Turn of the Tide Read online

  Turn of the Tide

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Introduction

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Afterword

  The Storm Series

  Copyright

  To little Lola

  Introduction

  Turn of the Tide tells what happened to some of the women and children whose lives were devastated on Black Friday: 14 October 1881.

  The previous book, The Storm, tells the true story of how, on that day, half of the fishing fleet of the Scottish Borders town of Eyemouth was sunk in a freak storm, and 121 of the town’s men drowned.

  Many of them died within sight of their homes, frantically clinging to the Hurkar Rocks that jut up from the water just outside the harbour mouth, and their deaths were witnessed by wailing women on the quay.

  No family in the small town was unaffected by the tragedy, which left behind 80 widows and 260 orphaned children, as well as several fatherless unborn children. People who had been prosperous and contented became grieving paupers overnight.

  Contemporary newspaper reports of the dreadful storm aroused a wave of sympathy from people all over the country, and money poured in to help the afflicted families. Within two weeks, the vast sum of £50,000 was contributed by rich and poor alike – including contributions from Queen Victoria, who sent £100, and a railway signalman who sent half a crown.

  This generous response proved to be a problem, however, for the town authorities could not agree on how and to whom to distribute so much money – the equivalent of more than a million pounds today. In the end, an Inspector of the Poor called Steven Anderson was brought from Edinburgh to supervise the handing out of the charity money on behalf of a committee of local worthies. Anderson was a poor choice because he was a weak-willed, avaricious man who could not resist peculating on his own behalf from such a princely sum.

  Though the money was enough to set the town back on its feet by buying new fishing boats to replace the twenty-one that had been lost, the official committee, consisting mainly of bigoted churchmen, decided instead to give miserly weekly handouts to deserving women and children. Children were to receive half a crown a week till the age of fourteen, and widows five shillings each, providing they led moral lives. Yet these families had enjoyed at least seven pounds a week when their men were working, and they also had their own codes of conduct and morals of which churchmen disapproved. For example, few women married before they became pregnant, many marriages were ‘irregular’, and wives never took their husbands’ surnames.

  Among the recipients of this ‘thin gruel’ charity were three loosely related women, Effie, Rosabelle and Jessie, who clung desperately together, forming a new family unit for themselves. Effie, the oldest, lost her husband and three sons; her beautiful daughter-in-law Rosabelle lost her husband of one week; and pert Jessie was about to be married to Effie’s second son Henry, who also died. Both Rosabelle and Jessie were pregnant.

  The Storm tells how they, like the other women of the tragic town, tried to adjust to their changed circumstances and make new lives for themselves. They all went through the stages of grief – sorrow, followed by anger and finally by a kind of resignation. Effie found solace in caring for her sons’ women and their posthumous children, especially Rosabelle’s son Aaron, whose mother could not clear her mind of the conviction that his father had been a sort of sacrifice for his birth. She found it hard to love him and would have exchanged him for his dead father, if she had been given the choice.

  Jessie, the third of the trio, was the first to recover her spirits and will to survive. Shortly after Rosabelle had Aaron, Jessie gave birth to a girl called Henrietta and, though Effie originally had doubts about her suitability as a wife for her son, she proved to be a loving mother and a support for them all.

  Jessie set about finding work, not only for herself, but for her brothers and sisters too, because her father and brother had also died in the storm and her distracted mother descended into alcoholism and quickly died.

  Rosabelle was a different matter. To Effie’s disquiet, her gloom and sorrow deepened as time passed. Her father was also drowned in the storm and her mother, who could not come to terms with her loss, committed suicide by throwing herself off the pier in Berwick-upon-Tweed.

  Effie feared that desolate Rosabelle might also try to kill herself, for her state of mind never lifted – in fact it worsened when Steven Anderson, the distributor of the fund money, developed a passion for her. Though he had made an advantageous marriage to the daughter of a rich Eyemouth shopkeeper, he was obsessed by Rosabelle’s beauty and persistently stalked her, much to her terror.

  Because the girl was a skilled seamstress, Effie persuaded her to take a dressmaker’s job in nearby Berwick-upon-Tweed, partly to get her out of Eyemouth during the day, but Anderson continued to lay in wait for her at night, and finally cornered her in the dark and would have raped her had she not been able to knock him out and escape.

  Next morning his dead body was found floating in the dock.

  Convinced she had caused his death and could be hanged for her crime, Rosabelle reacted hysterically and Effie feared she would attract attention from the police and give herself away, though there was no reason to believe she had actually murdered Anderson. Jessie took charge and bundled Rosabelle off to London in the company of a mysterious woman, one of her Berwick customers who had seen her talent with the needle and invited her to help set up a dressmaker’s business in the capital.

  After the train carried Rosabelle down to England, Jessie and Effie stayed on in Eyemouth with the children, uncertain if they would ever see her again, especially after Willie Wake, a demented old man who wandered the quay at night, let slip to them that Anderson had been hit on the head and pushed into the dock. Though he did not name the murderer, they were afraid he would implicate Rosabelle and so they resigned themselves to losing her for ever.

  Turn of the Tide tells the story of what happened to the three women and their children in the difficult years ahead…

  One

  On the day after Rosabelle arrived in London, Steven Anderson was buried. The funeral cortège was one of the most impressive the town had ever seen. His wife Hester would have no less.

  The silver-handled coffin was borne solemnly downhill from Beechwood in a huge ebony-coloured hearse with engraved glass windows and drawn by four black horses with towering plumes on their heads. Their harness was covered with black velvet and they bent their necks, mouthing silver bits, as they paced along.

  Effie and Jessie, each carrying a child, were among the crowd of bystanders who watched the procession go by. Since Rosabelle’s departure Effie had not left the house and going to watch the funeral was almost a relief.

  ‘They’ve put on an awfy grand show for him,’ whispered Jessie.

  ‘I always think the more relieved a woman is to be rid of a man, the more show of mourning she puts on. Maybe Miss Hester is glad to be shot of him,’ Effie replied.

  ‘I don’t know about her, but her father certainly is,’ was Jessie’s reply.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘By watching and listening.’

  Hester passed by in the first mourners’ carriage. She looked the picture of grief, encased in total black with a tear-soaked handkerchief held up to her face. Her father beside her was ill at ease because she refused to address a word to him.

  He
r brother Everard was in the second carriage, along with two dejected-looking women – Anderson’s mother and sister, who Hester had refused to allow into the first carriage. They were terrified of her.

  After the mourners filed into the church, people in the crowd began chatting among themselves, airing various theories about Anderson’s death. The most popular opinion was that he had done away with himself because he’d been caught peculating the disaster fund. Others were kinder and thought he might have fallen into the harbour by accident, but there was also a vociferous faction who liked the idea that he’d been murdered, but why or by whom they had no idea. One thing was certain, everyone agreed: Miss Hester would not rest till she found out the truth.

  Effie shivered inwardly when she heard this and turned to Jessie to say, ‘The wind’s snell. The bairns might catch cold. Let’s go home.’

  As they hurried along the alley that led to her house they came upon Willie Wake sitting on the ground with his back against the wall. His lips were blue with cold and he was shivering like a beaten dog.

  Effie bent down to him and said, ‘Aw Willie. You shouldna sit oot here in the cauld. Come wi’ me and I’ll gie you a wee dram to warm you up.’

  He staggered to his feet and held on to her shoulder, saying, ‘Ye’re a kind-hearted weman like yer mother and yer granny.’

  In her house the fire was blazing and he sank into Jimmy Dip’s chair before holding out his skinny hands to the heat. The fire brought out his rank smell, but he’d wakened their pity and Effie poured out a stiff drink for him, putting it carefully in his hand.

  ‘Drink it up. You look as if you need it,’ she said.

  He downed it in one and held out the glass for another, which she indulgently provided because he was as pathetic as a child. The second whisky galvanized him and he sat up in the chair, suddenly animated.

  ‘Thank you, Effie. Now I’ll gie you a wee sang,’ he said.

  She replied, ‘All right, just a wee one I hope.’

  ‘It’s a sang I wrote myself,’ he announced, standing up and rocking on his heels.

  ‘Sing away,’ laughed Jessie, who was always ready for a party, but the smile froze on her face when the old man started singing…

  The deil cam oot on a cold black night,

  And saw a man and lassie fight.

  The lass was fair wi’ yellae hair

  ’Twas better if she wasnae there

  Cause he was oot to dae her wrang.

  But she was swift and she was strang.

  Ae big push was all it took

  Tae shove the bugger in the drook.

  The deil thoct him better die’d

  When he fell aff the auld pier heid.

  The two women in the kitchen stared at each other in horror. For a moment Effie wondered if the old man was trying to blackmail them, but then realized he was expecting to be congratulated on his song. The drink had gone to his head, that was all. The awful thing was that he’d seen what had happened between Rosabelle and Anderson and now he was singing about it!

  Jessie’s reaction was more impulsive. Face flaming red, she ran up to Willie and shoved him so hard in the chest that he sat back in the chair with a thud.

  ‘I dinna like that sang, Willie. Dinna sing it again,’ she told him.

  He looked up at her with rheumy eyes and said, ‘Dinna worry, Jess, dinna worry. I’ll haud my tongue.’ As he made for the door neither of the women tried to stop him.

  When the sound of his feet could no longer be heard on the cobbles, Jessie moaned, ‘He knows. And he’s as daft as a brush. Do you think he really will keep his mouth shut?’

  Effie shook her head. ‘We’ll just have to hope. But one thing’s for sure: Rosabelle winna be able to come back here as long as he’s alive.’

  Two

  When Rosabelle set foot in London for the first time she was overwhelmed by the crowds. The enormous station where they arrived seemed to be crammed with men, women and children, all jostling and pushing at the same time. As her companion Rachelle propelled her through the throng, she shrank back in alarm and panic made her cringe like a wild animal emerging from the seclusion of a forest.

  ‘I want to go home. I want to go back,’ she said, but Rachelle gripped her arm firmly and pulled her towards a hansom cab. ‘You will get used to it. Get in.’ She tapped the cabbie on the shoulder with her parasol and gave brisk directions. In a few minutes they were put down at a rooming house where they rented two furnished rooms.

  ‘Where is this?’ Rosabelle asked, looking around.

  ‘Bloomsbury. But we won’t stay long. I’ll soon find something better,’ said Rachelle cheerfully. Being in London seemed to have rejuvenated her.

  Timidly Rosabelle lifted the edge of the heavy window curtain and stared down into a rain-washed street that was crowded with cabs, pedestrians, dogs, sharp-eyed little boys who looked like thieves and vagabonds, loitering women who occasionally stopped to talk to passing men, and ragged old tramps who searched the gutters – for what? she wondered.

  ‘I’m not sure I’m going to like this place,’ Rosabelle said, without turning her head.

  Rachelle laughed. ‘Give it a chance. Half an hour’s not enough. At least here there aren’t any sea views.’ But her voice softened as she added, ‘New places can be frightening. Give me time to get my money sorted out, and we’ll go into business. Before I left Berwick I had my palm read by a gypsy and she predicted fame, fortune and good friendship for me… You’re the friend she had in mind, I think.’

  This startled Rosabelle. As far as she was concerned, her only friend was Jessie. She was not sure that she even liked Rachelle.

  ‘I don’t believe in fortune-tellers,’ she said shortly.

  ‘I do. The same gypsy predicted that my lover would drown at sea – and she was right about that. I know another fortune-teller in Stepney and I’m going to ask her about setting up our business. Come with me and she’ll read your hand too.’

  Rosabelle shuddered. The last thing she wanted was to have her future told. What if another tragedy awaited her? She’d rather not know. ‘Certainly not! It’s stupid,’ she said sharply.

  Rachelle laughed, not at all offended. ‘But at least come out with me now and see this wonderful city.’

  ‘What time is it?’ asked Rosabelle.

  ‘Half past nine,’ said Rachelle.

  ‘It’s too late. People in Eyemouth are sound asleep by this time.’

  ‘And London’s only coming to life. Put on that big cloak of yours and come out with me.’

  ‘Are you going to the fortune-teller?’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘Then I’ll stay here.’

  Rosabelle spent her first night in the city sitting at the window until the first streaks of dawn appeared in the sky and she realized Rachelle had still not returned. Her heart began thumping in panic and she was convinced she had been abandoned, left in this heartless city with only her carpet bag and three half guineas stitched into the bodice of her chemise. Her consolation was to feel the hardness of the coins against her left breast.

  She was about to put on her cloak and make her escape when there was a tap at the door and a young girl appeared with a big jug of steaming water which she placed on a washstand.

  She said something to Rosabelle, who stared in confusion, not understanding a word.

  ‘You foreign?’ the maid asked slowly and loudly. Rosabelle understood that at least.

  Am I foreign? I suppose I am, she thought, and nodded.

  ‘I’ll tell mistress you want cawfee, awright?’ said the girl and flounced out.

  In minutes, a tray appeared with bread and a steaming jug of dark brown liquid like nothing Rosabelle had ever tasted before but which warmed and soothed her. She was still making plans to escape when she heard the sound of feet on the landing and Rachelle burst in.

  ‘Good. You’re up and dressed!’ she cried as she helped herself to the dregs of the coffee pot. Her face was beaming as she
spread a fan of banknotes out on the tabletop. ‘I’ve had a very useful night,’ she cried, throwing out a hand like a performer in a circus.

  Rosabelle stared at the sheaf of notes in disbelief. ‘What a lot of money!’

  ‘Yes, it’s enough to find us a place to rent in Mayfair. We’re getting out of this poky hole as soon as possible.’

  It was like being swept up in a whirlwind. Before she knew what was happening, Rosabelle was hurried out of the rooming house and into another cab that carried them along streets that became wider and smarter with every hundred yards they covered.

  Today the sun was shining, and she stared out at elegant houses and grand shops as they passed. Seeing her amazement, Rachelle laughed and asked, ‘Changing your mind about London yet?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ was the cautious reply.

  ‘Wait. There’s better places than this. We’re going to Mayfair. I saw my gypsy last night, and she told me not to waste time.’ Rosabelle wondered if Rachelle was deranged. Perhaps she ought to head for the station and home. Would it not be safer to brave out the Anderson problem than career around London with a mad woman?

  She could not leave, of course; she had no idea where she was, and anyway, part of her was intrigued.

  Before midday they arrived at a flat-fronted, elegantly furnished eighteenth-century house off Piccadilly. Number 49 Half Moon Street.

  To her amazement she heard Rachelle tell the landlord, ‘I’ll take it for five years.’ When they were alone again, Rosabelle protested, ‘You’ve signed a lease for five years! What if we don’t get any work?’

  ‘Trust me. We will.’

  Installed in Half Moon Street three days later, Rosabelle summoned up enough courage to walk down the street on her own, but was appalled at how little regard London people seemed to have for each other. No one stopped to chat, said ‘good day’ or smiled when they passed her. The carts and carriages flowing along Piccadilly looked like a terrifying wall, impossible to breach.

  Because she wanted to cross to the other side, Rosabelle stood timidly among a group of women beside a street sweeper who stepped into the traffic and grandly stopped its flow so they could cross.