands are cold.’
‘Are you surprised? There’s no fire in this room and the north wind has been rattling the windows all the time I’ve been standing here.’
‘Let’s go down and sit by the fire.’
In the room downstairs there was a good fire going and Betsy Smith, old Martha’s fourteen-year-old granddaughter, had already placed the teapot and cups and saucers on the table.
‘Do you know where the cake is, Betsy?’ Howard asked her.
‘Yes, Mr Munro.’
‘Could you fetch it for me?’
Betsy grinned and went to the pantry. A moment later she brought back a plate with a large raisin cake on it. ‘Shall I cut it, Mr Munro?’ she asked.
‘That would be most kind of you.’
The girl giggled at his words and set about cutting the cake with an expression of intense concentration. Betsy Smith had long sandy ringlets and a dusting of freckles across her pretty face. Her eyes were blue and slanted almost like a cat’s, but there was nothing much to be read if you looked into them. She was a good child, always willing to help, and hardworking, so long as the task she was given was not too difficult. At an age when her contemporaries were already assisting their families with the business of fishing, or leaving home and going into domestic service, Betsy was judged only to be capable of ‘helping out’. And that’s what she was doing now.
When Kate had told her mother that she was going to pose for Mr Munro and asked her to come with her to act as chaperone, Nan Lawson had refused. ‘It’s not that I wouldn’t like to,’ she’d told her daughter. ‘It’s just that I can’t spare the time. Besides . . .’ She hadn’t finished her sentence but from the look on her face Kate had guessed what she’d been thinking. Her mother obviously believed that Kate’s father would not approve. And if he didn’t approve he might cause trouble.
Kate hadn’t told her mother that Henry had come to the cottage and that Mr Munro had sent him packing. She hadn’t wanted to worry her. Now she realized that if her father was provoked further he would only take it out on Nan.
‘Well, that’s that, then,’ Kate had sighed.
‘Why don’t you ask Betsy Smith to go with you?’ her mother said. ‘I’m told she loved going along with her grandma and she made herself really useful.’
‘Betsy?’ Kate had looked doubtful.
‘Listen, she may be a bit slow, but she’s not stupid,’ her mother had said. ‘There’s a difference.’
‘All right. Do you think she’ll agree?’
‘I do. Especially as Mr Munro pays her a copper or two for her trouble.’
So it had been settled. Betsy was Kate’s chaperone and, whether or not the girl understood exactly what a chaperone was, she certainly never took her eyes off what was going on. She was obviously taken with Mr Munro and interested in everything he did.
Betsy pushed a tea plate bearing a large slice of cake across the oilcloth-covered table towards Kate. Kate fell on it gratefully. She had noticed that her appetite had increased lately. Her mother had told her that that was natural but that she must try to eat food that would be good for the bairn. Kate wasn’t sure if this meant raisin cake, but there was no way she could deny herself this treat. She noticed that the piece of cake Betsy gave to Howard was even larger and she smiled at this naïve favouritism.
‘Hev I cut it right, Mr Munro?’ Betsy asked.
‘That’s perfect, Betsy. Now be sure to cut a good piece for yourself.’
While Betsy bit her lip and gave her attention to cutting another slice, Howard glanced at her and smiled at Kate. The smile was in no way mocking; he was obviously enjoying Betsy’s pleasure in the situation. He had made the child feel important and Kate admired him for that.
She thought about their growing friendship and how unlikely it seemed. It was obvious that Howard had led a privileged life and that he came from a level of society far above that of the fisherfolk. And yet he treated everyone the same. He respected the elders and was patient with the children. He was a good man. He would make a good friend.
Nevertheless, Kate suspected that he had never really been put to the test. That was not his fault, but perhaps it had always been made easy for him to be good natured and charming. She wondered how he would have dealt with the problems that his cousin Richard was now facing. Would Howard act with the same tolerant and yet steely forbearance? No, much as she liked Howard, and admired the unfaltering way he had dealt with her father, Kate found it difficult to imagine him being able to withstand such a crisis.
‘My Aunt Adamson sent the cake along,’ Howard told Kate. ‘She has promised my mother that she will see to it that I eat properly.’
‘Are they sisters?’ Kate asked. ‘Your mother and Mrs Adamson?’
‘Yes. My mother is the younger sister. She married my father, an American architect who was visiting Newcastle. She’s never been back to England, though I have a suspicion she still regards it as home.’
‘Does that make her sad?’
‘Not coming back to England? I don’t think so. She has made a new life for herself in America.’
Kate was incapable of replying. The thought of the course her life might be going to take suddenly overwhelmed her. She took refuge in the raisin cake. As they drank their tea and enjoyed the cake she noticed that Howard’s fingernails were splashed with paint, as was the old shirt that he wore while he was working.
It had taken her a while to get used to the smell of the room upstairs. Howard had explained that it was the oil in some of the paints he used and went on to say that he painted in watercolours, too. That first day she could tell that he would have loved to explain more about his work, and she had had to remind him that her time was limited.
‘Of course,’ he’d said.
‘How often will I have to come here?’ Kate had asked.
‘I need about twenty hours of your time.’
‘Twenty hours!’
‘We’ll do it in two-hour sessions.’
‘Will I have to stand still like this for two hours?’
‘No, twenty minutes at a time will do, and then we’ll have a short break. Don’t worry, I’m not a slave driver.’
And so far Kate had managed very well. The slight pains in her neck and shoulders eased if she shrugged her shoulders and rotated her head for a while, but she was more worried by the pain in her back. Each time it was a little worse. She hoped she wasn’t harming the child she was carrying.
‘Do you think you can manage to tidy this table and wash the dishes, Betsy?’
When Kate heard those words she knew it was time to go back to the cold room upstairs. Sometimes, depending on the weather, they did not manage to work for a full two hours. Howard needed daylight. He’d told her that there was nothing better for an artist than a room facing north because that way you got a cool clear light with no harsh shadows.
But if the storm clouds gathered, or the fog rolled in, they had to stop work. ‘Don’t worry,’ he’d told her the first time this happened. ‘It’s going well. I’m sure we’ll manage.’
He hadn’t let her see the portrait yet. ‘Soon,’ he’d told her, adding, ‘I don’t want you to be disappointed by the early stages.’
They left Betsy to clear the table and wash the dishes. On a previous occasion Howard had remarked that, as the girl was supposed to be Kate’s chaperone, he ought to tell her to leave everything and come up to the studio with them. But they both knew that, in her innocence, Betsy would not understand the implication and, moreover, she would be disappointed to be deprived of the small tasks that made her feel important. So they let it be.
Today it was about ten minutes before Betsy came upstairs and joined them. Kate glimpsed her from the corner of her eyes as she tiptoed in and sank on to a pile of old cushions on the floor. Kate had to work hard to suppress a smile. She knew exactly what Betsy would do next. She would draw up her knees and wrap her arms round her legs and then watch Howard intently, never taking her gaze from him or anything he did.
When the day’s session was over Betsy insisted on walking home with Kate because Howard had told her she must. Kate suspected that it was a way of protecting her reputation. Anyone who might be watching would see Kate and Betsy leaving Howard’s house together. And, once at Belle Vue Cottage, Betsy had got into the habit of coming in with Kate and asking if there was anything she could do to help.
Today Kate was pleased to let her do a little dusting and sweep the floor. She didn’t feel guilty because the girl seemed to like to be busy. But when she had finished, as usual she wanted to stay longer. Poor little lass, Kate thought, she’s lonely. Nevertheless, she had to be firm and send her home so that she, Kate, could get to bed. She was exhausted.
Before climbing into bed she pressed the folds of her nightdress against her body and looked down. Surely she wasn’t imagining the raised curve of her belly. During the day her clothes hid the thickening of her waist. Her mother said that, if she was lucky, she might go another month or more before her pregnancy showed.
