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Back The Darkest Shore Save as PDF
Chapters (76)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Also by Karen Brooks
  4. Title Page
  5. Dedication
  6. EXPLANATORY NOTE
  7. PART ONE
  8. One
  9. Two
  10. Three
  11. Four
  12. Five
  13. Six
  14. Seven
  15. Eight
  16. Nine
  17. Ten
  18. Eleven
  19. Twelve
  20. Thirteen
  21. Fourteen
  22. Fifteen
  23. Sixteen
  24. Seventeen
  25. Eighteen
  26. Nineteen
  27. Twenty
  28. Twenty-One
  29. Twenty-Two
  30. Twenty-Three
  31. Twenty-Four
  32. Twenty-Five
  33. Twenty-Six
  34. Twenty-Seven
  35. Twenty-Eight
  36. PART TWO
  37. Twenty-Nine
  38. Thirty
  39. Thirty-One
  40. Thirty-Two
  41. Thirty-Three
  42. Thirty-Four
  43. Thirty-Five
  44. PART THREE
  45. Thirty-Six
  46. Thirty-Seven
  47. Thirty-Eight
  48. Thirty-Nine
  49. Forty
  50. Forty-One
  51. Forty-Two
  52. Forty-Three
  53. Forty-Four
  54. Forty-Five
  55. Forty-Six
  56. Forty-Seven
  57. Forty-Eight
  58. Forty-Nine
  59. Fifty
  60. Fifty-One
  61. Fifty-Two
  62. PART FOUR
  63. Fifty-Three
  64. Fifty-Four
  65. Fifty-Five
  66. Fifty-Six
  67. Fifty-Seven
  68. Fifty-Eight
  69. Fifty-Nine
  70. Sixty
  71. Sixty-One
  72. Epilogue: Autumn 1706
  73. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  74. GLOSSARY
  75. LIST OF CHARACTERS
  76. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

‘If ever you need anything,’ said the captain softly, ‘anything at all, you’ve only to ask.’ With a last touch of his hat, he spun on his heel and mounted his horse. He made a light clicking sound in his throat, and rode off down the cobbles.

Sorcha watched him from the doorway, oblivious to the rain that had begun to fall. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, her heart pounding, her skin hot.

It wasn’t until another voice whispered in her ear that she tore her eyes away. ‘I ken what I’d ask for,’ said Nettie, jerking her chin towards the captain’s broad swaying back, nudging Sorcha in the ribs. ‘And it’s not something I can repeat out here…’

With a wicked laugh Nettie dragged her friend out of the wet and shut the door.

Seven

SEVEN

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Ca’ me what ye like but pinnae ca’ me ower.

(Call me any names you like, but don’t knock me over.)

Mid-winter arrived, announcing itself in bitter squalls, blashes of rain, roiling fogs and churning seas. Snow fell heavily, coating the cottages and the seafront. A crust of ice formed along the shore, a heaving barrier that sounded like an old man fighting for breath as it crackled and moaned. Out towards the Isle of May the waves were savage, their foam rising high above the rocky crags. The wheeling birds kept their distance. Still the fishermen would take their boats out most days, their wives or another willing female carrying them on their backs, wading through the floating ice to deposit them into the prancing craft. Once aboard, the men would tuck their flannel shirts, their serks, into their thick trousers before scrabbling into their gairnsey jerseys and donning long, thick coats. Some wore hand-knitted grauvits around their necks, tokens from loved ones that also kept them warm.

Each morning the fishwives would rise before dawn and walk to the harbour, creels laden with their tools strapped to their shoulders. The smell of salt, seaweed and the fresh crispness of freezing air and threatening snow was invigorating.

The fishwives were both loathed and loved. Unlike regular wives and other women, fishwives had a freedom the others could only dream about. Mainly single women and widows, those who were married surrendered their husbands to the boats and ships. Some only for the day, others for longer periods, often farewelling their men for weeks if not months. Left to their own devices, they were beholden only to themselves, the sea and its laws. Rumours and gossip surrounded all the women — from whose bed they were sharing to how recklessly they spent their hard-earned coin. Most of it was untrue and much of it vicious, but that didn’t stop folk believing it.