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'You don't want that girl, lad. No, go back to the village; find yourself a nice cant barmaid from The Cat's Paw,' the older man chewed his pipe, forming the words around the blackened stem before removing it all together and spitting into the water, an arc of black tobacco-stained spittle.
For a time they continued to work, repairing the nets of silver thread, like great spider-webs of the sea. In deference to his status, the elder sat on a packaged barrel of fish, the sea breeze lifting his salt-coloured hair, whilst cross legged on a pile of nets sat a younger man, his hair the colour of cracked black pepper. Gulls called overhead and hung in the sky the colour of steel. Charcoal-dusted steel. Far to the horizon were storm clouds brewing, dark, heavy. The sun was hidden yet the two men felt no cold. Both wore high-necked woollen shirts in colours of slate and sand. The elder wore a strange, cannibalised Naval regulation black jacket over his jumper, the bands of gold denoting rank still visible on the cuffs, yet brown leather patches had been added to the elbows and the surplus gold buttons had all been removed and presumably pawned. He even sported a Navy cap pushed jauntily back on his head so the cloud-white hair could curl out freely. His blue eyes were bright as fresh-caught mackerel, though the colour of periwinkles, and were staring hard at the young man in front of him. The sea struck the stony jetty they sat on, throwing up clouds of spray.
'Did you hear what I says, kidda?'
The boy sighed, and let the wooden shuttle lie limp in his hand for moment before threading it through the net with renewed vigour, 'Aye, I heard you, sir, but Moira…she's as cant a lass as I've ever seen, and -' he trailed off, staring out across the bay to a tiny house standing alone against the North Sea winds and waves. He fancied if he looked hard enough, he could see a dark-haired figure in a blue dress weaving through the garden of Thrift and Sea Campion.
'Look Billy,' the older man took his pipe out of his mouth again, turned it upside down and tapped out the ashy remnants onto the barrel he sat on before repacking the bowl with tobacco from a small and battered NAAFI tin, 'I knaa that you're young, and not a bad looking lad. She's a bonny lass, aye, and a pretty girl can turn a man's head. But you don't want her, she'll not make a fine missus, you know.'
Here he paused to allow Billy to lean forward with a match and relight his pipe. The younger man tossed the flaming brand into the water and stared gloomily at the bucket of crabs twitching over each other, shimmering under the liquid surface of the brine like coral petals in a gentle breeze, clambering over each other before stiletto legs failed to find purchase on the sides of the bucket and the crabs fell back with a splash.
The older man continued, 'Does ye da know you're thinking of courting? Or making to step out with young Moira?'
Billy could hardly contain his shock and visibly winced before giving the older man a sideways, cut-eyed look, 'Branton, da's been dead these past two years.'
'Oh,' Branton looked at his tightly laced brogues, 'I'm reet sorry to hear that Billy…aye, I remember now…Merchant Navy, weren't it.'
The two men were silent for a moment, adrift on their individual oceans of memory, one remembering the man as a youngster not dissimilar to the one seated before him, the other remembering the father he had intermittently known, pipe smoke and a sandpaper palm. Teaching him to roll a tab and tie a fisherman's bend.
'Pass us some baccy, will you?' Billy took the proffered NAAFI tin and rolled a thin wisp of paper, 'Da would've understood, in either life,' he took a deep drag on the glowing cigarette before blowing the white smoke into the cold air.
'Ah,' replied Branton knowingly, 'She's witched you good, our Billy.'
'Giveower.'
'No, you hear me, lad. Someone's gotta knock some sense inta that thick skull of yeself,' as if to illustrate, Branton leant forward and rapped the side of the boy's head.
Billy swerved, grinning awkwardly and looked back at his soft leather boots, 'Go on then, tell us 'bout her witching.' He took another pull on the cigarette, letting the fog drift out of his mouth and looked at Branton from the corner of his eye, part humorously, part apprehensive.
'Divvent play w' me, lad. She's no good. Got no family, got no name. There are more stories 'bout her than shells on the beach. Aye, have aw told ye 'bout the time the Wreckers were out on the rocks. Times was hard and she were nobbut twelve at the time, you know 'bout the Wreckers?'
Nodding slowly Billy took the thin tab out of his mouth, 'From two villages over, they lured the Merchant boats onto the rocks and murdered the sailors.'
'Aye, ye lucky, you never had to police our coastline. Wrecking's no longer such a threat, but this one night in December, terrible night, storm worse than I ever did see. And the Wreckers came damn near us, out on them rocks,' he pointed to the rocks below Moira's cottage, with an arm as sinewy as tarred rope, 'And there were a vessel out, in trouble, floundering. But though we saw the lanterns lit on the rocks, they were only bright for a moment before they vanished. Next day two lads washed up on our beach, skulls knocked in. Now I'm not saying she did it,' Branton added, raising his hand to silence Billy's protestations, 'But I am saying it's deil strange and that place is cursed.'
'That means nowt, ye said so yesel',' Billy's burr became thicker in agitation, 'it was a stormy neet an' they coulda been washed off the rocks. She were a lass of twelve, how could she murder a band of grown men? And even if she did, I've no objection, Wreckers deserve what they get.'
'Aye, but that's not the point Billy,' Branton leant forward unconsciously, illustrating his point by tapping the barrel with the bowl of his pipe, 'If she were a lass of twelve, how'd she do it, but? Ye seen her, we all have, out on the shingle, dancing over the barnacles till her feet bled. Swimming in the summer tides at a full moon. She's not right, Billy.' He sat back, shaking his head in earnest, 'We've cared for her, fed her, given her a hyem te call her own. But that's all; we never forget what she is.'
'And what's that?' Billy asked angrily, 'An orphan? Cause I knaa what it is to have no da,' Billy leapt to his leather booted feet, 'And I'll not stay tae listen tae this, ye condemn what ye divvent understand, ye gaumless ald gadgie! You're not my da!'
'Divvent tak' that tone w' me, boy!' Branton was also on his feet, despite his age he was far taller than his younger and accustomed to be obeyed, but Billy had already turned and was striding away down the stone jetty.
'Ye ken fix ye nets yesel'!' He shouted over his shoulder, furious that his eyes were filling with unmanly tears of anger.
'William Hareton Lough, you get back here this instant, ye hear me. You're not too old for a hidin'!'
As Branton dwindled into the stony landscape, Billy tried to dismiss his words but they echoed in his skull, as shrill and piercing to the fabric of his mind as the cries of the gulls. He looked up to see a dark bird fly overhead like a slash of night sky glimpsed through the torn canvas of the clouds. Then the realisation hit him like a great wave of Northern Sea; he sighed from the depths of his soul; 'Ma's gannin kill us when she hears o' this.'
For a time they continued to work, repairing the nets of silver thread, like great spider-webs of the sea. In deference to his status, the elder sat on a packaged barrel of fish, the sea breeze lifting his salt-coloured hair, whilst cross legged on a pile of nets sat a younger man, his hair the colour of cracked black pepper. Gulls called overhead and hung in the sky the colour of steel. Charcoal-dusted steel. Far to the horizon were storm clouds brewing, dark, heavy. The sun was hidden yet the two men felt no cold. Both wore high-necked woollen shirts in colours of slate and sand. The elder wore a strange, cannibalised Naval regulation black jacket over his jumper, the bands of gold denoting rank still visible on the cuffs, yet brown leather patches had been added to the elbows and the surplus gold buttons had all been removed and presumably pawned. He even sported a Navy cap pushed jauntily back on his head so the cloud-white hair could curl out freely. His blue eyes were bright as fresh-caught mackerel, though the colour of periwinkles, and were staring hard at the young man in front of him. The sea struck the stony jetty they sat on, throwing up clouds of spray.
'Did you hear what I says, kidda?'
The boy sighed, and let the wooden shuttle lie limp in his hand for moment before threading it through the net with renewed vigour, 'Aye, I heard you, sir, but Moira…she's as cant a lass as I've ever seen, and -' he trailed off, staring out across the bay to a tiny house standing alone against the North Sea winds and waves. He fancied if he looked hard enough, he could see a dark-haired figure in a blue dress weaving through the garden of Thrift and Sea Campion.
'Look Billy,' the older man took his pipe out of his mouth again, turned it upside down and tapped out the ashy remnants onto the barrel he sat on before repacking the bowl with tobacco from a small and battered NAAFI tin, 'I knaa that you're young, and not a bad looking lad. She's a bonny lass, aye, and a pretty girl can turn a man's head. But you don't want her, she'll not make a fine missus, you know.'
Here he paused to allow Billy to lean forward with a match and relight his pipe. The younger man tossed the flaming brand into the water and stared gloomily at the bucket of crabs twitching over each other, shimmering under the liquid surface of the brine like coral petals in a gentle breeze, clambering over each other before stiletto legs failed to find purchase on the sides of the bucket and the crabs fell back with a splash.
The older man continued, 'Does ye da know you're thinking of courting? Or making to step out with young Moira?'
Billy could hardly contain his shock and visibly winced before giving the older man a sideways, cut-eyed look, 'Branton, da's been dead these past two years.'
'Oh,' Branton looked at his tightly laced brogues, 'I'm reet sorry to hear that Billy…aye, I remember now…Merchant Navy, weren't it.'
The two men were silent for a moment, adrift on their individual oceans of memory, one remembering the man as a youngster not dissimilar to the one seated before him, the other remembering the father he had intermittently known, pipe smoke and a sandpaper palm. Teaching him to roll a tab and tie a fisherman's bend.
'Pass us some baccy, will you?' Billy took the proffered NAAFI tin and rolled a thin wisp of paper, 'Da would've understood, in either life,' he took a deep drag on the glowing cigarette before blowing the white smoke into the cold air.
'Ah,' replied Branton knowingly, 'She's witched you good, our Billy.'
'Giveower.'
'No, you hear me, lad. Someone's gotta knock some sense inta that thick skull of yeself,' as if to illustrate, Branton leant forward and rapped the side of the boy's head.
Billy swerved, grinning awkwardly and looked back at his soft leather boots, 'Go on then, tell us 'bout her witching.' He took another pull on the cigarette, letting the fog drift out of his mouth and looked at Branton from the corner of his eye, part humorously, part apprehensive.
'Divvent play w' me, lad. She's no good. Got no family, got no name. There are more stories 'bout her than shells on the beach. Aye, have aw told ye 'bout the time the Wreckers were out on the rocks. Times was hard and she were nobbut twelve at the time, you know 'bout the Wreckers?'
Nodding slowly Billy took the thin tab out of his mouth, 'From two villages over, they lured the Merchant boats onto the rocks and murdered the sailors.'
'Aye, ye lucky, you never had to police our coastline. Wrecking's no longer such a threat, but this one night in December, terrible night, storm worse than I ever did see. And the Wreckers came damn near us, out on them rocks,' he pointed to the rocks below Moira's cottage, with an arm as sinewy as tarred rope, 'And there were a vessel out, in trouble, floundering. But though we saw the lanterns lit on the rocks, they were only bright for a moment before they vanished. Next day two lads washed up on our beach, skulls knocked in. Now I'm not saying she did it,' Branton added, raising his hand to silence Billy's protestations, 'But I am saying it's deil strange and that place is cursed.'
'That means nowt, ye said so yesel',' Billy's burr became thicker in agitation, 'it was a stormy neet an' they coulda been washed off the rocks. She were a lass of twelve, how could she murder a band of grown men? And even if she did, I've no objection, Wreckers deserve what they get.'
'Aye, but that's not the point Billy,' Branton leant forward unconsciously, illustrating his point by tapping the barrel with the bowl of his pipe, 'If she were a lass of twelve, how'd she do it, but? Ye seen her, we all have, out on the shingle, dancing over the barnacles till her feet bled. Swimming in the summer tides at a full moon. She's not right, Billy.' He sat back, shaking his head in earnest, 'We've cared for her, fed her, given her a hyem te call her own. But that's all; we never forget what she is.'
'And what's that?' Billy asked angrily, 'An orphan? Cause I knaa what it is to have no da,' Billy leapt to his leather booted feet, 'And I'll not stay tae listen tae this, ye condemn what ye divvent understand, ye gaumless ald gadgie! You're not my da!'
'Divvent tak' that tone w' me, boy!' Branton was also on his feet, despite his age he was far taller than his younger and accustomed to be obeyed, but Billy had already turned and was striding away down the stone jetty.
'Ye ken fix ye nets yesel'!' He shouted over his shoulder, furious that his eyes were filling with unmanly tears of anger.
'William Hareton Lough, you get back here this instant, ye hear me. You're not too old for a hidin'!'
As Branton dwindled into the stony landscape, Billy tried to dismiss his words but they echoed in his skull, as shrill and piercing to the fabric of his mind as the cries of the gulls. He looked up to see a dark bird fly overhead like a slash of night sky glimpsed through the torn canvas of the clouds. Then the realisation hit him like a great wave of Northern Sea; he sighed from the depths of his soul; 'Ma's gannin kill us when she hears o' this.'
this is mainly in the Geordie dialect. a beautiful accent in my opinion, and i have a slight flavour of Geordie in me 
it's mostly phonetic, but if any of the words are a bit obtuse, this oughta help; [link]
this might be inaccessable but...i had to write it...i've got a few more snippets to write/post.
comments? if there are any Geordies out there, how's the accent?
it's mostly phonetic, but if any of the words are a bit obtuse, this oughta help; [link]
this might be inaccessable but...i had to write it...i've got a few more snippets to write/post.
comments? if there are any Geordies out there, how's the accent?
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