The Wherryman's Daughter - Part One

 

The Wherryman’s Daughter

Part One

 

Charity spied her father from where she knelt amongst the reeds and rushes. Owen stood at the tiller of their wherry, the Marsh Lady.

The moon was a smooth pebble throbbing with light but, like waves slowly dragging across, night mists covered it. The painted white snout on the wherry, used to help other boats spot her in the gloom, had been covered with ropes.

Wavering, Charity dug her feet into the riverbank. Mud smeared over her skirt and legs, yet a bit of dirt was better than tipping into that dark, grasping water.

Her father could not sail the wherry alone. She should be there with him, helping guide the boat through the river bends.

He had not dared to ask for her help, though. Her father knew she would have disapproved of his reason, and demanded he give the goods back to whomever had got him into this wicked business.

At the stem of the wherry, there was the hunched figure of another man. She could not tell who he was, as his face was concealed by his downturned hat. He was too big and hulking to be her cousin Alf. Could he be the smuggler or just another one of his lackeys?

Oh, Father, she thought, gritting her teeth, why do you do this? Couldn’t he see he was the one taking all the risk, while some unknown person reaped the profits?

Charity was tempted to stand and call for him to take the wherry home. However, she knew he was too stubborn. If only her mother were still here, then she would have been able to get him to listen.

She crept further along. Rain still glistened on the grass. Damp reeds stuck to her cheek, tugging like a child desperate for attention. Annoyed, she scraped them away, shivering as the cold crept past her shawl.

A misstep, and the squelching splash of mud seemed to echo. Her lips snapped together as she held her breath, waiting for her father to cry her name.

The brim of the stranger’s hat twisted in her direction. Her pale blue eyes seemed to stand out even more as they widened. Breath spluttered out of her as her heart writhed, wanting her to run.

Do not call out, Charity prayed desperately in her head. I am nothing but a shadow, a trick of the mind.

Then a barley bird shot out from a bush nearby. The stranger and her father chuckled, though it was empty of humour.

Her father turned back to the tiller. They were just as nervous. The sound of the boat cleaving through the water and the groan of the oak body pierced the silence.

A bright leaf green flag at the very top of the mast fluttered and danced at the slightest of breezes. It curled around the little tin Marsh Lady vane: a woman with a hat of feathers and a long river weed dress.

The wind blew Charity’s way and her nose wrinkled. No matter how long she worked on the wherry, she would never be fond of the whiff of tar and herring oil that the sail had been dipped in.

The Marsh Lady slowed. This was it. She had an idea of what her father planned. Although they were far from the fields, there would be one man sowing the crops, as men down the Copper Rose Inn said as they laughed into their tankards.

Heaving and grunting, straining his already weak back, Owen lifted up a cask of something. Brandy, most likely. There was a rope attached and she knew a stone was tied at the end.

Last week, she had curiously watched him pick stones from the path back home from church. He even had such plans on a Sunday!

The cask was pushed overboard, and it made a deafening splashing sound. He stiffened, anxiously turning his head side to side. Was he checking that the customs and excise men weren’t about to leap out of the water?

After a while, he started up again. Charity quietly counted under her breath as each cask struck the water. One, two . . . thirteen!

None rose. They were weighted down and hidden until someone came to dredge up the booty and carry it down to Norwich.

The Marsh Lady continued on. Charity hurried home, scowling.

She had seen all she needed to prove her suspicions. Now, all she had to do was figure out how to get her father safely away from the smugglers.

 

****

 

“Have you seen anything strange these past few nights, Charity?” was the first thing she heard that morning, upon opening the front door.

Her fingers tightly clenched the door handle to try and contain the tremor in her hand.

Josiah Thiske, the local customs man, stood there with his hat in his hand. He was only five years older than her, twenty-nine, yet he had a sunken, craggy face. Sharp winds had whittled his skin from when he had hunted for smugglers along the coast.

He was smiling at her, revealing the crooked, chipped front tooth that looked like a fang. Apparently, it was caused by a Dutch smuggler who had struck him with his cosh. It gave him a hungry, wolfish look.

A shiver was scraping up Charity’s back. Was she the prey? Had she been watched and followed as well, as she had done to her father?

“Strange, Mr Thiske?” Her voice quavered.

His eyes, as grey and misty as gun smoke, narrowed.

“Odd noises. People out of their beds when they should be asleep.”

Charity reached for her hair, about to tug at it nervously, but managed to stop herself.

“Only the foxes yowling, although…”

“Yes?”

Was he leaning forward to hear her better or anticipating a confession?

Charity met his stare. “I thought I saw a hulking shadow bound over a hill. You don’t think it could be the hound Black Shuck?”

He sneered. “I hardly think, in this day and age, we should believe in ghosts. It is another trick used by smugglers to frighten people indoors, so they can do their foul work undisturbed.”

“Then perhaps it was a dream.”

He accepted this, leaning away. His gaze seemed to eat up her face. Then he suddenly took her hand.

His thumb ran across the delicate flesh as he remarked, “Such soft hands! I find it difficult to believe you do tasks best suited for your cousin. Are you not unhappy working on that troublesome vessel?”

With a sharp tug, Charity freed herself just before he placed a kiss on her hand.

“Whatever suited my mother suits me. Good day, sir!”

Charity slammed shut the door. She leaned against it, hand to her face. She was never certain if his sweet words were true or if it was a snare to catch her.

“Are you well, my love?” Aunt Mariah called as she came down the stairs, tying up her dark, greying hair in preparation for the work ahead.

Charity managed a genuine smile for her. “It’s only a slight headache. How many breakfasts today?”

Charity would be eternally grateful to her aunt. When her mother passed from illness last winter, Mariah had let Charity and her father room at the inn.

“Three,” Mariah answered. “A young man came while you were abed.”

“At that hour?”

Charity set up the chairs, not meeting her aunt’s honey eyes. Mariah always seemed to know her thoughts, tempting her to tell her secrets. Charity was worried. Had the stranger seen her sneaking along the river?

“The silly boy got himself lost finding the village. He was absolutely soaked and had to be put before the fire. From what he’d said, he had fallen into several deeks!”

“Poor man! Is he not from around here?”

“London, he said, though it might have been Loddon. It was hard to tell as his teeth were chattering so much. He had a dog with him as well.”

Aunt Mariah went into the kitchen. Soon enough, there came the buttery, salty smell of frying bloaters.

Charity’s mind wandered. She pictured the traveller, trying to guess who might appear. All she could conjure up was a man in a top hat with smuts on his cheeks and a bulldog at his heel. City people were a rare, intriguing sight.

The next one awake was her father. She eyed him disapprovingly as he ambled over.

“Late night?”

He dismissively waved his hand and went to sit at one of the tables.

Charity sighed. What had happened to the man who had leapt out of bed, eager to explore the marshes with his wherry? Without her mother, he was fading. He was like a wherry in the centre of a lake, and the wind had departed just as the quant tumbled from his hands and splashed into the water.

The deep autumn leaf colours of his hair and bracken beard had blown away into the dull hues of winter. He wore his long brim hat, pale blue neck scarf and marsh slimed boots every day, not caring how tattered and frayed they became.

Charity resumed watching the stairs, and next came the new guest. He looked very young as his cheeks were clean shaven, although there was a scuff mark upon his face. His cap was shoved down on his head while his dark hair curled around the edges, like wild, spiralling roots creeping out of a pot.

“Hello,” Charity called. “I hope a chill didn’t settle in your bones?”

He flushed, and she realised that the mark on his face was a birthmark. The blemish was the shape of a poppy. It wasn’t ugly, more like someone had left a kiss on his cheek.

“Is it all around the village?” he asked.

“I’m afraid we don’t have much else to talk about.”

“I didn’t get the chance to say sorry to your mother for trailing so much water in here.”

 “Oh, it’s fine. My aunt likes having guests. Breakfast will be out soon – that’ll warm you up.”

“Thank you…”

“Charity.”

“I’m Tom.”

He had a nice close-mouthed smile, soft and gentle. It made a girl want to lift it into a grin.

Tom sat down, near her father. When she went to them with the food, her father now sat next to him. She could not help – oh, why pretend? She was curious. She listened in as she served.

“Does the barge come by often?” Tom asked him.

Owen spluttered around his pipe, smoke pattering like rain. “A barge! You might as well call a mouse a cow! The Marsh Lady is far daintier than a brutish barge.”

Tom stammered an apology. Grudgingly, Owen forgave him, after he had bought him another drink.

“What exactly is it you want me to do, boy?”

Charity smiled faintly. Her father did not look so worried now. No matter what, he always loved to talk about his Marsh Lady. Hopefully, this Tom could distract him.

“Would it be possible for me to ride with you?”

“Why? You want to try your hand at the tiller?” Owen glanced at his hands, which were small and pale. “I don’t think you’ll like it.”

“I’m a painter. I wanted to see the rivers,” Tom explained.

“We’re a trading wherry, not a pleasure yacht.” But Owen’s lips were twisting up.

“I’ll pay, of course.”

“Your first time in Norfolk?” Owen asked. “And on a wherry?”

Tom nodded. “I do hope I don’t fall into the water!”

Again, Charity thought to herself.

“The crew on the Marsh Lady are a steady hand.” Owen patted him lightly on the shoulder. “You’ll have not seen my mate. I’ll have to warn you – you’ll fall in love by the end of the journey. All the men here have.”

Charity’s eyes widened as she blushed. The poor young man looked so confused. It was rare that a woman helped steer a wherry, unless she was the wherryman’s wife. Who was he picturing would appear?

Another man entered the inn. Charity stiffened, but relaxed when she realised it was not Josiah Thiske.

Lord Rosewood, local squire, tipped his hat to her as he leaned against his walking stick. Those watery tadpole black eyes of his were glimmering. She might not have thought him the same age as her father, as his face had a roundish, smooth look. Only his dark hair had streaks of white, like milk streaming through treacle.

Why was he here? Charity’s eyes narrowed. Really, if anyone was the head of the smugglers, it would have to be someone with money and connections.

Aunt Mariah emerged from the kitchen, smiling. She straightened her apron and tucked a loose curl back under her cap.

“Keep an eye out for me, Charity. I need to speak with Lord Rosewood about a legal matter.”

Charity nodded, and her aunt and the lord went into the backroom. Her father caught this as well – the scowl on his face!

Owen drained the rest of his drink, clapped Tom on the shoulder and followed. Within moments, raised voices could be heard in the other room.

Charity leaned in, listening. Aunt Mariah was speaking, but before she could hear, something scrabbled at Charity’s feet. A rat, she near shrieked, yet it was too big.

A little dog crouched, wagging his tail. She could not tell what breed he was. In truth, he looked more like a rabbit the colour of sawdust. His ears stuck up and a burst of white curls erupted from his chest. His eyes were dark, like droplets of ink.

He put his paws on Charity’s leg and tilted his head. She scratched the back of his ear. He made a happy grunting noise.

“Whose dog are you, anyway?”

“Bramble!”

The dog’s ears stuck up even more, if that was possible. He bounded over, stopping by Tom’s feet.

“What is he?” Charity asked.

“A mix. Some West Highland Terrier, I believe. Are you the wherryman’s daughter?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Is your father coming back?”

“I’m sorry. He gets distracted easily.”

She could have lied, but she was tired of making up excuses. Too many and she would slip up or, as her grandmother had always warned, her tongue would fall out.

Tom’s face fell. She felt slightly mean having to disappoint him.

“Is there anyone else who sails the wherry? This could be my only chance. It might rain tomorrow.”

There weren’t that many people to keep an eye on. Only Old Curve Joe was in the corner, but he could take an hour with a single drink.

Her family needed the money. She had never ridden the wherry without her father, yet it was his own fault he wasn’t there to stop her. It would serve him right for being contrary and vanishing each night.

Charity smiled at Tom. “Welcome aboard the Marsh Lady, then.”

 

****

 

“Can you not see he’s only using you? No matter his promises, he’ll not marry you,” Owen argued, his boot against the backroom door so that no-one disturbed them.

It was as though history was repeating itself. His voice had been younger, yet the words were the same.

Some of Mariah’s hair had come loose. She angrily blew it out of her face.

“Enough of this nonsense,” she said. “You’ll strain your heart for no good reason. There is nothing between Lord Rosewood and myself. It is in the past and forgotten.”

“We’re only talking about the inn,” Augustus added. “Nothing scandalous at all.”

“There’s more than that going on,” Owen said suspiciously, eyes narrowed. “Weren’t my warnings back then enough?”

Years ago, in Mariah’s youth, there had been a festival. The fairest girl would be crowned harvest queen by the squire’s son. Augustus had placed a kiss upon her cheek, set the wheat crown upon her head and danced with her.

Mariah had thought it a dream, one to tuck into her heart. A cherished memory for when the drudge of her life became too much. Then Augustus came to visit, and she had learnt he too felt something kindle in the joy of that day.

Her father had noticed as well. To him, all the Rosewood men were rotten. He had whipped Owen up in a frenzy, and there’d been a fight.

Augustus had fallen. Even thinking of that night made Mariah shut her eyes in horror.

Ever since, Augustus had needed a walking stick, yet he never turned her brother and father in. He had still wanted her. He was willing to forgive.

However, Mariah was sensible. For all their sakes, it was better they remained apart. She had married someone of her own class, who her father approved of.

Yet Augustus had been her first love! Her feelings for him simmered beneath the surface, wondering what might have been.

After her husband’s death, she had strived to be strong for her son Alf, to keep the Copper Rose running. It had been too much. A year ago, Augustus had found her weeping in the stable.

They had barely spoken for years, yet he had let her cry upon his shoulder. The kiss had come to them just as easily.

“Please, Owen, I do not wish to quarrel with you,” Augustus urged. “Why don’t I lend you some money? Mariah has told me –”

“I won’t be bought by you,” Owen snapped. “You leave my family be. Your meddling will only cause us strife.”

Her brother had held on to his mistrust and prejudices, just as she had held on to her love. With a sharp sound, which might have been him refraining from spitting, Owen walked out.

Mariah sighed, “Oh, how I hate lying.”

Augustus pulled her to him and stroked her hair. “Then stop. Tell them we’re going to be married.”

They were acting no better than thieves, skulking in the shadows. She had her son to think of. Would he despise her, believing she had betrayed his father’s memory?

Her husband had given Mariah her sweet hearted, loyal Alf. When she looked back on her marriage, she had fond memories, but they were just memories. She herself was still alive.

Perhaps it was better to stop this, before they were found out. Mariah made to speak, to tell him this would be their final meeting. Augustus pressed a kiss to her work-worn knuckles.

“Do not fret, my harvest queen. I’m no longer a boy. I won’t be bullied by your brother this time.”

And all her protestations and worries fell away.

 

****

 

Although the sun had risen, mist still clung to the sky. It had turned faintly golden, like waves of wheat flying in the air.

Alf cried out, shoving his thumb in his mouth. He dropped the hammer and barely missed his foot.

As if mocking him, the fence he had been fixing rocked from the fairest of breezes. He grasped it before that too fell.

What a day! Alf roughly wiped the sweat on his forehead, pushing aside the red curls stuck there. He was covered in aches and bruises, and he had forgone breakfast to get this finished.

When he surveyed the fencing surrounding the inn, he had hoped he would feel some sense of accomplishment. Instead, all he felt was dismay.

“Why am I so useless?” Alf muttered to himself dejectedly.

He wished his father was here. He needed someone to teach him. His father’s face was fading from his memories. Soon, all he would be left with was the distant sound of his laugh.

Uncle Owen had been a help. Alf was doing well on the wherry. However, he would be seventeen soon. He had to be the man he was trying to become, not the boy with a scruff of beard who was always messing up. His mother only had him to rely on.

His gut clenched with guilt. She wouldn’t be happy with what he had planned.

It was for the best, though. The inn was falling apart and they weren’t making enough.

Things were going to get better, Alf promised himself. He just had to be patient and keep his mouth shut.

“Alfie!”

He turned to see his cousin Charity waving wildly as she ran over. A man and dog were following her.

“Who’s this?” Alf asked.

“Tom here wants to ride the wherry.”

“Without your father? You sure you’re strong enough?”

“It’ll be fine. At least I can reach the gaff line.”

His smile turned into a scowl. “All right, then, longshanks.”

“Wait here,” Charity told Tom. “We’ll bring her to you.”

 

****

 

Winds gently pushed the Marsh Lady. Charity helped it along with the quant, the pole pressed hard against her shoulder as she gritted her teeth and used all her strength.

Tom waited at the riverbank. She felt all the effort was worth it when he gaped in amazement.

The wherry cleaved through the mist. Its body was painted bright green. The black sail was its cape, like a bit of torn out night sky, and it fluttered in the emerging summer day.

The rivers here were particularly thin, with low bridges in the way. Charity’s grandfather had made the Marsh Lady especially to be slim and graceful.

“Hop on!” Charity called, and Tom and Bramble clambered aboard.

Charity glanced back. She was half-afraid she might spy her father chasing after, shouting for them to stop. The other half was hoping for this, as at least it meant he had been galvanised into doing something.

Alf sat at the tiller, heaving his back against it to guide the boat. Charity stood by the winch, calling out directions. Tom leaned on the side with a sketchbook on his lap. The wherry was swift but gentle.

Bramble had shuffled on his back in a pile of rope, contentedly lounging in his sunspot. His fur had deepened into a fox-like, orange colour.

They were approaching one of the low bridges. She waited until the very last moment, then warned, “We’re lowering the mast!”

They dropped gear. The counterweight rose as the sail lowered. The pair wobbled slightly, unused to the weight of the mast without Owen. Tom quickly helped take some of the load from Charity.

The Marsh Lady slipped beneath the bridge. Charity ducked her head. Her hair clung to the lichen growing on the underside of the stones. Briefly, a hand of darkness closed around them. All they heard was the lap of water and their breaths.

Then they were easing out and sunlight burst into their faces. Men bent amongst the sedge, sickles gleaming as they sliced. Coots bobbed in the water, lazy and unafraid of the drifting boat.

As they lifted the sail again, Charity squinted at something glimmering on land. Someone astride a horse watched them with a spyglass. She knew the rider from the horizontal tilt of his wide brimmed hat. Her skin prickled as her smile died.

Wherever she was, Josiah Thiske always seemed to be near. He was like a shadow clinging to her heel, unable to be shook off.

 

****

 

Once they had disembarked, Alf waved the others off with a laugh. Charity was trying to take a peek at the sketches Tom was hiding.

Alf started cleaning out the cuddy, the small cabin inside the wherry where the skipper and mate slept. Uncle Owen didn’t have to know about their impromptu trip.

When he had finished, he sat on the steps and took out his letter. It had come that morning from Great Yarmouth; however, he hadn’t read it. There was no point.

As a boy, he had preferred sailing in the wherry. Reading had never interested him, and his schooling had suffered. No matter how hard he tried, he could only make sense of a few words. With Amelia’s elegant, complicated handwriting, it was impossible.

He heard the familiar hoofbeat of a horse.

“Mr Thiske,” he called in greeting as the customs man dismounted.

Josiah Thiske was a learned man. Alf had gone to him as he thought he’d be the least likely person to blab to the others.

They sat on the cramped cuddy bunks. Josiah broke the letter’s seal as Alf jiggled his leg impatiently.

As he read the contents, Josiah asked, “Who was the stranger on the boat with you? Is the old man not fit for the job anymore?”

“Owen would rather fall in the water than let someone who isn’t family sail her. Tom’s a city boy come to paint the Broads.”

“Charity seems fond of him.”

“Tom’s staying at the inn,” Alf said. “She’s probably keeping him sweet for Mother’s sake.”

“Just so long as it’s only that.”

“Hurry up, man,” Alf urged. “What’s she written?”

“Don’t be impetuous.”

As if trying him, Josiah slowly returned to the beginning, and began reading, “My dear Alf, I must be with you. I can wait no longer. If I do, then I fear it will be too late, and we will never meet again.”

It was strange hearing sweet Amelia’s words in Josiah’s dull tone. Yet Alf shut his eyes and pictured her, imagining her feathery breathed voice.

She was a small woman, with pale hair, grey eyes, small pink lips always smiling and freckled cheeks that were always blushing. To even suggest he would not see her wrenched something out of his chest that he did not fully understand, and it frightened him.

Alf had been taking shipments of timber from Yarmouth to Norwich when he had spied her watching the boats, dressed far too finely in a cream dress to be there. She’d get her impractical shoes dirty. He hadn’t paid her much mind, assuming she was waiting for some high-ranking officer from one of the Navy vessels.

Then there’d been the cry of – “Look out!” – and her parasol, which had been blown by the wind, struck his head and knocked him out of the wherry. Uncle Owen had been too busy laughing to help.

Amelia had grasped his hand as he struggled up the bank, not caring how muddy and soaked she became.

After that, they had begun seeing one another. In secret, though. Amelia was the daughter of a lawyer, whereas Alf was no-one.

“Father wants me married by the end of the year,” Josiah continued. “I have no choice. He has chosen the son of his business partner. I do not want him – I want you! Please, I must hear from you soon. Father suspects our meetings, that is why he is pushing this. I fear I will become a prisoner if I go against him. Send word, my love. Come and rescue me.”

Alf’s throat was dry. He leapt, as though he would go to her now, and his head cracked against the low roof. He clutched his forehead. No, he thought. He had to be calm.

“Mr Thiske, will you write my response?”

“If you agree to let me know if that Tom bothers Charity again.”

“Fine! Fine!”

Hurriedly, Alf told Josiah what to write, often having to cross out and start anew when he changed his mind. His thoughts were thrashing about with half-made plans, most of which were no good.

Even though Alf had no titles or prospects, even though such a marriage would be scandalous and derided, he would marry Amelia. He would work and do whatever was necessary to ensure he could be worthy enough for her.

Once Josiah had finished, the man left him. Alf leaned over and covered his face.

At that moment, his tiny village seemed so far from the fishing town.

 

****

 

Charity was anxious throughout the rest of the day. She had made her decision and now she needed nightfall.

More people came into the inn: farm labourers wetting their whistles from sweating in the fields, merchants stopping off on their way to town, and even a walking party. She bustled back and forth with ale and steaming dumpling swimmers.

There was barely any time to speak, thankfully. She was too distracted to manage a conversation.

Slowly, dusk came. A vivid purple sky engulfed the thick undergrowth of clouds. People began to retire.

Old Joe was still hunched over a drink, possibly the same one from earlier. Oddly enough, he watched Charity, but said nothing as she ushered him out.

Tom bid her goodnight. She noticed with a smile that a furry tail peeked out from under his coat as he snuck Bramble upstairs.

Charity blew out the candles, trails of smoke tapering into the darkness. She counted, straining her ears to catch the warning creak of a step on the stairs, the coughing groan of someone awakening. All was quiet.

She put on her cloak and lit a lantern. In her pocket she had put away one of the kitchen knives, hoping it would be strong enough for thick rope.

When she turned the door handle, it let out an almighty groan of protest. Charity stilled. There was a skittering sound, but it was too light to be human.

She opened the door slowly. Cool night air crept in.

Charity steadied herself, then something yanked her. Bramble clung to the hem of her cloak.

“Let me be!” Charity hissed.

Bramble tugged harder, grumbling and growling. Each time she tried to open the door, he dragged her back. How could such a little dog be so strong?

Footsteps creaked down the stairs. Candlelight flickered.

A person’s shadow fell across the wall. It was too tall to be her aunt.

Charity placed her hand over her lantern, hiding her light. She urged them to return to bed.

What if it was her father? He would guess at what she was doing, and her plan would be ruined.

The person lifted their candle, sharply illuminating their features.

In The Wherryman’s Daughter, Charity knows her father is risking his life and their wherry the Marsh Lady by smuggling gin and tobacco. Can she foil the smugglers or will she too disappear on the Broads?

Twenty seasonal stories of drama, romance and adventure set in Victorian and Regency Norfolk, with smugglers, ghosts and the all too treacherous Broads. Locations include Cromer, Winterton-on-Sea, Great Yarmouth and St. Benet's Abbey. Perfect for a holiday read or while staring out of a stormy window, wishing you were somewhere else.

Features evocative descriptions of coast and country interwoven with historical details about local folklore alongside bathing machines, the Norwich yards, Victorian spiritualism, the history of ice-cream and omnibuses.

Previously these stories were published in The People’s Friend magazine and can now be read in an easy to dip into format. Included are photographs of Norfolk scenes and wildlife taken by the author.

Available on Amazon Kindle