Herring Girl Read online

  ‘I suppose so,’ Ben says, and a little shiver of excitement goes up his back. ‘What time?’

  ‘About five. But don’t tell your nana. He doesn’t want a whole crowd of people there.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Just outside.’

  ‘Really?’ Ben goes to the window and there’s Dad, far below, grinning up from the other side of the road.

  ‘I went swimming by myself,’ Ben says without thinking. ‘Off those rocks by the Priory, where all those old dudes sit with their fishing rods.’

  ‘Was it cold? Did you wear your wetsuit?’ Dad asks, and swivels around to look downriver, as if Ben’s still out there on the causeway.

  It’s weird talking to Dad on the phone when you can see him at the same time. It’s easier to say things when he’s small and far away. When he’s in the room with you, he makes all the running and you forget what you wanted to say.

  ‘I was freediving,’ says Ben, and it just comes out, the thing he’s been putting off telling Dad for weeks, though now he’s said it, he can’t think why. ‘That’s what it’s called when you’re just in a mask and fins. Guess how long I can stay under without taking a breath.’

  ‘Ten minutes. Half an hour. Three and a half days.’

  ‘Da-a-d!’

  Dad laughs. ‘OK, I would guess you can stay under for one whole minute.’

  ‘Two minutes and twenty seconds!’

  ‘Bloody hell, Ben. I’m not sure I like the sound of that.’ But he’s impressed; you can tell from his voice.

  ‘It’s much safer than breathing compressed air,’ Ben says proudly. ‘I got a book off Amazon that explained it all. There’s a club you can join and everything. Come up to the flat and I’ll show you.’

  It’s turned grey and chilly by the time they get to the doc’s house, so they all crowd into her consulting room, where she’s got the electric fire on. Dad makes a beeline for the Ian bloke’s camcorder, which is this dinky little black number that does ‘broadcast quality’, he says; and they start up the usual sort of macho conversation men have when there’s a new gadget to drool over, which makes Ben think maybe it wouldn’t be so great to be cured after all.

  The doc catches his eye with a look that makes him giggle. ‘You know you can change your mind any time,’ she says, meaning about the film, he guesses, not the therapy. ‘If it feels too embarrassing or intrusive, let me know and I’ll call a halt.’

  She’s standing by the fire warming her hands, looking pretty normal except for a bit of eyeshadow and mascara, and a shawl instead of her usual cardie, with a big heavy silver brooch to hold it together, and earrings to match. But in fact those few little things make her look really pretty for someone that old, and sort of foreign, or noble, like a Russian countess.

  ‘What if I can’t get hypnotized?’ Ben’s been worrying about this.

  ‘Well, I thought we could start the session with just you and me in the room, then when Annie arrives, I’ll let Ian and your father in to observe. How does that sound?’ Ben nods, thinking that might work. ‘Then if things are still running smoothly, Ian will start filming. But we’ve got our emergency signal, haven’t we? So if anything bothers you, for any reason, and you want to stop, just make that signal.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll be alright,’ says Laura, clip-clopping in with a jug of iced water and nudging aside a pile of papers on a side table to make room. ‘Let me guess,’ she says, turning to Paul. ‘You must be Ben’s father. Ben, why didn’t you tell us what a handsome hunk your dad was?’

  Dad straightens up, smirking a bit, even though what she said was really cheesy. ‘So you’re the mysterious Laura,’ he says, shaking her hand, also in embarrassing goofy cheese mode. ‘Ben’s been telling me all about you.’

  ‘Not everything, I hope,’ says Laura, winking at Ben. ‘A girl’s got to keep a few secrets up her sleeve.’ And now Ben’s suddenly panicked that she’s going to start telling him about Salon Laura and his walking lessons and that, which Ben can’t handle right now on top of everything else. But it’s OK, because Dad’s taking out his wad of cash and going into his Big Man act, so Ben starts to relax again.

  ‘Listen, thanks for feeding the lad,’ says Dad, peeling off a couple of fifties.

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ says Laura, slapping his hand away. ‘It’s no problem cooking for one more. Anyway, he’s part of the family now, aren’t you, Ben?’

  ‘Well, whatever, thanks for looking out for the lad. He picked the short straw when he got a fisherman for a dad.’

  ‘Ben says you know Harry the Crab.’

  ‘Harry? Yes, he’s a good mate and a great fisherman. How do you know him?’

  ‘He’s only married to my best friend,’ says Laura, winking at Ben again. So now Ben’s gripped by a new panic, because Harry’s wife is the woman Laura used to be married to when she was a man, and he’s terrified she’ll start telling Dad about that now instead. But before it can get too awful, the Ian bloke butts in.

  ‘Another proof of the theory of six degrees of separation,’ he says. ‘What you think is an amazing coincidence is really just a function of statistical probabilities.’

  ‘You what?’ goes Laura, but it’s the doc who answers.

  ‘Six degrees of separation refers to the theory that everyone on the planet is connected to everyone else via no more than six different contacts or “degrees of separation”,’ she explains. ‘A psychologist called Stanley Milgram investigated it in his famous “small world” experiment, and found there were only four degrees of separation for people in America.’

  ‘They tested it out on Facebook,’ adds Ben, who heard about this ages ago. ‘To see if the six degrees thing was true, and they found the average number of links between all the people on the site was 5.98.’

  ‘So it’s got to be less than that for folk in Shields,’ says Laura.

  ‘Indeed,’ goes the doc, with a little smile. ‘But that doesn’t mean that’s the only explanation for the uncanny connection between certain people.’

  ‘Mary prefers to believe that souls reincarnate in groups,’ says Ian. ‘Isn’t that right, hen?’ But you can tell by the way he says it that he thinks it’s a batty idea.

  ‘This isn’t the time to debate the issue,’ says the doc. ‘But yes, that is certainly what the research literature indicates and I see no reason to doubt it.’

  Ian starts fiddling with the curtains, pulling them a bit more shut or open to let different amounts of light in, then peering into the viewfinder on the camera to check the effect. Then he starts moving piles of books behind the sofa, so the room looks a bit tidier. Ben looks at the doc to see if she’s pissed off. Her lips are pressed together a bit more tightly than usual, but otherwise she seems to be coping quite well.

  ‘He used to be her boyfriend, you know,’ Laura whispers to Ben. ‘That’s why he’s so rude to her – and why she puts up with it.’ She beckons him into the kitchen. ‘Come on, lad. Let’s get the dinner started. Looks like they’ll be ages in here.’

  ‘Why did they split up?’ Ben asks when they’re in the kitchen.

  ‘She won’t talk about it. All I know is she left him a Dear John letter and scarpered off to India. If you ask me, he never got over it. Have you seen the way he looks at her?’

  ‘Maybe they’ll get back together again over this film,’ Ben says.

  ‘Wouldn’t that be a turn up for the books? But I can’t see it happening – she’s far too set in her ways. Still, you never know.’

  ‘I think he’s married anyway,’ he says. But a second later he’s forgotten all about it, because Ian’s finished setting up and the lighting’s all organized, and the doc’s sitting in her chair waiting for him, and Dad’s lying on the sofa pretending to be hypnotized, and it’s time for the session to start.

  ‌Chapter Twenty

  1898

  It’s Sunday dinner and I can hardly eat a thing. I’m that full of giddy about meeting Sam later, and can’t stand the idea
of dousing it with mutton and taties – so the smell of the roasts being carried home from the bakery is making me feel almost qualmy.

  Flo’s off to her mam’s, and the Scots lasses have been invited onto one of the luggers where they’re having a bit party. So our Jimmy’s back with the weans for a visit, and it’s just our family again for a few hours.

  The littluns are hanging on Mam’s skirts, and trying to climb onto her lap every time she sits down and Da’s flicking them with the back of his hand, like they were flies, to get them to stand nice. And there’s soon to be another, if I’m right – though Mam would never let on, what with the shame of it – and it’s hard to tell, what with her petties and pinnie and that. But there’s a way she’s been walking, a kind of side-to-side rocking, and her varicoses have been paining her and her legs swollen from standing all day. Just looking at her face now, that quick creasing of pain as the weans clamber up.

  Even Da’s noticing, and asking, and putting a hand on her arm. But she just smiles and shakes her head, and tells him to carve the meat before it congeals.

  It’s grand to see our Jimmy for a proper blether, mind, and to wander back with him to Nana’s after with the weans – though my feet want to skip and dance, not wander, for I’ve thought straight away that this is my chance to slip away to meet Sam.

  He’s pensive, our Jimmy, though, so I’ve to damp down my buzzingness and, by and by, we drift down to the little beach by the salt works, where the cobles are pulled up, and lean against an overturned hull in the sunshine while the bairns plodge around in the shallows.

  ‘It’s canny what you’ve done with your hair,’ says he after a bit, which is our Jimmy all over, for what other lad would notice an extra few curls wisping out of a scarf? ‘It’s like you’ve changed in just the few days I’ve been away – or maybes it takes me going away to notice it. You’re looking right bonny. Did you know that?’

  So I say no, which is only half a lie, because I am beginning to know it but still can’t hardly believe it.

  But now he’s poking at the sand with a bit driftwood until I want to kick him – and I do shove him a mite to try and jostle him out of being such a pensive old pudden. For I’m that jumping with the idea of seeing Sam, I can’t see a glum face but I have to try and put a smile on it. So I ask what’s the matter, and he starts on about how everything’s changing, sighing like it’s the end of the world. So I’m asking, what’s changing then, and he’s saying: ‘All of us. You and me. Tom, Flo.’ So I’m saying, what does he mean, but it’s like he’s gone off into a dream, and is staring across at a lad going up to another lad over by the Lifeboat House and leaning in close to share a match. Then after lighting up, instead of moving apart again, they stand facing each other for a spell, then the one leads and the other follows round the far side of the building.

  So now I’m nudging Jimmy and he’s jumping like I’ve surprised him somehow, and he’s saying sorry sorry, I was miles away. And I’m saying the sooner this season’s over the better, for it seems lodging with Nana’s not suiting him at all.

  And now he’s complaining about how Nana’s mythering on at him the whole time, about what he’s up to and what time he’s coming home. ‘I’m just out walking, Annie – that house is so crammed with mouthy lasses, I think my head will burst if I don’t get away. But she won’t leave it alone.’

  ‘Is there none there that you like?’ I ask, teasing, and a look of such alarm comes over his face as makes me burst out laughing, for our Jimmy’s never been a one for the lasses, for all his pretty ways.

  So now I’m walking along the Tynemouth Road in the sunshine, with the trams and carts rumbling by full of day-trippers out from Newcastle, and lads and lasses on bicycles. And I’m trying to walk nice, like the High Town ladies out a-strolling on the arms of their men, with their pretty parasols – but I want to kick off my clogs and gather up my skirt, and run and run and run to the War Memorial, where Sam said he’d be waiting.

  He’s there watching for me when I round the corner into Front Street, and starts towards me, walking quickly, then running, and I forget all about being a lady so I’m running too, until what I was scared would be a slow and fumbly meeting becomes a thing of grabbing hands and swinging round and laughing instead. And before you know it, there we are, linked in and walking along the cobbles, blethering away like an old married couple.

  Truly, it’s that quick. One minute we’re clumsy as a cart with two unbroken horses, jibbing and bumping though a narrow lane, next thing you know we’re easy as a brace of matched trotters bowling along. And it’s like when me and Flo have been parted for a few days, and there’s all that missed blethering to do, so we’ve to talk extra fast – except with Sam there’s our whole lives to catch up on.

  Slow down, pet, says Sam at one point, for my feet have started speeding along with my tongue, till we’re fairly cantering along. And he tugs me over to the railings above St Edward’s Bay, where there’s nets trailing down over the bank, and we lean there a spell, looking down at the cove where the trippers are camped out on the sand, with their wrapped pieces and jars of lemonade, and trailing up and down the steps with their weans on their hips.

  It’s as well he’s steered me to the railings, for I swear if I hadn’t those cold bars to hold on to, I would have lifted into the sky, like a seagull does just by opening its wings and stepping up, or a cat jumping up on a wall. That’s the sort of lightness there is in my chest, being with Sam, like a soft moth whirring away inside the bowl of an oil lamp, or a kitten pouncing in a pile of shruff, or – oh, every sort of light and limber thing you can think of.

  And what are we talking about? Well, there’s no order to any of it. Serious matters, like me being out of my ’prentice time at the smokehouse and him studying for his mate’s ticket, mixed up with daftness about our favourite biscuits. For all its muddle, though, it’s like we’re both trying on new shiftenings, and finding they fit, and suit us, and that we look – oh, we look so fine and bonny!

  But it’s hard, at times, to mind what he’s saying, for all the gazing that’s to be done while he’s speaking. First at his mouth, which I’ve already said about, and his eyes that can be merry, like a bairn’s, but that have a watchingness about them sometimes that’s halfway towards grief, so that I want to kiss him and kiss him as if kisses were a salve for sadness. Though we’ve never kissed yet, of course. How can we, when the sun’s still so high and it seems the whole world and his wife is out strolling along the sea front?

  I was on about the gazing, wasn’t I? About his eyes, which are a pale blue, like the sky before a summer fret’s burned away. And his hair, combed down tidy under his cap, that looks like it will spring alive at the first breath of a breeze, which is my Sam all over: careful and tidy, but with a merry wild thing coiled inside just waiting to leap into life.

  And it’s me that can make it leap, that’s the joy of it. For he’s gazing on me too, through all my blether, and it’s a stroking sort of a gaze, and I’m a cat meeting that stroking hand, that arches its back and stretches its neck up all a-quiver. I can’t believe this feeling he’s awaking in me with just a look, and am amazed that folk around are not staring – though what’s to see but a herring lass leaning on a railing with her lad?

  We’ve come for ice creams, but the queue outside Watt’s is that long, he buys us cups of ginger beer from an ice cart instead, which is as sharp and tingling as you could wish. Then without him asking or me agreeing, we set off back to Shields by the coast path, that winds past the Priory and coal staithes, and over to the trysting hill, where the grass is long and the wyn makes private places that smell of salt and wyn flowers.

  Being a sunny day, it’s thronging with lads and lasses, cosied up in the hollows: sitting and looking at the sea, or picnicking, or kissing on top of a greatcoat – or under it, some of them that have no shame.

  And without him asking or me agreeing we find a hollow of our own, and settle down in the grass, spreading my shawl
and folding his jacket. So I’m sitting, and he’s sitting, and the hollow’s pressing us together and I have to close my eyes, because I want to keep this moment safe for ever: this sun on my face, this press of his shoulder, this smell of his shirt now his jacket’s off, of leaf-lard and fish broth, and the vinegar smell of his oxters.

  A decent lass shouldn’t speak of such things, I know, but I can’t help it. My skin’s that tingling, like the ginger beer, and my heart galloping so fast I can’t catch my breath. I know if I open my eyes and turn my face he’ll kiss me, for what else are we here for? But these minutes of waiting and knowing are that precious I don’t want to lose them. So I rest my head on his shoulder, like I would with Mam, and he shifts a little like she would, to put his arm around me, and I hear him sigh into my hair – or is it me sighing? I can’t tell, for we’re that melted together now, as if we’ve sat like this a thousand times.

  Then without him asking or me agreeing, when we’ve had our fill of waiting, I open my eyes and turn my face and he kisses me.

  Shall I tell more? Oh I must, for I can’t but speak of it! For his lips on mine, and mine on his, are like our hands on the chair that time: polite and awkward, holding fast, not knowing how to let go. So we stay a long moment, with our lips pressed together, not daring to breathe – and I’m guessing that this is his first time too. And that knowing sends such a shiver through me as to make my lips soften, and open a little, and suck in a bit breath, which is spiced with the taste of him. So now he’s noticing and doing the same, so our mouths are both soft now, and our lips barely touching, and we’re just breathing together, and tasting the breathing.

  Oh, but it’s the tenderest thing in the world, this first kiss; and a holy thing too, like kneeling in church of a winter’s evening, when the candles are lit and all the gold bits glinting out of the darkness. Why should there be shame in a feeling like this? For isn’t this what men’s and women’s mouths were made for, and wasn’t it God that made them so?