11-19-2025, 09:57 PM
(This post was last modified: 11-19-2025, 10:00 PM by William Blacke.)
Bill finally looked up at her from under his bushy eyebrows. What had he ever done to deserve such a beautiful woman? Strong as the Whitby piers amid crashing waves she was, but warm and inviting as the kitchen she ran so skillfully, fiercely protective of her own as a lioness. With a few words, she had caught his spiralling grief and bandaged it. He remembered how fortunate he was. For now, that was enough. Not to take away the sorrow, but to keep insanity at bay. He squeezed her hand gently.
“I rather think you saved me,” he said. But she was right. He had also saved her.
He had noticed Lottie when he first came to Whitby. From under the arched doorway of the railway station, he would watch her, broom forgotten in his hand, as she weaved through the hustle and bustle on the quay, carrying wicker skeps and baskets for her father. She was slender, but strong, with curves in all the right places, which made her gait seem like a dance to him. When she stopped to talk to the fishermen or laugh with her friends, sunbeams always seemed to find her and her red hair dazzled in the light like a wordless spell; he was bewitched. And when she passed close to the station, he could see that she had a lovely face, round with rosy cheeks and laughing eyes. He had thought she had to the prettiest lass in all of Yorkshire.
He had bought fish until he couldn’t stand the smell of cod anymore, just so that he could talk to her. Her answers were always polite but brief and it never led to the animated chatter he had seen her have on the docks. She didn’t seem much of a talker with him. Bill had blamed it on his own inability to keep a conversation going. He had spent his entire adolescence in the harsh, lonely, and highly structured environment of first prison and then the reformatory. He could get dressed in under a minute, knew how to salute, and had gained some useful skills in woodwork, but other than knowing how to throw or dodge a punch, he hadn’t really learned how to interact with other human beings in all those years – let alone girls. He had spent the time since his release trying to catch up, but he had found that he wasn’t much good.
This hadn’t discouraged him, however. He had gone to local dances in the hope of finding her there so he could ask her to dance. When he finally did get his chance, she had said ‘alright', but without much enthusiasm. He had noticed how she rolled her eyes at her friends when she got up, and how they sniggered in reply. As they danced, he struggled once again to keep a conversation going. She had made no effort, looking over his shoulder at other young men, instead. That was when Bill had finally gotten the memo: She was too good for him. He should have known, really. She was one of the most desirable girls in her community: pretty, warm, hard-working, sensible, her family well-respected. There was a queue of young men eager to win her over as their wife. And he was an outsider, twice over: not from her community, and not even a Whitby man. As far as the outside world was concerned, he had no family or connection, no history. Just a penniless stranger, a lowly, railway porter, who didn’t know how to talk to girls. If she hadn’t rejected him, her father would have.
Then she left town to work in a factory somewhere up north, or so he had gathered, while he managed to be apprenticed as a fireman. He had almost forgotten about her, when one day, a few months later, he and his colleagues had found her on the tracks, They had taken her back to the station. His colleagues had scolded her for her recklessness, but he had brought her a cup of tea and had offered her his soot-laden jacket against her trembling. He had heard her out.
He had laid the offer out before her in a frank and pragmatic manner. He was only an apprentice. He didn’t really have any money right now. Had a room in Baxtergate that wasn’t suitable for raising a family. They’d probably have to live with her parents for a while. He wasn’t in touch with his own family, so there was no money to be expected from that direction. And she had to know this: he had spent several years in prison and the reformatory for an attempted garrotte robbery he had committed at eleven. That was as much as he told her. She was not ever to ask for more details, and she could never tell anyone. He had only told her, because she needed to have all the facts before she made up her mind. But if she’d accepted him, despite all of this, he promised to love and respect her, acknowledge her child and bring it up as his own, and always provide for her as well as he could. There would be more money once he was a fireman. A decent, steady income. And he didn't drink much. He'd take it straight to home every week. He could save up for one of those newer houses in Fishburn park.
Three weeks later, they were man and wife.
Bill lifted her hand to his lips and gave it a prickly kiss. “’E would ‘ave liked ye.” He swallowed, trying to get rid of the lump of grief in his throat for meetings that could never happen now.
“I rather think you saved me,” he said. But she was right. He had also saved her.
He had noticed Lottie when he first came to Whitby. From under the arched doorway of the railway station, he would watch her, broom forgotten in his hand, as she weaved through the hustle and bustle on the quay, carrying wicker skeps and baskets for her father. She was slender, but strong, with curves in all the right places, which made her gait seem like a dance to him. When she stopped to talk to the fishermen or laugh with her friends, sunbeams always seemed to find her and her red hair dazzled in the light like a wordless spell; he was bewitched. And when she passed close to the station, he could see that she had a lovely face, round with rosy cheeks and laughing eyes. He had thought she had to the prettiest lass in all of Yorkshire.
He had bought fish until he couldn’t stand the smell of cod anymore, just so that he could talk to her. Her answers were always polite but brief and it never led to the animated chatter he had seen her have on the docks. She didn’t seem much of a talker with him. Bill had blamed it on his own inability to keep a conversation going. He had spent his entire adolescence in the harsh, lonely, and highly structured environment of first prison and then the reformatory. He could get dressed in under a minute, knew how to salute, and had gained some useful skills in woodwork, but other than knowing how to throw or dodge a punch, he hadn’t really learned how to interact with other human beings in all those years – let alone girls. He had spent the time since his release trying to catch up, but he had found that he wasn’t much good.
This hadn’t discouraged him, however. He had gone to local dances in the hope of finding her there so he could ask her to dance. When he finally did get his chance, she had said ‘alright', but without much enthusiasm. He had noticed how she rolled her eyes at her friends when she got up, and how they sniggered in reply. As they danced, he struggled once again to keep a conversation going. She had made no effort, looking over his shoulder at other young men, instead. That was when Bill had finally gotten the memo: She was too good for him. He should have known, really. She was one of the most desirable girls in her community: pretty, warm, hard-working, sensible, her family well-respected. There was a queue of young men eager to win her over as their wife. And he was an outsider, twice over: not from her community, and not even a Whitby man. As far as the outside world was concerned, he had no family or connection, no history. Just a penniless stranger, a lowly, railway porter, who didn’t know how to talk to girls. If she hadn’t rejected him, her father would have.
Then she left town to work in a factory somewhere up north, or so he had gathered, while he managed to be apprenticed as a fireman. He had almost forgotten about her, when one day, a few months later, he and his colleagues had found her on the tracks, They had taken her back to the station. His colleagues had scolded her for her recklessness, but he had brought her a cup of tea and had offered her his soot-laden jacket against her trembling. He had heard her out.
He had laid the offer out before her in a frank and pragmatic manner. He was only an apprentice. He didn’t really have any money right now. Had a room in Baxtergate that wasn’t suitable for raising a family. They’d probably have to live with her parents for a while. He wasn’t in touch with his own family, so there was no money to be expected from that direction. And she had to know this: he had spent several years in prison and the reformatory for an attempted garrotte robbery he had committed at eleven. That was as much as he told her. She was not ever to ask for more details, and she could never tell anyone. He had only told her, because she needed to have all the facts before she made up her mind. But if she’d accepted him, despite all of this, he promised to love and respect her, acknowledge her child and bring it up as his own, and always provide for her as well as he could. There would be more money once he was a fireman. A decent, steady income. And he didn't drink much. He'd take it straight to home every week. He could save up for one of those newer houses in Fishburn park.
Three weeks later, they were man and wife.
Bill lifted her hand to his lips and gave it a prickly kiss. “’E would ‘ave liked ye.” He swallowed, trying to get rid of the lump of grief in his throat for meetings that could never happen now.
