‘He’ll doubtless make up for it later.’
‘Aw, don’t use that tone, Joe. What have you got against the fellow, eh? Tell me, what have you got against him?’
‘Nowt, nowt.’
‘He’s just a young lad, an ordinary young lad; he can’t help being born under a different set of blankets. Did you see him runnin’ like mad to the station there? That’s ’cos he’s dashin’ to get ready to go to a dinner to meet a lass he’s sweet on.’
Joe turned his gaze full on his father-in-law, and there was a twisted smile on his lips as he said, ‘You are funny, you know, John.’
‘Funny!’ John, too, was laughing now. ‘Why should I be funny ’cos I take an interest in him? I’m happy when people are happy. Young Mr Rosier has his eye on a bonny lass who’s stayin’ at the Charltons, an’ I’m happy for him.’
‘How d’you know this?’
‘Aw, Betty told me all about it at the weekend. Didn’t Lucy say anythin’ about the company?’
‘No, an’ I didn’t ask her.’
Joe had John’s niece Betty to thank for getting Lucy, his thirteen-year-old daughter, into service at the Charltons. He had been pleased that his daughter would be under Betty’s care, because Betty was a staid woman in her forties; but there was one thing he had stood firm about, his Lucy wasn’t sleeping in. Nobody, except Mary, could understand why he wouldn’t let Lucy sleep in, because going daily meant her catching the carrier’s cart at seven o’clock in the morning and riding the two miles to the house, which lay in the country, and not getting back until seven o’clock at night. But no daughter of his was sleeping in; he’d had a sister once who slept in. And then John had asked, What had he against a Rosier? But then he didn’t know the ins and outs of that part of the story.
John now said, musingly, ‘An’ I understand that the young lady’s a real bonny piece.’
‘Do you think they’ll ask you to the weddin’, John?’
Again they were laughing; and then Joe said, ‘Are you comin’ in for a minute?’
‘No, no. Do you want me to get me head in me hands from her mother for keepin’ the tea waitin’? You should have more sense than to ask, lad.’
‘Goodnight then. See you the morrow.’
‘Goodnight, lad. Aye, see you the morrow.’
Later that same evening, when they were all sitting round the fire after their meal, and there had come a pause in Lucy’s chattering, Mary, raising her eyes from her sewing, without which she never sat down in the evening, now looked at her son and asked, ‘Anything excitin’ happened at the works, Tommy?’
And Tommy, his stockinged feet on the fender, his toes wagging at the soothing warmth from the fire, nodded his head and said, ‘Aye, a woman died.’
‘Died?’ Joe turned his head and looked down on his son. ‘How?’
‘I don’t know. She just took bad and they carried her out an’ then they sent for her man.’
‘Was she old?’ asked Mary quietly.
‘Oh aye, she was old.’ He nodded again. ‘Nearly as old as you.’
On this Joe put his head back and laughed; then he put his hand out towards Mary and said, ‘There, old woman.’
Mary was trying not to laugh as she looked at her son. ‘Do you think me that old?’ she asked, and he, grinning back, answered, ‘Well, you know what I mean, Ma; she wasn’t young like.’
‘Don’t make it worse, lad.’ Joe gently cuffed his son’s head, then said, ‘About the woman. She died straightaway?’
‘Aye, that’s what they said. They said it was the lead; she was working in the paint shop. One of the other women said she had been bad a long time, she had been covered over with great red lumps and she was always faintin’ like.’
It was a few minutes after this that Mary rose quietly from the group and went out of the room, to be followed shortly by Joe. He found her standing in the cold bedroom. There was no light and he could just make out the dark blur of her against the street lamp on the other side of the road. ‘What is it?’ he asked quietly.
When he was near to her she turned and said, ‘Get him out of that, Joe; it’s nearly as bad as the lead works. He’ll get it on his chest, and he’ll never get rid of it. Can’t you get him a start in the yard?’
‘Not for three days a week, lass. An’ any road, it’s too heavy for him in there as yet; but I’ll see what I can do later, when he’s finished with school. Now don’t worry. Come on, it’s freezin’ in here; you’ll get your death.’ He put his arm around her shoulders and she leant against him for a moment as she whispered, ‘I’m frightened. I’m always frightened that he’ll catch somethin’.’
‘We’re in God’s hands.’
‘Aye, yes, I keep tellin’ meself that, but it doesn’t help much.’
‘Now, now, Mary.’
They moved out into the passage together, but before they reached the kitchen he took his arm away from her, and as they entered the room Lucy was saying in ecstatic tones, ‘Oh, she’s lovely! Beautiful! An’ her aunties dote on her, an’ they’re nice an’ all. I like Miss Rose better than I do Miss Ann, though.’
‘What do they call her?’ It was Bridget speaking. ‘I mean the one that’s knockin’ on for that Mr Rosier.’
‘Oh, they call her Sara. Not Sarah—you know, like Sarah Coffin down the street—no, Sa-ra.’
Joe had stopped just within the door, his eyes on his daughter. There was a sound like an explosion in his head and he was immediately lifted backwards into a garden where two women were always trotting about, and whenever the young one got the chance she would talk to him, and always about the one thing, his sister’s lovely baby.
‘What’s the matter?’ Mary, who had seated herself again, looked at her husband, and Joe, with a slight shaking movement of his head, muttered, ‘Nowt. Nowt.’ Then, coming and taking his seat by the fire, he looked at Lucy and said, ‘You were talkin’ about the visitors. What did you say they called them?’
‘Miss Rose an’ Miss Ann, and Miss Sara.’
‘Are they as old as your mother an’ all, Miss Rose and Miss Ann?’ He made himself smile, and they all laughed; and then Lucy said, ‘Oh, Da, they’re older than me ma, much, really old. But you should see how they go about, like linties. Miss Ann’s ever so spry, an’ she’s as straight as a ramrod, but Miss Rose is delicate like.’
‘And they’ve got their niece with them, you say?’
‘Aye, Da. Miss Sa-ra. I was tellin’ Bridget here, not Sarah; they don’t speak it like that, they say Sa-ra.’
‘Is she old an’ all?’
‘Oh, Da!’ Lucy pushed him with the flat of her hand. ‘No, an’ she’s lovely. Oh, she is lovely, Da. She’s got great big eyes, the biggest I’ve ever seen, like saucers.’
Joe, bending forward to push a live cinder under the grate, closed his own eyes. Eyes like saucers. God in heaven! No, no, it couldn’t be. This couldn’t happen. He straightened up and after a moment he said quietly, ‘What’s their second name?’
‘Chapman. Chapman, Da.’
Joe had to force some spittle down his throat before he could ask, ‘What are they there for? Is it an engagement do or somethin’?’
‘No, Da.’ She laughed at his ignorance. ‘They wouldn’t have an engagement party at the Charltons, they would have it in their own house.’
‘Where do they live?’ asked Joe now.
‘In a place called Dorset. It was there that Mr Rosier met Miss Sara. He was down stayin’ with relations of his mother’s and he bumped into her, and it turned out that they both knew the Charltons ’cos at one time they had lived outside Bishop Auckland—I mean the Chapmans had. Mr Rosier’s a great friend of young Master Wills. An’ that’s how it started, Auntie Betty says. This is the second time the Chapmans have been here in the last year, but Miss Sara’s been about half a dozen times; she’s supposed to be visitin’ Miss Alice, they’re best friends. Eeh, it’s a laugh, ’cos Mr Rosier and her are off out on their own every minute they can. Aun
t Betty says the master and mistress are pushing it ’cos they think the Miss Chapmans are two old goats.’ Lucy hunched her shoulders and giggled, and Tommy and Bridget giggled with her. ‘Aunt Betty says it’s a marvel Miss Sara’s allowed to come on her own ’cos the Miss Chapmans have a Mr Spencer all lined up for her; he’s a minister with money, not like them round here.’ Again she giggled, but glanced at her father apprehensively. She knew she had to be careful when talking about the clergy, her da was funny about things like that. She went on in a less excited tone now: ‘Aunt Betty says Mr Rosier works in the yard and is ever so nice. She says they’re not on top like they used to be, the Rosiers, because at one time they had a pit, but the old man, his father, is a bit of a terror with drink an’ that. But he’s all right, young Mr Rosier.’
Joe, with a big intake of breath, rose abruptly to his feet and went out of the room, and Mary’s eyes followed him.
Lucy, after a quick glance at her mother, stopped her prattle until Mary, getting up, said quietly, ‘Go on. Go on, it’s all right.’ Then she too left the circle.
When she entered the bedroom it was she who now asked, ‘What is it?’
It was a minute or so before Joe answered. ‘That family she’s talkin’ about, the Miss Chapmans, don’t you remember?’
‘Remember what?’
‘Well, I told you, didn’t I, years ago, about our Katie’s bairn and the people who adopted it. They were called Miss Chapman—Miss Ann and Miss Rose. An’ the bairn was called Sarah.’
‘Well, isn’t that funny, now!’
‘Funny? There’s nothin’ funny about it, woman.’ His voice was low and harsh. ‘If it happens it’ll be a sin unto God, and it mustn’t happen.’
‘But, Joe, what…what are you talkin’ about?’
‘Use your mind, woman. I told you about our Katie an’ who the father was, didn’t I? Old Rosier. Me ma told me. I told you it all.’
There was a silence between them now as they peered at each other through the deep gloom; then Mary let out a small sound and she followed it with, ‘Oh no! No, Joe! Oh, no! They’re practically brother and sister.’
When he turned from her and walked to the window she said to him softly, ‘You’ll have to do somethin’. You’ll either have to go an’ see him—Mr Rosier—or your Katie.’
Quickly he turned again and muttered thickly, ‘I’m not goin’ to our Katie’s, nor am I goin’ to him.’
‘Well, what are you going to do, Joe? You can’t let this slide, you know you can’t; it’s a sin afore God, and nature. What you goin’ to do?’
Joe didn’t know what he was going to do. But, as he had said, he certainly was not going to see their Katie, nor yet was he going to speak to young Rosier. That would be a fine thing, wouldn’t it, to go to a man and tell him he was courting his half-sister. My God! Oh, their Katie! The things she had done, having the bairn, marryin’ Bunting, and that alone had caused his father’s death—and he carried the shame on him yet. And then there was her spurning him. Not till the day he died would he forgive her for that. He had thought the world of her and had been willing to work the skin off his hands for her, and what had she done? Brought home a man as soon as she was left alone for a day or so, and she had openly, brazenly, made her choice. And Mary thought he should go and see her. She didn’t really understand how he felt. You couldn’t expect her to. But one thing was certain: whatever was to be done about this business it would be done without him clapping eyes on her. He never wanted to see her again as long as he lived.
Chapter Two
In the fourteen years that had passed since the day Katie became the owner of 12, 13 and 14 Crane Street many changes had taken place in her life, and also in the town. The latter had spread itself far beyond the confines of the river. An 1827 map had shown wide stretches of open land between the town and the parishes of Westoe and Harton owned by a certain Mr Cookson, who in 1837 began the manufacture of sheet glass, but with the years Shields had encroached upon this land until now Westoe village, although clinging tenaciously to its aristocratic bearing, was no longer a separate entity but a suburb of Shields.
It was said that the better part of Shields was full of worthy people, but once a man wanted prestige he moved to Westoe or Harton. Here were to be found the owners of shipyards, foundries, glassworks, breweries, coal mines, quarries, pipe factories, soap factories, candle factories, pottery factories, bankers and property owners.
The really big houses stood back from the roads guarded by their high stone walls and stiff shrubberies, and titles weren’t unknown in this quarter. The not so ostentatious but still grand houses were in rows or terraces, each house being of a different design, some being taller than others, some having porticoes over their front doors, and most having gardens with hedges to screen their lower windows from the public gaze, from the strollers who came in from Shields, to walk under the trees and gape at their betters, or watch the gentry riding in their carriages.
Trees lined the roads, from which they were separated by white wooden railings, inlet at intervals to make a carriageway to the gates or doors of the superior dwellings.
Here and there you would find a small house called a cottage, which might have six to eight rooms. In 1880 Katie Mulholland, known now to some as Mrs Fraenkel, had bought six so-called cottages and had recently purchased a much larger domain in which she was considering taking up residence. Not that Mrs Fraenkel wanted to move into the heart of the elite, for she had been happy in her present home in Ogle Terrace for the past eight years; and Ogle Terrace, one of the best of the residential quarters in South Shields, had proved test enough to a woman who had made her money by buying tenement houses that lined the river; houses that were known by her name, Katie Mulholland’s houses. And by the conduct of the occupants of her houses she had further gained an appendage to her name which was nothing to be proud of, but against which she was powerless to defend herself, for did she not live on the money she received in rents? Moreover, as was whispered in some parlours, did she not live openly with a Swede, and, whisper softly, had she not been in prison through running one of her houses as a place of infamy?
But for all these whispers Katie Mulholland was now a power in the town, albeit a self-effacing power, but nevertheless a power to be reckoned with, through her rent man.
Her entry into Ogle Terrace eight years ago had caused a stir. Not even the fact that a permanent member of her household was a Rosier brought recognition; no-one in the immediate vicinity called on her, nor did they speak to her when they passed her in the street when alone or walking arm in arm with that outlandish-looking man. Yet there were those who called frequently who were of some standing in the town. One was Mr Hewitt, the solicitor. Of course his visits could be connected with business, for no-one ever saw his wife call. Then Mr Kenny, his chief clerk; he was never away from the door. And there was Doctor Leonard; he called twice a week, sometimes three times, but, as the charitable said, he went to visit Miss Rosier. Yet it was strange, wasn’t it, that the visitors to Mrs Fraenkel’s house should all be male ones. The only women who ever were seen going in and out were Betty Monkton, the cook-housemaid, and Mrs Bucks, the daily woman, and at intervals Miss Rosier; but she only went for short drives and was rarely seen outside the house.
That was another mystery. Why should Miss Rosier, the daughter of Daniel Rosier, who at one time owned the Beulah mine, be living with a woman as notorious as Katie Mulholland, a one-time procuress. Of course it was known that Miss Rosier—who wouldn’t be called Mrs Noble—was odd. Hadn’t she left her husband? But, all the same, that didn’t stop her from being a lady. The situation was past understanding…
At times Katie herself thought it was past understanding how she had come to be living with Miss Theresa, or, what was more correct, how Miss Theresa came to be living with her. Yet it had all come about so slowly, so simply, quite differently from the way Betty Monkton had come to live with her. That had all happened in the space of an hour, and sh
e had done it off her own bat, with no promptings from Andrée.
On a bleak raw day she was getting into a cab outside Mr Hewitt’s office when she saw a woman staring at her; the face was familiar, and with a shock Katie realised that the poorly-clad, half-starved looking creature was Betty Monkton, her one-time playmate. When she smiled at Betty, Betty smiled back, saying in awesome tones, ‘Katie, it’s you. Why, lass, I’d never have known you.’
To get into the cab and drive away after this would have been like a slap in the face to the woman, but Katie wanted to get home, and if she dismissed this cab it meant crossing the market square to get another, and she hated the market square; for even after fourteen years the sight of the market square brought a terror into her stomach. So she said, ‘I’m glad to see you, Betty. Look, come home and have a cup of tea with me.’
It took Betty a few seconds to take in the invitation, and once in the cab she became silent. It was only after being warmed with a meal that Katie learnt of her plight. Her mother had died and her father had taken another wife who didn’t want Betty in the house. There had followed years of changing lodgings, intermittent work and illness.
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