Memories of Childhood
by John Appleby

~ 12 ~

One winter morning, my sisters preparing for school, my father put on his old overcoat and donned his cap, scarf and gloves. I was similarly bundled, and wore a long woollen scarf over my head and crossed over my chest, around the waist and safety-pinned behind. A topcoat from better days completed the job. We left by the backyard door, turned to the right at the end of the lane and walked into the wind between the gables. The curved beach lay below us and we scrambled down the bank through winter brown grass and tossing weeds to the chilled sand below. Striking out over the beach towards the Church point, the wind scurried clouds of sand, stinging my knees and flapping the tails of our coats until we came to the "fisher end". A few high-prowed cobles were nudging ashore, and the
fish being unloaded by the fishermen and their families. The men were clad in dark woollen trousers, Guernseys and seaboots - the women wore swathes of navy blue tweed about head and shoulders, and ankle length billowing skirts and aprons, and all hands rallied to the task of hauling the boats up onto the beach, cradled between pairs of wide iron-shod wheels. Fishing was the occupation of a few families of fisher folk with names such as Armstrong, Dent , Storey and Brown. They seemed to me to be a dour bunch of seemingly Scottish descent and noted for their withdrawn ways and strange dialect. They lived in an area of sandstone houses facing the sea and adjacent to the lifeboat shed.

When we came upon the scene, the fish were were being laid out on the sand by each of the boat owners' families. There would be separate arrays of cod, ling, gurnard, herrings, hake, mackerel and whiting. The red-nosed crowd which had gathered, with a stamping of boots and chafing of hands, circled around the fish. Presently, on the arrival of Mr. Storey. He was the auctioneer and a prominent local figure. He was also a baker of delicious iced teacakes, breads, and rich and fancy cakes. He was the son of old white-haired Adam Storey, patriarch of the fisher folk and donor of the new chapel carpet I was told. The auctioneer was a silver-haired man with a keen red face and piercing eyes. He was smoothly shaven and he wore the ubiquitous flat cap, and a stiff white collar and neat tie showed above a fawn dustcoat. A pair of black boots and and shiny leather gaiters showed below A black leather bag hung from a strap about his shoulder, a pencil pointed at us from the gap between his cap and his ear. He clutched a hardbacked note book.

The crowd of shift workers encircled the riches of the sea and bidding began in a language I could not understand. It's monotonous tone was punctuated with octave leaps of the voice. It brought results and each successful bid was acknowledged by a tap of the pencil on the book. I had thrust my way through the damp overcoats to view the proceedings from a position of warmth. One by one crowd dwindled, as did the occasionally flopping fish. My father paid his money, produced a length of string from his pocket and threaded the fish together. We walked to a nearby rock pool, rinsed the sand off the fish and set off for the other end of the bay. The sound of the waves softened as we turned into our sheltered lane and into our little private backyard, and entered our glowing kitchen.

For those not at the auction, a supply of fresh fish was delivered by Hector McKinnon on his little flat cart. With his cap at a jaunty angle, he'd patrol the lanes seated askew one of the shafts and yelling "calla harn". He would stop at the appearance of the apron-clad, purse-clutching housewife, and open one or more of several lidded compartments to the gaze. The purchase would be wrapped or placed on the lady's platter, the coppers shot into the leather satchel, and setting his corduroy rump onto the cart, with a click of the tongue to his pony he would carry on shouting. Herrings were the most plentiful and cheap, and kippers were 2d and 3d a pair. One could encounter other itinerant fish sellers, ruddy-faced warmly wrapped ladies, fisher wives. To the chagrin of the travelling public, a Mrs. Armstrong or Mrs Dent would heave a noisome wicker creel of fish onto the platform of the United bus and take a seat in a hastily evacuated area. These ladies would provide a service to outlying villages, there to glean a few coppers by door-to-door selling. Incidentally, there was a regular bus service from Newbiggin to Ashington provided by Mortons little dark blue buses, and United's red. The fare was 3d return for adults. I remember the excitement at the arrival of the first double-decker bus, to comments of "why man she"ll coup ower".

I have memories of kneeling on a cushion on one of the kitchen chairs and watching my mother prepare the food. I used to watch her grey steel scissors as they as they scraped off the fins and tails of the fish with rasping efficiency, the disembowelling, the severing of the heads and scales afloat in the white enamel bowl. Herrings would be filletted, rolled around a filling, placed in a dish with water and vinegar and poached in the oven.

© 2003 John Appleby, New Zealand

All enquiries for editorial and content should be directed to the webmaster, Jason Thompson on enquiry@newbigginbythesea.co.uk.