Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl Read Free

said Gideon, shaking the collar of his white cotton shirt to allow some of the sea breeze to circulate around his chest. “Write to our Member of Parliament.”
    His father sighed heavily. “What’s the point?”
    Gideon suddenly felt angry. “Look at that haul! It’s a tenth of what we were doing five years ago. The Newcastle & Gateshead shouldn’t be so far south, not at this time of year!”
    His father shook his head sadly. “Remember the Wheeler ?”
    Everyone remembered the Wheeler . Three days before it sank with the loss of its fourteen crewmembers, its skipper had gotten an order from the assizes preventing the Newcastle & Gateshead factory fisheries from entering within a ten-mile boundary of Sandsend. Nobody could prove anything, but tough old trawlers like the Wheeler didn’t just sink without a little help.
    “How old are you next birthday, Gideon? Twenty-four?” asked his father, spitting on the stone promenade.
    Gideon nodded. His father said, “We’ve been trawlermen for four generations. When I was a lad, I thought we’d do four generations more. Five or six, even. I thought fishing was a job for life . . . But now, I wonder, Gideon. When I’m gone . . .”
    “Dad,” protested Gideon.
    His father laid a hand on his arm. “When I’m gone . . . it’s no life for a young man, Gideon. Not anymore. I thought you’d be settled down by now, maybe have young ’uns yourself, ready to take charge of the Cold Drake and let me retire. But the world’s changing quicker than I can keep up with it.” His eyes stared into the middle distance. “I’m just glad your mother’s not here to see the state we’re in.”
    She had died fourteen years ago, in childbirth with his brother, who had lasted only a day. In another world, Gideon would have been the middle boy of a family of fishermen. But six years ago, his older brother Josiah had fallen victim to the influenza. Now there was just Gideon and his dad.
    “What did you get up to today?” asked his father.
    “I walked along the sand to Whitby,” said Gideon, glad to speak of other things. “Picked up some bread and vegetables from the market.”
    His father gave a crooked smile. “And did you buy anything else?”
    Gideon flushed, then nodded. “The latest issue of World Marvels & Wonders had just come in on the steam pantechnicon . . . I had a penny spare . . .”
    His father laughed and ruffled Gideon’s hair again. “Why don’t you put us something on for supper, and maybe you can read me a couple of chapters before we turn in? The carriages are here for the catch.”
    Three horse-drawn carts and one steam-truck, the latter in the black-and-white livery of the Magpie Café. How long before these faithful few finally succumbed to the cheaper supplies from the Newcastle & Gateshead was anyone’s guess, but for now there was work to be done. Gideon watched his father stride back down the beach, and he was just turning to go when he caught sight of a smaller figure, a little way along the shoreline, struggling to push a rowing boat three times longer than himself into the shallows. Gideon shielded his eyes against the sun. It looked like little Tommy, the son of Peek, who skippered the Blackbird . What was he up to?
    Gideon walked along the sand and stood to watch the boy—only seven or so—loading a leather bag into the rowing boat. Gideon hailed him and waved.
    “Where are you off to, Tommy?”
    “America,” said the boy stoutly.
    “Ah,” said Gideon, squatting down beside him. “Does your daddy know?”
    “I’ll send him a letter when I get there,” said Tommy, heaving against the stern of the rowing boat. “Can you give me a hand with this?”
    Gideon nodded, then scratched his chin. “Have you got enough for the journey, though? It’s an awfully long way to America.”
    Tommy dug enthusiastically into his leather bag. “I have a loaf and a jar of pickle. Two apples.” He looked at Gideon. “Will that be enough?”
    “I