Stewart
18th Sep 2006, 14:37
Already it was morning. The crashing sea was audible from down in the harbour, and the damp wind lashed off the window, streaks of saltwater running down the glass. Into George Mackintosh’s room the morning chill slipped, overpowering the still crackling hearth. George had been sitting in the tatty armchair, his feet resting on the small table, watching his newborn son sleeping in his crib. He looked outside for a moment, watched the rain blur the view, before lifting his feet and dropping them to the floor. Grow fast, son, he thought, I can’t take the mornings if they are going to be this long.
The baby twitched, turned its head, and continued to sleep. He was his father’s son. That the storm outside hadn’t troubled the lad meant he’d grow up to be a strong fisherman, a master of the sea. Yes, definitely his father’s son.
George stood up from his seat, found his footing, and walked over to the fire. He held his hands over the embers and felt little heat. So he picked a couple of bricks from the copper scuttle and tossed them into the fire. They crackled but failed to burn and, grabbing the poker to the side of the hearth, he stoked a feeble flame from the warmth beneath the ashes. It seemed no stronger than a candle as its amorphous spark massaged the coal.
The clock atop the mantelpiece had stopped during the night, its hands frozen a few minutes after two. Whatever time it was, going six maybe, the sun had begun its ascent. George could see a glimmer of sky through the rain-splashed window, the orange of dawn filtering through the ashen clouds. He would need to get a move on; the fish never came to him.
A splash of water would be enough, icy cold water, to clean the hands and wash the sleep from his eyes. Then down to the harbour to ready the Brenda for a day’s trawling. Callum and Kirk would no doubt be there already, mending the nets and greasing the runners. They would understand if he was a little late.
There was a creaking behind him as he rubbed his hands under the dribble from the tap. Laura, his daughter, was coming downstairs from the loft. She had swathed herself in a lengthy housecoat, a sash securing it to her budding curves. Her dark hair was untidy from the pillow, knotted locks hanging past her shoulders.
“Morning, Da,” Laura said. She saw the fire was still burning when she reached the last step. “Have you slept much?”
“Nah,” George said, shaking his head. “There’s too much to think about.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t go fishing then. A rest would do you good.”
George turned from her and looked at his son. “I can’t do that. If anything I need to work harder. We have another mouth now.”
“How is he?” Laura walked over to the crib.
“He’s fine, I think. Not a peep from him all night.”
Laura smiled. “He does look peaceful.”
“It’s just as well,” George said, “I don’t know what I’d have done if he’d started crying. Your mother always handled that when you started.”
Laura’s smile fell away. “I miss her.”
“We both do.”
There was a framed photograph of Jill on the wall; a sepia portrait where she looked out over her family, her smile muted to something more resembling a frown. Her hair, dark brown like Laura’s, was lifted high in a tight bun, from where it then cascaded down her back.
It hurt to look at the picture so soon after her death. Maybe in time he would be able to look at it and smile as the memories washed over him. But right now the memories, even the happy ones, carried a sting worse than being salt-whipped by the wind. They hurt on the inside. George reached up and took the photograph from the wall; a clean patch of wallpaper lay underneath.
“What are you doing?”
“I can’t look at her now. Not now, not so soon.”
“You can’t forget her!” Laura reached forward and grabbed the photograph from her father’s hands. And, raising her voice: “She’s more than just a picture on a wall.”
The baby stirred at his sister’s outburst, the skin around his eyes wrinkling as his mouth opened to cry.
“Now look what you’ve done,” George said. He bent down to hush the child, his hands dallying over, unsure of what action to take. “Come on, son,” he said, “quiet now.”
Laura put the photograph on the coffee table and, pulling back his covers, scooped the boy from the crib. She bobbed him up and down in her arms, whispered to him. He was soon settled, his wail reduced to a gargle. “That’s it.”
George watched, taking mental notes. He hadn’t heard what she’d whispered but assumed it to be nothing important. It was the sound that calmed the boy, not the meaning.
“I think he’s just hungry,” Laura said. Then she leaned in close to the child and, her voice low, said, “Aren’t you? Yes, you are.”
Here was a mother in the making. Her fifteen years belied a certain maturity beyond. All that time spent with Jill while he was out on the Brenda had taught her the lessons of motherhood. In a few years, God permitting, she would make good use of them.
“You’ll make a fine mother one day.”
“In a way I’m a mother already.” Laura’s eyes glanced down at the boy and returned to meet her father’s.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll be out fishing all day,” she said. “You can’t take a child out to sea.”
“And you can’t claim parenthood over your brother.”
“But I will be the one that raises him, at least until he’s old enough to fish.”
George nodded. “Feed him, yes. Clean him, yes. I suppose you will be like a mother to him.”
Laura looked at the photograph on the table. “I’ll make sure he knows who his mother was. His eyes are beautiful,” she said, “like hers.”
“Yes, blue like a calm sky.” George looked out the window. Although the storm had relaxed, there was still the occasional drop of rain speckling the glass. The clouds were almost gone and the orange of dawn was now fading to the same shade as the boy’s eyes.
“You should get a move on,” Laura said. “There’ll be nothing on the table tonight if you don’t get out there.”
George looked at the clock, forgetting that it had stalled. “You’re right. I’m surprised the guys haven’t come looking for me.” He collected his boots from beside the door and plunged his feet into them. “Damn, these should have been next to the fire overnight.”
“Ma would have done that for you,” Laura said. “She always did.”
“I know,” he said. “It was the little things like that that made her special. You just don’t appreciate them until they stop.”
Laura placed her brother back in his crib. His chubby arm reached up for her, his little fingers clasping the empty air. “We’ll get you fed soon.”
“I should be back after lunch,” George said.
“I know.” Laura didn’t look up from the boy. “You always are.”
“But I shall need your help, Laura.”
“With what?”
“The herring catch. Your mother’s no longer here.”
A look of disgust creased Laura’s face. “Am I to be a wife as well as a mother?”
George took his jacket from the hook on the door. “No, of course not. We just need to pitch in together and work these things out.” He struggled with threading his arms through the sleeves of the coat. “Help me, please.”
Laura stepped over to him and took the jacket, holding it open for him to slip his arms into the hollows. As his hands appeared round the cuffs she helped it over his shoulders. “There, all done.”
“Thank you,” he said and, pulling it from his pocket, he placed his bunnet atop his greying head. “We’ll speak later.”
“Fine, fine.”
The key was in the door and just needed turned. As George opened the door a gust of wind stole in and extinguished the fire in the hearth. Laura drew the boy’s covers over him.
“Hurry up and shut that, it’s freezing.”
George gave her a half-hearted smile as he closed the door.
This piece is a fragment from a novel idea set around a Scottish fishing village circa 1907. Personally, I think the dialogue (and my dialogue in general) is a bit weak, so apologies for that. I'm trying. It's untitled, despite the title of this thread. And if I was to rewrite it, then baby would be crying. :-D
The baby twitched, turned its head, and continued to sleep. He was his father’s son. That the storm outside hadn’t troubled the lad meant he’d grow up to be a strong fisherman, a master of the sea. Yes, definitely his father’s son.
George stood up from his seat, found his footing, and walked over to the fire. He held his hands over the embers and felt little heat. So he picked a couple of bricks from the copper scuttle and tossed them into the fire. They crackled but failed to burn and, grabbing the poker to the side of the hearth, he stoked a feeble flame from the warmth beneath the ashes. It seemed no stronger than a candle as its amorphous spark massaged the coal.
The clock atop the mantelpiece had stopped during the night, its hands frozen a few minutes after two. Whatever time it was, going six maybe, the sun had begun its ascent. George could see a glimmer of sky through the rain-splashed window, the orange of dawn filtering through the ashen clouds. He would need to get a move on; the fish never came to him.
A splash of water would be enough, icy cold water, to clean the hands and wash the sleep from his eyes. Then down to the harbour to ready the Brenda for a day’s trawling. Callum and Kirk would no doubt be there already, mending the nets and greasing the runners. They would understand if he was a little late.
There was a creaking behind him as he rubbed his hands under the dribble from the tap. Laura, his daughter, was coming downstairs from the loft. She had swathed herself in a lengthy housecoat, a sash securing it to her budding curves. Her dark hair was untidy from the pillow, knotted locks hanging past her shoulders.
“Morning, Da,” Laura said. She saw the fire was still burning when she reached the last step. “Have you slept much?”
“Nah,” George said, shaking his head. “There’s too much to think about.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t go fishing then. A rest would do you good.”
George turned from her and looked at his son. “I can’t do that. If anything I need to work harder. We have another mouth now.”
“How is he?” Laura walked over to the crib.
“He’s fine, I think. Not a peep from him all night.”
Laura smiled. “He does look peaceful.”
“It’s just as well,” George said, “I don’t know what I’d have done if he’d started crying. Your mother always handled that when you started.”
Laura’s smile fell away. “I miss her.”
“We both do.”
There was a framed photograph of Jill on the wall; a sepia portrait where she looked out over her family, her smile muted to something more resembling a frown. Her hair, dark brown like Laura’s, was lifted high in a tight bun, from where it then cascaded down her back.
It hurt to look at the picture so soon after her death. Maybe in time he would be able to look at it and smile as the memories washed over him. But right now the memories, even the happy ones, carried a sting worse than being salt-whipped by the wind. They hurt on the inside. George reached up and took the photograph from the wall; a clean patch of wallpaper lay underneath.
“What are you doing?”
“I can’t look at her now. Not now, not so soon.”
“You can’t forget her!” Laura reached forward and grabbed the photograph from her father’s hands. And, raising her voice: “She’s more than just a picture on a wall.”
The baby stirred at his sister’s outburst, the skin around his eyes wrinkling as his mouth opened to cry.
“Now look what you’ve done,” George said. He bent down to hush the child, his hands dallying over, unsure of what action to take. “Come on, son,” he said, “quiet now.”
Laura put the photograph on the coffee table and, pulling back his covers, scooped the boy from the crib. She bobbed him up and down in her arms, whispered to him. He was soon settled, his wail reduced to a gargle. “That’s it.”
George watched, taking mental notes. He hadn’t heard what she’d whispered but assumed it to be nothing important. It was the sound that calmed the boy, not the meaning.
“I think he’s just hungry,” Laura said. Then she leaned in close to the child and, her voice low, said, “Aren’t you? Yes, you are.”
Here was a mother in the making. Her fifteen years belied a certain maturity beyond. All that time spent with Jill while he was out on the Brenda had taught her the lessons of motherhood. In a few years, God permitting, she would make good use of them.
“You’ll make a fine mother one day.”
“In a way I’m a mother already.” Laura’s eyes glanced down at the boy and returned to meet her father’s.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll be out fishing all day,” she said. “You can’t take a child out to sea.”
“And you can’t claim parenthood over your brother.”
“But I will be the one that raises him, at least until he’s old enough to fish.”
George nodded. “Feed him, yes. Clean him, yes. I suppose you will be like a mother to him.”
Laura looked at the photograph on the table. “I’ll make sure he knows who his mother was. His eyes are beautiful,” she said, “like hers.”
“Yes, blue like a calm sky.” George looked out the window. Although the storm had relaxed, there was still the occasional drop of rain speckling the glass. The clouds were almost gone and the orange of dawn was now fading to the same shade as the boy’s eyes.
“You should get a move on,” Laura said. “There’ll be nothing on the table tonight if you don’t get out there.”
George looked at the clock, forgetting that it had stalled. “You’re right. I’m surprised the guys haven’t come looking for me.” He collected his boots from beside the door and plunged his feet into them. “Damn, these should have been next to the fire overnight.”
“Ma would have done that for you,” Laura said. “She always did.”
“I know,” he said. “It was the little things like that that made her special. You just don’t appreciate them until they stop.”
Laura placed her brother back in his crib. His chubby arm reached up for her, his little fingers clasping the empty air. “We’ll get you fed soon.”
“I should be back after lunch,” George said.
“I know.” Laura didn’t look up from the boy. “You always are.”
“But I shall need your help, Laura.”
“With what?”
“The herring catch. Your mother’s no longer here.”
A look of disgust creased Laura’s face. “Am I to be a wife as well as a mother?”
George took his jacket from the hook on the door. “No, of course not. We just need to pitch in together and work these things out.” He struggled with threading his arms through the sleeves of the coat. “Help me, please.”
Laura stepped over to him and took the jacket, holding it open for him to slip his arms into the hollows. As his hands appeared round the cuffs she helped it over his shoulders. “There, all done.”
“Thank you,” he said and, pulling it from his pocket, he placed his bunnet atop his greying head. “We’ll speak later.”
“Fine, fine.”
The key was in the door and just needed turned. As George opened the door a gust of wind stole in and extinguished the fire in the hearth. Laura drew the boy’s covers over him.
“Hurry up and shut that, it’s freezing.”
George gave her a half-hearted smile as he closed the door.
This piece is a fragment from a novel idea set around a Scottish fishing village circa 1907. Personally, I think the dialogue (and my dialogue in general) is a bit weak, so apologies for that. I'm trying. It's untitled, despite the title of this thread. And if I was to rewrite it, then baby would be crying. :-D