‘Oh, Katie, Katie, what are you saying?’ Now Theresa had one hand pressed against her cheek.
‘I’m saying the truth. And now you can ask why, if I knew this, I didn’t say it in court. Well, without asking I’ll tell you. It was because…because I didn’t want another murder done. If my man knew the name of the one who had done this to me he would have cut him up in slices.’ Katie’s mouth was squared now away from her teeth, and she bent forward and repeated under her breath, ‘Cut him up in slices, Miss Theresa. Before this happened he begged me for his name but I wouldn’t say; Miss Theresa, you take a message to your brother and tell him, just one more move like this and I let things take their rightful course. And it won’t be through a court of law, where there’s no justice for God nor man. Tell him that.’
‘Wait, Katie, wait.’ As Katie went to move away Theresa grabbed her arm; then, turning sideways, she looked at the tall man who was standing at the other side of Katie now, and she demanded autocratically, ‘What do you want?’
‘I wish to speak to Mrs Bunting, ma’am.’
‘Get yourself away.’
‘I’m sorry, ma’am; I’m here on business. I am clerk to Mr Hewitt, solicitor, of Chapel & Hewitt. Would you read this letter, ma‘am?’ He was now addressing Katie, and he brought his body into a slight bow as he placed the letter in her hands.
Katie stared at the letter and at the man, then at the letter again. She knew the writing. It was Andy’s, and slowly she ripped open the envelope and read, ‘My Katie. My Katie. The house is ready for you; I have seen to it. But first go with the clerk, Mr Kenny, to Mr Hewitt, who will explain things to you. My heart is so full I cannot make words flow, but when we meet again I will tell you all. You are my life, my Katie, even more than ever now. Know that I live for you. Take heart. Andrée.’
Her red swollen hands were trembling so much that she couldn’t fold the letter in two and return it to the envelope. She looked at the tall man with the kindly expression and she said, ‘I am ready.’
‘Katie, I beseech you.’
Katie, now looking straight into Theresa’s distressed face, said quietly, ‘Give my message to your brother, Miss Theresa. Goodbye.’ Then, walking by the man’s side, she crossed the road to the farther carriage. After assisting her inside, Mr Kenny spoke to the driver, then took his seat opposite her, and they set out for Shields. And all during the journey, during which Mr Kenny tried hard not to keep staring into the beautiful, sad, sad face before him, his mind was in a turmoil of excitement. Rosier, then, was the man they had been looking for all this time. Mr Bernard Rosier. Well, well. He knew quite a lot about Mr Bernard Rosier, for Mr Hewitt had handled transactions concerning his wife. She had been a Talford and very, very well connected. He had a memory for these things and knew that the now Mrs Bernard Rosier had a cousin in Parliament—on the Tory side, of course. Moreover, she had a cousin who was one of the ladies-in-waiting to Her Majesty the Queen. But he also knew other things about Mr Bernard Rosier. He remembered that he had been a bit of a rake in his early youth but had apparently settled down before his marriage and after, until his father died, when there were rumours of his wild ways coming to the fore again. He now owned racehorses and was a gambler, and from what he had heard only a few minutes ago he was also a trollop-trailer, as many of his kind were, but apparently he was less discreet than most, and vindictive—ah, yes, cruelly vindictive.
Mr Kenny had a strong desire at this point in his thinking to see Mr Bernard Rosier get his just deserts over this affair of the woman sitting opposite, but he knew that he never would, at least not legally, because the name of Rosier was too important roundabout. He knew that Mr Hewitt would confirm this, and strongly. Mr Hewitt would never act as the stick to stir the midden in front of the Rosier mansion, but it was a pity—oh, a great pity. And on this point, too, Mr Kenny thought his employer would concur with him. Mr Kenny was a reserved man, a man who could keep secrets—a necessary attribute to being a solicitor’s clerk—but he was also a man who had a way with clients. It was part of his duty to put them at their ease, but now he found great difficulty in opening a conversation with the woman opposite. He felt that her past experience, her many past experiences, had put her beyond small talk and generalities. Whatever he had to say to her must have point. He said, ‘Captain Fraenkel desired Mr Hewitt to have your apartments redecorated. Mr Hewitt left the matter in my hands. I have followed the captain’s suggestions as near as possible; I hope the result will please you.’
Katie moved her head twice before saying, softly, ‘I am sure it will.’ She had the desire to finish her words on the ‘huh!’ of a laugh, for the transition from back there to this man with his smooth, ingratiating manner seemed unreal. Back there was real, but he wasn’t. Yet he came from Andy.
Andy. She tried to recall his face, but his image went into a great pale, hairy blur. That’s what happened to her lately. At night when she tried to conjure him up, willed him to be real, the result was muzziness. But Andy was real, he was real and good. He was the only thing in her life that she could trust. She was going to ask him to take her away, as far from this area as possible, for there was nothing here to hold her any longer, only bitter memories. If she asked him he would do it…
When, the long drive at an end, the carriage entered the market place she could not keep her eyes turned from the Cross where they had taken her that night and the woman had slapped her in the mouth. Did she but know it then, that woman had been kind. All she had done was strike her for screaming. She was to find that there were a thousand and one other ways to terrify a human being. To have someone stand looking at you unblinking for an unendurable space of time until you ate the beetle-strewn filth that was called food; and when your stomach revolted and you were sick, to leave you with it all over your clothes and not allow you any water for hours and hours. Oh yes, the woman who had hit her in the mouth had been kind.
Mr Hewitt rose to his feet to greet her, and took her by the hand, and in a most courteous fashion he asked his clerk if it would be possible to get Mrs Bunting a cup of tea, and Mr Kenny replied, ‘Surely, surely.’
Half an hour later, again in the carriage, and again in the company of Mr Kenny, Katie was driven from the solicitor’s office to No. 14 Crane Street. The street was comparatively empty and there was no-one at the door when they arrived, and when they came to Mrs Robson’s door it was closed. But no-one went past Mrs Robson’s door without her knowing. With Mr Kenny behind her she mounted the stairs to her house. And there on the landing she saw the wooden table and bowl and bucket, but with a difference, for the table was standing on a rush mat, which covered the whole square of the landing.
Mr Kenny, now bowing slightly towards her, handed her the key and she opened the door and stepped into her home, and slowly she looked around her, and Mr Kenny also looked around him. He was very proud of his handiwork.
‘Do you like it, Mrs Bunting?’
‘Yes, yes. Thank you. It’s lovely.’ Katie looked from the whitewashed ceiling to the wallpaper which had little bunches of pink flowers all over it. She looked at the table. It was highly polished, as were the chiffonier, the chest and the chairs. And lastly she looked at the bright burning fire.
Her eyes were moist as she turned towards Mr Kenny and said, ‘You’ve been very kind.’
‘Oh, ma’am, it’s nothing. It’s been a pleasure.’ He had his hands joined in front of him and he bowed his head several times over them as he spoke. ‘I hope I can continue to be of service to you. Anything you would like to know you have only to call on us. As you know, ma’am, Mr Hewitt emphasised this.’
‘Yes, yes, he was very kind to me. I…I can’t quite take it all in yet.’
‘No, no, I can understand that, but you will have grown used to your new position by the time the captain returns, which should be, we estimate, in about four days’ time.’
‘Yes.’ For the first time the skin of her cheeks moved into what might have been the semblance
of a smile.
Mr Kenny now pointed to the cupboard and said, ‘The captain gave me a list of the food he thought you would need. I hope you find it adequate for the time being.’
‘Thank you; I’m sure I will.’ Katie followed his gaze to the cupboard. Then she looked at him again, and after a moment of silence between them he said, ‘Now I must take my leave, but believe me, Mrs Bunting, we will always be at your service, any time.’
‘Thank you, Mr Kenny.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ He held out his hand and she took it; then, with seeming reluctance, he made his departure.
Katie sat down in the chair near the table. She hadn’t been in the bedroom yet. She would need to get her breath before she could go in there. She looked at the long envelope she still held in her hand and she muttered aloud, ‘Oh, Andy! Andy!’ What he had done for her should have made her grateful, but for weeks now the main thought in her mind had been that once she got out she would get Andy to take her and Lizzie away—away from this dreadful place, the Tyne, this place that her mother had loved, and Joe still loved; this place they had condemned her to because of their love…And now, inadvertently, Andy had condemned her to it for a further period, for he had bought her three houses. This room where she was sitting, all this house, and the other two down the street were hers. She just couldn’t take that in, not as yet; it was too much. Her, an owner of property. But inside this envelope was a copy of the transaction. Andy had done this for her. Yet at the moment it was bringing no grateful response from her. She seemed dead inside; the only thing she was still alive to was fear. There was terror in the depths of her, and she felt it would always be there as long as she stayed in the vicinity of Greenwall Manor and Bernard Rosier.
And her fear must have spoken aloud from her face, for Mr Hewitt had seen it. He had said the captain was a very discerning and wise man. He believed that the surest way to climb above fear was on the back of power, and the only way to acquire power was through gold; and one of the quickest ways to get gold these days was to buy and sell property.
But would the acquisition of property obliterate Big Bess? She could almost feel the wardress standing in front of her, her great bust touching the front of her dress, saying, ‘You’re frightened, aren’t you? What you frightened of?’ then making a swift movement with her hand and digging her nails under her chin, saying the while, ‘Keep your head up. Keep your head up, an’ open your peepers. What you frightened of?’
She looked down at the long envelope on the table. Power! If she’d had power she would never have been subjected to Big Bess; if she’d had power somebody would have found out that those two policemen and the girls were lying. If she had been a child of people of power Bernard Rosier would never have dragged her into his bed; she would never have married Bunting; and her father would never have died…But if she’d had power in any form she would never have met Andy. Somewhere, somehow, there was a reason for all she had suffered…Perhaps it was a kind of payment for Andy. And Andy had given her power. As Mr Hewitt said, Andy was wise; he always knew what she needed. If she was to remain in this town—and it seemed that God, or whoever ruled destinies, willed that she should—then she wouldn’t live like a rat…a mouse was a better description, a mouse in a hole, a frightened mouse.
There was a side of her that hated her fear, hated being afraid, but had never been strong enough to tackle it, but now a weapon had been put into her hands. She lifted up the envelope and ran her fingers along it, and again she said, ‘Oh, Andy! Andy!’ And now there came a great swelling into her chest and she knew what this meant; it meant that all the unshed tears of weeks that had dammed themselves up were striving to burst forth and drown her in a paroxysm of grief under which she might well lie for hours, even days. But it mustn’t come yet; there was something she had to do first. Before she even ate anything she wanted to be clean. She would go down and get some water; she would get lots of water and heat it and wash herself. She needed to be clean as much as she did the morning after the ball.
She stood on the stairhead hesitant to pass the doors down below, hesitant to meet the curious gazes, wondering what they would say. Did it matter? No! Not any more. Mrs Robson had been kind in coming to see her and she would thank her, but she guessed that she had been thanked in a more substantial way by Andy. She guessed that without payment Mrs Robson would never have come all the way to Durham, but nevertheless she would thank her.
She made three journeys up and down the stairs, but the doors remained closed. Later, after she had washed herself from head to toe, her hair included, she began to wonder why Mrs Robson, who she could hear moving down below, had not come out to give her a word. She just wondered, but it didn’t really matter, for the dam of her emotions was breaking down.
It was some days before it was brought home to Katie why Mrs Robson had not visited her. You don’t visit the landlord. The tenants of Nos. 12, 13 and 14 Crane Street had been issued with new rent books, and had been told that their landlord was now Mrs Bunting, known as Miss Mulholland. This occurrence had been a nine-days wonder in the street.
Katie Mulholland was now a landlord, she was one of…THEM. From someone who had done time, and was to be pitied, even scorned and shunned, she had now leaped the chasm to the other side, where lived the nobs, gentry…and landlords. You had to watch your p’s and q’s when landlords were about; you had to keep your nose clean when landlords were about. Half a word and you found yourself out on the street. That was landlords for you. But when you had one living at the top of the house—well, it wasn’t playing the game. Landlords had no right to live in the same houses as their tenants. But poor people couldn’t do much, could they? You couldn’t do much against…THEM.
So it was that ‘Katie Mulholland’s houses’ and power came into being.
BOOK THREE
THERESA, 1880
Chapter One
Joe heard the knocker-up starting at the end of the long street. He had been awake with the cold for some time, and he eased himself gently from his wife’s back so as not to waken her and, getting swiftly out of bed, he pulled on his socks and trousers, then groped his way quietly out of the room and down the narrow passage into the kitchen, where he lit the lamp, got the fire going and brewed a pot of tea.
The table was set for his breakfast, with two mugs standing apart. These he filled with tea, and, lifting one up, he took a gulp at the scalding liquid. There was neither milk nor sugar in it; only at teatime did they have milk or sugar in the tea—one or the other, never both. He now took the other mug of tea to his wife. Shaking her gently by the shoulder, he said, ‘Come on, Mary; have a sup tea.’
‘O-o-h!’ She turned on to her back, then pulled herself upwards, keeping the clothes under her chin. ‘It’s worse,’ she said.
‘Aye. There was ice on the water in the back.’
‘Will you go in and look at them, and see that they’re covered up?’
‘Aye…aye. I’ll see to them.’
He now went out of the bedroom, and two steps across the narrow passage took him into another bedroom. It was black dark, but he groped his way knowingly to the first bed where his daughters, Lucy and Bridget, were lying, their bodies curled into each other, and tentatively he touched a shoulder, then tucked the bedclothes around them. Now, moving around the foot of the bed, he groped his way to his son’s bed, and when his hands touched the cocoon-wrapped body in the middle of it he smiled to himself, then made his way out of the room and to the kitchen again.
The shrill wail of the half-past five buzzer made him hurry into his coat. He went into the bedroom again and, bending over Mary, he touched her shoulder and said, ‘I’m away, lass.’ And to this she replied, ‘Aye, all right.’ Another pat and he went out of the room, leaving the house and joining the mass of dark shapes all making their way to the shipyard.
As he often did, even first thing in the morning, he reflected he had a lot to be thankful for—a good wife, three bonny bairns, and a steady j
ob. He usually closed his mind to the shame of Katie; he had never met her since the day she had thrown him aside for the Swede, nor did he want to meet her. To the rest of Jarrow she might be the kind Mrs Fraenkel, who had started a soup kitchen and presented boots to the poor bairns, as she’d be doing any day now Christmas was coming on, but to him she was still his sister Katie who had brought shame on the family.
His mouth was set in a grim line as he entered the boiler shop, and it remained so all day. It even grew tighter when, around four o’clock, a tall, dark young man in grey overalls, with his face and hands looking startlingly clean, came and stood by his side as he rammed home the rivets joining two curved steel plates; and when the young man bent and shouted something to him he pretended he couldn’t hear him above the din. He also pretended he was unaware of John Hetherington’s approach and couldn’t hear him either when he shouted, ‘Mr Rosier says that’s a neat job, Joe.’
Neat job! What the hell did he know about it. Whippersnapper. He wasn’t against them up top, in fact he’d go all the way for old man Palmer, but this one—well, this one was different.
He saw the young man again that evening when he was leaving the yard with his father-in-law. They watched him hurrying across the road, the tails of his broadcloth coat flying, and when he disappeared beyond the pale light of the gas lamp John Hetherington chuckled and said, ‘An’ I don’t have to guess twice what’s putting wings to his feet. Aw, but he’s a nice young fellow that, one of the best. There won’t be much to worry about Palmer’s yard in the future if there’s fellows like him at the top.’
‘There might be a lot to worry about if he’s anything like his father.’ The words were out before Joe could stop them, and John, jerking his head at him, said, ‘Ah, now, Joe, that’s unfair. It’s not always like father like son, an’ you well know it. Admittedly, from all I hear, his father’s no good; but, from all I know from experience, there’s a lot of good in the son. I know men, Joe, from top an’ from the bottom. I’ve been workin’ with them for over fifty years an’ I’ve never met a more civil one than young Mr Daniel. An’ I’ve always thought it strange, Joe, that you’ve never had a good word for him when he’s come round the shop. You must realise that he’s learnin’ the business, an’ that’s the way to do it—spend some time in each shop. He could have gone to Oxford, so I understand; but no, he wants to learn about ships, so he does it the hard way, an’ the right way. He’ll likely be managing a yard one day, an’ he’ll know what he’s managin’. An’ you know what I heard? He’s only gettin’ two pounds a week during his trainin’. Only two pounds, mind.’
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