You’ll get the claw.
(You’ll get punished.)
As she arrived at the shore with Nettie and Janet early one morning in March, Sorcha paused where the harbour wall met the ocean. Salt spray kissed her face, the tang of seaweed made her nose twitch, and the ballet of gulls on the thermals delighted her eyes; the cries of the terns and shearwaters, and the steady sucking of the tides, were a welcome chorale. It was hard to credit that over two months had passed since she’d returned. Behind her, women were busy drying the wives who’d carried the men out to the boats. Wet stockings were held before a fire as they all downed a dram or two before starting work.
Sorcha left her friends to help the other wives and jumped off the harbour wall and wandered along the shore. She headed towards the skerries, kicking the occasional rock, throwing up the coarse sand with the toes of her boots. With the arrival of spring, the snow was gradually ceding to frost and sea-driven fogs, even allowing the sun its brief moment on the stage. Today, the sun had no such impediments and tentative fingers yearned across the heaving Forth to bathe her with their warmth, a warmth that didn’t reach her insides. Damn Captain Ross. Just when she’d started to think he was different to other men, he acted in a manner that turned all her feelings into a maelstrom.
She picked up a pebble, weighing it in her palm, and flung it as far out to sea as she could. She watched the splash it made without satisfaction. Why did she care so much? Why did her chest feel so heavy and her eyes burn? It was because of what had happened to Bel — Isobel Courie.
Bel was a single woman about whom the reverend had spoken in harsh terms due to her predilection for the soldiers stationed about the town. A week ago, Bel had told Sorcha and Nettie she was pregnant. Worse, it turned out the father of her unborn bairn was a Corporal Robert Varner who, she’d just learned, was already married. Sorcha wasted no time seeking out the captain and encouraged Bel to confess all to him.
Expecting the corporal to be punished for using and abusing Bel, Sorcha discovered that far from disciplining the man, Captain Ross, on the advice of the kirk, sent him away. Robert Varner was rowed out to a man-o’-war late one night, never to be seen again. Furious at what she saw as his lack of accountability, last night Sorcha had marched straight to where Captain Ross was staying. She felt she owed it to Bel to say something. Anyway, hadn’t the captain told her she could ask him anything? In her mind that included telling him things as well — including things he mightn’t be so inclined to hear.
Much to her chagrin, he was more amused by her anger than apologetic.
Invited to step inside, she’d refused to move beyond the entry hall. He waited till she’d spent her fury before he responded.
‘Mrs McIntyre, I assure you, Isobel Courie is much better off without the likes of Corporal Varner in her life.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ snapped Sorcha, ‘being a man. You no more care about a woman without a husband, without a father for her bairn, never mind means of support, than you do where you put your quhillylillie.’ She flicked her hand in the direction of his groin.
Appalled that her tongue had run away with her and she could speak to him using such language, her face coloured. It didn’t help that what she said was true. Kennocht and so many other men of her acquaintance were living proof — men who were ruled by their cocks. Her hands curled into fists by her side.
Aware the owners of the cottage and their servants were likely listening, she lowered her voice. ‘How will Bel manage? The man should have been made to own his mistakes.’
She waited.
‘One cannot force a person to own anything, madam,’ said Captain Ross dryly. ‘Much less what you consider a mistake. It’s hard to credit now, but Miss Courie and the bairn will be much better off without Corporal Varner and the kind of support he might offer. We all will be.’ He regarded her with such kindness, she found her rage hard to maintain. Anyway, it wasn’t him she was mad at so much as mankind. If she was honest, Bel wasn’t exactly innocent in all this, it was her wee bairn who would suffer, and that infuriated Sorcha.
Without a word of farewell, she’d stormed off up the street, ignoring those who hailed her, almost knocking over Widow Adams as she barged past the costermonger.
Later that evening she learned from Nettie that the captain had arranged for some of the corporal’s pay to be set aside for Bel. She also discovered from Janet, who heard it in the tavern, that while Corporal Varner may have been married, Bel wasn’t the first lass he’d left with a bairn.
Well, thought Sorcha, I hope she’s his last.
Now she owed Captain Ross an apology for her behaviour. What right did she have to ask him for aid, then to rebuke him when he rendered it? She’d no reason to expect anything of the man, and yet she did. Apologising might be the correct thing to do, but was it wise? Given there was already talk in the village about her and the captain, to seek out his company again would only fuel further gossip.
Sorcha pushed thoughts of him from her mind, and instead she focussed on the silhouettes of the larger ships dotting the coast, returned at last and bringing with them goods from distant shores and, just as important, news.
Out on the water, smaller boats from the Weem, Anster and beyond surged against the currents, the men on the oars until they could raise a sail. She regarded them for a moment, admiring how they came together like dancers in a reel, marvelling at their united purpose to achieve a common goal. Why couldn’t people always be like that?
The rise and fall of voices forced her to turn around and head back. Small groups of fishwives sat together on upturned barrels, their hands as busy as their mouths. Shucking off the melancholy thoughts Captain Ross had engendered, knowing what she must do, she hitched her skirts and joined them, picking up a net and perching on a barrel.
Chatter washed over her. There was talk of how the men who’d returned from a long voyage days before looked and how they were behaving. The fishermen were always a little strange when they came home, walking with a rolling gait, inclined to sleep heavily and drink that way too, seeking each other’s company as if being trapped aboard with the same men day in day out wasn’t enough. Some of the wives despaired when their husbands returned, urging them out of the house even while they were grateful for the wages, companionship and tales they brought with them. Others, like her father and brothers, clung to home and its comforts as if they might slip away like a fish from a hook. Though what Sorcha’s da worried about most was that his wife would disappear.
Sorcha was thinking about her da and wishing she’d been able to give the crew on his boat — her boat — more money, when Beatrix Laing appeared and flopped onto an upturned creel beside them with a dramatic groan. She dropped her bags on the ground and folded her arms beneath her heavy breasts. Her face was the colour of yesterday’s storm.
‘What ails you, Beatrix?’ asked Janet, wielding a needle as if it were an extra digit.
‘What ails me?’ repeated Beatrix loudly. ‘I’ll tell you what ails me. Bairns that have too much to say for themselves, that’s what.’ She pouted.
Sorcha caught Nettie’s eye.
‘Who’s earned your wrath this fine day, eh?’ asked Nettie, returning to her mending. ‘I’d have thought you’d no one left to reckon with, having said your piece to most.’
That raised a few chuckles. Like Janet, Beatrix had a reputation for telling people what she thought of them.
Beatrix grunted. ‘Patrick Morton’s lad, Peter, that’s who.’
Sorcha tried to picture Peter Morton. Like his father, he was a blacksmith. A strapping youth, he had dark brown hair and startling blue eyes. Working the forges and hammering metal had given him a broad chest and shoulders. His da, being close friends with the reverend and the Crawfords, was one of those less than happy to see Sorcha return, but Peter had given her a warm smile and even warmer greeting. When he caught her eye in the kirk her first Sunday back, he’d even dared a wave. He seemed a nice lad, even if Beatrix begged to differ, but then it didn’t take a great deal to upset Beatrix, much to everyone’s amusement. Given her contrariness, Sorcha half-believed the reason Beatrix had made a show of being friends with the McIntyres was simply to annoy the reverend.
‘Och, what’s that spit of water done to upset you?’ Janet put a piece of yarn in her teeth to rethread her needle, focussed on her task.
‘He refused to sell me nails, that’s what.’ Beatrix slapped her leg in disgust. ‘Nails my William needs if he’s going to fix our door. It’s coming apart and if he doesn’t repair it, we may as well live in a cave. Cheeky little bastard refused to part with any, even while dozens sat atop the shelves, right in my line o’ sight. You’d think I’d asked for gold without a penny to pay for it the way he carried on.’
Sorcha hid her grin. ‘I heard he’s making nails for Thomas Whyte’s ship.’ She nodded towards where it lay anchored. ‘It can’t sail till the deck’s repaired. If the lad refused you, Beatrix, it wasn’t anything personal.’
‘I don’t care if he’s making them for the King of France, he needs to be looking after all of us, not just bailies like Whyte. All I wanted was a handful.’
Sorcha put down the net she was restoring and rested her fingers on Beatrix’s arm. ‘I know it’s frustrating, Beatrix, but a handful to you might be the difference between the ship remaining in port or putting out to sea. Without a working craft, the men cannot sail, the fish can’t be caught, purses remain empty, and we all go hungry.’
Beatrix stared hard at Sorcha for a minute before throwing up her hands and shaking her head. ‘Stop being so bloody sensible, Sorcha McIntyre. Just like your da. I think I liked you better when you weren’t here.’ She produced a smile to show she didn’t really mean it. ‘Look, I ken you be telling it true being a boat owner and all, but it’s the boy’s manner that sticks in my craw. He wouldn’t listen to reason or curses.’
As one, the fishwives stopped what they were doing and raised their heads.
Nettie sighed heavily. ‘Tell me you didn’t curse him, Beatrix.’
‘Well, not much,’ said Beatrix, with a twinkle in her eye and a lopsided grin.
Janet shook her head. ‘They’ll be the death of you one day, those curses of yours, you mark my words. They trip off your tongue like prayers from Cowper’s lips. Remember what happened when you cursed the Todd lad?’
Beatrix waved a hand dismissively. ‘That was nine years ago. Even Cowper was forced to let the petition against me go — there was no proof. Anyhow, I didn’t curse the Morton lad,’ she objected. ‘I threatened to make a charm against him.’
Sorcha couldn’t help it, she gave a gasp of mock horror. ‘But that’s exactly what Mr Todd accused you of doing to his son.’
‘Charms mean harm — isn’t that what Cowper says?’ piped up Nicolas who, along with two other fishwives, had been listening to the conversation with no small measure of alarm. ‘Don’t mock. He doesn’t mean harm from the spell, he means the harm that comes to those who cast them if he finds out.’ She waited for her words to sink in. ‘He says they’re the devil’s work.’
Beatrix puffed in disparagement. ‘Do I look like a devil to you? I meant nothing by it. I told Peter if I have any say in the matter, he’ll get the claw — punishment. If not from me, then someone else. You ken what the lad did? Laughed. Right in my face.’ She folded her arms again, brooding.
Nicolas shook her head gravely. Janet rolled her eyes. Slowly, they picked up the nets and resumed their mending.
‘On second thoughts,’ said Beatrix after a moment, ‘maybe a charm is what I need. Not to get those nails for my William, but to remind young Peter of his manners.’
‘And you think a charm is the way to do that?’ asked Sorcha lightly, needle poised mid-air.
Beatrix pushed her hands onto her knees and rose to her feet. ‘For an auld woman like me, it’s the only way. Lads and lassies these days, they’ve no respect for their elders, not any more. If I can’t get it by fair means, I’ve no choice but to use what’s available to me, even if it be foul.’ Her eyes lost focus and she scratched her neck.
‘Aye, well, you be careful, Beatrix,’ warned Janet. ‘Just because you got away with it before doesn’t mean you will again. Problem with charms and curses, once you make them, you never know how they’ll turn out. They’ve a power of their own and shouldn’t be used lightly.’
‘Och, I’ll not be using it lightly,’ said Beatrix. With a last wave, she hirpled her way back to the High Street, a sack of vegetables and a bag of grain flung over her shoulder. Sorcha hadn’t noticed her limp being so pronounced before. Some said Beatrix broke her ankle chasing her husband with a broom after he refused to do something she told him to. Beatrix always said it was running from his advances. That had been years ago and Sorcha knew which version everyone believed. Beatrix had a terrible tongue, but as she said, she meant no harm by it. It simply ran away with her.
As she watched Beatrix leave, Sorcha also noted her friend’s bent back, how her hair was now more white than burned copper. Beatrix might be using what she felt was her only option to teach a lad civility, but Sorcha feared it wasn’t only Peter Morton who’d learn the lesson.