The Restless Spirit

by Jessica Blair

Genres: General Fiction; Sagas

Synopsis

When Sam Harland returns a World War I hero to St Robin's Bay on the Yorkshire coast, he brings with him a French wife. He hopes that she will be accepted by the villagers, but one person, Mary Lawson, can never forgive what she sees as the ultimate betrayal. When Jean Lawson and Colin Harland fall in love, the match is opposed by both of their families because of a rift that began a generation ago. But as World War II casts a shadow over Britain and its people, Jean and Colin both strive towards their futures, as they volunteer to serve their country at war.

Release date: December 30, 2010

Publisher: Piatkus

Print pages: 400

Sample

1945

The sea!

Jean Lawson’s eyes widened with pleasure. She inched nearer the carriage window as if that would bring it closer, but only
her spirit could reach out and touch the gentle waves.


Until now, with the first glimpse of the sea as the train left the confines of Scarborough, heading north towards Whitby,
she had not realised how much she had missed it. Not for six years had she even glimpsed it, not since the day she had walked
out of home and climbed the steep bank between the houses of Robin Hood’s Bay on the Yorkshire coast, to join the WAAFs, the
Women’s Auxiliary Air Force.


She ran her long, delicate fingers through her light-brown hair in a gesture of momentary contentment. Her blue eyes, matching
the colour of the sea, sparkled beneath thin, arched eyebrows.


Far away three fishing boats plied their trade on a sea of glass, bringing memories of life before the war. It was a scene
of calm normality which seemed to be trying to convince her that, in this world returned to peace, all would be well.


The cliffs steepened. Smoke from the engine billowed past to be left drifting lazily in the still air. Patches of grass beside
the track, blackened by sparks, marked the progress of previous trains. The clickety-clack of turning wheels beat a rhythm
of ‘welcome home, welcome home’.


Born and bred in the tiny coastal village, the only girl in a family of fishermen, she had the sea in her blood. It would
have been natural for her to join the naval service, the Wrens, but she had chosen otherwise. The WAAF had offered a means
of escape from this tight-knit, isolated village and perhaps her only chance to see another way of life. More than anything,
it had been an act of defiance, a rebellion against the narrow views of her father, who had refused to give her leaving his
blessing.


Now, as the engine, puffing hard, climbed high along the edge of the precipitous cliffs, she felt the pull of the sea once
more. She had known it in all its moods: calm and peaceful on still, moonlit nights when the waves found it an effort to lap
the sand; at other times ferociously pounding that same sand and the mighty cliffs with such strength that it seemed it would
tear the land apart. It brought joy when the fishing was good, anxiety when a boat was overdue and fear when the cobles –
small fishing boats – had to run before a storm. She had seen big ships torn to pieces on the rocky coast and people dragged
to a watery grave when attempts at rescue proved useless. But above all she remembered its tranquillity, the soothing balm it could bring to a troubled mind, as it had done when she was trying
to decide whether she should leave or not. One starlit night she had listened to the waves and in the swish of their movement,
as they ran to their limit on the beach, they seemed to say, ‘Go, go, go …’


Now she was returning, having crammed a whole lifetime into six years.

She had left in a mixture of emotions: excitement at embracing a different life, sadness at leaving her family, especially
Sarah, her mother.


At five foot four, Jean’s compact, shapely figure gave the impression of bustling control effervescent with life. Although
well able to cope, she had experienced times when her vulnerability was exposed. There had been moments when she had cried
out to be mothered, to feel those comforting arms enfold her in loving care. She knew that her mother in her heart of hearts
gave her daughter her blessing when she volunteered for the WAAFs, but dared not voice it openly for it would have brought
scorn and anger from her husband.


Jonas Lawson was a stubborn man, always had been, but Sarah had married him when the zest for living had been upon him. He
and Sam Harland had been the village beaux. Bosom pals, they had wooed all the girls, their banter friendly, their attitude
mischievous but respectful. At times they threw out audacious hints, which in retelling grew out of all proportion until their
exploits became the hushed talk of the village.


Sarah had been the envy of many a girl when she had married Jonas, though later some were thankful for their escape when they saw the embittered man he had become. But he did not let his bitterness touch his love for Sarah. She understood
it, tolerated it, loved him deeply, but regretted when it touched his children, who had never known him any other way.


Apprehension about her homecoming ran nervously in Jean’s mind. Could she expect her father to welcome her with open arms?
She had never heard from him during the six years she had been away, not even when her mother had died. She would not have
known but for her dear friend Gabrielle. Jean had written to her father but her words, crying out for the love she had lost,
had brought no response. The bitterness he had felt about her departing had not been curbed by her sorrow. Was that bitterness
still ingrained in his heart?


Jean had always known it was there. It had puzzled her when she was young but her mother had reassured her that it had nothing
to do with her or her brothers. Indeed her father, though stern and unbending, showed flashes of love which were hastily brought
under the control of a harsh exterior. He was not a man to cross, as she found out when she announced she had signed up to
join the WAAFs. That day the bitterness, engendered long before she was born, was turned on her and she felt the wrath which
had burned in her father’s soul for so long – from the day in 1919 when Sam Harland returned from France, from the war to
end all wars.


1915

Jonas Lawson and Sam Harland lurched out of the Black Bull on Whitby’s Church Street. They were not drunk, nor were they cold
sober. They were in that state in which senses are real though sometimes blurred, a state where something impinges on the
mind to be recalled in vivid images or tossed away, never to be remembered.


At twenty-four, they had been bosom pals since their school days in Robin Hood’s Bay. Their families, inshore fishermen, were
close. They always had been, in living memory and beyond. Tales were told of great-grandparents and great-great-grandparents,
of their exploits to wrest a livelihood from the sea, of trials, disasters, heroic deeds and through them all a love of the
sea which had been passed on from generation to generation to the two men through whom their fathers looked to the future.


But that future was in jeopardy. Where once thirty-five cobles put to sea from the beach at Baytown, the local name for the village, now, in 1915, there were only two families plying the trade, the Lawsons and the Harlands. Even before
the outbreak of war, men had been walking the five miles to Whitby to join the deep-sea trawlers and a regular income. Hostilities
took volunteers on a wave of patriotic zeal, or as an escape from nagging wives or a bleak future.


Unmarried, Jonas Lawson and Sam Harland had stayed. They were ingrained with their fathers’ outlook: ‘Lawsons and Harlands
have allus fished from Bay and allus will.’ But, at times, Sam had sensed a change in his father’s attitude, especially since
the outbreak of war.


They started down Church Street a little unsteadily. Sam stopped and clasped Jonas round the shoulders. His eyes narrowed
trying to focus on his friend.


‘What …’ He drew a deep breath, swallowed hard, bringing words from his slightly muddled mind. ‘What if we gan to the White
Horse … get a couple of pints and then find a couple of lasses?’


Jonas straightened his broad, six-foot-two frame and frowned, about to speak. He turned his brown gaze skywards, first one
way and then the other, before bringing it back to Sam, who, never liking Jonas to tower over him, tried to push himself taller
than his six foot.


‘Sam,’ chuckled Jonas, ‘thee’s a one for the lasses.’ ‘Aye, I is.’ His mirth rumbled from deep in his chest. His face went
serious. ‘But it’s all innocent fun, thee knows.’


‘I hope it is,’ replied Jonas. ‘I wouldn’t want our Mary to think otherwise.’

A grin spread across Sam’s face. ‘Your sister’s a fine lass, Jonas, a fine lass.’

‘Aye, and she thinks a lot about thee.’


‘Don’t all the lasses in Baytown?’ There was a touch of pride in his voice. Sam was handsome and he knew it. There was the
hint of a dimple in the cheeks, which ran to a firm jaw. A touch of attractive ruggedness was enhanced with the browning of
sun and wind. His thick, dark hair held just sufficient wave to make a girl look twice until her attention was drawn to his
eyes. It was riveted there by their vitality. There was something venturesome and challenging about them, a wildness which
tempted.


‘Thee’s a downright flirt,’ Jonas commented.

‘Thee wants to take a leaf out of my book,’ Sam slurred, swaying a little.

‘Nay, there’s only one lass for me, Sarah Duggleby,’ replied Jonas.

Sam licked his lips, focusing his eyes on his pal. ‘Thee asked her to marry thee yet?’

‘Thee knows I haven’t.’

‘Thee’ll lose her.’ Sam wagged his finger under Jonas’s nose.

‘Nay. We have an understanding.’

‘Understanding?’ Sam’s voice thickened with mockery.

‘Aye, and thee knows why. Her ma’s ill, can’t leave her.’

‘She’s been ill for ages.’

‘Two years.’

‘Two years thee’s missed.’

Jonas was beginning to be irritated by Sam’s line of talk. He took hold of his arm and turned him round. ‘We’d better be going
home. It’ll be dark before we get there.’


The June sky was cloudless, allowing the western light to linger longer, and Jonas reckoned they’d be halfway home before it was dark. He started off along Church Street in the direction of the Church Stairs, one hundred and ninety-nine
steps which led to the church on top of the cliffs from where they could follow a track to Robin Hood’s Bay.


Their pace was not quick and their direction not always in a straight line. Jonas, the less inebriated of the two, had to
act as navigator. There was strength in his arms, acquired through years of fishing, pulling in lines, handling fish, and
hauling cobles up the beach since the day he had first helped launch his father’s boat when he was ten. The wind, rain, sun
and sea had marked his rugged features. He loved the life of an inshore fisherman and set a determined chin against anything
or anyone who would alter the rhythm of his life. He held his own opinions and little would budge him once his mind was made
up. He had been told more than once that his stubborn streak would bring him trouble, but he laughed the warnings off, saying
he could handle life. And so it seemed, for he was a big man, powerful, muscular without an ounce of fat. He was fiercely
loyal to his family; father, mother, two brothers, and sister Mary, a year younger than himself.


Light still filtered into Church Street. Its shops were closed and the dwellings seemingly settling down for the night, but
the inns were doing a sharp trade. Narrow openings led to the staithes beside the river, which ran between soaring cliffs
to reach the sea. On the opposite side of the street, similar openings led to ‘yards’ lined by small cottages climbing the
cliffside so that they seemed to stand one on top of the other.


Few people were on the street, most having reached home after a day’s work. Noisy chatter, mingled with raucous laughter, came in waves from the inns to which individuals hurried
for one last drink. Three urchins in full chase burst from one of the yards and cannoned into Sam, almost knocking him over.
Only Jonas’s quick reaction prevented a heavy fall. Sam yelled abuse after the boys, whose bare feet hurtled them in a weaving
run along Church Street.


As he straightened up and started to move off, Sam stopped. ‘Who’s that pointing at me?’ he slurred, his head jutting forward,
his eyes peering at a wall.


‘No one,’ replied Jonas. ‘There is. He’s there pointing at me.’ He waved an arm in the direction of the wall.

‘There’s no one,’ Jonas returned sharply.

Sam shook off Jonas’s grip and stumbled towards the wall. ‘I tell thee, there is,’ he called irritably. ‘I’ll knock his block
off for pointing at me.’ He raised his fist in a gesture of defiance.


‘Don’t be a fool, Sam. Thee’s worse for your drink than I thought thee were. That’s just a recruiting poster.’

Sam swung round to face his friend, his lips drawn into an expression of doubt. ‘Recruiting poster?’

‘Aye, there’s a war on, thee knows.’

Sam turned sharply to face the wall. He swayed, then leaned forward to peer more closely at the poster. He saw a military
man with a peaked flat hat, insignia at the front of the band. The man had a huge moustache dropping in a sweeping curve from
the nose and ending in a neat point beyond his cheeks.


Sam reached out and touched him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised, putting on a serious voice. ‘I didn’t know it was thee.’ He stepped back a little, his eyes drawn to the arm which
seemed to be reaching out from the poster. The fingers were clenched, all except the index finger, which was pointing straight
at him. Sam was mesmerised by it.


Jonas took Sam’s arms. ‘Come on, time we were getting home.’

Sam started. He half turned, then looked back at the picture. ‘Wait a minute. It says YOU on there and he’s pointing at me.’
He went close to the poster and saw three words in smaller letters above the large YOU. ‘It says, “Your country needs”.’ He
looked a little puzzled for a moment. ‘ “Your country needs YOU.” And he’s pointing at me.’


‘It’s only a poster.’ Jonas sounded annoyed, wanting to be on his way.

Sam ignored his friend and read more. ‘ “Men can enlist in the new army for the duration of the war”.’ He paused, scanned
a few words, then went on, ‘ “Seven shillings per week with food, clothing et cetera”.’ He swallowed. ‘Not bad, not bad,’
he commented. ‘And it says that’s the lowest scale.’ He nodded. ‘Fighting men! Fall in!’ He straightened, pulled his shoulders
back and stepped backwards. He stared at the poster man, who seemed to be looking at him more intently than ever. Sam threw
him a mock salute, turned sharply and with a ‘Quick march!’ set off for the Church Stairs.


Jonas shook his head and grinned to himself as he watched Sam’s effort to march in a straight line. He wasn’t doing too badly,
either, and he was keeping in step with the marching tune he was whistling. Jonas took a few quick strides and fell into step beside his pal.


Sam opened his eyes and shut them quickly against the bright light which seared his sight. He groaned and turned over, pulling
the sheet across his bare shoulder. Someone was pounding an anvil in his brain.


He opened his eyes slowly. They focused on the wall-paper but he did not see the small blue flower motif his mother had chosen
for his bedroom. All he saw was a man pointing at him. That same man had haunted his sleeping hours, ever there, pointing,
and he had not gone away with daylight. He seemed to be both calling him and accusing him: calling him to join the army and
accusing him for not doing so. His stare was compulsive and Sam knew he had to do something about it.


He rolled on to his back and stared at the ceiling. His head cleared, leaving only a dull ache, the result of the beer he
had drunk the night before. Other times when he had been like this, the ache had quickly disappeared when he had a cold wash,
a good breakfast and went out to breathe the salty fresh air. He had no doubt it would do the same today.


But this man troubled him. He could not get him out of his mind. He was still there after Sam swilled his face in cold water
from the ewer which stood in a bowl on the small wooden table beside the window from which he could glimpse the sea. He remained
vivid while Sam dressed, and he accompanied him to breakfast.


The small kitchen in which the Harland family spent their time, using the ‘holy of holies’ only on very special occasions, was comfortable and cosy. A sofa of black leather stood with its curving mahogany back against one wall. Two matching
chairs, one for his mother and one for his father, stood on either side of the fireplace. A table with four chairs occupied
the middle of the room, seeming to make it shrink even smaller. The black range with its oven, a copper for heating water,
and a reckon, the iron hook from which hung a kettle puffing steam from its spout, was kept spotless by his mother. Even though
it was summer, a fire burned in the grate, for it was the family’s only means of cooking.


Sam arrived to find his father and brother Mark already tucking into bacon and egg. His two sisters, Doris and Ruth, were
laying a place for him and his mother was conjuring an appetising smell from the frying pan on the fire. He sat down without
a word and replied in monosyllables when anyone spoke to him. They all exchanged glances on these occasions, and their raised
eyebrows imparted the assumption that Sam had had a little too much to drink last night. Had they known the real reason for
his preoccupation, they might have wondered about the future.


Breakfast finished, the three men reached for their caps and left the house for the women to have their meal.

Once outside, Luke Harland paused and started his usual routine of examining the sky, grunting at his thoughts about the weather
and filling his pipe while his sons waited. Once it was charged and lit to his liking, they would be on their way to the coble
to prepare for fishing later in the day.


But today that routine was broken. Before Luke had applied a match to the tobacco, Sam interfered.

‘Want to see Jonas, be with thee later,’ he said sharply and was off before his father could comment.


‘Want to see if he’s a head like yours?’ Mark shouted after him, but Sam ignored the mockery and hurried to the end of the
narrow street, along which houses faced each other within touching distance. He crossed the Openings, skirted Sunny Place,
leaped down Bakehouse Steps and reached Silver Street. He saw Bob Lawson and his three sons – Jonas, Cliff and Bruce – emerge
from one of the houses and set off for their coble.


‘Jonas!’ Sam’s call stopped his friend. ‘Catch thee up, Pa,’ said Jonas when he saw Sam hurrying after them.

His father said nothing and did not alter his stride, and his two younger sons knew to do likewise.

Jonas waited, quizzically wondering why Sam had sought him out so early in the morning, even before they had reached the Dock
and their cobles.


‘Glad I caught thee,’ panted Sam as he reached Jonas. ‘What is it?’ asked Jonas, concerned at the trouble he read in his friend’s
face.


‘That fella who was pointing at me, he’s been doing it all night,’ Sam gasped.

A puzzled frown marked Jonas’s forehead. ‘What’s thee talking about?’

‘Thee remember him,’ snapped Sam, irritated by his pal’s mystified expression. ‘After we came out of the Black Bull.’

‘Nobody stopped us,’ returned Jonas. ‘Thee’ll have to watch thissen, the drink’s getting to thee.’

‘I can take my drink as good as thee and thee knows it,’ growled Sam. ‘That chap on the wall, soldier pointing his finger.’


Jonas gave a short laugh of derision when he realised to what Sam was referring. ‘That was only a poster. Thee been having
nightmares about that?’


‘He became real enough to me during the night. And those words, “Your country needs YOU”, he kept saying them.’

Jonas glanced sideways at his pal with a quirk of his eyebrow. ‘The booze sure got to thee.’ He grinned. ‘Come on, let’s get
to the boats.’ He started to walk away.


Sam skittered after him and fell into step beside him. He looked anxiously at Jonas. ‘No, look, I’m serious. I’m going to
volunteer.’


Jonas stopped in his tracks. He stared in amazement at his friend. He searched his face with a quick glance. ‘Thee’s in earnest,
isn’t thee?’ He knew the answer before it came.


‘I am,’ Sam replied firmly. His face wore a worried expression, anxious for Jonas to understand. ‘That poster did it. I just
feel I should be doing more. Didn’t thee feel that way?’


Jonas’s face tightened. ‘No, it didn’t affect me. Besides, we’re doing our bit bringing fish in, feeding folk.’

‘The little we catch is nothing. It’s the trawlers that are helping to feed the nation, not us. Inshore fishing is finished.’

‘Never,’ said Jonas, a venomous snap to his voice. ‘There’ll allus be fishing from Bay as long as there’s a Lawson to do it.
Thee should feel that way about the Harlands. It’s up to us to keep it going.’


‘Pa says it’ll be different after the war. He can see the day when there won’t be a coble leaving Bay. He says he’ll understand if we lads want to leave for better things.’


‘Well, my pa doesn’t feel the same, nor do I. I’ll fish out of Bay as long as I live,’ replied Jonas.

‘Thee wants to get your head out of the sand. Look to the future. There’s a big world out there. Here’s a chance to see it.
Come with me, Jonas. Let’s get in this together.’


Jonas shook his head. ‘Nay. It’s thee that’s the fool.’

‘Thee’ll have to go eventually. It’ll become compulsory. Volunteering now will be better than being forced to go. Think on
it, Jonas. Come with me.’


‘Your pa know about this?’

‘Not yet. Thee’s the first I’ve told.’

‘Not Mary?’

‘No.’

‘She isn’t going to like it.’

‘Maybe. But it’s my life. And I’ll be back, with better prospects than inshore fishing.’ Sam put enthusiasm into his voice
to try to convince Jonas.


‘What about the fishing now?’

‘Pa and Mark will manage, just as yours will. Come with me!’

Jonas shook his head slowly. ‘Nay. If thee wants your head shot off, thee get on with it.’ He set off for the boats, his stride
long.


Sam stared after him. He could sense annoyance in the tautness of Jonas’s body, though annoyance at what he was not sure.
Upset because he was leaving, breaking up their comradeship, or irritated because he did not feel the same way? Sam shrugged
his shoulders and followed, but he made no attempt to catch up with his friend.


Reaching the area known as the Dock, where the cobles were drawn up from the beach, Sam glanced at Jonas, who was busy checking
the oars and did not look in his direction. Sam’s father and brother were already baiting the lines when he reached the Harland
coble. He hesitated.


His father looked up, eyed his son for a moment and, without taking his pipe from his mouth, said, ‘Get on with it, lad.’

Sam looked apprehensive and licked his lips.

Luke knew his son. Something was bothering him. ‘Spit it out, lad. It’ll do no good bottled up.’

Sam started at the remark. He saw his father’s eyes intent upon him. His brother, wondering what was coming, had paused in
his job.


‘I’m going to join up, Pa,’ Sam blurted out. ‘Volunteer for the army.’

Stunned by the announcement, Luke stared at Sam for a moment, then slowly took his pipe from his mouth. He tried to sort out
his reactions while he gazed into its bowl. Sam waited uneasily. Mark sat like a statue, wondering what his father would say.


When Luke raised his eyes to his son, Sam felt relief surge over him, for he saw understanding in them. ‘If that’s what thee
wants, son, then so be it.’


Sam relaxed. A broad smile spread across his face. This had been easier than he had thought. He had expected some opposition.
‘Thanks, Pa.’ He caught Mark’s wink and grinned back.


Luke’s mouth set in a hard line. ‘It’ll upset your ma, so break it to her gently.’

‘I will, Pa.’

‘Another thing, son, I can’t guarantee there’ll be a boat for thee when thee gets back.’


‘I know. Things have changed and, like thee says, the future might be with the trawlers.’

‘Aye, things will be different after the war.’ Luke shook his head sadly as if mourning a life past. He looked up and turned
his head to call, ‘Bob, our Sam’s going to join up.’


Bob barely raised his eyebrows. ‘More fool him! Hope he ain’t smitten our Jonas.’ He shot his son a sharp glance.

‘He hasn’t, Pa,’ muttered Jonas.

‘Good. There’s the fishing to think on.’ He looked across at Luke. ‘What’ll thee do? Thee’ll be a man short.’

‘Some lad in the village will help out. But like I’ve told thee before, fishing from Bay is finished.’

‘There’ll allus be a place for us,’ Bob argued. ‘Besides, some of us like our independence, go and come as we please, beholden
to no man. That’s worth a lot. Thee all think on that.’ His words took in not only his own sons but Luke’s family as well.
He turned his gaze on Sam. ‘But I wish thee well, lad. Come back safe to us.’ He turned his attention to the baiting, putting
an end to the matter as far as he was concerned.


Luke looked at Sam. ‘When will thee go?’

‘I’ve to visit the recruiting office yet, Pa. I’ll do that tomorrow.’

‘Ah, away with thee now. If thee’s decided to do something, then get on with it.’

‘What about today’s fishing?’

‘We’ll manage. Ask young Fred Wood if he’ll give us a hand. Reckon he won’t say no to earning a copper or two.’

‘Right, Pa.’ Sam nodded to Mark, who gave him a reassuring smile. He knew his young brother would keep an eye on his father.


Sam paused as he reached the Lawson coble. ‘Coming, Jonas?’ He put the question firmly.

Jonas fixed his eyes on the bait, determinedly avoiding the question. He looked up only when he felt his father’s penetrating
gaze upon him. From drooped eyelids Jonas glanced at him and saw hard, pursed lips, eyes cold without understanding but with
a flare that defied opposition to his views. Jonas went on with his baiting.


‘And I’m glad to see thee got no fool notions from Sam Harland,’ said Bob as the four Lawson men walked into the cottage just
before midday.


The lines were all ready, the boats prepared. They would put out in the early afternoon and return late in the evening. Now
they would have a fortifying meal of broth, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, followed by apple pie, before they sailed.


‘There’s a good smell, Rachel, lass,’ Bob commented with a smile at his wife. The tempting aroma of cooking meat came from
the oven beside the fire. A kettle boiled on the reckon and the apple pies sat on the table waiting to be warmed in the oven
when the meat was taken out.


‘And what’s Sam Harland been up to?’ she enquired, as she straightened from stirring a pan of gravy.

‘Fool’s gone off to join the army.’

‘Nivver!’ Rachel was astounded by the news.

‘It’s as reet as I’m standing here,’ replied Bob.

Rachel shot a glance filled with questioning alarm at Jonas. Knowing what pals he and Sam were, she dreaded the thought that Sam might have influenced her son to do the same. He looked away and pulled out a chair to sit at the table.
She knew from the morose look in his eyes that he was not going, and that he had been hurt by Sam’s decision, feeling that
it had shown him up for not following suit.


‘Ah, well, if that’s what he wants, I suppose there’s no holding him.’ She shrugged her shoulders and was about to turn back
to her pan when her attention was drawn to her daughter.


Mary, who had been setting the table when the men returned, was gripping the back of the chair with hands which showed white
at the knuckles. It was a grip of someone trying hard to hold her feelings in check. Her face had lost its colour. Her eyes
stared unseeingly through her father but his words were ringing in her mind. Sam was joining the army. He could be killed
in the bloody fields of Flanders. The vision of him lying dead in the mud was vivid.


‘Oh, no!’ The cry came as a long-drawn-out whisper. The overpowering ca