Story 6 of 8 Takin’ The Boat
image credit to internet
The Guildhall clock struck six. Thomas shifted irritably. “It’ll be another while before we set foot on her,” he muttered watching the cattle being herded on board. Mary’s back and feet ached. She wished she’d worn her battered old work boots. It felts like days not hours since they walked 3 miles to Strabane to catch the train. The wait in Strabane had been long too. There were cattle on the line at Newtonstewart.
Finally, the word passed down the platform the train was on its way to Strabane. As if to confirm it the shuttered window of the ticket booth opened. There was a flurry of activity and the sound of heavy bags and boxes being dragged along the platform.
Thomas motioned to Mary to take the end of the wooden trunk.
The forward shuffle stopped as abruptly as it had begun. All the way down the long line of passengers Mary heard cursing and muttered oaths as the sharp edges of boxes and suitcases skinned the calf of their neighbours’ legs.
Raised voices could be heard and the dour face of the ticket master could be seen glowering out from behind the bars of the ticket window
“What’s the hold-up now,” a woman grumbled.
“Shut yer gob, woman, ‘til ah hear what they’re arguin’ abot,” the man beside her ordered in a strong Scottish accent
Ignoring him, the woman demanded to know. The man gave an aggravated sigh. “A lassie is askin’ in Gaelic for a ticket and the bloody clerk disney know word she siyin. The Boat leaves on the dot of svvin,” the man went on. “I’m no piying for a new ticket.”
“They’ll wait if the train is late,” the woman said calmly.
“Do you know Irish? “Thomas asked Mary.
Mary shook her head. She’d had a teacher who’d came from down the country who’d taught them songs in Irish but she had no idea what the words meant.
“Why doesn’t she ask for her ticket in English,” Mary said.
“Shush.” Thomas glanced around to check if she’d been overheard. “She doesn’t know the English for the ticket she wants,” Thomas said. He’d witnessed rows and fights in the bothies between Gaelic speaking tattie pickers and gaffers demanded they speak in English because they thought they were ridiculing them.
A frisson of animation stirred the crowd as a man, with a head of wild curly hair stepped up the platform with long strides as if he was measuring out a field of potatoes. From the flush of red on his clenched jaw Thomas guessed he had been dragged away from the bar in Railway Street. He’d put money on it he was the gaffer of the group the woman was with.
Planting a calloused fist on each side of the ticket window the gaffer leaned in, his face only separated from the railway official by the iron bars. With a sour look, the clerk pushed a ticket under the grill just as the train belching out black smoke puffed hurriedly into the station.
Mary was brought back to the quayside by the shouts of the crew to each other as the rope shielding the gangplank was tossed to one side
Like an incoming tide, a wave of passengers surged forward and Mary found her face jammed into the back of the woman in front. “Plant your feet and keep movin’ forward,” Thomas ordered. Mary’s feet felt like lumps of lead. “Move forward Mary. Use your shoulders and elbows if you have to,” Thomas shouted as a woman with a crying child pushed into the gap that had opened between them.
Thomas glanced behind him. The street through Shipway Gate and in the street beyond the City Walls was black with passengers all jostling to get aboard. “C’mon, help me with the box, Mary,” he ordered. “We might be lucky and get a spot on the floor where we can get our heads down for a bit of a sleep during the night.”
Mary looked at him in alarm. “Sleep on the floor?”
“Aye. It’s is a cattle boat. Did you not see them packing them in like fish in a barrel all the while we’ve standin’ here? The cows will have more room than us the night. The owners take the likes of us as payin’ passengers to keep the cost down,” Thomas said dryly, pushing ahead and dragging Mary and the wooden trunk with him.
The smell of fresh mature clinging to her clothes, Mary stumbled up the gangway and grasping the rough hands of the crew, she stepped over the gap between the gang plank and the passageway of the ship.
“Watch your feet,” Thomas warned sidestepping a scattering of sawdust on a brown spot on the deck “There’s a place,” Thomas said weaving between passenger who had planted themselves and their baggage in the middle of the floor. “Mary! There, by the window.” He pushed her in front of him.” Quick, get it before somebody else gets it,” he panted hitting against a passenger as he manhandled the heavy trunk single-handed.
“Your man’s like mine, the masterful, kind,” a woman laughed making it to the seat before Mary. Mary recognised her as the woman whose husband had told her to shut her gob when they had been standing in the queue at Strabane Station. Not sure how to take the woman’s remark she sat down in a space between wooden seating and leaned her head against the cabin wall.
“I’m Gertie,” the woman went on. She looked keenly at Mary. “You two not long married?”
“Not long,” Mary said hoping the woman wasn’t from the Clonleigh parish and had heard the gossip. “Aye, you can always tell the new wife. She hasn’t learned to handle her man yet,” Gertie laughed. “Is this your first time to take the Scotch Boat?”
Mary nodded.
Gertie patted the wooden form beside her and took a thick cut piece of oaten bread from her bag. “We might as well eat before the smell of the vomit and the cow dung makes us sick,” she said offering her a piece.
Mary’s stomach heaved at the sight of red jam seeped like drops of blood into the scone bread. She looked to where Thomas and the trunk had got stuck in a bottleneck between two narrow forms. “Will you keep my seat,” she asked just as the big man with the wild hair helped Thomas free the trunk.
Sitting with her back to the wall and her knees drawn up to her chin Mary tried to stretch her legs. There was a creek in her neck and her backbone ached from sitting on the hard deck. It was black as coal outside now. She wondered how much further it was to Scotland.
Her eyes searched the maze of people for Thomas. He was nowhere to be seen. She needed to pee but if she moved she’d lose her spot. The urge to go grew stronger. Where was Thomas? Was this what it was going to be like living in Glasgow? Him disappearing for long stretches of time? A wave of homesickness swept over her. She was beginning to think her Granda had been right.
Her thoughts flashed back to yesterday. She had crossed the River Deele using the makeshift wooden bridge the scholar used and marched in the front door and into her Granda James’ bedroom to see if what they said about him was true.
Her mother had went puce in the face with rage when she saw her.. But Granda had been overjoyed. “Glasgow is no place for the likes of you, Mary. Let Thomas go on his own. You were made for a better life than living in the Tenements of Glasgow,” he told her.
“She’s made her bed. She’ll lie in it,” her mother’s voice said vehemently from the doorway. “I’ll not have it said a navvy like Thomas Cannon, left her a grass widow and her in the family way.”
Mary startled but before she could answer Granda James heaved himself up on his elbows. “Out! Out of my sight woman,” he bellowed, making the bedclothes quivered with anger.. “Before I sin my soul and have to confess to that creeping Jesus, Father Hughes, who thinks he’s the Bishop of Derry!”
In the silence that descended Mary heard her mother’s step move off the carpet runner on the landing and clatter down the stairs. Her Granda heard it too. Hastily he searched under the mattress and pulled out a leather bag tied at the neck with bailing twine. “Hide it in your bloomers,” he said thrusting it into Mary’s hands.
Mary’s face blazed crimson at her Granda James mentioning her underwear.
“Not a word to your mother or any of them,” he warned as he heard a creak on the landing.
He had taken her hand then and surveyed the ring on her wedding finger. “What done can’t be undone?” He sighed deeply.” It’s likely you’ll be comin” to see me in Clonleigh graveyard when you get back…”He held up his hand as Mary began to protest. “It’s alright. Your granny and your father is there waitin’ for me. But listen to me. No matter what your mother or Cassie says this will still be your home after I’m gone. The farm, lock, stock and house are left to John.”
There was a sudden movement at the door. Mary’s mother stood there her eyes burning like two red hot coals. “You’re not in your right mind. You can’t do that,” she shouted storming into the room.
“Go on, Mary,” her Granda sighed lying back on his pillows. “And may God go with you. But if you’re ever in need don’t forget what I told ye.. John will see to you. “
And Mary,” he whispered his voice barely audible, as she bent over to give him a hug and a kiss,” Remember the pound in yer pocket is the best friend you have.”
“What’s wrong? Why were you crying,” Thomas said in alarm staring at the dried tears stains on Mary’s face and the temper that flashed in her eyes.
“You! That’s what’s wrong. Do you know everybody on this stinking boat? Get out of my way. I’ve been dying to go to the lavatory for hours.”
Beside him Gertie laughed. “Your new wife is a fast learner,” she chuckled.
When Mary got back Thomas was deep in conversation with the curly haired gaffer.”…It could work out for both of us,” the gaffer was saying. “Your woman could work inside in the bothy. All she’d have to do was get the gaffer’s breakfast, wash his clothes, clean his boots and make sure there’s a fire for the workers to dry their clothes,” he said, running his eye over Mary’s well-heeled leather boots and good quality coat.
Thomas considered it. It would mean him and Mary would both have jobs and a place to live until they got on their feet.
“And a man like you – able to read and write – could keep account of the loads of spuds sent to the railway station. There would be a bit extra in it for you, “the gaffer said persuasively.
“Thomas has a job waiting for him in Glasgow and the promise of a shared house,” Mary put in interrupting the two men’s conversation.
The tips of her husband’s ears grew red. Mary knew she had embarrassed him.
“I’m more of a navvy than a harvester, “Thomas said by way of apology shaking the gaffer’s hand.
Below them the cattle started to low. “It never fails to surprise me how the cattle know when it near time to let them off at Merklands,” Gertie said into the sullen silence. “Next stop Broomielaw Quay and Glasgow.” She nodded in Thomas’s direction. “Your man huffed. You showed him up in front of that big fella.” She winked at Mary. “Make it up to him the night. That always puts a smile on their face –for a wee while,” she laughed.
Thomas was still not speaking to her when they disembarked. Silently he marched in front expecting her to follow. Watching his stiff unbending back his mother Bell’s words jumped into Mary’s mind.
Thomas had taken one look at the dinner of pigs feet and potatoes Mary had cooked and refused to eat it.
“Let him be,” Bell said sharply as Mary made to apologise for her lack of cooking skills. “Start as ye mean to go on,” Bell said pulled the spitting iron kettle from the open hearth. “He’ll eat it before it eats him,” she said handing Mary a mug of strong tea.
Mary felt the swing of the money bag against her hip. Funny that, she thought, I didn’t tell Thomas about it. But she’d crochet a purse in the shape of a heart with Bell’s name on it, placed two half-crowns inside and slipped it into the pocket of her pinny.
She shaded her eyes. There was no sign of Thomas. Further down she saw a sign for teas. It made up her mind. Gathering up the vanity case Cassie had given her she decided she was going no further.
Gemma Hill copyright 2020
Gemma Hill Writeyou Writeme 