Herring Girl Page 6

  ‘So he’d make a better job of it, is that what you’re saying?’ Paul feels light-headed, like he’s going to faint. His kitchen at home’s full of fucking knives.

  ‘I think he’s unlikely to attempt another mutilation, but I can’t be sure. What I do know is that there are documented cases of children committing suicide when their desires for a sex change are thwarted.’ She leans forward. ‘Mr Dixon, I believe I can help Ben, but I can’t predict the outcome. Whether you let me try or not is completely up to you.’

  ‌Chapter Eight

  2007

  Ben’s dad always carries a wad of cash in his back pocket. Where most men have wallets, he always has this folded sheaf of tens and twenties. Ben used to get a buzz when he’d bring it out to buy just a burger and Coke, peeling a twenty off the outside, and the girl behind the counter with her eyes popping. But these days it’s a bit embarrassing, like boasting he’s OK, even though everyone knows the fishing’s crap and lads are selling up right, left and centre. That’s just Dad though: he never thinks, just barges in with a big grin and orders drinks all round.

  Ben’s dad’s almost famous in North Shields; he can’t walk down the street without someone saying howay or tooting their horn. That’s just the way he is: fingers in lots of pies. The boat’s the main thing, of course. But he’s got all these other deals going on too, that he calls his nice little earners. It’s like when anyone in Shields gets an idea for making a bit on the side, the first thing they do is call Dad. It got so bad that he had to stop giving out his number because the home phone never stopped ringing. And it would either be someone calling about trawling gear – Dad once bought a load of second-hand rigs from somewhere – or rough blokes with Scottish accents on about cheap diesel. Then there was some DEFRA training thing, then the lads with the fishcakes. Eventually he got two separate mobiles: one for business and one just for Ben and Nana, so they can always get through. Plus the satellite phone on the boat, which is a different number again.

  Today Ben’s tagging along to the ships’ chandlers where Dad’s checking out some new shackles or something, but they’re stopping off for breakfast at the Seaman’s Mission first.

  Dad’s really quiet, which is weird because he’s usually chatting away about the footie or diving or something. Ben sneaks a look at his face, but he’s just staring out towards the Black Middens. Maybe that doctor’s phoned, Ben thinks, then pushes the thought right down to his feet and concentrates on the pavement instead, trying to match his pace to Dad’s, just the two pairs of black trainers walking along, sizes five and ten.

  The canteen at the Seamen’s Mission smells of tabs and chips and the air’s blue with smoke, even though there are big new No Smoking signs everywhere because the ban’s just come in. It’s full of blokes in woolly hats, with big jackets on the backs of their chairs and newspapers spread out, like they’ve got no homes to go to. Dad says that’s because they haven’t really, because when you’re at sea all you want is to get home, but when you’re home you can’t wait to get back on the boat. Dad says the canteen is like half way between the two: with the river just outside and lads packed in all round eating fry-ups, which is just like on the boat.

  Dad does his usual howays to everyone and loads up a tray. When they’re settled at a table, Ben opens his sausage bap like a book and squirts brown sauce in a careful squiggle; and Dad rips open a mustard sachet with his teeth and reaches over to the next table for the ketchup.

  ‘I went to see your doctor friend yesterday evening,’ he says in a bit, quietly, so no one can earwig.

  Ben closes his bap carefully and sits back. ‘I was going to tell you,’ he says. ‘But I didn’t know where to start.’

  ‘She says she can help you,’ Dad says, cutting up bacon then lifting fried eggs onto his toast. The smoke’s making Ben’s eyes sting. He feels sick.

  ‘Look, I know I’ve not been much of a dad—’ Dad goes on in this same quiet voice.

  ‘No, you have!’ Ben says. ‘Don’t say that. It’s got nothing to do with—’

  ‘Nay lad, hear me out. I’m away most the time and fucking shattered when I’m back, or off out somewhere. I just wanted to make some dosh so I could give you the best, try to make up for losing your mam. I didn’t realize you still—’ He pauses, glances round, clicks two sweeteners into his mug. ‘And then you got in the under thirteens and, well, I just didn’t realize. I should have asked, I suppose. Truth is, I didn’t want to know.’

  They both look at his plate, where he’s getting his next mouthful organized, a bit of each thing on his fork.

  ‘Are you cross?’ Ben asks.

  ‘Shit, Ben,’ says his dad, like a sigh. ‘I wish you’d said something.’

  ‘I thought you’d hate me.’ It comes out in a whisper.

  ‘I ought to batter you within an inch of your life.’ Ben looks up. He’s been bracing himself for a telling off, but Dad just sounds weary. ‘I mean, think what it’s like being told by some shrink that your son wants – what does she call it?’

  ‘Gender reassignment.’

  The words sound so daft, hanging there in the blue air of the canteen. Ben feels a giggle starting, from nowhere, and checks out Dad, who’s half smiling too.

  ‘She’s quite something, that doctor,’ Dad says, shaking his head. ‘Like, what’s with all those elephants, for fuck’s sake?’

  ‘Did she have her gloves on?’

  ‘She said there’s this disease she’s got in her hands, where they go all white and numb if they get cold. If it’s severe, she says it can turn into frostbite or gangrene or something and they have to cut bits off.’ He winces, and Ben winces back.

  ‘But she’s written loads of books and stuff,’ Ben adds quickly, in case she’s sounding too weird. ‘I looked her up on Google.’

  ‘It’s OK, son.’ That tired voice again. ‘There’s no need to argue the toss. I signed you up for six sessions, starting tomorrow. Then we’ll take it from there.’

  Ben doesn’t say and Dad doesn’t ask about the rest of it: his visits to Laura and his bleaching kit; checking out those puberty-delaying hormones; his M&S nighties and still sleeping with Lily the Pink. They just sit opposite each other munching away like nothing’s happened.

  And a minute later, two young blokes with trays of All Day Breakfast come and sit at the same table, so they have to budge over a bit to make room; and the young blokes start going on about DEFRA this, DEFRA that, with Dad. And Ben just sits quietly munching on his bap, breathing in the smoke and the chip smell, and feeling his tummy slowly fill up like a smile.

  ‘Do you know how gurnards sleep?’ Ben asks, like the start of a joke, not expecting an answer. ‘They wriggle into a rock crevice and wedge themselves in with their front fins, so the sea can’t wash them out.’

  They’re strolling along the Fish Quay to the chandlers, checking the moorings to see who’s in and who’s out. Ben wants to run and shout – because Dad knows and it’s OK! The thing he was most dreading in the world and it’s OK! – but they’re just walking, sizes five and ten, not touching, just like normal.

  ‘And herring and cod sink down to the sea bed and lie totally still. But they have to separate from each other a bit, because if they slept in a shoal, they’d be found by predators. So they just hang in the water by themselves, or find somewhere to hide.’ Ben likes the idea of the sea bed as an actual bed. He likes to think of the fish sleeping there, and the sand rucked up like a blanket, with seaweed duvets draped over the rocks and silver bodies tucked snugly inside – though it’s fucking freezing in the North Sea, even in the middle of summer, because of the currents from the Arctic.

  ‘So what do they dream about?’ Dad asks, teasing. But it’s actually something Ben’s thought about.

  ‘I think you probably need eyelids to dream,’ he says, ‘so you can shut out the real world. And fish don’t have eyelids.’

  He’s tried not blinking, to see what it would be like to have eyes like a fish: flat and
round and always open. First they felt cold and dry, then they sort of ached and he really wanted to close them. It must be weird not to have the choice, to just stare out even if it’s pitch black in the middle of the night, or you’re half dead in the hold waiting to be gutted, with your eye right up against another fish’s eye.

  ‘Most of our catches are at night,’ says Dad. ‘So we’re probably scooping them up when they’re napping.’

  He’s joking, but Ben doesn’t think it’s very funny. That’s the weird thing about Dad. He can go diving with Ben, into that echoey green world, that’s all swooshy water noises and bubbles, and little shrimps pootling about, and weed waving like brown ribbon, then put on his leather jacket and stride into the chandlers and buy a mile of new tickler chain for the trawl gear to go crashing through the lot of it.

  Afterwards they climb the Ropery Stairs up to the top bank. Ben counts the 119 steps, like he always does, feeling his heart pumping, but Dad refuses to stop for a breather till they’re at the top; then they hold on to the railings and look out across the river to South Shields and wait until their chests stop burning.

  There’s an old artist bloke setting up an easel along the road, stretching bungee straps around the painting to stop the wind catching it. Ben’s noticed him before – same place, same painting gear, same four tins of Stella – but it turns out Dad knows him from way back.

  ‘That’s old Skip,’ he says. ‘Owned the first boat I ever went on. Bloody brilliant skipper but daft as a brush – in and out the loony bin, but always held it together on the boat. Then something happened, his auntie or his mam died or something, and he finally lost it.’

  ‘Cheers, Skip,’ he goes as they get nearer. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ grunts the old bloke, mixing paint on an enamel plate.

  Looking at the painting, Ben feels the breath catch in his chest. It’s a view of the Fish Quay from where they’re standing, but it’s as though he’s seeing through Annie’s eyes again. The 119 steps are there still, going down to the quayside; but instead of bushes and grass, the old bloke’s painted tall houses either side, with dirty brick chimneys and great billows of grey smoke. And down on the Fish Quay, instead of just five trawlers tied up, there’s a zillion masts with reddish brown sails furled around them, and the boats all moored so close together you can’t see the water.

  ‘I should take you to his stall down Tynemouth Market,’ says Dad, looking over Ben’s shoulder. ‘He’s done views of Shields going right back to the year dot.’

  There are people on the steps in the painting, faces Ben thinks he half recognizes: that scowling woman with the basket and a shawl criss-crossed over her chest; those two lads hanging nets on a wall. And they’re all wearing hats, even the two grubby bairns squatting together in the shadows halfway down, on a front step that Ben knows has a slight dip in it from being scrubbed so often.

  He looks from the painting to the real Ropery Stairs – litter snagged on the bushes, crumpled tin of Stella on its side, KFC bag mashed in a corner – then back again. The old bloke’s painting the weather now: thick grey storm clouds over South Shields in the distance and scrappy specks of white foam on the water. In the middle of the river two small boats are tilted over sideways, as if their sails are full of fish instead of wind. And Ben can almost hear the snap of the rigging in that forest of boats moored in the harbour, feel the sting of the salt on Annie’s bandaged hands.

  ‌Chapter Nine

  1898

  It’s the middle of June, I don’t know the exact date, but I do know it’s a Friday, around six o’clock. The sun’s sailing upriver toward Newcastle and the home lums are trickling smoke for folks’ tea.

  We’re walking home together, Flo and me, because she’s shifting to our house today. We’ve a crew of Scots lasses coming to lodge with us tomorrow, and another lot’s arriving at Flo’s place any day, so we’ve all to squash in a bit tighter, like wrens in a nest, till the herring season’s done.

  It’s a right puffing climb up the bank to the house, specially when you’ve been on your feet all day. My boots are Jimmy’s old uns, padded with layers of socks, so they weigh a ton. On the way up, we keep having to press back against the wall to let the Scots lasses pass by with their kists on their heads. It’s like swallows in April. One day the skies are empty, next they’re full of swooping and chattering. Just last week there was only us local lasses gipping and a couple or three drift boats down from Grimsby. Now suddenly the quay’s fairly bristling with masts and our lanes jostling with lasses lumping kists to their lodgings.

  Climbing the stairs, Flo’s full of daffy blether, saying she’ll be out on the gin every night now she’s stopping at ours. She doesn’t even like gin, the daftie! She’s just that giddy to be out from under the thumb. I’ve told her Da drives a harder cart any day of the week than her folks, but she won’t have it.

  She thinks being at ours will make it easier for her to see Tom, but how can it? Less she’s planning to winch him up on the pulleys to the net loft of a Saturday night, for that’s where we’re sleeping – up in the loft with Mam’s lints.

  Tom’s a lad off Da’s boat; Flo’s been walking out with him this past month, ever since she turned sixteen and was allowed. It’s early days yet, but she likes him a deal more than the others who’ve come knocking. They’re all after her, mind, all the lads. Because she’s canny bonny, is Flo, all yellow-haired, sweet and pillowy, like a cream cake from the Howard Street Bakery. And Tom’s a fine-looking lad, right enough, though a bit of a rogue for the lasses. But he’ll have his own boat one day soon, no bother, for Da says he’s forever on about the gear and the way things are going, and nagging Da to get shot of the long lines come winter and go over to the otter trawl – though he’ll have a job shifting Da over to that monster load of metal gear.

  I turned sixteen back in March, but I’ve never walked out with a lad yet, so I’ve been bursting to ask Flo how it is with Tom, where they go and that, what it’s like being kissed. But I’ve been shy till now, because these are not things a nice lassie speaks about, and Flo’s never been a one for smutty talk. But maybes now we’re in the loft together she’ll let on a bit.

  Speak of the Devil, here’s the lad himself, broad and dark, gallumphing down the steps towards us, hoying a rolled sail on his shoulders – fresh from the cutch tank, russet and reefed like a giant’s tab – and our Jimmy’s got the other end of it, clomping along behind like a shadow.

  ‘Why aren’t yous at home?’ says I, for this is normally the time for the lads to catch up on their sleep after a night out chasing the shoals.

  ‘Your da’s sent us to fix this afore we set out,’ says Tom – and he’s not looking best pleased. ‘The old un ripped in that squall last night. And a couple of lints were holed, so he’s wanting them switched too.’

  He sets the sail down and fetches out his bakkie tin. ‘Why it couldn’t wait till Saturday, I don’t know,’ he grumbles, leaning against the wall and rolling a tab.

  ‘Da said we can sleep on the boat later, going out,’ says our Jimmy. ‘But I don’t see him missing his precious lie down.’

  Now here’s Flo giving Tom her sideways look. ‘I’m shifting to Annie’s today,’ she says. ‘So that’s where I’ll be if you want to find me.’ She’s pulling her scarf off and shaking out her hair, which I’d do too if I’d hair like that to show off.

  ‘And why would I want to do that?’ says Tom, teasing like and leaning in.

  ‘I don’t know,’ says she, teasing back. ‘Maybes go for a bit walk?’

  ‘And where were you thinking we could walk to?’

  And they’re off on one of those flirty blethers that go nowhere and are just a sort of daylight canoodling, so I leave them to it and turn to our Jimmy.

  He’s taken a pinched out tab-end from behind his ear and is lighting up. ‘Mam’s on about me shifting to Nana’s today,’ he’s saying, ‘but I won’t have time now.’

  He’s looking tir
ed, but handsome enough, I suppose, in his tidy way, though you hardly notice when Tom’s about. And I’m thinking it must be rough being on Da’s boat, soft lad like him, with Da on at him the whole time.

  ‘I’ll hoy your stuff over if you like,’ says I. ‘I’ve to take the bairns along later anyway, most likely, as I can’t see Mam finding the time.’

  ‘What’s that?’ says Tom, coming over.

  ‘I’m hoying Jimmy’s shiftenings over to Nana’s,’ says I.

  ‘Well, mind you don’t leave it too late coming back,’ says Tom. ‘Bonnie lass like you, on her own, could be asking for it.’ And he leans a hand on the wall over my head, so it’s almost like he’s got his arm around me, and it’s me who’s his lass instead of Flo.

  I feel like ducking away, but don’t want to make a fuss – because it’s just Tom, isn’t it, and means nowt. Still it’s a mite too bold, the way he’s leaning over, looking in my eyes, then down at my mouth, then lower, to where my boobies are pushing at my blouse, smiling and checking me over, like a ransacker at a net, like he’s never seen me before.

  I glance round for Flo, but she’s nipped into the sweetie shop along the lane. Which means he’s waited till her back’s turned, hasn’t he? And I’m just building up to asking what he’s about, when the dinger on the shop door goes and he straightens up, all casual, like nothing’s happened.

  There’s a sort of awkwardness between me and Flo after the lads have gone, which starts me wondering, did she see? Even though I know fine well that she couldn’t of. But the thought that she might of is making it so’s I can’t think of anything to say, which is not like me at all.

  So now she’s looking suspicious at me, and asking am I jealous of her walking out with Tom. Which gets me into a right flummox, gabbling no no, don’t be daft, and he’d never look at me anyway. Which is a barefaced lie, because that’s exactly what he was just doing, which is why I’m flummoxing in the first place.