Gremista – teaming with coopers and foreman coopers, busy with the thousands of brand-new barrels they’d spent all winter making: shifting them, stacking them, prising their lids off so the packers could fill them. And in between barrels they were replenishing the salt tub by each packer and checking the selection baskets beside and behind each gutter to see that every one contained only the size it should – matt full, medium, filling, full, large full, mattie…
Gremista – with its hundreds of Scots fishergirls bent over the wooden farlins, knife in one hand, herring between thumb and first finger of the other. One quick upward stroke and gills and guts plopped into the gut tub, a flick of the wrist and the herring was in its basket and you were reaching for another herring, and another, and another – sixty or seventy a minute, twenty thousand in a day – day after day, week after week – and all for 8d. a barrel, shared between each crew of three. Barrels of mediums, fillings, fulls, large fulls, matties, matt fulls…
Gremista – where hour after hour Bridget was bent double over her tier of four barrels, packing layer after layer of salt, herring, salt, herring – herring always heads to sides, tails to middle, black backs showing at the bottom, silver bellies at the top. Then on to the next tier of barrels, until she heard Mairi’s call of, ‘There’s baskets full’ – and then the three of us would run with two heavy baskets swinging between us, running over to the big rousing tubs where they’d lie and soak up still more salt while waiting for Bridget to pack them in layer after layer – but by now Mairi and I would be back at our farlin, knife in one hand, herring in the other – and I’d be longing for my gut basket to fill up so I could run to empty that. I volunteered to empty Mairi’s too, since I could run faster than her and she was faster than me at gutting the filling, full, large full, mattie, matt full, medium…
Gremista – with its rows and rows of wooden huts, huts that we scrubbed out and even wall-papered on arrival, huts with screens at the windows so we could sleep in the never-ending day of a Shetland summer, and with a curtained-off corner which we slipped into to use wash basin and chamber pot (well, the other five did, I generally made my own arrangements.) Huts with big open fireplaces where the black kettle hung down from the sway over a fire (coal provided free by the curer) on which we cooked porridge, mince, potatoes, light fluffy doughboys and heavy, filling suet dumplings. And, of course, fresh fried herring – full, large full, mattie, matt full, medium, filling…
Gremista – where on a Monday no herring were landed because of the Sabbath, so we had to spend our time in sacrificing some of our packed barrels to top up the the others – which had settled down by now. No piece-work on Mondays, instead we were paid 3d. an hour and went home early to do our mending – well, Mairi and Bridget mended. I generally found it easier to live with the holes, or buy new stockings at Lerwick with the money I’d saved from Mr Henderson’s allowance. Not that I got through many pairs of stockings, because that year the weather was so good and Jeannie’s boots so cramped that whenever Mairi wasn’t looking I’d tug them off and stand barefoot at the farlin. But barefoot or not, however late we finished of an evening always I went running down to the sea to swim and swim until at last I’d washed off the reek of large full, mattie, matt full, medium, filling, full…
Gremista – where on the first quiet day we six Helspie girls dressed up in our Sunday best and walked down to Lerwick to have our photograph taken. I’ve got it here beside me now – our Sunday best looks so absurdly old-fashioned today, and when I peer at my own smiling face I seem so unbelievably young.
(That’s strange, you’ve just been in, and picked up the photo – and after closely inspecting my soon to be seventeen year old self you said, ‘How curious, you look older then than you do now.’ Then, putting it down again you asked, ‘What are you doing, Eve?’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I’m just writing the story of my life and loves.’ And thinking I was joking you laughed. You know, I’m still not sure if I’m ever going to show this to you – perhaps an edited version?)
Anyway, you’ve gone out again now, so it’s back to Gremista where I gutted thousands and thousands of silver herrings – mattie, matt full, medium, filling, full – and large full.
* * *
But I was not a good herring gutter.
Oh, I could gut herring, alright. With Helspie being a curing station I’d had more practice than most first-timers, and my speed soon came in. Obviously I wasn’t as fast as Mairi, but I could keep up a good pace, and the cooper who checked our baskets didn’t often find a mistake in my sizing.
No, that wasn’t the problem. The problem was, that that summer I was growing up. But I didn’t realise it, even though as I swam of an evening I saw that my small breasts were becoming fuller and plumper, and my hips – well, they were still slender, but somehow they were more there. And when I sneaked behind the hut to pull on my breeks they were tight across the backside and yet, mysteriously, too loose at my waist. So I should have seen it, but I didn’t. I suppose I didn’t want to see it.
No, I know I didn’t want to see it. For all my pride in my new hairstyle and long skirt I wasn’t ready to be part of the adult world. I wanted my childhood back – that childhood which had been so summarily cut short in India. So there were times that summer when I behaved like a child. A badly behaved child.
Mairi had been right, gutting is about teamwork; not just working as a team but living as a team, too – living together six to a one-roomed hut, three to a bunk, day after day.
The working I could cope with, the living I couldn’t. And didn’t want to. I’d never wanted to be one of a group of girls, and I didn’t now. I was wary of girls, and in a group I didn’t actually like them – they were too much there. Talking and doing things in ways I didn’t understand and didn’t want to understand.
It was rather like being back at school again. There were all those mysterious unwritten rules, rules which the other girls knew and kept, and which I didn’t know and didn’t want to keep. Anyway, I’ve never been much use with rules, unless I can see the point of them. At the farlins I could, though even there I argued: ‘Why don’t they make the troughs shallower, so we don’t have to stoop so much?’ ‘And then, if they sloped up we could reach—’ ‘Why can’t we—’ Oh yes, I argued – but the coopers were men and would simply say, ‘Put a sock in it Eve and get some work done.’ I could accept that, and when Winnie Finlay whispered, ‘Oh Eve, how rude – you were only asking!’ instead of basking in her sympathy I said casually, ‘I’m not bothered – I can give as good as I get.’ And I could, too, where men were concerned. But Winnie, whose well-meant sympathy had been rejected, was offended. Only unlike a man she didn’t express her offence; instead she was huffy and a touch sharp for the rest of the afternoon – and I was left bemused.
Though even I could sense there were times when the other Helspie girls had been talking about me – there’d be a sudden silence as I came into the hut, and Mairi would have the anxious look of a mother hen who’s unwittingly hatched a crow’s egg. Poor Mairi, I was a trial to her. I can see that now, even laugh with her about it. Last time I saw her we were reminiscing about the gutting and with a shake of her head she said, ‘You were awful, Eve – going swimming with no costume on, sneaking your boots off whenever I wasn’t looking – and you just can’t imagine what the other girls said about those wretched breeks of yours – !’
I held out one long leg. ‘Slacks are the latest fashion.’
‘Not in Helspie they aren’t – and they certainly weren’t then.’ She shuddered. ‘You’ve no idea what I went through with Bridget.’
I said, ‘I saw her down the post office this morning – she never changes, does she? Still the same old Bridget.’ And we both started laughing again.
But I wasn’t laughing then as Bridget pointed an accusing finger at my tell-tale combination of soaking-wet plaits and bone-dry swimming costume and announced, ‘I did tell you, Mairi – I warned you. That Eve Gunn, I sai
d, she’s a wild one, she is – and that’s the truth of it.’ The disapproving shake of her head was followed by, ‘You mark my words, I said, if she comes with us, there’ll be trouble.’ Mairi would try to defend me, ‘That’s not fair, Bridget – Eve works really hard at the farlins.’
Bridget sniffed. ‘But she’s getting us TALKED ABOUT. I told you she would, if you let her come with us.’
Mairi sighed. ‘But there wasn’t anybody else, was there?’
To which I retorted sulkily, ‘Well, I wouldn’t have come either – not if I’d had any choice.’
Mairi said reproachfully, ‘But it was your choice, Eve – you begged me to let you come with us.’
Bridget sniffed again. ‘The trouble is, she doesn’t know what she wants.’
Bridget was wrong. I did know what I wanted. I wanted Apa alive and by my side. I wanted Aunt Ethel to be still living in the croft. I wanted a letter from my mother’s family saying how much they missed her and how they were longing to see me. Yes, I wanted the world to spin back on its axis and the past to reverse and set off again in a different direction.
But of course I knew it wouldn’t. So instead I lived for the day, and sometimes the day was good – and other times – not good at all.
On the good days we would finish our early morning topping-up in time to run along the pier and watch the boats come sailing in. Boats that were low in the water from holds heavy with herring. Herring that brimmed over the big baskets as the men hauled on the ropes heaving them up. Men who were strong and fearless, lean and lithe – sure-footed as dancers as they brought their silver spoils to lay before us.
On those days I eagerly seized my knife and let the rhythm of the gutting take over my body – revelling in the primitive reek of blood and guts, of salt and sweat, exhilarated by pride in a job well done as my knife flashed faster and faster – mattie – mattie – full – full – large full –
Yes, there were good days.
But other days I would wake unwillingly to that five o’clock shout of: “Get up and tie your fingers!’ I’d fumble with the bandages on my salt-scoured hands and struggle to get my feet into someone else’s clumsy leather boots and go trudging down to the quay to start filling up the barrels, with breakfast still three hours away.
And when the boats came in I’d watch heavy-eyed as the flopping herrings fell into the tub. And soon the gut tub stank in the heat and the salt stung my hands while sweat trickled down my forehead and into my eyes and all day I’d be asking myself, what am I doing here? Here with my hands covered in blood and slime, my back aching, my legs leaden as I run with the baskets? And still the day went on and on and on – mattie – full – filling or was it already full? My hands lost their confidence and the cooper shouted to take more care – and it was all I could do not to fling down my knife and run slithering over the fish guts and away up over the grass and down to the sea. Instead, large full, mattie, matt full, medium – spent. Spent.
Even Duggie and Mungo failed me – at least, that’s how it seemed then. Now I can see that they were changing too. I’d thought that at least I’d meet up with them every Sabbath when the fleet was in harbour and the menfolk came up to the huts for tea. But after the first couple of Sundays Duggie didn’t come. When I asked Mairi where he’d got to she laughed, ‘He’s having tea with that crew from Peterhead – very taken with their little packer, he is.’ She turned to grin at Bridget. ‘As I wrote to Mam – it looks as if our Duggie’s discovered girls!’
So there was only Mungo for me to talk to at tea-time. Except that every time I spoke to him he went bright red and barely managed to mutter a monosyllabic reply. I was completely flummoxed. Mairi and Bridget must have seen the joke, but since they failed to share it with me I was totally unaware that Mungo had discovered I was a girl. Which is perhaps not surprising, since I hadn’t discovered it myself, yet.
Mairi, poor Mairi, did do her best to enlighten me on this last point. During a lull in the fishing she saw me competing in a leap-frog race over the barrels with a group of the younger coopers, and called me over to her. ‘Look, Eve, I know that at home you’ve always run around with the boys, but you’re not at home now. People there know it’s just your way – but here, you’ll get yourself talked about if you don’t behave. Anyway, you’re too old now for that sort of carrying on.’
A couple of days later – it was a Monday, so we were only filling up – I was talking to one of the coopers. His name was Iain, and he was young, with merry dark eyes and a ready laugh. Mairi called me to one side and said, ‘Eve, you really must behave yourself.’
‘I was only talking to him.’
Mairi’s voice was patient. ‘Eve, I know that – but I’m not at all sure he did. You mustn’t be so free in your manner – you’re too young to know what you’re doing.’
‘But you said the other day I was too old – I can’t be both.’
‘You can, Eve.’ Mairi sighed. ‘Though I suppose it’s not your fault you’re such a striking looking girl.’
I exclaimed, ‘I’m not – I’ve got freckles!’
Bridget looked up from her barrel. ‘A set of buck teeth’d be better. I did tell you, Mairi – I said that Eve Gunn’s a wild one, I said—’ Turning my back on the pair of them I went flouncing off to fetch some more lids.
My seventeenth birthday was definitely one of the bad days. I spent it in a state of total misery because no-one knew it was my birthday. That was entirely my own fault. If I’d told Mairi she would have made some little celebration of our evening meal, but I didn’t tell her – after all, if she didn’t know – but then, why should she know? I wasn’t her sister – I wasn’t anybody’s sister, anybody’s daughter. Anybody’s anything. Obviously I’d known that already, but at Gremista that year it really bit home. Stupidly I’d thought that being away on the gutting I wouldn’t notice so much that I had nobody of my own – but at Gremista you noticed it more.
The men were on the boats and the girls were on shore, but every Sunday there were those tea parties when fathers, brothers, uncles, sweethearts came up to the huts to drink tea and eat griddle scones and pancakes. And then there was the knitting.
Whenever there was a lull between catches all the girls took out their wool and their needles to knit stout ganseys and long socks and warm woollen drawers for the men to wear on the boats. I couldn’t knit, but I didn’t see that as a problem – I could learn, couldn’t I?
Mairi had had the same idea, and she’d packed some spare needles and an old wisker for me – that’s a kind of stuffed leather pouch with holes in it, so you can stick your needles in it to keep them steady. ‘Here you are, Eve.’ I strapped the wisker round my waist. ‘Now, this is how you cast on—’
We were sitting up on the headland with a couple of other crews – one of them from Peterhead. They watched Mairi’s lesson in amazement, then the Peterhead packer said, ‘But if ye dinna knit – what dae your menfolk wear on the boats?’
It was Bridget, stolid as ever, who explained, ‘Eve hasna any menfolk – she’s nae kin at all.’
There was a moment of silence as the Peterhead girls looked at me, their surprise turning to pity, then quickly I said to Mairi, ‘When I’ve learnt I’ll make some socks for your Uncle Fergus – seeing as he’s nae wife of his own.’
Mairi shook her head. ‘Aunt Jessie knits for Uncle Fergus. As she says to Mam, “For all his faults, he’s still ma brother.” Then, seeing my fingers falter, she added encouragingly, ‘But an extra pair o’ socks is always useful. Now Eve, remember tae knit tight as ye can—’ I unbuckled the wisker, tugged hard at the wool to unravel what I’d done and then thrust everything back at Mairi. ‘Knitting’s boring – I’m away for a swim.’ I swam further out than I should have done, and when I came back to the shore I didn’t want to leave the water, so instead I turned on my back and let myself float, my body drifting – just as I was drifting. I was at the gutting now, but when Jeannie came back, what then?
That
sense I’d had last September of the future beckoning had quite gone, dissolved into mist. Now I was adrift without bearings, and with no anchor to keep me in check. I certainly didn’t want to go back to boarding school, but I didn’t really want to go back to the new High School at Wick, either. I didn’t know what I wanted to do. So in the meantime I gutted herring after herring and waited for Jeannie to arrive.
Mattie, matt full, medium, filling, full, large full – large full – large full – large full –
Chapter Eighteen
Jeannie didn’t arrive. Instead she sent a letter to say her finger still wasn’t right – could I go on to Scarborough with the others for a couple of weeks?
Mairi was worried. ‘But school’ll be starting soon.’
I shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter if I miss the first few days – anyway, it’s not started yet, so I’ll fill in a bit longer, if you want.’
She looked relieved. ‘Oh Eve, it you’re sure you don’t mind—’ I didn’t. I didn’t particularly want to go back to Wick and hang about there, and at least this way I’d see Scarborough.
Wrong again: Scarborough saw me.
Scarborough was completely different from Gremista. For a start, we lived in lodgings at Scarborough, with a fisherman’s wife who cooked our food for us and let us have her back bedroom. Mairi and Bridget slept in the double bed and I had the truckle to myself. How I’d hated sharing a bunk with them at Gremista – I’d spent most nights sleeping on the floor, another point of conflict – Bridget didn’t want me kicking her, but was offended when I spurned her company.
So there were pluses about Scarborough – but minuses, too. It wasn’t just a fishing port, it was a big, bustling seaside resort as well. On the way down in the train Mairi extracted a promise that I wouldn’t wear my breeks under any circumstances, and when we arrived even I could see that in the absence of sheltered coves I’d have to do my swimming in a costume – which I did not like and still don’t, not even today when bathing suits are so much skimpier. Mairi made more fuss about my not going barefoot, too – yet it was so hot, that August of 1911.