A Wedding for the Cornish Girls by Betty Walker

A Wedding for the Cornish Girls by Betty Walker

Author:Betty Walker [Walker, Betty]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollinsPublishers
Published: 2023-06-26T17:00:00+00:00


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Penny lowered herself gingerly from the ladder and into John’s waiting arms. She gave a little squeak of alarm as the boat skittered beneath the new weight, adjusted itself and steadied, its old timbers creaking and protesting. ‘Oh Lord, I feel seasick already. Does it always move up and down like this?’

John burst out laughing. ‘Mostly, aye. But you get used to it. Only, do try to remember, a boat is a she. Not an it.’ He put a hand lovingly on the wooden deck rail, worn smooth with age. ‘You don’t want to hurt her feelings, do you? Poor ol’ Mary Jane.’

‘However can you hurt a boat’s feelings?’ Penny demanded, and then added hurriedly, seeing his frown, ‘Oh, I forgot. You’re all terribly superstitious, aren’t you? I suppose it’s risking your life on the open sea that does it. Sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin your luck, honest.’

‘Ah, it’ll take more than a slip of the tongue to ruin our luck,’ John’s grandfather told her cheerfully. The old man, standing above them on the quayside, waved his hand as he set off back to their cottage. ‘I’ll see you boys dreckly. Tatty-bye for now.’

John caught her surprised look and whispered in her ear, ‘Grandpa doesn’t unload the fish these days. Got a bad back. That’s why I’m here, see? To help Pa get the fish out and off to market.’

‘Dreckly?’ she whispered, puzzled.

He laughed. ‘It means … straightaway, but in a little while too. A Cornish word. You’ve never heard it?’

‘Once or twice,’ she admitted shyly. ‘Only I never knew before exactly what it meant. Thank you.’

His father was busy further along the deck, bending to load a crate with fresh-caught fish, their plump, shining bodies hauled out from a deep pit with wooden sides set on the open deck. Once full, he handed this heavy crate to John, who placed it effortlessly on his shoulder, climbed the iron rungs of the ladder and hoisted it up to a man waiting above them on the quayside.

As he scaled the ladder, the small boat swayed, so that Penny was obliged to plant her feet firmly to avoid staggering about.

‘There you go, Frank,’ John said, adding, ‘There’s a few more herring to come yet.’

Frank grunted, taking the crate. ‘Nice day for it.’

‘Can’t complain.’

The man, who was wearing a rubber apron and a woolly hat against the cold, carried the fish crate along the quay and slung it into the back of an elderly van painted with the words, Frank’s Fish Stall, in elegant cursive alongside a depiction of a shiny fat herring. Then he came back for the next load, which John had already fetched to hand up to him.

As this process went on, Penny went to peer down into the pit of fish. There, dozens of large, wet, silvery-grey herring lay piled on top of one another, round blank eyes staring up at her, their scales shining in the cold December sunshine. Despite taking a practical view of fishery and farming, she still shuddered at the sight of so much death.



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