Romancing a Fisherwoman

"God, I don't suppose most men realize that cooking can be quite a minor task of culinary engineering, mother."

"True, and you are probably among the few exceptions because you were taught to cook by expert nannies in the days before the Stock Market Crash that practically fleeced us devoid of real wealth. Are you inviting anyone else?"

"Yes, mother. I'll be killing two birds with one stone, namely betting that my new crew person has the skills to use a knife and fork properly and for you to approve of the hiring of that person."

"I hope the crewman has good manners and doesn't burp between courses."

"Should I fetch tea or coffee, mother."

"Wake up, Henri. It's still not past traditional afternoon tea time, You really should have gone to boarding school in England but your father considered himself a 'colonial convert' and insisted our son wasn't going to waste his time being sunk into old English ways that are disappearing into fading English heritage."

"Mum, I guess dad may have been right, as least to some extent."

"No, he wasn't but the bugger was skilled at making money by luck and what you stupidly call financial betting on the future. And stop calling me that vulgar term, mum. My lady friends would be appalled if they knew you sometimes lapsed into calling me that. Going to the so-called trendy school with a mixture of children from the gentry while others were almost scum, blunted your advance into the thick of society, you know."

"No, I didn't know, you must tell me details of your contention about that one day, mum."

Henrietta Reynolds sighed as her youngest of seven other children by a margin of seven years and muttered, "You little bugger" despite her boy was 6ft 1in tall and almost dwarfing her.

Jumping into his beaten-up Holden pick up, and backing out before twisting the vehicle into a 180 deg turn, Henri stopped to call Linda. She answered hi and said in a slightly uncertain voice, "What are you calling me?"

"Dinner is at the Pelican Restaurant tomorrow evening at 8.00. Why does your voice sound shaky?"

"It's the first time you've called me and... and it's outside working hours."

"Linda, you'll get frequent calls from me if you sign on such as 'Think hard, have you remembered that you start work on board at 5.15 on Monday morning? Or, before leaving the boat this afternoon, did you check that our number of hosed and checked pots loaded total 56 including spares? Perhaps I may even phone breathlessly to advised I have received an urgent report that our boat is sinking at its berth; did you remember to turn off the drainage valve after filling our water ballast task to 20% full?"

"Those of hypothetical questions, Henri. What I want is how should I dress for tomorrow night, exactly what should I wear and should the level of my make-up be at low, medium or high density."

"How the fuck would I know?"

Linda screamed, "I'm asking you for help, Henri, not to fucking encourage you opt out. I almost feel ready to come kick out your nuts."

Henri calmed himself and said, helpfully, "Keep cool Linda, there's no need to panic and perhaps, mother wouldn't even notice if you turned up in just tights and a colourful bra."

"I never dress like that, you clown," Linda said, sounding a mite agitated. "I can't believe you can speak with such almost scholastic authority about your mother's social attitudes one minute and then switch to talking such banal rubbish when you are asked to provide me with vital verbalized advice about I should dress when meeting the said mother for the first time."

"Hold it, Henri said plunging into rapid defence below the increasing salvos of hostile fire being flung at him. I'll tell you a bit what my mother is like and you can dress accordingly with some influence from your generation."

He became exceedingly aware of what appeared to be simmering silence.

"Firstly, my mother is as old in terms of age and social behaviour at the grandmothers of most of the small number of people that I know who, like me, are in their late twenties."

"My mother appears locked into the Edwardian Era in terms of intellect, outlook and vanity, and yet she was born in rural southern England in 1945 on the eve of the cessation of the hostilities of World War 11. She grew up in the war-rupture world climbing slowly to its feet economically, influenced by her mother missing out describing life during both wars. Instead my maternal grandmother apparently focused on talking to her infant daughter and there-on for many years about the great eras that she lived in with her well-off farming estate parents prior to both World Wars."

"Consequently, my mother inherited this dreamy and largely heavily censured influence in living her life.

"Today, she champions Old World values, continues to under-value her late and much older husband, my late father, who lost most of the little money he had in his youth in the Great Depression of the 1930s that continued into the War Years, to regain considerable wealth only to lose much of it again in the semi-global Stock Market Crash of 1973-74. During my childhood, I being the very late new addition to the family, father was busily regaining wealth when he died. Mother remains fairly wealthy and retains the airs and actions of one who likes to displays suggestions of wealth."

"She's Old School English and so are her friends that she goes shopping with, goes on garden tours with and plays regular Bridge with and actually doesn't regard herself as an old-time snob with affluence. Mother thinks the general populace would like to follow her example of dress and style more or less, but accepts tragically can't do so because of their limited means.

"Omigod, Henri, do you believe and Henrietta should be locked away?"

"No, absolutely not. She only talks about her preferred views on life harmlessly, dresses in the styles that she prefers and never threatens any dissenters or weirdo activists that come her way and simple ignore most nuisances of dogs, children and even the dying race of door-knocking insurance salespeople, evangelists and callers finding they are at the wrong address."

"And now, from that that wealth of insider knowledge, I can suggest your style of dress for tonight perhaps should be long, modern, stylish with an unobtrusive add-on of muted extra colour and wear stockings, no higher than 5in heels and definitely nothing on the head whatsoever."

Sounding less stressed, Linda said, "Ah, you think your mother will wear something similar?"

"Aye, loosely speaking being a good bet. However, I warn that one can't always out-think women. I give it 60-40 chance that she will wear more or less an Edwardian tailored style of dress that I suggested you could consider wearing. You chose light blue and that will lessen the possibility of a major clash. Mother rarely wears blue."

"Thanks Henri, Bye.

"Hey, stop. What's the hurry to cut talking to me?"

Linda said Henri had potentially come through for her, tremendously. If she rushed off now, she'd have time to negotiate and to have the dress designed to her specifications, cut-out, stitched, fitted for adjustments and then finished and pressed with a day to spare, provided she paid through the nose for such priority service.

"Henri said, "Go for it babe. Treat yourself big-time and possibly become a big hit with my mother who, one day, conceivably could become your mother-in-law.

Henri cut and call and began to pant, thinking what the hell had made him add that last comment, setting a cat among the pigeons. Bloody idiot.

* * *

Henri's phone rang at 8.30 that evening.

"Hi, it's Linda. First, an explanation for my nervousness when you called earlier yesterday afternoon. It was the first call l have received from anyone apart from family, closest friends, a taxation official and my legal firm since the afternoon I came home early with a cold and caught my husband ramming the backside of a boyfriend I never knew he had. My husband had gone queer without informing me. The only thing I required from him was a divorce."

Henri said sympathetically, 'Fuck, me,' carelessly overlooking the need to censure his wording."

"Yes, I'd been thinking about doing that sitting here and please, don't think I didn't have anything better to think about. For example, I'm currently in transition again between the previous stage of my life into yet another stage. Meanwhile, The Dress is being pressed before being fitted, and hopefully for the final time before being boxed in tissue. I've had a great and unexpected time, being treated as if I was a Royal client. It's something I'll never forget whatever the outcome and it was entirely as a result of your influence in revving me up."

"Henri, in almost 10 years of marriage, my husband only revved me up to that extent twice, one was during my Wedding Day when we had a rest period from the competition of the church until the start of taking of official photos. My new husband, who I was unaware had always possess a feminine side to his character, said excitingly, should we rip one off during that lull and I had to muffle my cry of YES! The only other time was my contribution. I swallowed a couple of pills practically shovelled into my mouth and we left and on the drive home I felt incredible horny and grabbed the neck of my dull husband and yelled, STOP THE CAR!"

"Okay, Linda, that was interesting recall but I suggest you focus from now upon meeting my mother."

"No problem," Linda enthused." Omigod, how romantic. Look, the dressmaker is carrying my new dress in her outstretched arms as if it were an offering to the Gods."

"No Linda, I can't see a thing. We are on the phone, remember?"

"Bye, Henri," she murmured. "Be in the lounge at my temporary address at 7.45 and we'll pop in somewhere for a stiff drink before the ordeal."

Henri was about to ask what ordeal, when the phone call disconnected. He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed his brow. Omigod, poor Linda was expecting the restaurant dinner he'd arranged would be an ordeal for her. Christ, can't he do anything right that was outside the realm of fishing?

Henri was in the lounge of a private guest house for females, twiddling his thumbs writing an addition to his novel on his cell phone with the draft title, Perils of a Crayfish Catcher when err, a vision of loveliness appeared to float before his eyes.

"Linda," he said huskily.

"Henri," Linda replied in a matter-of-fact tone while scratching an armpit, presumably freshly shaven. The dress clung to her body like an expensive glove but she appeared to be placed in it awkwardly as if the garment was a throw-out rag from an Op Shop (back street outlet giving pre-used items including clothing a new opportunity of ownership).

"Relax," he instructed.

"Can't, I'm practically crapping myself."

The face of the establishment's evening manager, who'd almost refused to admit him into the lounge of this female sanctuary because the caller who was supposed to be Miss Linda's new boss appeared younger than Miss Linda and not much older than the manager's long-lasting cat, had smiled through wrinkles as she'd escorted Miss Linda into the lounge as if she were escorting her young ladyship to a Grand Ball.

But now, that face had turned into a mask of fury upon hearing Miss Linda's comment about crapping and the manager marched off muttering, "Disgusting, what a common young bitch."

The young couple got a laugh out of that unprofessional managerial comment. That helped them to relax a little.

They crossed the road to a crowded and noisy bar for that stiff drink.

Henri slung an arm around Linda protectively although both were long used to inhabiting bars mostly filled with drunken 'fishers' from both of their respective parts of the country. They were unaware they were an attractive groomed young couple who appeared to everyone eyeing that believing they were looking at a nervous young couple on their first date and that, was actually true.

The noise in the bar subsided somewhat and miraculously the crush parted from the doorway to the bar to provide a clear walkway for the new arrivals, identified by regulars as strangers.

Henri and Linda walked the long walk, very conscious of being heavily eyed and grins were appearing.

"First date," called a short female in confidence. Well she probably weighed 220-230lbs.

"No," replied Linda.

"Yes," replied Henri.

"Oh, bugger, Linda blushed and that produced a roar of laughter from some seventy mouths.

"Katie", a tall bearded thin man, the only guy present wearing a full suit, called to the bar server, "Katie, a whisky cocktail for the young lady and a whisky with a beer chaser for the honest and lucky young chap, and place those drinks on my tab."

"Aye, Mr Pitt, our popular rep in Parliament," replied Katie, amid murmurs of approval.

Ten minutes after being served their drinks, the young couple turned to leave, and a pathway cleared in front of them.

"Thank you everyone for your friendliness," Linda said.

Henri said grandly, "Yes, thanks and a special thanks for your generosity Mr Pitt for shouting us our drinks. We are off to dine with my mother and for me to introduce Linda to her."

"O-o-o-h," chorused many of the females, and Linda slunk out, very red faced.

"Lovely young people," Rex Pitt, MP, said approvingly. "They represent out new generation of voters."

Chapter 3

In the taxi to the Pelican Restaurant, Linda said she felt only half as nervous as entering that bar, thanks to the power of just one Champagne cocktail.

Henri said good, adding, meeting the mother of guy for the first time was never easy according to fiction writers and movie-makers.

The cabbie nodded approvingly at the windscreen.

"And Linda, you look so glorious in that dress with those bat-like wings and move back and forth as you walk and your full makeup, gosh until tonight I only saw you wearing lipstick."

"Aw shucks," murmured the cabbie as if he were privy to the birth of a new romance.

"Thank you darling," Linda said, sounded romantic. "Now don't forget what you need to do if ever I do on to me knees and unzip you. One never knows when I may decide to suck you off."

The cab served and was hauled by into a straight line with the cabbie muttering angrily.

But in the back, the young couple had been thrown together into their first-ever clinch of being not-yet lovers. Linda revelled in having her right breast squashed by her skipper's apparently powerful chest and checked with a hand and smirked, having felt his manhood firming into some stage of erection.

Henri took advantage of the violent swing and correction of the cab, and feeling his weight flattening one of her boobs against his chest, palmed the other boob, and squeezed it, while kissing her deeply and grinning, thinking his new crew person may be prepared to regard that kiss by his skipper was accidental.

"Another kiss please," Linda breathed heavily, preventing Henri from pulling away completely, exhibiting the power of her arm strength from carrying filled trays of crayfish three at a time or fighting to keep steering in control of perhaps even larger fishing boats, with several crew, steady in vicious side-on storm-driven seas.

"That kiss was damn near perfect and as such, needs a little work on it,"

Henri met her request enthusiastically and as blood rushed to his head (and elsewhere) he pulled one of Linda's hands on to his dick, The piece of disobedience to her request that they take everything slowly, was simply to allow her to learn that a decent size one available when she decided she wanted it.

They entered the restaurant.

"Oh god, my full nervousness is back, full on," Linda whimpered.

The female maître d' said sweetly, "Your reservation number please, sir."

"Twenty-eight, thanks. Linda, I must head for the urinals urgently."

"No!" Linda yelled, turning in panic but Henri had already disappeared behind the next dinner guests in line.

Linda followed the maître d' who looked rather dishy in her tuxedo, thinking she'd hang that jerk by his balls from the ceiling overnight.

She thought, calm yourself girl, the skipper was probably thinking he was providing her with her best chance of impressing his mother/co-business partner. Besides, the Old Dragon had probably never eaten a female she found fault with.

The elderly woman approaching somewhere between 80 and 100 seated at the table, saw Linda was looking at her. The grand-matron travelled her eyes from the newcomer's hair to around knee level. and said with utmost clarity and authority, "Omigod."

Linda's reaction was she was about to faint.

But Linda Galloway only had one word for such an eventuality: Bullshit. If the bitch wanted to fight, she better be prepared to find she's taken on more than her match because Linda Galloway's ancestors were Scottish warriors.

Linda Galloway said to her new boyfriend's aged mother, Henrietta Reynolds, "Hi, I'm Linda Galloway, a divorcee after my husband's revelation that he was gay, who is being presented to you tonight for approval as the sole deckhand on the next departure of Lady Rigby to harvest yet another maximum haul of plump and nature purified crayfish for the premium market here and abroad."

"Well, my dear, you have high ambition. Before any further discussion, would you care to join me for a starter of dry Spanish Sherry or would be prefer a cocktail or wine?"

"Wine please, Henrietta."

"Ah, I deduce from your use of my first name without invitation identifies you as a thoroughly modern young woman."

"Yes, and will revert to your more formal form of address if you wish."

"No, please don't retreat. I accept your preference. You wear a fabulous dress, I guess made to order to impress me."

"Brilliantly deduced, Henrietta."

"And that comment, my dear, makes you as a direct and most probably honest woman."

"Why should I confirm you being hired as my son's deckhand?"

Henri arrived and Henriette scored a homerun with the guest.

"Greetings, Henri. So, you faked a visit to the toilet to plunge this young woman in front of me so that I could assess her nerve, mettle and character without needless intervention from you."

"Great guess, mother."

"Then add the gloss as to her suitability for employment, my youngest child."

"No, carry on without me. You are already beginning to decide she has what it takes, methinks."

"Please continue, Linda."

'Henri found my credentials to become his sole deckhand to be impeccable and was blown away when I revealed that Mr Lobster Fishing, also known as Walt Galloway is my father and his wife Irene is my mother. Perhaps you are familiar with those names."

"Yes, I've socialised with them both on a couple of occasions. Please proceed to reveal your qualifications."

"I began as a registered deckhand cray-fishing from the age of sixteen and after a couple of years began studying at nights at sea to eventually gain a Bachelor's degree in Marine Science. Then I studied and received my certificate to be s skipper of a fishing vessel of less than 45 metres overall length operating in inshore fishing limits and in limited waters, and since then upgraded that qualification to operate a fishing vessel in unrestricted waters and worked as a skipper of one of my father's boats cray-fishing in southern coastal waters."

"Then I married two years ago, a very bad choice as it turned out, and my husband wanted me ashore with him and I obliged, in doing so I allowed my skipper certificates to lapse."

"I had been living with my husband in Auckland since our wedding, and after going through the divorce process at my instigation, I decided to remain in the warmer North Island and attempted to return to sea at a deckhand."