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always brought them shortbread and rich fruit cake and told ghost stories in bed; such scary stories that even Tom hid under the blanket.
    ‘Can I have a day off school?’ she begged her mother. ‘Like last time?’
    ‘We’ll see.’ Her mother was non-committal. ‘Your education is important.’
    ‘But if I’m going to be a herring girl, I need to watch what you do.’
    Mary smiled. ‘Plenty of time,’ she said. ‘Don’t be in a hurry to grow up. Life is short.’
    Jeannie wasn’t in a hurry to grow up. She didn’t object to school generally; she was quick with numbers and good at reading. What she didn’t like was to be indoors when the sun was shining and the golden sands and glittering sea beckoned and rock pools were warm and crawling with crabs; in the summer months and school holidays she and her friends used to race down the sands to see the fashionable visitors who had come to the Spa to take the medicinal waters, or peep at the ladies as they were driven down to the sea in bathing huts from which they would descend to dip their toes in the water, squealing at the coldness of the sea before quickly immersing themselves up to their necks and then rushing back to their huts to dry themselves. Jeannie and her friends, who were all perfectly at home in the water, would position themselves so that they could observe the antics of these strange creatures. The sight of the maid within the hut waiting with a large robe or towel to wrap the returning bather in sent the children into shrieks of laughter.
    But now the town was preparing for the herring girls who followed the fishing fleet down the coast. They were not rich and they worked long hours for the money they earned but they were not afraid to spend it; bakers bought in extra flour and prepared to make large quantities of bread and cake and the hostelries polished their brasses, for where the girls were, so were the men. The girls took lodgings with the bottom-enders of the old town who opened up their homes for as long as they were there, usually about a month or until the fleet moved on to follow a shoal; then they packed up their possessions, their oilskins, boots or clogs, into their wooden trunks and moved down the coast to another port, to Lowestoft or Yarmouth.
    Mary opened up her old wooden trunk and shook out her oilskin apron, and stood her wooden clogs by the door in readiness. Although she wasn’t on an official agent’s list, she was regularly employed by a local curer, who also took on her mother and one of her friends and put them to work as a team. Mary was going to ask them if she could do the packing of the barrels this time, as she thought she had lost some of her skill and speed with the gutting knife.
    She walked Tom and Jeannie to school, making sure that Tom went through the door and didn’t sneak out when he thought she wasn’t watching. Then she went on to the railway station to await the train bringing her mother and the other herring girls.
    The train steamed in and within a minute the platform was a seething hub of women and noise as they descended from the train, many of them carrying their trunks on their shoulders and others with packs on their backs, for these were strong and independent women. Mary craned her neck to seek her mother. She looked out for Fiona’s red hair, brighter and more fiery than her own, but greying, she’d noticed the previous year.
    She heard her name called, saw an arm waving and then another, and at last made out her mother and her friends Nola and Nell coming towards her.
    Mary gave her mother a hug, and a big welcoming smile and a pat on the shoulder to Nola and Nell, whom she had known since childhood. ‘Did you have a good journey?’
    ‘Aye, well enough, but I’m fair weary now,’ Fiona answered. ‘These two have blethered all the way here. A guid cup of tea is what I’m after, lassie.’
    ‘The kettle’s on the fire and the teapot’s on the table.’ Mary laughed, shouldering