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Authors: Philip Marsden
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Croyden’s face shone in the lights. He was grinning.
‘For Christ’s sake, Croy!’ shouted Jack. ‘They’ll drag us down!’
‘Pull!’
Together they managed a little. ‘Again!’ shouted Croyden.
Five inches. ‘Again!’
Seven inches. ‘We’re winning!’
Nearly a mile of nets remained in the water, pulling down on the cobles with their weight. And still the fish were coming, shoaling so thickly that they were drowning each other. The surface was full of their bodies. Gannets were diving allaround the boat, striking the churned-up water in bomb-bursts and the gannets too were coming up in the nets, and they too were drowned, their necks caught in the mesh as they fed.
‘Now! Again!’ The sweat was running down Croyden’s face.
Fish covered the deck. The head-rope on the roller was slipping back again. The boat was being pulled over. ‘Let it go, Croy!’ Jack lunged for the rope. Croyden pushed him off. He grabbed the head-rope and alone managed to pull a couple of inches. Jack reached down and slipped a gutting knife from inside the bulwarks. He slashed at the rope. He sawed at it – but Croyden shoved him aside and he fell. The knife spun overboard.
Croyden continued to heave. The net was stuck fast. He tried to reach ahead but the strands of the head-rope were popping apart on the roller. The last one went and the
Maria V
sprang back onto an even keel. The remaining nets stretched out into the shoal. Still the fish were driving into them, but one by one the cobles disappeared from the surface, dragged down by the weight. Croyden watched them go. He remained at the gunwale, even as the boat turned and they made their way back through the fleet to Newlyn.
The next morning, three million pilchards were landed at Newlyn, a post-war record, but for the
Maria V
the season was over. They left Newlyn and headed out towards the Lizard. In Polmayne Bay the Petrels were racing. Jack and Croyden and Double rowed in unnoticed through the Gaps, while a crowd of people stood at the quay wall cheering the yachts as they pushed towards the finishing line.
CHAPTER 8
C royden leaned on the fence and looked at his pigs. Five was under the stern section of the old dinghy, Three under the bows. Croyden leaned there for some time and the August sun was hot on his back. In the end, it was Three who stirred, Three who rose to her feet and lumbered towards him. Scabs of dried mud were peeling from her flank. He rubbed her forehead with his knuckles. ‘We lost ’em, old girl. Nothing we could do.’
With her snout, Three butted fondly at his hand.
He did not tell Maggie. There was no need for her to know about the nets. He had a little to show for the fishing and he would give her that and he would be able to carry on at sea.
Double, though, was leaving. When they reached Polmayne he took Jack to one side: ‘I’ll not go to sea again with that madman.’
‘But you’re in the lifeboat with him.’
‘That’s different. It’s the fish – they do something to him. You saw it yourself.’
The next day, Jack rowed up the river to Ferryman’s Cottage. Rounding the corner he saw the familiar whitewashed walls and the heavy brow of the thatch and the little windows. They were shuttered. A flood board was across the door. The Abrahams had returned to London.
Back at Bethesda, he sat down and wrote a letter, replying to Mrs Abraham’s questions about his fishing.
‘… It’s a see-saw business, Mrs Abraham, sometimes no fish, and sometimes too many …’ Then, although he had intended to make light of his losses to her, he found the whole episode at the Wolf Rock came flooding out.
Three days later came her reply.
…
What a calamity! I have been thinking about it and whenever I read your letter it makes me shivering. I will tell you a story and you will understand. My father had a house in a small village in the seaside of the Baltic. He wanted to help the village people. He wanted to give them a grand
‘For Christ’s sake, Croy!’ shouted Jack. ‘They’ll drag us down!’
‘Pull!’
Together they managed a little. ‘Again!’ shouted Croyden.
Five inches. ‘Again!’
Seven inches. ‘We’re winning!’
Nearly a mile of nets remained in the water, pulling down on the cobles with their weight. And still the fish were coming, shoaling so thickly that they were drowning each other. The surface was full of their bodies. Gannets were diving allaround the boat, striking the churned-up water in bomb-bursts and the gannets too were coming up in the nets, and they too were drowned, their necks caught in the mesh as they fed.
‘Now! Again!’ The sweat was running down Croyden’s face.
Fish covered the deck. The head-rope on the roller was slipping back again. The boat was being pulled over. ‘Let it go, Croy!’ Jack lunged for the rope. Croyden pushed him off. He grabbed the head-rope and alone managed to pull a couple of inches. Jack reached down and slipped a gutting knife from inside the bulwarks. He slashed at the rope. He sawed at it – but Croyden shoved him aside and he fell. The knife spun overboard.
Croyden continued to heave. The net was stuck fast. He tried to reach ahead but the strands of the head-rope were popping apart on the roller. The last one went and the
Maria V
sprang back onto an even keel. The remaining nets stretched out into the shoal. Still the fish were driving into them, but one by one the cobles disappeared from the surface, dragged down by the weight. Croyden watched them go. He remained at the gunwale, even as the boat turned and they made their way back through the fleet to Newlyn.
The next morning, three million pilchards were landed at Newlyn, a post-war record, but for the
Maria V
the season was over. They left Newlyn and headed out towards the Lizard. In Polmayne Bay the Petrels were racing. Jack and Croyden and Double rowed in unnoticed through the Gaps, while a crowd of people stood at the quay wall cheering the yachts as they pushed towards the finishing line.
CHAPTER 8
C royden leaned on the fence and looked at his pigs. Five was under the stern section of the old dinghy, Three under the bows. Croyden leaned there for some time and the August sun was hot on his back. In the end, it was Three who stirred, Three who rose to her feet and lumbered towards him. Scabs of dried mud were peeling from her flank. He rubbed her forehead with his knuckles. ‘We lost ’em, old girl. Nothing we could do.’
With her snout, Three butted fondly at his hand.
He did not tell Maggie. There was no need for her to know about the nets. He had a little to show for the fishing and he would give her that and he would be able to carry on at sea.
Double, though, was leaving. When they reached Polmayne he took Jack to one side: ‘I’ll not go to sea again with that madman.’
‘But you’re in the lifeboat with him.’
‘That’s different. It’s the fish – they do something to him. You saw it yourself.’
The next day, Jack rowed up the river to Ferryman’s Cottage. Rounding the corner he saw the familiar whitewashed walls and the heavy brow of the thatch and the little windows. They were shuttered. A flood board was across the door. The Abrahams had returned to London.
Back at Bethesda, he sat down and wrote a letter, replying to Mrs Abraham’s questions about his fishing.
‘… It’s a see-saw business, Mrs Abraham, sometimes no fish, and sometimes too many …’ Then, although he had intended to make light of his losses to her, he found the whole episode at the Wolf Rock came flooding out.
Three days later came her reply.
…
What a calamity! I have been thinking about it and whenever I read your letter it makes me shivering. I will tell you a story and you will understand. My father had a house in a small village in the seaside of the Baltic. He wanted to help the village people. He wanted to give them a grand
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