Wes’ley – traditionally, a financial gift to an unemployed trawlerman, usually from a fellow fisherman, implicitly reciprocal; a godsend. The term is derived from the westerly winds that are favourable to the fishermen as they facilitate fishing in the protective lee of eastern shores.
Red morning light floods the cobbled alley. Four hours earlier, steam-breathed, clog-shod lumpers clacked their way down dock. Now, factory workers and shop assistants rattle bicycles. In the ground floor window of 3 back of 24 Bridge Street, a young boy stares vacantly at the passers-by. His gaze turns to the richly coloured comic he has picked from the pile of Superman adventures that he almost knows by heart. A radio plays loudly in the tiny front room.
“ …depression moving across Scotland from the west will bring about an end to the recent cold…”
The boy sniffs, gripping his cold toes as Jimmy Olsen quizzes Lois Lane about Clerk Kent’s absence
“…winds over England will change from south-east to south-west bringing in unusually warm weather for March, probably causing fog-banks on eastern coasts as warm air is cooled by the cold waters of the North Sea…”
The boy ignores the banging of a shoe on the floor of the room above.
“…change quickly however as the wind continues to turn with breezes bringing fresher air from the west. Temperatures will range…”
The light shade vibrates as the thumping persists and is joined by the sound of a muffled voice. The boy moves slowly to open the door and stand at the foot of the stairs to hear more clearly.
“David, will you turn that bloody radio down fro Christ’s sake. Then come up here,” a voice croaks loudly.
When David appears at the bedroom door his mother’s jewelled hand reaches from beneath the sheets, beckoning him forward. Carol’s head is cradled on the pillow by a hairy tattooed arm. “ Go to the shop and get us ten Woodbines. Here’s a shilling. Tell Mr Buckle I’ll let him have the rest this afto… Go on then!” she urges the boy who is examining what he can see of the face of the man in his mother’s bed. “And remind me to wash that vest tomorrow…and put some pants on before you go out!”
She hears the front door slam shut, the scraping gate, the metallic tapping on the cobbles. She tips her head and closes her eyes. David is wearing her high-heels again.
Carol is drinking tea and fussing coloured chestnut hair at the kitchen table when her son returns. “You avn’t been to the shops in your bathing trunks again, David?” she laughs. “They’ll think you’re daft. And god knows what they’ll think of me. C’mon, give us them cigs, I’m gasping.”
“Has that mister gone?”
“Yes, love, and here,” she says, passing him a scented handkerchief, “wipe that snot off your lip.”
“Did he bring me a comic?”
“No he didn’t, darl, I’ll see if I can get you one today,” she says, blowing across the saucer before sipping from it and putting it down on the coffee table with a bull-fight scene under dusty glass.
Carol lights the coal fire while David reads. She races around flicking a duster over the mantle-piece, moving the black pouffe to where the television used to be, randomly running the carpet cleaner across the rug, sweeping, briskly, the linoleum borders of the room. Before the mirror, above the fire-place, she adjusts her hair and lip-stick, coughing once at the intrusive smoke of burning coal as she touches up replenished mascara.
“Now there’s milk in the cabinet, David. There’s corn-flakes left, and bread and jam as well. And because you’ve been a good boy this week, I’ve left a Milky Bar on the window sill for you. Don’t open the door to anybody but Auntie Brenda, and if that Stevo comes pestering, don’t let him in. Tell him I’m out all day. All right darl? Give us a kiss then.” He continues to read, comic spread across red and white marble patterned thighs as she kisses his head. “Haven’t you any clean socks? Remind me to wash some tomorrow. All right? Byee!” she sings, adjusting the sneck before closing the door behind her.
She moves trimly down the passage. The lines of her nylons are almost perfectly straight, the Woodbine held daintily in straight splayed fingers and the hem of her pale blue cardigan rides high on one buttock as she skilfully navigates, on silver stilettos, the open ground left during the blitz when she was a baby. The delicate dance-like progress changes to confidant striding as she reaches the broad pavements and terraced streets of Grimsby’s Victoria Ward.
Carol and Ivy are singing merrily in The Rainbow Bar. It is noon and it will not be long before scores of men flood from the docks on new-found-land legs, dressed in neat pleated suits of pink, fawn, grey and shades of blue. Their black shoes and slick hair will sparkle and white shirts dazzle in the early spring sunshine. Freeman Street will be alive with rolling men, taciturn, toughened by rough weather and hard labour; but today they will be gregarious and gentle, mostly. Happy men home for two nights before heading back to Arctic frost and Atlantic gale. Today, they will drink, and curse and spend, on themselves, each other, and anyone in their company. When the pubs close at three o’clock they will go to a club until five, travelling by taxi the hundred yards or so between the two. At five they will go home and change into a second suit, fresh shirt and shoes and return to town to eat, drink, dance , laugh, sing. Some, perhaps, will fight. Policemen will skilfully direct most of these homeward. Others will, of necessity, be locked-up. Many will be accompanied by girlfriends or wives. Others will find fun, joy and solace with women like Carol and Ivy.
Alex Bradley is seeking solace. He is not one of the confetti crew fluttering along Freeman Street, on the ‘trawler-man’s crawl’ from the Lincoln to the Lion. He is out of a ship – without work. Currently unpopular with employers, having failed to meet his ship for one trip and refusing to sail on another when the lure of the land held him tight in the arms of a warm woman, he is now having to bide his time until the owners think he has learnt his lesson.
Alex has another problem – the cards. He is a chancer, ever confident that luck is about to turn the corner into his street. Just now that is Shit Street. He owes big money and Barney Conlon is not the kind of man to wait too long. He is possessive of his own, known to be impatient beyond a point, rumoured to be ruthless when he feels respect is being denied. And Alex has been intolerably daring.
It is a sorry looking Alex that Carol sees as he steps his way through the tea-time crowd of shoppers, school-kids and two-day-tycoons. “C’mere you gorgeous hunk of man!” She cries, tripping across the road to tweak his prick with expert gentleness. “Why’ve you been avoiding me?”
“Waiting for a ship, Carol, darling,” he says in a dull voice in which she hears powerful evidence of defeat.
“Come with me,” she chuckles. “We’re off to meet Ivy in here.” So firm is her hold that Alex’s resistance is futile as she drags him up the steps into the Red Lion lounge. Ivy is saving a seat. Carol orders vodka and lager, takes Ivy aside and tells Alex to mind the drinks while they go off to powder their noses.
He allows himself a wry and temporary smile as these hard, tough, generous women make their raucous way through the lounge, then glumness returns as he relives the morning’s events.
He had gone to Barney’s house to offer to work off as much of the £600 quid as he could until he found another ship, and then he’d pay the balance at the end of the trip. He’d hoped Barney would be impressed by his desire to settle. Barney’s lady-friend had opened the door and invited him in. She had poured him a drink. Asked him his business. Sympathised with his position. Found him attractive. Attempted to entertain him. Seen him aroused. Refused to take no for an answer. Worked on him expertly and eventually had her way. They had been disturbed by Barney’s lieutenant, Valentine Starr, who had come to collect the girl. Alex had escaped through the bedroom window, dropping onto the out-house roof and scrambling down to the eight-foot alley to the main street, hoping he had not been seen and recognised. The relief had been short lived in the nagging thought that here, probably, was another nail in his coffin, should the girl tell Barney who the visitor had been.
David sits in the corner, eating a sugar sandwich, out of view of the window at which Stevo’s unshaven face is pressed. He cannot see Auntie Brenda dragging Stevo away, beating him about the head, but he hears and ignores the muffled shouts and the dustbin rolling.
Carol and Ivy touch up their lips in the Lady’s room. Carol speaks and Ivy’s face displays, in turn, regret, amusement and then agreement before they step purposely into The Ranch Room.
A wild-west scene fills the mural on the wall beside the bar. Gun toting cowboys pursue renegade Indians across dusty red landscapes while women and children hide behind wagon wheels in which blazing arrows burn. Crowds of men drink spirits and beer in the thick smoke. Shoe polish lids, nailed to basket work tables, capture the little ash and the tabs that do not litter the floor. All heads turn as Carol and Ivy announce their arrival with a series of hoots and a hint of tango movement as they make their pitch.
“Ello my big, brave, Danish friends,” Ivy sings.
“And guests from Iceland and Norway too,” Carol smiles, sensually.
“A special Grimsby welcome to you all,” Ivy continues.
“Bargain price for feel and touch, yes?” Carol offers. “Sixpence for these and a shilling for this. No charge for squeazy bum if you are gentle. Pat and squeeze is all for now. How about you, Viking?” she softly growls.
The blond giant grins as he stands to feel deep in his pocket, checking his change, assisted by Carol who pouts her lips and sits back on the table while the customer samples the goods. As his arm reaches round her she spins away,” Later lover,” she says, tapping his nose with her bright red fingernail and looks to trade elsewhere. The men whistle loudly, shouting things the women barely understand. All smile at Carol and Ivy as they waltz, laughing, out of the room. The men don’t mind. They still have drinking to do. The girls will be back later.
Alex grins as they rejoin him. He has heard the cheers and whistles and guessed what was going on.
“Change this for us, Bev?” Carol asks the barman, “and top these drinks up with what coppers are left.”
“We’re out-on-the-town-tonight,” Ivy sings, squeezing high on Alex’s thigh.
“Well…” he begins as Bev brings over the drinks.
“What a splendidly bold pair of tarts you are…” the barman is gushing,”…may your shame be always conquered.” He hands Carol £4.00.0d, taking the silver for himself. “Commission!” he says, tapping his nose.
Carol pushes the notes deep into Alex’s pocket. “ Here’s a little Wes’ley for my favourite seaman,” she whispers huskily, “from the Scrobs next door.” Alex laughs and blushes at the same time.
“Well…what?” Ivy asks.
“Well I can’t afford to be seen by Barney Conlin until I’ve got a lot more than this,” he says, patting his pocket. “I’m thinking of going through to Fleetwood for a ship until I can pay him back, like. If I hang about here too long I might not get the chance.”
“Then there’s only one thing for it, chuck,” Carol says. “How about we go down dock with a bottle . and see if old Bob has a berth to spare. Ivy, go and find yourself a friend. You’re with me and I’m paying the fair.” Alex laughs softly, dropping his head, entertaining the absurdity of him, these wonderful women, and what they are about to do.
A select few among the fishing fraternity, and their female acquaintances, know that if old Bob, fish-dock night-watchmen, trusts you to keep your lips sealed, and if you can provide him with half a bottle of something warming, then he might know of ships where none are aboard and quiet, private, parties can be had.
In the aft quarters of the Arctic Lynx, Alex and Carol, having disposed of considerable whiskey and vodka sing country songs until silenced by the heavy tread of feet on deck. They clamber from the berth, Alex adjusting trousers, and stumble into the narrow gangway. Above the hatch, an arc light beam sets three tall figures in silhouette.
“Get her out of here!” the cold voice of Valentine Starr orders and four hands drag Carol screaming form the cabin. She kicks as one covers her mouth to stifle the curses and tries to bite but the grip is too firm. They carry her up the deck to the whaleback cabin, one holding her ankles, and squeeze through the narrow hatchway where they throw her down on a rough bunk.
It is there she wakes, her left cheek throbbing and sore. Light filters through the hatch opening. It is still night. She pulls at the heavy, rusted, creaking door and looks down the sloping orange yellow deck. The air is still and damp. Carol makes her way down to the cabin where she and Alex had been. He is gone.
They must have taken him. There is every chance that the docks police will want to know what she is doing there in the dark. They will suspect her of ‘intending to solicit’ and take her in. She is not having that. She will walk along the North wall and the beach, across the railway bridge and home.
The Blundell Park lights shine in the black sky. “Match is still on. Can’t be so late,” she whispers to herself. She will be able to get home, changed, and be back out in time for a trick or two.
The ground beneath is uneven and one heel breaks as she makes her way across the quay., over and along the North Wall, until she can climb down onto the cold dry sand. A necklace of lights glitters on the river, ships waiting for the incoming tide that will allow their return to port and home. Occasional thunderous roars spill over the stands of the football ground as Carol walks, shoes in hand, keening her eyes for sight of the railway footbridge that will carry her back inland.
But fog falls fast. Thick and heavy. Wet and cold. It moves up the river with a speed that alarms her. The roar of the crowd becomes a vague moaning as the salt tinged grey blanket wraps itself around her and extinguishes the stadium lights completely. Shivers of fear and cold converge and Carol shakes, unsure of position or direction. Turning here, there, trying to catch the sound of the crowd. Left she thinks. Now it rises. No. Yes. To the right. She turns again. It rumbles, from the left. Which way is she facing? Grimsby? Cleethorpes? The river? How can she tell? Teeth rattle and knees shake. Everything is grey. Her feet are barely visible beneath shifting sheets of mist. She cannot feel her toes. Her arms are cold. Hair hangs heavy, clinging to cheeks and neck. Damp drips from her nose. Cold. Too cold to stand still. Must move. Must find the bridge. Which way? Listen. Football. Yes! There! That way! Left! Carol steps purposely leftward.
She is found by a dog three miles downstream on the Haile Sand. It’s ten-year-old girl owner always walks the dog here after school. It often disturbs lovers in the sand dunes. This evening it has raced out to the sandbank where he likes to sniff around the relics of wooden ships where they sometimes peek above the sand.
“…and that ends Children’s hour for this morning. This is the BBC Home Service…” .
David reaches for his comic. Supergirl is carrying unconscious Superman back from the Cave of Shadow to the Fortress of Solitude. He is wrapped in her protective cape. She warms his face with her Super-breath.
“…Cromarty, Forth, Tyne – North Westerly 5 – occasional rain – mainly fair…”
A key turns in the lock. It is Aunty Brenda with two people and a policeman. Aunty Brenda is crying.
“…Dogger , Fisher…”
The lady tells him that his mummy will not be coming home anymore, that she is going to take him to a place where there will be other girls and boys to play with. He touches her blonde hair.
“You look like Kara,” David says to her.
“Who’s Kara, David?”
“Supergirl of course, Superman’s cousin. Everyone knows that. Here she is, look,” he says, holding out his comic which she asks him to read to her.
“German Bight, Humber. Westerly 4 – drizzle at times – moderate with fog patches – becoming good…”
Aunty Brenda has helped the man to find some of David’s clothes. She is telling him how David calls her ‘Aunty’ but that she is really only a friend. He asks David if he would like go for a ride in his car. David smiles and nods.
The sleek white taxi has been turned pink in the sunset. As it slides out of the alley, Auntie Brenda and the policeman watch David grinning, and return his energetic wave.
“ …a man has been found dead, floating in Grimsby Fish Dock. Police say the man has yet to be identified…”.
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