The Fisher Lass (31 page)

Robert watched Tom Lawrence walking along the deck, the slip of white paper he was holding fluttering in the breeze. The man seemed to be hesitating about what to do and now Robert saw him
glance up and look directly at him. For a moment their glances met and held, then Tom moved forward and began to climb the ladder to the bridge.

As the captain half-turned and held out his hand for the piece of paper, Tom saluted and said, ‘Message for Lieutenant Gorton, sir. Of a personal nature, sir.’

The senior officer’s eyebrows rose and he glanced at Robert with a slight frown of disapproval on his forehead. At sea, such an occurrence was strictly against regulations, but here,
almost home, even the skipper relaxed a little too. When he said nothing, Tom persisted, ‘With your permission, sir?’

The sub-lieutenant due to take over the watch from Robert, had arrived on the bridge a few moments before Tom and so, released from his duties, Robert turned towards Tom and saw at once that in
the man’s eyes now was a mixture of anxiety and sympathy.

‘Sir . . .’ Even his voice was hesitant. ‘I am very sorry, but I have some bad news for you.’

Robert swallowed but said nothing. He was glad that Tom Lawrence could not read his thoughts, wild and irrational as they were. All he could think of at this moment was, it can’t be
Jeannie else he would be the one receiving the bad news, not me.

Tom was speaking again and Robert forced himself to listen. ‘It’s your – your wife, sir. She’s been killed in an air raid in London.’

Poor Louise, poor little girl, was Robert’s first thought. The pretty, bright, pleasure-seeking child, who had not been able to resist London even when the Blitz had been at its height,
was gone, her butterfly life crushed. He felt a deep sorrow, not so much because he loved her, for he did not and never had, not in the same way that he loved . . . No, no, he must not think of
her, not now. Poor Louise, he thought again, she hadn’t deserved to die in that way and so young too.

Tom Lawrence was still standing before him, making no move to leave him alone with his supposed grief. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but there’s something else. Your brother, Mr Francis . .
.’

Robert’s eyes bored into the other man’s, his voice harsh and abrupt. ‘What about him?’

‘He was killed too, sir. In – in the same air raid.’

Now Robert turned away abruptly before Tom could read anything in his face. Robert knew that Tom Lawrence was editing the truth. He could have said, so easily, that they were together, maybe
even in the same bed. For without being told, Robert knew, instinctively, that was the case. He had felt for some time, though he had no proof, that he was being cuckolded by his own brother.

What a shame, he thought dispassionately, that Francis had not been the chosen one to unite the two companies by marrying Louise Hathersage.

Then he realized and the sudden knowledge hit him like a forty-foot wave.

He, Robert Gorton, was now not only the senior partner and head of the Gorton-Hathersage Trawler Company, but he was also Louise’s next of kin and consequently would inherit her shares
too. It was an awesome responsibility.

Now briefly, he turned back to face Tom. Quietly, he said, ‘Thank you for taking it upon yourself to be the one to tell me. It can’t have been easy for you.’

Tom gave a quick nod, saluted and turned away. As Robert watched him go he thought, I wonder if he realizes just how very lucky he is to have Jeannie as his wife.

‘So, your fancy man is free now and head of a giant company.’

Two days later on a brief shore leave, Tom faced Jeannie across the kitchen table, a sneer in his tone and bitter resentment in his eyes.

Calmly Jeannie continued kneading the dough for the bread she was making, though deep inside she sighed. She glanced at him and, her mouth tight, said, ‘I’ve more things on my mind
than listening to your jealous imagination running riot. What are you going to do about the boys running away to sea? Can’t you do anything to get them brought home?’

Tom shrugged. ‘They’re eighteen in a few months. Hardly worth it now, anyway. I still haven’t worked out how they could have got away with it. Didn’t you ask
him
to pull a few strings to get them out?’ When Jeannie did not answer, he added, resentfully, ‘I bet it was Sammy’s fault. He’ll have shamed our Joe into going. Made him feel
a coward if he didn’t.’ Tom fell silent and Jeannie glanced at him, wondering, fleetingly, if that was what had made Tom volunteer for the Reserves. He wouldn’t have wanted to be
branded a coward when all the other fishermen were joining up.

‘They went together,’ Jeannie said aloud. ‘I think it was mutual agreement.’

Tom gave a snort of derision. ‘Huh, pull the other one, Jeannie. They don’t get on. You can’t tell me they’ve gone together. They were always fighting.’

‘Well, they have and now they’re fighting side by side instead of each other.’ Her fear for their safety lent a bitter sharpness to her tone. ‘War makes strange
bedfellows of folk.’ She looked at him meaningfully now.

Tom sat down in the chair by the fire. ‘It does that,’ he said heavily. Softly, he added, ‘It was me told him, y’know?’

The time for pretence was over. There was no point in feigning ignorance for Jeannie knew full well who Tom was talking about.

‘About his wife and his brother?’

‘Yeah.’ He paused and then added, ‘First time I’ve ever felt sorry for him, y’know? Fancy being told that your wife’s been killed in bed with your
brother.’

Jeannie gasped. ‘You told him that?’

‘Not in so many words, but he knew. Oh he knew all right.’ He looked up at her then. ‘Jeannie, just tell me. Please. Is there anything going on between you and him?’

Jeannie set the bowl of dough beside the warm fire to prove and knelt down on the hearthrug. Leaning her elbows on his knees she looked into his face and said, ‘Tom, there is nothing
between us. Never has been and never will be. I was brought up a good, God-fearing Scottish lassie and the vows I made in the kirk to you I have kept and I always will.’

There was silence for a moment. ‘Till death us do part, eh Jeannie?’

Jeannie swallowed the lump in her throat for every day death was very close to both of them. She reached up and touched his cheek. ‘You’re a good husband, Tom Lawrence, and a good
father, I’ll never say otherwise. But I just wish you’d stop imagining things that aren’t true.’

He leant down and gathered her into his arms, holding her tightly and burying his face in her hair. Hoarsely he said, ‘I’ll try, Jeannie, I promise I’ll try. But you’re
everything to me. I love you so much, I just couldn’t bear it if . . .’

‘And I love you, Tom,’ she said and stroked his hair.

She closed her eyes tightly and pressed her face against his shoulder and prayed silently, may God forgive me for this lie.

Another legal-looking letter arrived addressed to Mr Samuel Lawrence and joined the first behind the clock on the mantelpiece to await his next leave. And whilst speculation
ran rife, no one, this time, seemed to have definite knowledge as to the contents of Mr Francis Hayes-Gorton’s will.

‘They’ll have to pay a lot of death duties, won’t they?’ went the gossip. ‘Two of ’em dying so close together like that.’

‘Dunno. Shouldn’t think the company’s worth all that much just now. More’n half the trawlers have been converted to minesweepers and fishing’s difficult even in the
near-waters.’

‘Aye, ya could be right.’

But the person who could have told them what was in Francis’s will, was far out at sea, serving on a destroyer. On his eighteenth birthday, Samuel Lawrence had no idea that he was now a
major shareholder in the Gorton-Hathersage Trawler Company.

Aboard the minesweeper, the alarm bell shrilled and the order ‘Action Stations’ was given. Immediately, they heard the whine of enemy aircraft overhead and Robert
looked up to see six screaming down towards the ship. The seven guns on board were given leave to fire independently and the splatter of bullets arced skywards.

Two bombs hurtled from the bellies of the planes swooping low across the deck. They splashed into the sea on the starboard side, sending a plume of water into the air. The ship rocked under the
turbulence.

Robert, standing beside the skipper, dispatched a rating to report any damage. The young lad was running along the deck when it took a direct hit. Helplessly, Robert watched as the blast blew
the youngster off his feet and over the side of the ship. Several others were lying injured on the deck now, but the guns above the bridge swung to follow the path of the plane, the rapid fire
never faltering.

‘Fire!’ The cry went up as flames erupted from the hole in the deck and, with growing horror, Robert realized that just below where the bomb had fallen was not only a crew room, but
the radio operator’s room too.

Jeannie’s husband could be dead or dying, but though Robert’s whole being cried out to scramble down the ladder and run in search of Tom, duty kept him on the bridge, calmly carrying
out the orders of his commanding officer.

The next few chaotic minutes seemed to take an eternity to live through until, with the ship burning fiercely and listing badly to port, the captain was forced to give the order to abandon
ship.

Only then, when it was an ‘every man for himself situation’, could Robert go in search of Tom. The heat almost defeated him, singed his hair and scorched his arms as he held them up
to shield his face. But desperation drove him on. Jeannie, Jeannie, was all he could think. He must find Tom for Jeannie’s sake.

He was slumped over his radio, his fingers still grasping the dials as if he had been trying to send a last urgent message. Robert hauled the inert figure on to his shoulder in an ungainly kind
of fireman’s lift and, finding a strength he hadn’t known he possessed, staggered towards the hole in the side of the ship. Then he pushed Tom through it and followed him into the water
below.

For a moment, he thought Tom had sunk beneath the waves, but suddenly, there he was, bobbing up beside him. Robert grabbed at him and began to swim, dragging Tom away from the ship that looked
as if it would go to the bottom at any second.

At what he considered a reasonably safe distance, Robert trod water, holding Tom’s chin up. ‘Hold on, man,’ he kept saying. ‘Think of your family. Think of Jeannie. For
God’s sake, hold on.’

At last, with the help of some of the crew, Robert managed to have Tom hauled out of the water before willing hands pulled him into the life-raft too.

They were in range of the coastal lifeboat, but it was four hours before they were found and picked up. Four hours in which Robert held Tom to him, trying to keep him warm, trying to keep him
alive.

As the lifeboat man climbed down into the life-raft to help the cold, oil-covered men aboard, one said, ‘Let him go, sir. He’s dead.’

But Robert clung on to Tom’s still form, whispering hoarsely through cracked lips, ‘No, oh no. How will I tell her?’

‘Come along, sir. We’ll have to leave him.’

‘We must take him back. We must take his body . . .’

‘We can’t, sir. The lifeboat’s already overloaded. We must think of the living.’

Robert’s reason, for a moment, had deserted him, but the calm, rational tones of the lifeboat man brought him to his senses.

‘You’re right, of course. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m thinking of.’

Still with reluctance, Robert and the lifeboat man gently tipped Tom’s body into the waves. Robert crossed himself, bowed his head and muttered a short prayer.

‘Friend of yours, was he, sir?’ the man asked kindly.

‘Sort of,’ was all Robert could say, for all he could think of was, how am I to tell Jeannie?

As Robert stood outside the door of the Lawrence home, part of him wanted so much to see her again and yet his heart quailed at the news he must bring her. He glanced briefly
over his shoulder up and down the street and saw a lace curtain fall back into place.

Within minutes, all the neighbours would be aware of his visit. He knew that. But this time, it was different. This time only he could be the bearer of this news, painful though it was.

The door opened and she was standing before him and as he said swiftly, ‘May I come in . . .’ she pulled the door wider and gestured for him to step inside.

Almost before she had closed the door, shutting out the inquisitive gaze of the neighbours, he turned to face her and said, ‘I’m sorry to come with bad news.’

Her hand was still on the door knob and now she leant against the door, staring at him. ‘It’s Tom, isn’t it?’

He nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. We were attacked by enemy aircraft and the ship took a direct hit just above where he worked. It caught fire and he was badly burnt even before I got to
him. We began to take water fast and we had to abandon ship. I kept him with me, tried to keep his spirits up, but his injuries and then being so long in the water, well, I’m so sorry,
Jeannie. He died in my arms.’

She moved woodenly to sit in a chair and rest her arms on the table. Robert followed her. He did not sit down but went towards the range where he reached up for the tea caddy on the mantelpiece
above, catching sight as he did so of the two unopened letters. He spooned tea into the pot and poured boiling water into it from the kettle which always stood on the hob. Then he took two cups and
saucers down from the dresser and set them on the table.

‘Milk?’ he enquired gently and Jeannie gestured towards a pantry where the milk stood on a cold stone slab.

Moments later he pushed a steaming cup of strong tea towards her and ordered gently, ‘Drink it.’

Automatically, she obeyed him. He noticed, as she put the cup back on the saucer with a clatter, that her hands were trembling. ‘You – you tried to save him?’

He said nothing, merely nodded.

Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Thank you. Whatever you did, thank you.’

He looked at her directly then, stared at her for a long moment before he said, ‘Anyone would have done the same.’

She nodded, but hoarsely she whispered, ‘Oh yes, I know that. But only
I
know what it must have cost you.’