a friend of Harry’s.’
‘Oh aye.’ The woman gazed at her. ‘And what d’ya want him for?’
‘I – I want to speak to him, please.’
‘He’s not in.’ The woman made as if to close the door, but Jeannie moved forward.
‘Oh, but please, can you tell me where I can find him?’
The woman narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re not from round here. How d’ya know him?’
‘I’m from Scarborough,’ Jeannie told her. ‘I’ve met him twice, last time in March.’ She hoped the woman wouldn’t add up the months and shut the door in her face.
‘In March? Where?’ The questions were harsh and the woman frowned. ‘He’s nivver been to Scarborough.’
‘He has,’ Jeannie said. ‘Twice, like I said. I just need to speak to him, please.’
She was scrutinized severely and unblinkingly, and was just beginning to think she ought to turn tail and run when she was told, ‘You’d better come in.’
The outer door opened straight into a room which was clean but barely furnished and she was led through another door, past steep and narrow stairs leading up to another floor and into a kitchen where she saw a gleaming black cooking range with a shabby easy chair next to it, a scrubbed wooden table and two spindly chairs. Hanging from the ceiling was a lamp with a gas mantle. There was another door which she supposed led to a scullery and the yard. It was a much larger house than their old Scarborough cottage and she wondered who else lived there.
‘Sit down an’ dry yourself afore you get your death.’ The woman pointed to the easy chair.
‘Thank you,’ Jeannie said. ‘I am very cold.’
A grunt was the only verbal response but tea leaves were put into a pot, the simmering kettle was swung round and hot water was poured on them. After what seemed to be an interminable time the old woman lifted the teapot lid and swirled the tea vigorously with a metal spoon, and Jeannie watched mesmerized as she produced two tin mugs from a cupboard and poured tea into them.
‘D’ya tek milk?’
‘Yes please, if you have it.’
A minute drop of milk was poured from a brown jug and the mug of tea handed to her.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m very grateful.’
‘So you should be. I’m not in ’habit of pouring precious tea to folks I don’t know.’
Jeannie nodded nervously and took a sip of the hot weak liquid; there was no answer she could give.
One of the spindly chairs was placed across from her and the woman picked up her mug and sat down. She took a gulp of black tea, sighed and said, ‘So what’s this about? Lasses don’t usually knock on my door asking for Harry. They know I won’t stand for it.’
Jeannie took another sip before replying; she could feel the warmth coursing through her, giving her strength.
‘Are you a relation of Harry’s?’ she ventured. She was fairly sure the woman must be his grandmother and not his mother; she looked much older than Fiona and even older than Granny Marshall. Perhaps the whole family lived together.
‘I’ll ask ’questions.’ The answer was terse. ‘But yes, I’m his nan. His da’s mother. He lives here wi’ me. This is my house.’
‘W-will he be back soon?’ Jeannie risked another question. ‘Or is he at sea?’
Mrs Carr frowned. ‘Did he tell you he went to sea?’
‘Yes. He said he was a fisherman.’
‘What d’ya want wi’ him?’
Jeannie clutched the mug with both hands. ‘I’d rather speak to him.’
‘Who brought you? Did you come on ’train?’
Jeannie bit her lip. She hadn’t expected to be interrogated. ‘I came by myself. On the train. When will Harry be home?’
Mrs Carr took a deep breath, her thin chest rising and falling. ‘It’s a long way to come just to see somebody. Are you expecting?’
Jeannie gasped. ‘I don’t – I want to speak to Harry.’ Tears began to fall. She was cold, wet and miserable and she didn’t want to talk to this horrible old woman.
‘Did he say he’d marry you? Did he mek
‘Oh aye.’ The woman gazed at her. ‘And what d’ya want him for?’
‘I – I want to speak to him, please.’
‘He’s not in.’ The woman made as if to close the door, but Jeannie moved forward.
‘Oh, but please, can you tell me where I can find him?’
The woman narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re not from round here. How d’ya know him?’
‘I’m from Scarborough,’ Jeannie told her. ‘I’ve met him twice, last time in March.’ She hoped the woman wouldn’t add up the months and shut the door in her face.
‘In March? Where?’ The questions were harsh and the woman frowned. ‘He’s nivver been to Scarborough.’
‘He has,’ Jeannie said. ‘Twice, like I said. I just need to speak to him, please.’
She was scrutinized severely and unblinkingly, and was just beginning to think she ought to turn tail and run when she was told, ‘You’d better come in.’
The outer door opened straight into a room which was clean but barely furnished and she was led through another door, past steep and narrow stairs leading up to another floor and into a kitchen where she saw a gleaming black cooking range with a shabby easy chair next to it, a scrubbed wooden table and two spindly chairs. Hanging from the ceiling was a lamp with a gas mantle. There was another door which she supposed led to a scullery and the yard. It was a much larger house than their old Scarborough cottage and she wondered who else lived there.
‘Sit down an’ dry yourself afore you get your death.’ The woman pointed to the easy chair.
‘Thank you,’ Jeannie said. ‘I am very cold.’
A grunt was the only verbal response but tea leaves were put into a pot, the simmering kettle was swung round and hot water was poured on them. After what seemed to be an interminable time the old woman lifted the teapot lid and swirled the tea vigorously with a metal spoon, and Jeannie watched mesmerized as she produced two tin mugs from a cupboard and poured tea into them.
‘D’ya tek milk?’
‘Yes please, if you have it.’
A minute drop of milk was poured from a brown jug and the mug of tea handed to her.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m very grateful.’
‘So you should be. I’m not in ’habit of pouring precious tea to folks I don’t know.’
Jeannie nodded nervously and took a sip of the hot weak liquid; there was no answer she could give.
One of the spindly chairs was placed across from her and the woman picked up her mug and sat down. She took a gulp of black tea, sighed and said, ‘So what’s this about? Lasses don’t usually knock on my door asking for Harry. They know I won’t stand for it.’
Jeannie took another sip before replying; she could feel the warmth coursing through her, giving her strength.
‘Are you a relation of Harry’s?’ she ventured. She was fairly sure the woman must be his grandmother and not his mother; she looked much older than Fiona and even older than Granny Marshall. Perhaps the whole family lived together.
‘I’ll ask ’questions.’ The answer was terse. ‘But yes, I’m his nan. His da’s mother. He lives here wi’ me. This is my house.’
‘W-will he be back soon?’ Jeannie risked another question. ‘Or is he at sea?’
Mrs Carr frowned. ‘Did he tell you he went to sea?’
‘Yes. He said he was a fisherman.’
‘What d’ya want wi’ him?’
Jeannie clutched the mug with both hands. ‘I’d rather speak to him.’
‘Who brought you? Did you come on ’train?’
Jeannie bit her lip. She hadn’t expected to be interrogated. ‘I came by myself. On the train. When will Harry be home?’
Mrs Carr took a deep breath, her thin chest rising and falling. ‘It’s a long way to come just to see somebody. Are you expecting?’
Jeannie gasped. ‘I don’t – I want to speak to Harry.’ Tears began to fall. She was cold, wet and miserable and she didn’t want to talk to this horrible old woman.
‘Did he say he’d marry you? Did he mek
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