She told Kitta that she looked at me at the pier at Gadlehead and knew, just knew, right then and there, that I would be a disaster. And so I was, lambsie. For a time I truly was.

~

That first morning in Gremista I’ll never forget. Shouts at dawn: Get up, get up, get up, quinies! Get up an’ tie your fingers!

I woke up crushed in a bed, with Kitta’s arm across my neck and Clementina’s ample self taking up a good deal of room. On the other side of the hut, groans from Isobel, Jeannie and Mary, a team from Cruden Bay. All of us scrambling for our clothes and gear, shivering in our wee woolly combinations.

In time huts would have a daily roster, each of us taking turns at lighting the fire, making tea and cutting bread and jam for all, but this first morning we were weary-slow. Nothing was organised. It was all we could do just to get ourselves kitted up, down to the yards and finding our places by six.

I followed Kitta’s lead, pulling on skirt and jumper and seaboot stockings, tying a headsquare around my hair, grabbing rubber boots and an oilskin apron from a pile the curers’ men had left outside. Other girls were quicker than me, and I’d to make do with whatever was left: boots so big that it was hard to walk without my feet lifting right out of them; an oilie that would have fit a girl as big around the middle as Clementina. Later on, we would swap our gear with other teams, sorting it out among ourselves so that no-one had anything too big nor small for them, but there was no time that first morning.

I struggled, too, with my clooties. I watched Kitta do hers: binding each finger with strips of cloth Ma had torn from flour bags, and tying them one by one with string. It was a complicated business and you needed to use your teeth, as well as the fingers you weren’t tying. The clooties would be left on all day, so they had to be done right. I couldn’t get them tight enough, nor tie the fiddly strings. Kitta noticed the dark looks Clementina was throwing my way and took pity on me.

Here, I’ll do them for ye, Fish Meggie, but mind, tomorrow ye’ll be doing for yourself!

I watched her bind and tie, bidding me to flex each finger to test the cloths—firm enough to hold but loose enough to keep my fingers moving. A picture flashed into my head: a girl binding her granda’s hand. How strange life can be. Quickly I sent it away: I didn’t want Roanhaven in my head any more.