‘All right, lass. Stay as long as you like,’ she said, after which she added quickly, ‘You’d better get back afore dark though, hadn’t you.’ Then as she stared into the white peaked face the real reason for Katie seeking shelter at the Monktons came to her. She didn’t want to be here if Bunting kept his word and came back tonight. That was it…
But Bunting didn’t keep his word and come to the shanty that evening, nor did he come the next night; nor yet the next; nor the one after that, on which particular night Katie again went to visit Betty Monkton.
It was the eighth morning after Bunting’s visit, when things had reached the point of desperation for them all, with the exception of Lizzie, that Rodney rose just after four o’clock and made his way to Jarrow, to be at Palmer’s Shipyard when the gates opened at six o’clock. A man had said that was the time to be there when there was a likelihood of jumping into someone’s boots, a sick man’s boots, because no man stayed away from work unless he was sick, and desperately so.
And it was later the same morning when the wind was driving the rain into the shelter that Katie, having taken off the dress in which she had slept, put on the only other one she had; then, washing her face and hands in the dead-cold water from the stream, she pulled on her cloak and set her straw hat straight on her head.
William, watching her from his pallet, asked feebly, ‘Where you goin’, lass? Have…have you heard of a job?’
She was kneeling, searching in her bundle for a handkerchief, a new handkerchief, the one Mrs Davis had given her on her sixteenth birthday, which was only a few days before she was sent home, and, still on her knees, she moved towards him and, bending down and kissing his sunken cheek, she said, ‘Yes, Grandpa, I’m going after a job.’
Catherine, coming to the opening of the shelter, stared down at her, then exclaimed, ‘What did you say? Where you goin’, lass?’ She pushed Lizzie under cover as she spoke; she had just returned from making her clean. She took her some distance from the dwelling each morning for this purpose.
Katie moved past her mother and a few steps away from the shelter, and Catherine went with her, and again she asked, ‘Where are you goin’, lass?’ Then added, as her father had done, ‘You’ve heard of something? A job or something?’
‘You could look at it that way, Ma.’ Katie’s lips were trembling, and now she clutched at Catherine’s hand and stared beseechingly into her face as she muttered, ‘Don’t be upset, don’t, but I…I’m going to marry Mr Bunting.’
Catherine drew in a sharp breath that cut off her words; then she gulped twice before crying, ‘No, lass! No! It would drive your da mad. No! No!’
‘I promised; it’s all arranged. That’s where I went the other night, an’ the night he was to come here…I told him then.’
‘But…but it’s only a week ago, lass.’
‘I know, I know. They can do these things quick by a licence, he said…He said leave it to him and…and he’s promised you’ll have a house by the morrow.’
‘Aw, lass.’ Catherine moved her head in slow wide sweeps, never taking her eyes from Katie’s face.
‘I’ve…I’ve got to do this, Ma, ’cos…’cos Granda’ll die if he’s out here much longer, an’ you an’ all and…and then the baby comin’.’
‘But your da, child.’
Katie now hung her head and said softly, ‘It was because of me he was stood off and you were turned out. They did it because…’ She stopped and bit on her lip and Catherine said quickly, ‘No, lass, no. It was nothing to do with you; it was because he had been holding meetings with Fred Ramshaw and Mr Fogerty, and they’re known to be strong union men going from pit to pit stirring up—at least Fogerty does.’
‘No, Ma, no. It wasn’t because of that; it was because of me.’
Catherine stood contemplating her daughter. For a space of time, during which her mind took in and rapidly sorted what Katie had said, she continued to stare at her, and then, putting her fingers tentatively to her lips, she whispered, ‘They know up at the house, the master and them, who it was?’
Katie lowered her head as Catherine exclaimed, ‘Oh, dear God! And you, you know who it was?’
Katie’s chin jerked up and she whispered rapidly, ‘Yes, Ma, yes: Mr Bernard. But don’t tell me da ever. He would make trouble. You saw him at Mr Bunting; he…he would kill somebody.’
‘Aye, yes.’ Catherine knew that her daughter spoke the truth. Her God-fearing, quiet husband was quite capable of killing the man who had brought his daughter to this pass. But she need have no fear; he wouldn’t get to know anything from her.
‘So you see, Ma’—Katie’s lips were trembling so hard the words spurted unevenly out of her mouth—‘by…doing this…me da, me da an’ all of you will be all right. He’ll…have his job, for good.’
‘Oh, Katie! Oh, child!’
‘Bye-bye, Ma. Tell me da not to come. Don’t let him come, Ma. Stop him; ’cos once it’s done, it’s done. An’…an’ tell him I want to have the baby properly; tell him that.’
As her hand trailed away, Catherine grabbed at it, saying, ‘But the village. Nobody will speak to you any more, lass.’
Now Catherine saw her daughter straightening her stooped shoulders, she watched her head go up, and it wasn’t her Katie but someone much older who said, ‘It doesn’t matter to me now what anybody says and who speaks to me and who doesn’t; all that matters is that you and them’—she inclined her head slightly towards the shelter—‘are all right. Bye-bye, Ma.’ Bending swiftly forward, she kissed Catherine, and Catherine clutched her tightly, crying, ‘No, lass, no,’ until Katie, tearing herself away, ran from her, her hands covering her mouth to stop the moaning sounds.
It was in great trepidation that Catherine waited for Rodney to return. But it wasn’t until half-past six, when the last vestige of light was going, that she saw the dim outline of him hurrying over the fells towards her. And when he came up close to her she saw that his face was dirty, and bright and happy; more so than she had seen it for years. His hand came on to her shoulder as he said, ‘I’ve got a start, lass. I’ve been at it all day. An’ we’ve got a place…of sorts. It’s not what I would want, but in this case beggars can’t be choosers. An’ we’ll soon get out of it; it’ll just be for the meantime.’
His words were gabbled; the excitement was filling him so much that he did not for the moment take in her pitiful expression, but, turning his head to the side, he shouted towards the shelter, ‘I’ve got set on, William, in the rolling mills.’ He expected an answer to come back immediately to him saying something like, ‘Thanks be to God, lad!’ But William didn’t answer him, nor yet did Joe make his appearance. He brought his eyes back to Catherine, and, putting his face close to hers, asked, ‘What is it? Something’s happened.’ Then, looking wildly round him, he added, ‘Katie!’
‘She’s gone, Rod.’
‘Gone? Where’s she gone? What do you mean, woman?’
She now took hold of his arms and she felt the hard knots of the muscles as she gripped them and said slowly, ‘What she’s done she’s done for us, remember that. Do you hear? Remember, what she’s done she’s done for us.’ Her voice had risen. It was loud, like a cry echoing across the fells, and he pulled himself away quickly from her, saying, ‘What’s she’s done? Where is she?’
She kept her eyes tight on him as she said, quickly now, ‘She married Bunting this mornin’.’
She had feared his reaction. All day she had steeled herself against this moment, imagining herself hanging on to him, trying to hold him down to keep him away from Bunting until he saw reason, but she hadn’t prepared herself for what was happening now. Her man seemed to be shrinking before her eyes. She watched his body slump; she watched him turn from her and cover his face with his hands, much as her father had done when he had heard the news. He was acting like a man from whom the spirit had been whipped. He had got work; he had got them shelter; but the light had gone out of his life.
Chapter Eight
If Katie could have been sustained by the fact that her marrying Mark Bunting had provided her family with food, warmth and shelter, she might have felt that there was a purpose in her suffering. But the morning after a surprising night—surprising because this man, who was now her husband and whom she already feared, had not touched her—Joe came to the door and, gazing at her as if she was an utter stranger, told her that they were going into Jarrow to live. In a kind of cottage, was the way he described their new home, off Walter Street, No. 3, The Row. Their da, he said, had got started in Palmer’s Shipyard.
On this news she’d had the childish desire to take Joe by the hand and fly with him to this new home in Jarrow. It was only the sure knowledge that Bunting…her husband…would come and bring her back that stopped her.
She did not ask Joe into the house, for already she’d had her orders on that score—no visitors. Bunting had sat most of last evening opposite to her at the other side of the blazing fire and given her her instructions. He wasn’t having her family here or her going there, and it wasn’t likely they’d have any visitors from the village. He’d buy the food, as he had always done, and dish it out to her every day. And she’d have to be careful; if there was any waste she’d have him to reckon with. Moreover, there was to be no saving of bits and pieces to be sneaked out.
If the cooking was done properly the food would be eaten and nothing left over. Did she understand? She had moved her head, and on this he had taken his hawthorn stick, which was never far from his side, and poked it, not too gently, in the middle of her stomach, saying, ‘You’ve got a tongue in your head.’
Later, shaking like a leaf in a gale, she had preceded him up the steep stairs, and on the tiny landing he had pushed one of the two doors open and, thumbing inwards, had said, ‘You’re in there, until I need you.’
By the light of a stub of tallow candle she saw a little room holding a single bed and a chest of drawers. Her relief at finding herself alone was so great that her shivering increased until her whole body appeared to be affected by ague.
And so the pattern went on for three weeks. She would rise early in the morning, make up the fire, heat his water to wash in the big black kail pot, make his breakfast of porridge and potato cakes fried in dripping; then when he was gone she would start her business of cleaning the house. She would have loved this task under other circumstances, for to her it was a lovely house, with a big kitchen holding two tables: one for eating off, one for cooking on. At one side of the fire was a small wooden settle, at the other a straight-back wooden chair with a padded seat. There was a long delf rack in the kitchen with good crockery on it. In the parlour there was a horsehair couch and two chairs, all worn but comfortable still. There was a round table in the middle of the room on a spindle leg, and under the good-sized window was an oak blanket chest. The stone floor was almost covered with hand-made clippy rugs.
The first time she saw the parlour she imagined a roaring fire in the grate and her ma and da sitting in the armchairs, and her granda on the couch, and their Joe and Lizzie and herself on the mat in front of the fire.
At the end of the first week the longing to see her people was so intense that she got as far as putting her cloak on and going to the door, but there she stopped. He had come in early last night, around five. It was now nearly two o’clock; she wouldn’t be able to walk there and back before five o’clock. If she had known where Walter Street was she might have taken a chance. As it was, she thought better of it and contented herself with sitting mending his clothes.
It was on this day that she made the further acquaintance of Roy.
The dog had shown an interest in her from the beginning; it hadn’t growled when she took its food down to the kennel. Bunting had said nothing to her about what attitude she should take to his dog, so as soon as the thought came to her she ran down the garden and undid the chain, and holding on to his collar brought him into the house. He acted in such a queer, mad way at first, tearing round and round the room, sniffing here and there, that if she could have laughed she would have. After a while, his curiosity satisfied, he came to her where she sat and put his front paws on her knee, and she put her arms around him and cried.
But then came the day when Mark Bunting hastily swallowed his dinner and was out of the house around half-past twelve instead of one o’clock. The yearning to see her people had been almost unbearable for days, and so, donning her cloak and tying her straw hat on with the band of ribbon, she locked the door, put the key underneath the wash-house table, patted the dog, telling him she was sorry he would have to remain on his chain all day, then she set off at a good pace to walk the three and a half miles into Jarrow.
It was years since she had been in Jarrow and she remembered it as a busy place with rows of white cottages and streets branching off containing bigger houses, two-storey houses. Now it was a bewildering place. The cottages were still there but grimy-looking; and there was a maze of streets and houses all around. The main road was packed with carts: dray carts with barrels piled high on them, coal carts, coke carts, fruit carts.
Going up one of the streets she saw two women filling buckets from a tap in the middle of the road and she asked them the way to Walter Street, and they told her.
When she found Walter Street and the row of cottages behind it she was appalled by the dirt and the stench. She had to go down a bank to get to the little row of cottages, and she slithered in mud right to the very door.
When she knocked on No. 3 it was opened by her mother. They looked at each other for a moment; then fell into each other’s arms, Catherine crying, ‘Oh, me bairn, me bairn!’ and Katie repeating brokenly, ‘Oh, Ma, Ma!’ Then Catherine, pressing her daughter from her, turned her head into the dim depths of the room behind and cried, ‘Da! She’s come.’
Katie, guided by Catherine, stepped down into the room. Then in the dim light she saw her granda lying on a raised wooden platform to the side of the fire, and she rushed to him and was enfolded in his arms, and his tears wet her face, but he said not a word.
When he had lain himself back on the bed Katie looked at him and her heart sank. He wasn’t better. Having shelter hadn’t helped him. He looked bad, so bad. She touched his cheek and said, ‘Oh, Granda,’ and still he didn’t speak, only held tightly on to her hand.
Now of her own accord Lizzie came to her side and she spoke Katie’s name, saying it softly, and when Katie got up from the bed she put her arms around her and brought her head down to Katie’s shoulder and laid it there.
After a moment Catherine gently drew Lizzie from Katie’s arms, and, taking her to a chair, said, ‘There now. There now.’ She was touched and slightly amazed that this daughter had the sense in her to feel Katie’s absence.
Going to the fire in the back wall, she said between her catching breath, ‘I’ll…I’ll make a pot of tea,’ and, turning and looking at Katie again, she added, ‘Get your things off, hinny, and sit down.’
‘I…I can’t stay long, Ma. Perhaps half an hour; I’ve got to be back afore five.’
‘Oh!’ Catherine turned to the fire again. Then William spoke for the first time. ‘How are you, child?’ he said.
‘All right, Granda.’
And now quite bluntly he asked, ‘And how does he treat you?’
She paused before answering. How did he treat her? How he treated his dog, giving her orders and expecting them to be obeyed without question. Only he didn’t sit staring at his dog as he sat staring at her for hour after hour until she felt she would scream. Once she got up and said she was going to bed and he had ordered her to sit down again. She always made sure now that she had something to occupy her hands in the evening so she wouldn’t look at him looking at her. Yet he had never touched her. She was still sleeping in the little room by herself. She couldn’t understand it. Although she was petrified of the moment when he would come near her, she still couldn’t understand why, as yet, he hadn’t.
Catherine now asked, ‘Is the
house comfortable?’
‘Oh yes, Ma.’ There was even a touch of enthusiasm in her voice. ‘It’s a nice house, and warm…’ She wished she hadn’t said that because this place wasn’t warm, it was chilling to the bone. She now glanced about the room. It was dreadful. The walls were running with water; the bricks of the floor were oozing water. It was dark and damp and terrible.
As if Catherine read her thoughts, she said, ‘Houses here are impossible to get. This is bad, but we’re on our own. You should see them up the streets; they’re packed closer than hens in a cree. And the beds are never aired; as one gets out another gets in. The night shifts sleep through the day and there are strange men and women in one room. It’s awful. And the middens—they’ve got to be seen to be believed. The smell would knock you down. You might think this is bad, lass’—she shook her head—‘but it’s nothin’. And they’re asking three shilling a week for a room; they can get any price now. We were lucky to get this. It was a Mr Hetherington who got it for us; he’s the one who got your da set on. He knew your Granda Mulholland years ago. As a lad he worked under him. It was a stroke of luck in a thousand your da meetin’ him. He knows your da; he knows he’s no troublemaker at the pit or anywhere else.’
Katie watched her mother moving around the dim, smelly room, talking as if to herself most of the time. The smell that pervaded the room was a filthy smell like sitting in the closet. She wanted to get into the air and breathe deeply. Oh, if she could only take them all back to the house; if only Mr Bunting—she thought of him as either Mr Bunting or he—if only he was different, a bit kind; if only she could talk to him…She missed talking, although she hadn’t wanted to talk very much since the night of the ball. Somehow now she felt inclined to talk, but not about the things she used to talk about, such as the Rosier family and Mrs Davis, and the staff, and food. She didn’t know what she wanted to talk about now; she only knew that she needed to speak to someone and hear them reply.
Katie Mulholland Page 12