The Fishmongers of Yarmouth, 1936

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Since time immemorial, herring have been abundant in the icy-cold waters around Nova Scotia. This morning a pale, fog-shaded sun rose over the harbour at Yarmouth, the ancient town that sat on the peninsula between the river Yare and the sea. The salty wind rose up, and gulls bobbed on the waves. Spray soaked the women of Yarmouth as they waited, baskets in hand, for the fishing boats full of herring to return. The silvery fish so beloved by the people of Yarmouth swam in their millions in the cold waters here; so thick were their shoals that sometimes it was impossible to cast a net or even an oar into them. The sea became solid and viscous like a huge, shape-shifting herring. When the first boats docked along the jetty, the gulls beat their wings hard and their shrill cries were music to the ears of the fishermen’s wives. This meant there was fish on board, and the nets were full to bursting.

Elizabeth was filling her basket with herring when a gull tried to land on the lid. “Off with you!” she cried, shooing it away. There would be plenty to go around. For the fishermen’s wives first of all, then the people of Yarmouth and their children. The surplus would quickly be packaged up and sold abroad. Herring was the pride of Yarmouth. “Good Lord, she’s heavy!” said Elizabeth with a grin, finally managing to haul her basket over to the long trough. Then she lifted the lid and poured the “silver darlings” into the trough. It was a miracle how much herring they were selling these days – as much as they could manage, and more. She took a fistful of herring and held them under her nose. They felt wet and unpleasant, and had a strong fishy smell. The fishmongers of Yarmouth threw salt on their herrings to stop them from rotting. There would not be much sun today, but the herring were so fatty that they had to be salted quickly all the same. Elizabeth took up a fistful of salt and sprinkled it proudly over her fish. All the fishmongers did the same.

A few hours had gone by, and the people of Yarmouth had come to the port to fill their shopping baskets. They bought vinegar and onions, but really they came for the herrings piled so high they spilled from the trough. Elizabeth was happy. She’d sold nearly fifteen pounds already. Sometimes there were two fish to a pound, sometimes three; it didn’t matter. She was selling, and joyfully she filled her customers’ baskets. Since dawn she had put four dollars in her apron. “Manna from heaven,” she told a customer, who’d congratulated her on such a bountiful haul.

Alan Alfredo Geday