Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [49]
“Up in the morning’s the game, lad,” one rumbled with a glance at Jackie.
“Not that there’s owt to climb from your pit for today,” commented another, dragging his eyes away from the sea to peer up at Scarborough Castle. High on the cliff under the glowering sky the battlements gazed immovably at the North Sea jostling the Yorkshire coast at their feet.
Jackie nodded acknowledgement of their welcome before leaning on the rail to look down into the harbor. The Gin fretted and chewed at her mooring like a tethered stallion eager to run free. Her gunwale fenders butted the stone pier then scraped up and down as she rolled with the tide. He squinted at the painters fore and aft that held her fast. Not trusting his eyes, he ambled down to check them with his fingers. Kneeling as he looked down into her, he reassured himself she had not made too much water during the night. But then she never did, tough and sure, clinker built like Scarborough cobbles had been for centuries. He ran his eyes over the gear to make sure it was all still stowed securely.
He stood up again, hands in his pockets, eyes measuring the horizon, white caps breaking like flurries of snow all the way in. They marched, rank upon rank, battalion on battalion, to smash in a creamy froth through the harbor entrance. They scoured the outer granite piers, collapsing, slick and oily, into a swell that left the boats nudging each other worriedly. The sea was growing even while he watched. As the clouds writhed and twisted across the sky, the wind howled down across the North Sea, tearing spindrift from the galloping waves and flinging it away with careless hands.
There was nothing more to be done. He glanced back at the men near the Posthouse, imagining their grumbles as vividly as if he stood among them. They echoed his own. He turned his back on the wind, hunching his shoulders and set off.
“Where’s thou off to, lad?”
Jackie turned. “Over to the hut. There’s always work there.” He waved as he trudged away.
Inside, the shed was dry and gloomy with a strong smell of fish bait. Lobster and crab pots were stacked along one wall, their floats standing like spears, ragged marker flags limp. Curled long lines spiky with hooks and a curtain of drying nets cast inky shadows. There were no windows so Jackie lit a hurricane lamp, then pulled a handful of dry leaves from the tinderbox to lay in the bottom of the stove. Twigs followed then slats from a splintered fish box. He lit a taper from the lamp and touched it to the tinder. A wisp of smoke before a flame sprang alive. Uncertain, it flickered before catching hold, the leaves gnarling into embers. As tongues of flame began to lick at the box slats, he patiently fed on driftwood from the stack by the door.
Minutes later the interior of the hut was cozy, his face reflecting the glow of the fire as he warmed his hands. Tendrils of steam ventured from the kettle he had filled. He knew Harry kept a store of illicit tea hidden behind the nets. As he steeped the tealeaves in the pot he smiled, knowing how expensive the drink would have been if bought legally. The tea tax was ridiculous, but they put a heavy tax on everything. Who could blame a poor man for getting a bit here and there whenever there was opportunity? Everyone knew the squires and gentleman farmers bought as much brandy and gin as the free traders could sneak ashore. Even the Excise man turned his back when it suited, as long as a keg or a bag of tea was to be found in his outhouse the next morning.
As he sipped, Jackie looked about the hut. The spare long lines had to be unraveled and cleaned, and the lines already baited for today and wound into their creels would have to be stripped. They had already been lying ready for several days. Now, by the time the weather turned the bait would be too ripe. He drained his mug and made a start on the first line.
Jackie