Katie Mulholland

by Catherine Cookson

  He thrust his hand out and pulled on a thick, twisted and tasselled red bell pull. The next moment Kennard opened the door and stood waiting, and when his master said ‘Right!’ he inclined his head over his shoulder, then entered the room, followed by Mrs Davis, Jane Stockwell, Frank Tatman, the first coachman and James Wisden, the head gardener.

  Mary Davis advanced with her sedate walk to the desk. She made a slight dip with her knees, then waited. She watched her master separate a gold sovereign and a half a sovereign from the pile on the table, add to it a florin and push these towards her, saying,

  ‘One pound twelve shillings.’ She watched her master sorting money into small piles. And these he began pushing towards her, consulting a list in his hand as he did so, and barking, ‘Fanny Croft, sixteen shillings. Daisy Studd, twelve shillings. Florrie Green, fourteen shillings. Mary Ann Hopkins, seven shillings. Delia Miller, one pound. Dorothy Black, eight shillings. Ivy Walker, eight shillings. Betty Taggart, eight shillings. Kate McManus, four shillings. Katie Mulholland, four shillings…There.’ He pushed the list of names towards her. ‘Get their marks. By the way…’ His big nose jerked and his face puckered, and now he stabbed his finger towards the last name and, looking at Mrs Davis, said, ‘This one, Mulholland. Can she write?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And read?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Who taught her?’ He was looking at Mrs Davis under his lids now, and she hesitated for a long moment before saying, ‘Her father, I think.’

  He considered her while he thought: Big Mulholland, reading and writing. He’d have to remember that. That’s how trouble started. He now made an impatient movement with his hand, and Mrs Davis gathered the money on to a salver that was lying ready on the desk, and picking up the paper and making an almost imperceptible bob she turned away and made room for Jane Stockwell.

  One at a time, the household staff stepped forward to receive their payment.

  When the men had left the room Patrick Kennard stepped up to the desk, and his master pushed towards him two golden sovereigns. It was fitting, at least to Mr Kennard, that he should receive his wages apart from the rest of the staff, and no-one should know what he earned. His master looked at him as he made his mark and he wondered at the incongruity of the situation where the chief member of his staff could only identify himself by two crossed lines whereas the least of his staff could sign her name.

  When George Rosier was alone again he looked at the sum total of what he had paid out. It amounted to sixteen pounds eight shillings. Sixteen pounds eight shillings, to which was added their keep, and their clothing. And this wasn’t counting the farmhands, or the lodge. Yet it was a mere flea bite to the overall expenses of the house. And where was it all coming from?

  And then those blasted savages down there threatening to strike because of unfair treatment by the keeker who had fined them for short corves. Why had he to have this trouble? A few miles away in the Felling pit they had nothing like this. It was true what a magistrate had said recently: the natural place for the Jarrow and Hebburn toughs was underground, and they should be kept there; for most of them were just evolving from the slime. And, by God, he was right.

  Chapter Three

  Katie was ready to go. She had clean clothes on right to her shift, and at the neck of her best print frock was the brooch that had belonged to her grandmother, and sitting straight on the top of her thick shining hair was the hat with the daisies on that Mrs Davis had given her last year.

  She smoothed down the front of her dress that fell to the top of her boots; then her eyes stayed for a moment on her hands. They were red and swollen, the nails worn down to the flesh, but they were as clean as a floor scrubbing brush and hot soda water could get them.

  She gave a last look at her corner of the attic to see that she had left everything tidy, in case Mrs Davis had a walk round. Then she went downstairs to the housekeeper’s room, knocked on the door, and went in.

  The housekeeper was not wearing her cap at this moment, and she looked funny to Katie without it. Her greying hair was drawn back from her forehead, her round face with its high colour had a criss-cross of faint lines covering it, but her body was slim and trim and youngish-looking. She drew Katie to her with an outstretched hand, saying, ‘Oh, you look nice and tidy, Katie.’ She did not say, ‘You look beautiful’; it wouldn’t have done. There were times when it pained her to look at this lovely child, especially when she had been younger and she’d seen her dropping with fatigue late at night. She touched the brooch at Katie’s neck saying, ‘That sets you off, Katie. You look grand.’

  Katie smiled at Mrs Davis, the delicate mould of her lips stretching to show her even teeth.

  Mrs Davis’s fingers moved upwards to Katie’s cheek. Its texture was as smooth as satin and its colour was like thick cream with a blush on it. But it was the child’s eyes that made the whole face what it was; there was something rare about them. She had never seen another pair of eyes in a human head like them. It wasn’t because they were green or heavy-lashed, there was something more. There was a kind of starriness about them, a dewy starriness. And then her hair topping it all, its dark chestnut waves throwing out gold gleams here and there. Her figure, too, was getting to be noticeable. As yet it was too thin, but her bust had developed even in the last month. She put her finger gently in the centre of it, saying, ‘You’ve got your money safe, Katie?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Davis.’ Katie nodded her head. ‘I’ve pinned it in me bag.’

  ‘That’s right. Well, now, I’ve got one or two things here.’ She went to a chest of drawers and took out several small flattish packages, and when Katie lifted up her dress and top petticoat Mrs Davis inserted them one after the other in the two side pockets attached to the inside of her under petticoat. ‘These,’ she said, holding two packages up to Katie, ‘are a little tea and sugar. It’s my own, out of my allowance.’

  ‘Oh yes, Mrs Davis, I know, I know.’ Katie was quick to assure her benefactor that she did not for a moment think the stuff was cribbed from the staff’s allowance.

  ‘And this is a little bit of ham and tongue from my supper last night; and this is my pudding from today; and these are some pieces of capons.’

  The capons, Katie noticed, was the largest packet of all. Cook had grumbled last night because so little had come out of the housekeeper’s room, and here was the reason. Merriment rose in her when she thought that through the ingenuity of Mrs Davis she herself had got one up on the cook.

  ‘There now, you’re all ready.’ The housekeeper touched Katie’s cheek again. ‘Give my kind regards to your mother and tell her I said you were doing splendidly and are a very good girl.’

  ‘Oh…oh thanks, Mrs Davis. Thanks. I will, I will. An’ thank you for all the things.’ She whispered the last words.

  Mrs Davis jerked her head sideways as one confederate to another. Then, pressing her towards the door, she said, ‘And you’ll be back by six?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Davis.’

  ‘That’s a good girl. Don’t depend upon meeting a trap or any of the carts to give you a lift, mind; set out in time.’

  ‘I will, Mrs Davis. Goodbye and thank you. Thank you very much.’

  ‘Goodbye, child…’

  The day was hot, the sky blue and high. After she had passed through the wicket gate at the end of the grounds she ran along the rough track until she began to sweat; then for a time she walked, hitching once or twice because she felt happy. Once she laughed out aloud, then clapped her hands over her mouth and shook her head.

  The track widened to a rough road and was going steeply uphill now, and when she reached the summit she stopped. She always stopped at this point for a minute because she could see for miles about her, even more than you could from the hill behind the house. To the right and left of her lay wide expanses of grassland and fells, and in the far distance was a dark huddled blur—that was Jarrow. And there was the river. She could just make out the slim outlin
es of the masts of the ships, and the funnels too, big round chimneys stuck in the middle of the boats.

  Now she was running again, and she continued to run, until she caught a glimpse of the first row of whitewashed cottages and she knew that she would be home within three minutes.

  There were eight rows of cottages in the village, each containing twenty dwellings of two rooms each. The Mulhollands’ house was number twelve in the first row, and the first row faced the moor. There was only a twelve-foot width of powdery roadway, which turned into a quagmire in wet weather, between the doorway and the wide-open grassy slopes.

  The situations of the first and last rows of cottages were enviable ones in the summer. In the winter they bore the brunt of the open blast from the fells. And the row where the Mulhollands lived in particular took the full force of the flood water that came down from the hills. But today there was no flood water, there was only sunshine, and dust, and a strong smell from the middens.

  Catherine Mulholland was waiting at the door for her daughter. She resisted the urge to run towards her. She didn’t want the neighbours to talk. They did enough of that, always showing surprise that Katie should continue to return every other Sunday from the big house where she was living in luxury to a pit cottage. Of course this came from them who had daughters in the rope works, or, worse still, scraping cinders from the pans or tips. And she could understand this. Oh yes, she could understand this envy, for hadn’t she felt the same towards the more fortunate at the time when Katie, from the age of seven, had gathered cinders until her fingers ran blood.

  ‘Oh, hello, Ma.’

  ‘Hello, me bairn.’ Catherine moved back into the framework of the door; then opened her arms and Katie went into them and hugged her mother round the waist. And after a moment, while they stood still together, she lifted her head and looked at her mother; then turned her eyes and glanced through the half-opened door into the room, to where she could see the outline of men, and hear the buzz of conversation.

  Her mother’s head came down to her and she whispered, ‘It’s Mr Ramshaw and Mr Fogerty.’

  The smile slipped from Katie’s face and, her eyes stretching, she said one word, ‘Trouble?’ and watched her mother nod once. Then she asked in an apprehensive whisper, ‘Are they out?’

  ‘Not yet, but I think they’re comin’.’ Her voice very low, she explained quickly. ‘Your dad was due for thirty shillings and he only got twenty-one, and for a fortnight’s work. They said his corves were short. But he’s not come off so badly as the others. It’s been a bad patch all round. Mr Ramshaw was off two days bad. They said he wasn’t bad. That was Bunting again. He couldn’t have earned more than four shillings if he’d been there, but they fined him twelve. They’ve all had it one way or the other this last few weeks. It can’t go on.’ She shook her head slowly as Katie stared at her. Then she whispered again, ‘They won’t be long; they’re goin’ to the chapel in a few minutes. But come on, see your da.’

  She drew her daughter around the door and into the room, and there three men and a boy faced her. All were smiling at her. Rodney Mulholland, a tall man of thirty-nine with big, deep-sunken eyes, hollow cheeks and brown hair, stepped towards her, saying, ‘Hello, me lass.’ He placed his hands tenderly on her shoulders and she looked at him and said, ‘Hello, Da.’ Katie knew she took after her da. Her da was a fine man; stern, but fine. But today his face looked old, and tired.

  ‘How are you keepin’?’

  ‘Fine, Da.’

  ‘Good. Good.’ He took his hands from her shoulders and they gazed at each other for a moment longer. Then she turned to her brother and said, ‘Hello, Joe.’

  Joe was a year younger than herself, thin like his father and with the same colouring. She noticed that his face was whiter than usual and he too looked tired. Then her father was saying to her, ‘You know Mr Fogerty and Mr Ramshaw.’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded at each man in turn, smiling broadly.

  ‘Hello, Katie,’ they said, one after the other. Then Mr Fogerty, a small, thickset man, with an Irish lilt to his voice, said, ‘You get bonnier every day, Katie.’

  Katie did not reply but drooped her head and shook it from side to side.

  ‘You’re right there, Dennis,’ said Ramshaw, nodding towards his friend.

  ‘Enough of that. Enough of that.’ It was her father speaking, his tone jocular yet with a reprimand in it. ‘We don’t want her head turned.’ Then, lifting her chin upwards with his bony fingers, he said, ‘I won’t be more than half an hour; I want to hear you read.’ His look held admiration.

  ‘Yes, Da. All right.’

  ‘We’ll away then.’ Rodney Mulholland jerked his head towards his two companions, and after making their farewells they left the house.

  Immediately the door had closed Katie said, ‘I’ve brought some bits, Ma.’

  ‘Have you, lass?’ Catherine stood by the little table looking at her daughter, and Katie, turning her back on her brother, lifted up the front of her skirt and petticoat and brought the little packages from their hiding place. ‘There’s nearly two ounces of tea, Ma.’

  ‘Oh!’ Catherine held the small package on her hand and gazed at it as if looking at gold dust. And at sixpence an ounce at the company’s shop—the Tommy-shop, as it was called—it was to her like gold dust.

  ‘And that’s sugar; and that’s ham; and there’s some chicken; and Mrs Davis saved her puddin’. I think she was thinking of Joe and Lizzie.’ She turned and smiled warmly at her brother, then said, ‘Where’s Lizzie and Granda; has he taken her out?’

  ‘No.’

  Her mother shook her head. ‘Lizzie’s in the room,’ she said. ‘It’s better so with company.’ She nodded at Katie; then added, ‘Your Granda’s gone out after larks…’ She bowed her head swiftly and pressed her teeth into her bottom lip, saying, ‘I’m sorry, lass; I needn’t have told you that. But, you see, he’s got to do somethin’, and it makes him feel a bit independent like. Besides, it helps out in a stew. I’m sorry.’ She put her hand on Katie’s shoulder now and pressed it sympathetically. She knew that her daughter adored her grandfather but could never understand or get used to him trapping the birds, and she had never eaten them, no kind of bird, not even a sparrow. At that time when her belly had been swollen and rumbling with wind and emptiness she had tried, but had been violently sick, so she had never pressed her again. ‘He won’t be long,’ she said now. ‘He thought he’d be back for you comin’. Perhaps he’s walked too far; his stump has been playin’ him up lately.’

  Katie turned from her mother and looked at her brother and asked gently, ‘You feeling bad, Joe?’

  Joe, seated on a cracket to the side of the hearth, an open fireplace, shook his head, then smiled at her and said, ‘No, just tired. I’m at Boldon now.’

  Katie’s face stretched. ‘You mean they sent you there and you’ve got to walk all that way?’

  ‘Aye.’ He nodded. ‘It isn’t so bad goin’, it’s comin’ back. You’re so tired.’

  ‘Will you be there for the winter?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’ve got to go where they send you, it’s in the bond.’

  Aye, it was in the bond. The words her son had spoken seemed to check Catherine Mulholland’s hands as she undid the little packages. Bond, bond, that crucifying bit of paper that her husband and son had to put their name to, that all men had to put their names to before they could get work, before they could eat. Her poor lad had been down the pit from when he was ten years old. She had nightmares, even now, about him sitting in the darkness for ten hours at a stretch. It had been twelve, even longer at times, and for twelve shillings a fortnight.

  Joe was the only boy she had reared out of five sons. Her heart had seemed to break with each loss, but now she was glad they were gone, for they were in heaven, and warm, and happy. She had given birth to eight children altogether but had only managed to rear three, and she wished to God she had only reared two. But there, there, she mustn’t say that.
It was God’s will she should have Lizzie.

  ‘Ma.’ Katie had come to her side. ‘Do you think I should speak to Mrs Davis to speak to Mr Kennard, and for him to see Mr Wisden, the head gardener, you know? He was asking for another boy; I heard Cook on about it.’

  Before Catherine could answer Joe said, ‘No, I’ll not go, so that’s it, not for three bob a week. So don’t. Next year I’ll be gettin’ eight shillings and in a couple years’ time I’ll be up the face with me da. I’ll be getting as much as him. I’m not goin’ to waste the three years I’ve done and go and start in a garden for three bob. Besides, I know nowt about gardens, and don’t want to.’ As Katie lowered her head he said quickly, ‘But thanks all the same, Katie.’ The brother and sister looked at each other and smiled. They had always been close, never fighting, even when they were small. But this family never fought; they laughed together, and cried together, but they didn’t fight. They took their family grievances to God. It might be a different matter outside of the house when the men had to fight for their livelihood, and against the militia, and the police, and the knockers. But inside all was harmony.

  ‘Can I bring Lizzie out now, Ma?’

  ‘Aye, yes.’ Catherine nodded, and Katie went across the stone-flagged kitchen to a door which led into the other room.

  On a pallet beneath the tiny window sat a woman…or a girl. It all depended upon how you appraised her. Lizzie Mulholland was eighteen years old; she was of medium height, and no matter how little she ate she put on weight. To those outside the house she was known as Mulholland’s idiot; to her family, she was slightly wrong in the head; but to Katie in particular she was like a crippled bird, and evoked the same tenderness.