Fisherman’s Friend (M)

[groundcontrol]

Well, here’s 2.4k of a late 19th century merchant fisherman with a cold on the North Sea. Gotta keep you guys on your toes, am I right? 

TW for a bit of mean language and implied misogyny (c-word). I don’t really know how to be mean but I tried for the fic. 

The wind blew bitterly cold, spewing the harsh North Sea mist against what little skin Robert had regretfully left exposed and soaking him to the bone as surely as if he had dived overboard to swim for the fish himself. His nose ran down his lips, raw and icy, and there was no point in him rubbing it on a wet and salty sleeve only to need to do the same thing again two seconds later. His joints ached, paradoxically from cold and slight fever, as he and the rest of the crew hauled in nets slick with brine and gorging with herring. At least, then, he might come by a shilling for the day’s efforts. 

    “Heh’NGSHHH! RSHHH!”

Robert wished he were at home in Aberdeen, abed with his wife and daughter, a hot brick and flannel for his feet, and a mug of tea and brandy for his head. To think he had been content to leave, excited even, at the prospect of escaping his daughter’s shrill cries as his wife tried fecklessly to soothe her congestion and fevered cheeks. But as always, Fortune had dealt him a bitter deal in recompense for his foolish wish, giving him a cold berth at sea even as the grippe which had tormented his daughter took up residence in his own head. There was no screaming child here, yes, but in her place was the wailing squall blowing down from the North, thrashing the trawler side to side in the cruelest of lullabies. Absent too was his wife and with her any sympathy for his condition. The whole crew faced this weather, and he was likely not the only one with a head cold atop it. There was naught he could do but try his best to lose himself in his work, to focus on the raw scrape of salty net against his hands rather than the raw scrape of his throat as he swallowed around razorblades.

There was a new boy this time around, and it was just as well for there were never enough hands to do the work the proprietor’s asked of them. But it was quickly becoming obvious, as Robert coughed and sniffled and pulled, that the boy, meant to be aiding Robert with his net, was not providing any help at all. 

Robert stared daggers at the boy, his chills and streaming nose leaving him in even less of a mood to deal with a shirker, but the boy did not look up. He simply stared at the nets and the fish as though afraid to do anything with them. Meanwhile, the wind whipped round and water splashed the deck. The boy could hardly keep his feet on the slick deck as the trawler tossed on the waves. 

At last Robert had had enough. “Haul in the nets, damn you!” he cried, choking back the cough that bubbled in his chest. “Think you’re fit to stand around while the rest of us do the work?”

The boy looked at Robert for the first time, pale eyes wide as saucers, face scarlet. “Of course not,” he called back, voice shaky, “it’s… It’s just terribly windy.”

If he were in a better mood Robert might have laughed. “And? The fish don’t mind and neither should you.”

“I’m just saying…” The boy continued, and Robert had half a mind to toss him to the waves if he kept speaking. “Isn’t it unsafe for us to be out here in such weather?”

This time, a rough chuckle-turned-cough scraped out past Robert’s swollen throat. “Safe? That’s a laugh. You want safe, son? You don’t join with a trawler.” 

“Heh’RSHHOOO! Hhh’KSHHH!” Robert let out two sneezes, full and wet into the misty air and groaned as he saw the boy dropping more net than he was pulling, still seemingly afraid of even getting his hands wet. “Dammit, are you pulling at all?”

“I’m trying!”

    Without warning, a coughing fit overtook Robert and he paused, hands on his knees, until he could catch his breath. “Suffering Jesus, I’ll be dead of pneumonia before we get this catch in,” he muttered, before cupping his hands to his lips and calling out above the wind as loudly as his hoarse voice would allow. “Campbell! If you’ve got an extra hand, send him here! This little cunt is too afraid of getting his dainty hands dirty.”

    Robert shifted in position, to give himself the best leverage to try to bring in the net himself, all but shoving the boy out of the way. But the boy was suddenly spurred into action, likely by the insult, and he made a frantic grab for the nets, landing a firm elbow in Robert’s gut in the process. “No I’ll try, I–”

    The impact send a jolt through his already aching body, and Robert snapped. “Just do us all a fucking favor and jump overboard, will you?” he growled, shoving the boy away once more with his shoulder. “Better than hanging around in the way like a leftover piece of shit.”

        Not long after, Campbell came over to help, and Robert steadfastly lost himself in the steady rhythm of bringing in the nets, ignoring almost completely his streaming nose, raw throat, and the silent trembles of the boy who watched on as they worked and bit his lip against tears. There was no time to feel remorse over his outburst, not now anyway. 

*************

          Robert avoided the boy for the rest of his time on deck, avoided him in the mess when he ate his beef and peas for dinner, and avoided any chance of seeing him at cards by retiring to his bunk early. He wrapped himself in his woolen blanket, tired enough to drop asleep instantly, but sat back up when he could not breathe through his congestion. 

Of course though, what Robert did forget (and he would his blame his fever for his absentmindedness) was that he was sharing a bunk with this new boy, rendering all his earlier attempts and evasion fruitless just as soon as the boy entered upon Robert, in the throes of a sneezing fit. 

“Hehh’TSCHH! Ihh’NGSHHH!! Hehh’iihhh ISHHH’uhh! HehhPTSHHH!... Ihh’hhh’IGSHHHoo!” In truth, Robert was all in all too miserable to expend a morsel of energy caring that he had perhaps given his bunkmate reason to slaughter him in his sleep. In fact, Robert mused as he struggled to breathe through his blocked nose only to begin coughing harshly, perhaps to be slain where he lay would be the best thing for him in his condition.

    Time passed, and the two bunkmates did not make a sound but for Robert’s occasional noises from his cold. Robert was staring idly at the wall and wiping his nose on his sodden handkerchief, lost in a haze of fatigue and congestion, when he felt something drop in his lap. He startled a bit, stifling a cough. Lozenges, neatly packed in a light sack. He looked up, and saw the boy watching him, timid and out of reach. 

“My mother sent me off with them,” he said softly. “Sounds like you need them more than I do.”

    He stared at Robert for another long moment, then went to his bunk without another word. He ruffled softly through his rucksack, producing a notebook and socks. Now, as Robert watched him closely, he saw just how young he was, how soft and unworkmanlike his hands. The lozenges weighed down Robert’s lap the way guilt weighed down his stomach. 

“I’m sorry.” Robert’s voice came out scratching and quiet; he cleared his throat painfully. “For what I said about you earlier. Wasn’t decent of me.”

    The boy stilled, but did not look up. “I am trying, you know. I’ve just never—I’m not a fisherman.”

    “I gathered that much.” At this, the boy did look up, his face lined with a guarded edge. Robert continued. “Well, I am, so pardon me when I ask just what the fuck you’re doing here?”

    “Making money,” the boy said quietly, almost ashamedly.

    Robert barked out a laugh, then hurried to cover it with a cough when he saw the boy shrink back. Apologies had never come easily to Robert, but he knew he shouldn’t mess things up this early. His fake cough quickly turned into a real cough, leaving him hacking and sniffling and wiping his nose enough for the boy to regard him a bit worriedly. 

Once he could, Robert choked out, “Came to the wrong place for that, son.”

    “I needed money fast and this seemed like the quickest way to do it.” The boy sat on his bunk, knotting his hands in his lap and staring at them as though they told the future. His voice was quiet, private, as though he was talking to himself and Robert was only listening in. “I’m supposed to be in university, studying law, but my father took ill suddenly and I’m his only child. He needs medicine.”

            Something in Robert sank even further. “We’d be blessed to get a shilling each for this trip.”

             “Plus half a crown for me.” The boy smiled and shrugged. “Signing bonus.”

             “Signing bonus, because they know anyone with half a brain wouldn’t come out here.”

    “It didn’t seem that bad. They were shipping out the next day. Three days trip and I’ve got my money and my Pa’s got his medicine.”

             “And when he needs more?”

             “I can ship out again.”

             Robert whistled lowly through his teeth and shook his head. “Your pa has a good son.” He jabbed a finger in the air at the boy. “One who’s absolutely lost his fucking wits, mind you, but a good one.”

           Again, the boy looked down at his hands, folding and twisting like writhing snakes in his lap. He smiled, a small, private, genuine thing. “Thank you.”

           Robert tried to ignore the pleasant warmth pulling at his stomach. He cleared his throat draggingly. “Hell, first my cold makes me mean and now it makes me soft. Must be this fucking fever,” he said as a shiver raced through him, a lightning flash of sudden misery. “I’m hot and cold all at the same time. Heh’ZZCHHuhh!” With a series of grumbles, he tended to his nose as it streamed, chapped and stinging.

    When Robert looked up, he glanced the boy studying him carefully with open sympathy before his gaze flickered back to his hands. “So why are you here then?” he asked.

    “I’ve only got a quarter of a brain,” Robert said, tapping his head and smiling when his joke earned him a glare. He coughed hoarsely before giving his serious answer. “Trawlers are taking over the whole harbor now. My father had a boat and I was supposed to take over from him but you can’t make a living like that anymore. Not when John Lewis and Sons can get the haul of twenty days in one.”

    Robert’s nose cut his reminiscing short. “HRSHHHuhhh! HEHTSCHH!”

              “You should sleep,” the boy said. “You’ve got a bad cold.”

          “It wasn’t so bad before.” Robert countered the gentleness in the boy’s voice with a rough grumble. “It’s being inside’s done it.”

      “Don’t you mean outside?”

       “Nay, it’s the working and the sweating, even in the cold, that keeps it at bay. Come in and get all comfortable, you know, and then it really hits you. Hehh’SSHHH! Ihh’TSCHHT!” The boy looked doubtful, and Robert hesitated. “I’ll try not to keep you awake.” 

    The boy shook his head quickly. “Don’t worry. I can sleep through most things.”

    Robert nodded sagely; that boded well for the boy. “Maybe we’ll make a fisherman out of you yet.” He reclined, moaning in pleasure as his pillow cradled his stiff neck. The shift in position reminded him of the lozenges, and he popped one in his mouth. “But Lord, do I need these.” 

The cool mint of the lozenges provoked another fit of coughing, and Robert rubbed futilely at his chest as wheeze after congested wheeze erupted from him. “Christ Almighty, if my throat isn’t sore.”

    “I can see if there’s tea in the kitchens?”

    “At this hour? Connolly will bash your head in with a spoon.” Steadfastly ignoring the warmth that blossomed in his chest at the concern, Robert burrowed further beneath his blanket, beyond ready to be asleep, but it felt wrong. It felt like he owed the boy something more, and so, at a loss for anything else to offer, Robert tapped at the photograph he had taped to the wall beside his bunk. “This is my wife and my daughter. Little fucker is the one who gave me this bloody cold in the first place.” He smiled. “We’ll have another just as soon as she’s a bit bigger.”

        “They look lovely,” the boy said, and he was smiling, but there was something melancholic about him as well. Perhaps talk of family made him think of his ill father. Robert shifted the subject.

        “How old are you anyhow?”

        “Eighteen.”

        “Christ, but if you don’t look twelve.”

        “You look forty.”

        Robert almost threw his boot at him. “I’m twenty-three, you bastard.”

        “And calling me son?”

    Robert, too clouded with fatigue to formulate a suitable quip in response, merely settled for a rude gesture before burrowing his nose in his handkerchief once more. “HRSSHHHoo!” Good God, he was sick, but inexplicably this stupid exchange was warming him, making him feel a snatch of comfort he had not felt at sea for a long while. 

    “Have you got a girl at home?”

    The devilish glee that had shone on the boy’s face during his teasing vanished, leaving him behind like a deflated balloon. Robert banished his disappointment at the discovery. “No.”

    “Maybe once you grow a bit of chest hair,” he tried lightly, but the boy remained impassive. 

    “Maybe.”

    “Have you got a name, anyway?”

    “No. People just call me whatever they like. You know, ‘cunt’, ‘piece of shit.” The boy shook his head as he flushed, looking guilty at his own sardonicism. He met Robert’s eyes and for some odd reason something pulled in Robert’s stomach. “No, no, I’m sorry. It’s Thomson. Hugh Thomson.”

    “Robert Leslie.”

    “The pleasure is mine.”

    “The pleasure is mine,” Robert repeated, rolling his eyes. “Jesus Christ, you keep talking like that around here and the crew will make what I said to you sound like a lullaby.”

    The devilish grin returned. “Well, fuck you too, then.”

    Robert smiled. “Aye, that’s more like it.”

   

[silentdreamer789]

This is lovely!

[ThatSneezyGirl]

I love this 😍 can’t wait for more!!! (and maybe a bit of contagion??? 😉)

[Snez gud]

Awww, I love stories about grouchy guys with colds. Great job on this!

[bcj1027]

Oh wow! This is great!!! Absolutely can’t wait to see how all that cold wet weather effects our ailing fisherman!! Great job and can’t wait to read more!!

[Naraya]

This is brilliant.  My husband is a North Sea oil man and is just the same. 

[loud_itchynose]

This is great! I can’t wait to read more of this