This Side Of Heaven

by Emma Blair

Genres: General Fiction; Sagas

Synopsis

When she was sixteen, Sheila Beattie knew exactly what her future would be. She would marry her sweetheart Eric, a fisherman like her father, and they would raise their family and dream their simple dreams in the village which they'd been born. Her life lay before her, happy, safe and secure. But she was sixteen - and about to discover in this world there is nothing certain but change . . . no one and nothing to be trusted but the voice of your own heart . . . Praise for Emma Blair: 'An engaging novel and the characters are endearing - a good holiday read' Historical Novels Review 'All the tragedy and passion you could hope for . . . Brilliant' The Bookseller 'Romantic fiction pure and simple and the best sort - direct, warm and hugely readable. Women's fiction at an excellent level' Publishing News 'Emma Blair explores the complex and difficult nature of human emotions in this passionately written novel' Edinburgh Evening News 'Entertaining romantic fiction' Historical Novels Review '[Emma Blair] is well worth recommending' The Bookseller

Release date: October 13, 2016

Publisher: Piatkus

Print pages: 320

Sample

Sheila hummed to herself as she trudged along the tow path that would shortly join up with the narrow dirt road leading down to Dragonholme. She was on her way back from Bogside Farm, where she’d been buying eggs, a journey she made once a fortnight.

It was early July, and so far the summer of 1911 had been a glorious one. A glance at the fat sun hanging heavily overhead told her it was getting on for teatime. She started walking faster, as some of the eggs she was carrying were wanted for the evening meal.

A few minutes later she came in sight of the sea. What she saw on the horizon caused her to come up short and catch her breath. Could it be? Was it them?

Twenty-eight dots: twenty-eight boats. The number couldn’t be coincidental; it had to be the fleet coming home! Excitement gripped her, her da and brothers were coming home, and Eric – beautiful, adorable Eric whom she loved to distraction, he was coming home as well.

There was a strong northerly blowing which meant that the fleet would be tying up before long. She calculated that if the wind didn’t change they’d be entering harbour in less than an hour.

From her clifftop vantage, she must be the first of the village to spy the fleet. She must hurry down to Dragonholme and cry the news so that all would be ready in time for when the catch was landed, the first catch to come into Dragonholme that season.

The sound of a horse snorting behind her made Sheila jump. Whirling round, she found herself looking at a middle-aged man on a hunter.

‘Who are you?’ he asked, in a voice that expected answers. His eyes never left her face.

A toff – one of the gentry, Sheila thought, instinctively straightening her shoulders and raising her chin.

‘Sheila Beattie,’ she replied politely.

‘From Dragonholme?’

She nodded.

‘You’ll be Davey Beattie’s daughter then?’

That surprised her. How would her da know a toff like this?

‘I am,’ she nodded, almost making it sound like a challenge.

‘A fine skipper, one of the best along this coast; and that’s saying something,’ the gentleman replied with a thin smile.

Sheila turned and pointed out to sea. ‘That’s the fleet coming home. I just spotted them a minute ago.’

The black hunter, a vicious-looking beast, pawed the ground while the man shaded his eye to gaze in the direction she was pointing.

‘Aye, so it is. And no doubt that’ll be the Bluebell leading the way.’

Bluebell was the name of her father’s boat. It was a new drifter, a Zulu, launched only the previous year. Davey had invested every penny the family possessed on its purchase.

‘As admiral of our fleet it’s his place to be out front,’ Sheila informed him proudly.

The man’s eyes twinkled, amused by her immediate and fierce show of pride. ‘How old are you, lass?’ he asked suddenly, his eyes no longer on the fleet.

That’s none of your business, Sheila thought. ‘Sixteen, sir,’ she answered grudgingly. Her mother would die if she thought she’d been rude to a gentleman.

Suddenly Sheila knew who this stranger was, who he had to be. He must be the new laird who’d bought Dragonholme Hall after the death of the old laird, Mr Magnussen. Dragonholme Hall was in the valley about half a mile away. The original Hall had been built a thousand years ago by Einar Hairybreeks, the leader of the vikings who’d founded the village. Vikings who’d come, and stayed, and after a while had intermarried with the local Scots.

‘You must be Mr Campbell,’ she dared, really looking at him for the first time.

‘Aye, that’s me,’ James Campbell smiled.

Sheila immediately curtsied as she’d been taught, as she’d always done when coming into the presence of the old laird, a right kindly man if ever there was one. She looked up at James Campbell, but there was no kindness in those eyes.

‘Excuse me, sir, but I’ll have to be going,’ she said, suddenly anxious to be gone. ‘I must away down to the village and cry the news about the fleet.’

James Campbell pursed his lips, his hand thin and white against the neck of his monstrous horse. He was disappointed she was leaving him so soon. He’d taken to the tawny-haired girl. She was pleasant company.

‘Till the next time then,’ he answered slowly, patting Satan’s gleaming skin.

‘Good-bye,’ Sheila mumbled, and without waiting for a reply started running along the road, her basket of eggs clutched securely to her side.

At the point where the road fell away in its descent to the village she turned to gaze behind her, and he was still there, exactly as she’d left him; facing out to sea, his eyes fixed on the home-bound fleet. For no reason she could think of and despite the heat of the day, an ice-cold shiver ran through her. Then, shaking herself, she hurried on her way.

Mrs Johnstone, whose husband crewed the Fear Not, was the first person Sheila saw to shout the news to. Within minutes all of Dragonholme knew that the men had returned from the northern fishing grounds, and that the same number of boats were coming back as had left at the beginning of May when the fleet had set sail for Lerwick in the Shetlands.

Peg Beattie, Sheila’s mother, was already looking out the gutting knives when Sheila burst into the house, flushed and breathless. In her mid-forties, Peg was stout but still handsome, her face marked as much by kindness as by hard work and care. Sheila was the youngest of her children, and the only girl. Her sons were all aboard the Bluebell with Davey.

Peg paused in what she was doing, her brows drawn, her eyes clouded.

‘Ten days earlier than last year. The fishing must have been poor for them to be so far down the coast this early in the month,’ she said.

‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ In her excitement Sheila had completely forgotten that the fleet weren’t expected till the end of next week.

At that moment Rhona and Maggie came flying in through the door. Rhona was married to Jack, Peg’s oldest son, and Maggie to Dougal. Both of them lived close by. Peg’s youngest son, Bob, still lived at home and shared the back room of the two-roomed house with Sheila.

Sheila got on great guns with Rhona, but not with Maggie, who was considered a pain in the bumbeleerie. The trouble with Maggie was that she was domineering and overbearing, and though it didn’t bother Rhona or Peg, who knew how to handle her, Sheila was too young and fiery herself to bother about diplomacy.

‘You and Rhona get the table and I’ll help Ma with the packing boxes,’ Maggie said to Sheila.

Sheila put her hands on her hips. ‘Since when did you start giving orders in our house?’ she demanded.

Maggie made a gesture of impatience. ‘I’m not giving orders. I’m merely getting things organized.’

‘It sounded very much like orders to me.’ Sheila glared at her sister-in-law defiantly.

‘This isn’t the time for bickering. Sheila, do as Maggie has suggested,’ Peg said firmly.

‘Come on then,’ Sheila said to Rhona, and led the way out of the house round to the partially covered lean-to at the rear where the gutting table was kept out of season, wrapped in an old tarpaulin.

‘Where are the weans?’ Sheila asked as they walked to the back.

‘They’re already away down to the harbour,’ Rhona smiled. ‘They were too excited about seeing their father to wait for me.’

They uncovered the heavy table with its hinged legs.

‘You shouldn’t let Maggie rile you,’ Rhona advised.

‘It’s that manner of hers. It aye puts my back up.’ Sheila grunted as she and Rhona lifted the table up into a carrying position.

But even Maggie’s faults went from Sheila’s mind as she and Rhona staggered down to the harbour where they set the table up in what was traditionally the Beattie spot. Minutes later Peg and Maggie joined them, their arms filled with packing boxes.

‘There are more boxes still to come,’ Peg said, laying the gutting knives out on the table.

Maggie was already shrugging into one of the heavy leather aprons that had been inside the topmost box she had been carrying. When she saw Sheila glowering at her she said, ‘I’ll get them if you like.’

‘You can both get them,’ said Peg, nipping that in the bud. Even though Maggie had volunteered herself for the task there could still have been a fight.

Sheila and Maggie returned to the house leaving Rhona to sort out the boxes that had already been brought down, and Peg to hone the knives to razor sharpness on a whetstone that had been in the Beattie family time out of mind.

Just outside the harbour entrance Davey gave the signal for the lug rig to be dropped. Creaking and flapping, the sails, tanned black from successive dippings in cutch, sank on to the deck where Uncle Matt was waiting ready to square them away.

Sheila watched in admiration as the Bluebell’s black painted hull, her name picked out in gold leaf, swung towards that part of the quayside where she was to be tied up. Oh, but she was bonny right enough; with her white wheelhouse and mastheads, blue gunwhales, and dark azure blue coamings and hatches. Sheila thought she had never seen a finer boat.

With a resounding bump the Bluebell kissed the quayside, causing its sixty-foot masts to quiver high overhead. It was Bob who sprang on to the quayside to secure her fore and aft. A second later, he was in his mother’s arms, hugging Peg tightly and saying how grand it was to be back again in Dragonholme.

One after the other the fleet entered the harbour: the Muirneag, the Star of Hope, the Foamcrest, and the Gypsy Queen.

And there was Eric, her darling man, bobbing up and down as he tried to wave to her and attend to his duties at the same time. Like a young tree he was, strong and straight and just a bit wild. His eyes were the palest blue, his blond cropped hair so bleached from the sea as to be almost white. Sheila’s heart hammered within her at the sight of him, and she gave up a silent prayer of gratitude to the Good Lord for having seen fit to bring him home safe and sound.

Dougal had his son, wee Dougal, cradled in one arm, and his daughter, Violet, in the other, Maggie beside him, staring up into her husband’s face with unconcealed joy.

Rhona and Jack were embracing, while Ian stood by his da’s side, one finger in his mouth, the other hand clutching hold of Jack’s sweater as though to ensure that Jack wasn’t going to suddenly disappear again. A queer, quiet lad was Ian, fairy-touched, said some, but lucky with it, somehow.

There was no wife there to greet Uncle Matt. No wife and no daughters or sons. Auntie Lily had died six years ago, and they’d been a childless couple. Uncle Matt was Davey’s older brother, but had never owned a boat of his own or even been the skipper of one. Uncle Matt was a man who liked to take orders, not give them. It was a wise man who knew his own level, Davey had once said, and although the conversation hadn’t been about his brother, it was Uncle Matt that Davey had had in mind.

The Gypsy Queen, Eric’s father’s boat, was tied off now, and Eric himself was hurrying towards her. He stopped just short of her, his body trembling, embarrassed to hug her in public.

‘You look well,’ she said, clasping her hands behind her. What an awful trite thing to come out with, she silently scolded herself. But, like him, she felt constrained by being surrounded by so many folk.

He couldn’t seem to hold still.

‘Aye, and so do you.’

Eye into eye they stared at one another. All she wanted to know passed between them that way. He still loved her, she was his special lass, his one and only.

‘Later then?’ he finally whispered, his eyes darting nervously around.

‘When?’

‘As soon as you can get away. After you’ve eaten. I’ll be waiting.’

‘The usual place?’

Eric nodded. ‘And I’ll bring a wee something to keep out the cold.’

‘You daft haddie, it isn’t cold at night at this time of year,’ she laughed.

The corners of his sparkling eyes crinkled with his laugh. ‘I’ll bring it anyway, just to be on the safe side.’

She reached out and touched his hard, calloused hand, so filled with emotion that she thought her heart must surely explode.

‘All right you lot, can we get back to work now!’ Davey called from the deck of the Bluebell. As always he was puffing on his old clay pipe which, like nearly all the fishermen he knew, he smoked turned upside down.

The Beattie brothers jumped back aboard the Bluebell to begin the business of hand winching the catch on to the quayside. From there it would go to where the women had set up. Eric gave her one last smile and returned to the Gypsy Queen to help his da and brothers do the same.

Soon their knives were flashing. Sheila, Peg, Rhona and Maggie expertly gutted cran after cran of herrings, taking it in turn to break from this chore to pack the gutted fish into boxes, covering them with salt to keep them fresh.

The herring scales got everywhere – over their faces, up their arms, even under their clothing and headscarves – but none of the women minded. There was no point in complaining, even if they did. Fish were money. In fact, fish were their whole survival. What was a little physical inconvenience weighed against that?

At long last their boxes were full, but still the gutting continued, for part of the catch was to be taken home and smoked.

McPherson, the carter, put in an appearance, he and his son stacking the Beattie boxes alongside the others he’d already collected. He kept careful tally in his fish book. McPherson would be taking the Dragonholme catch through to Portnessie where the buyers and railhead were. Portnessie was a small fishing port ten miles further up the coast, and the buying and selling centre for all the villages thereabouts. From Portnessie some of the fish would go to the markets in Edinburgh and Glasgow, while another portion would eventually find its way to Poland, Latvia, Germany and other European countries.

Finally, with the sun just about to go down, the gutting was finished for the day. Sheila, Rhona and Maggie started humping the fish to be smoked to the smokehouse behind the Beattie home. While the younger women were doing this, Peg washed down and tidied up the area where they’d been working.

As was the custom on the first day back in the home port, once the catch was unloaded the men had all gone to the pub. Seeing that the gutting was finished and the packed fish on its way to Portnessie, the men would now begin to make their way home for the evening meal. After that, many of them would return to the pub again to carry on where they’d left off.

When the fish to be smoked were all put away Rhona and Maggie returned to their own homes, and Sheila to hers, making straight for the hand pump in the kitchen where she gave her hands, face and hair a thorough wash.

A pot of lentil soup that Peg had begun that morning was now bubbling invitingly on the cast-iron range, alongside which a dozen herrings were being cooked on the brander.

Peg cut the best part of a loaf into thick slices, then started buttering each slice. Back from the pub, Davey sat in his usual chair by the side of the range gazing deep into the glowing coals. Bob was in another chair, having a quick snooze before the meal was dished up.

‘You’re home gey early this time round?’ Peg prompted quietly, her eyes darting from her buttering to Davey. He had never been a talkative man, but she knew him so well that words weren’t needed.

Davey roused himself from his reverie. ‘The fishing wasn’t so good further north, but picked up a wee bit once we got down to Peterhead. Apart from that, the shoals are coming south more quickly this year.’ He paused for a moment, staring past her. ‘But don’t ask me why, it’s just one of those things.’

‘We’ll do all right out the season though, won’t we?’ Peg asked softly, a hint of worry tinging her voice.

Davey sniffed and knocked some dottle from his pipe. ‘What we brought in today was far and away our best catch to date. Let’s just say that from here on in we’d better do an awful lot better than we have up to now.’

Peg bit her lip. Despite her own suspicions, this wasn’t what she’d been hoping to hear. Fear clutched at her insides. The fishing had been marvellous for the past thirty-odd years, but that didn’t mean it would continue to be so. She remembered only too well the hungry times of her youth when the fishing had been diabolical and poverty had covered the east coast like a shroud.

Sensing Peg’s worry, Davey gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Wait till we get to the Silver Pits, they’ve never let us down yet,’ he said. The Silver Pits were particularly rich grounds that the Dragonholme fleet fished working out of either Hull or Grimsby.

‘Aye, the Silver Pits,’ echoed Peg, cheering considerably. Davey had always been lucky there.

A few minutes later Peg told Sheila to rouse Bob, and started to serve out the soup. The eggs that had originally been planned were now forgotten; fish and the sort of soup that sticks to your ribs were what were needed for men who’d been on the sea.

‘Ah,’ said Davey, as she passed out the dishes. ‘Now that’s a fair treat for an old sailor.’ He quickly finished his soup, holding out his bowl for seconds. As Peg laid the second bowlful before him, she saw that a frown had darkened his face. ‘Is something bothering you?’ she asked.

Davey broke a slice of bread in half, then into quarters. ‘I was just thinking about steam trawlers. There are more than ever fishing this year, including six new ones out of Portnessie.’

‘Owned by James Campbell, him that’s bought Dragonholme Hall,’ chimed in Bob, suddenly remembering that he could use his mouth to talk as well as eat.

‘Aye, that’s a fact. Campbell’s added them to the fleet of sail trawlers he owns. It must have cost him a pretty penny to buy six of them at one go.’ Davey was visibly impressed by this show of affluence and success. As a drifterman, Davey disliked sail trawlers and loathed the new steam variety. He believed that the steam trawlers ripped up the beds below the fishing grounds, destroying the feed.

‘He’s a self-made man, you know,’ Davey went on, unusually talkative. ‘He’s not one of those who comes into this world with a silver spoon in his mouth.’

‘I met him the day,’ Sheila joined in. ‘He said you were one of the best skippers along this coast.’

Davey blinked. ‘Met who, girl?’

She had everyone’s attention now. ‘The new laird. I was coming home from the farm when he came up behind me on a great black horse. I had just spied the fleet at the time.’

‘And he talked to you?’ Peg prompted, always curious about lives so different from her own.

Davey interpreted Peg’s question in his own way. ‘And why shouldn’t he speak to her?’ he wanted to know. ‘Sheila’s just as good as him who was born in a house in Portnessie exactly the same as this one.’ As far as Davey was concerned, being free and Scots were all the qualifications a body needed in life.

‘He might have been born in a house like ours, but he speaks right posh now. A proper gentleman and no mistake,’ Sheila went on enthusiastically.

Davey tugged at his beard, his sudden indignation already on the wane.

‘Aye, well Campbell spends a lot of time in Glasgow and Edinburgh. London even, I’m told. He’ll have picked up his new speech and manners there no doubt. But don’t be misled by his outward appearance or the way he sounds now. Underneath it all James Campbell is still fisher folk, and a damn fine skipper in his own right.’ Davey paused, then went on in a tone that was almost coy. ‘And he said I was one of the best skippers along the coast, eh?’

Sheila nodded.

A smile teased at the corners of Davey’s mouth. He was well pleased by the compliment.

‘So what’s his wife like?’ Peg asked eagerly.

Davey helped himself to another slice of bread. ‘I’ve never seen her, but I’ve heard she’s genuine Edinburgh Morningside.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Bob, his face screwed up in puzzlement and his spoon in mid-air.

‘Ach, don’t you know anything?’ scoffed Sheila. ‘Morningside is where the Edinburgh toffs live; them that never do a stroke of work and ride around in fancy carriages all day long.’

‘And the women wear beautiful gowns and have hands that are like velvet to touch,’ Peg added, her eyes taking on a faraway look as she tried to imagine herself with such luxuries. She’d never owned a gown in her life; her hands were as hard and work worn as any man’s.

‘All I know,’ said Davey, ‘is that there’s a family; two boys. Both of whom go away to school in the English fashion. You know, a school where they actually live.’

Peg shook her head in maternal condemnation. ‘I’ve always thought that a gey uncivilized way of doing things, sending wee mites off on their own like that. But there you are, the English are an uncivilized race if ever there was one.’ There was a general murmur of agreement.

‘The Campbells can only have moved into the Hall during the past day or two,’ mused Peg. ‘I know for certain that the decorators were still there at the end of last week.’ How long would it be, she wondered, before she clapped eyes on Mrs Campbell? Almost every woman in the village was dying to get a look at her. Wait till they heard that the laird’s wife was Edinburgh Morningside!

Sheila cleared away the soup bowls and placed the herrings on the table. After slicing the first one open Davey asked for the white stuff to be passed. The word salt was never uttered by him – every fisherman knew it was unlucky.

‘What I don’t understand,’ said Sheila, ‘is why Mr Campbell would want to buy Dragonholme Hall. Why come here where he’s a stranger? If he wanted a bigger or grander house why not buy one in Portnessie? Or Glasgow, or Edinburgh?’

Davey chuckled. ‘It might well be he fancies being called the laird, as is his entitlement now that he owns the Hall. It’s been said before now that there’s a streak of vanity in the man.’

Having finished all that he wanted to eat, and not one for sitting around chatting, Bob excused himself. ‘I’m away back to The Haven,’ he said, giving Peg a peck on the cheek. ‘Good food always makes me thirsty.’

‘Collecting Thomasina McLean on the way no doubt?’ Sheila teased.

‘Listen to the pot calling the kettle black,’ Bob jibed back. ‘As if you won’t be seeing Eric Gifford later.’

‘I might just go for a walk with him,’ Sheila replied airily.

‘We all know about your walks,’ Bob said, giving his mother and father a meaningful wink.

Sheila blushed and looked away. Bob grinned with his success in embarrassing his sister. It was a rare day when he got the better of her.

Davey cleared his throat and stared into his cup of strong tea. He knew damn well what the young ones got up to, hadn’t he and Peg been young themselves once? But it was wrong of Bob to hint at such goings-on in front of his parents, particularly his mother: it showed a certain lack of respect. ‘I think you’d better run along before you say any more,’ Davey advised quietly.

Realizing that he’d overstepped the mark, Bob muttered his good-byes and strode off into the night.

‘I’ll clear up,’ Sheila said, starting to collect the dirty plates together.

Peg stared at Sheila, remembering what she herself had been like at that age. She and Davey had been courting then, just as Sheila and Eric were now. Davey had been working on a Skaffie called Buttercup. Peg brought her gaze on to Davey and a mellow warmth filled her. He was a man in a million, her Davey. She wouldn’t trade him for all the tea in China. ‘Never mind the dishes. Go off and see your lad,’ Peg said to Sheila, shooing her away.

‘Are you sure, Ma?’

‘Aye, of course I am. Away and enjoy yourself. Just don’t come in at all hours. Remember tomorrow’s a working day.’

Davey lit his pipe, thinking it was going to be strange when their last two were gone from the house. He was going to miss Sheila in particular. As his only girl he’d always had a special soft spot for her. ‘Well,’ he said, reaching his hand out to Peg. ‘It’s good to be home.’

Once outside, Sheila paused to stare over Dragonholme. There was a vibrancy in the very air that had been missing these past few months. It was the men being back; they added something when they were there, and took it away with them when they went.

She turned left at the harbour to head for the Gifford hut which was high above the tide line a little ways along the beach. There were a number of huts on this stretch of beach, used by the families who owned them for storage purposes.

The Gifford hut, as they all were, was an old undecked boat that had been cut in half breadthwise, one half, keel uppermost, embedded firmly into the sand, and planking added to make a wall of the open end into which a door had been set.

The door swung open to her touch and she peered into the darkness, knowing instantly that Eric was already inside, as he’d promised he’d be. She could feel his presence.

An arm encircled her shoulders and he drew her gently to him. She gave a soft moan as his lips found hers.

A few seconds later, he let her go while he knelt at the bottom of the door, stuffing a strip of old sacking into the chink so that the lamp he was about to light wouldn’t be seen by passers-by. A Lucifer match flared, and the hut suddenly shone with a soft yellow glow.

He would have taken her in his arms again immediately, but she held him back, wanting to look at him, at every inch of him, leaner and darker than she had remembered. ‘It seemed like an eternity,’ she whispered, her hands holding his.

‘I know,’ he breathed. ‘I felt the same.’

‘I thought about you every day, and dreamt about you every night,’ she said, turning her eyes away from his in shyness.

He touched the top of her head with his lips. ‘I forced myself not to think about you during the days. That would have been just asking for an accident. But I did dream about you during the nights,’ he whispered, his mouth against her skin.

Suddenly she felt weak. All the months of loneliness and missing him rushing in on her. All the hours spent in dreams. She closed her eyes for a few moments, opening them again to find that she was back in his arms, her breasts hard against his chest, her happy tears trickling down her cheeks.

Gently, almost delicately, he undid her blouse, his roughened hands more pleasing than silk against her skin.

She helped him remove her clothes until at last she stood before him. She watched him as he removed his clothing. If they had been in the best hotel in Edinburgh, she couldn’t have been happier. There wasn’t a gentleman in the world worth half of Eric. There was no other man whose touch could so excite her, to whom she would offer herself and her love.

There was no finesse about his lovemaking: he was a rough-hewn man making rough-hewn love, but he brought her to heights of ecstasy, made her heart and body soar. Caught in a whirlpool of sensation, every nerve in her body tingling from his touch, she called out his name again and again. At last the world returned to what it had been, and there was Eric. Eric, her lover, her darling man, grinning down at her, his face damp with sweat, his eyes filled with love.

Later, he moved away from her to reach for the bottle of whisky he’d laid on the floor before she’d arrived. Eric swallowed a mouthful of whisky then extended the bottle to her.

‘To keep out the cold?’ she teased.

‘Aye, that’s right,’ he nodded, giving her a fly, conspiratorial wink which m. . .